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DiaperDarling

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  1. Chapter 5 Boarding the flight was relatively painless. Being the middle of the day on a weekday, it seemed only businessmen and students were on board, and there were more than a few spare seats. As they shuffled down the endless flexible corridors towards the entrance to the plane, Bonnie and Max made idle chitchat - the sort only couples can make, about nothing in particular - as Claire posted the obligatory travelling selfies to her smorgasbord of social media accounts. She was careful, however, to avoid her camera catching a telltale glimpse of her skirt. "Bonnie might be a wetter," she thought, "but I'm certainly not. And I don't want anyone at uni to think I am either!". Claire did feel a little bad for slightly looking down on her friend, after all, with the shrill protests she put up at the security desks, she clearly was confident in her diapers. "Besides," said Claire, "it's not like I'm not wearing a diaper either." Bonnie giggled and broke off her conversation
  2. Chapter 4 "What do you mean, 'not in diapers'?" Claire asked, confused. "Well, like, not wearing diapers for the flight. I though you were a wetter too?" said Bonnie, flashing a quick glance at Max that Claire didn't see. "Well, I was until I was 14, yeah. But, like, I grew out of it. And I mean, it was only at night... at least after I turned 10. Did you not stop wearing, Bonnie?" "Oh lol, yeah I did, around 15, but then a few years later I had a some close calls, and like, so did Max, so we started wearing at night again." Bonnie gushed, "It's really lucky, I guess, because we actually did go back to wetting by accident like, 3 months after we started wearing those Slumber Diapers. But then they brought out those Delite things, and they are super amazing. They're like, so good for flying, and Max and I started wearing them when we go skiing. It means we can, like, stay active." Bonnie rattled off the marketing slogans for Delite like she was a walking advert. "Oh, so you're wearing those Delite things now? I hadn't heard of them til today," Claire asked as they made their way through security. Bonnie reached over to Max's polo with one hand, and grabbed the bottom of her blouse with the other, lifting both tops upwards, and revealing the unmistakable high waist and elasticated cotton-plastic of modern 'wetter' diapers. Bonnie seemed so confident and unfazed by it that Claire didn't dare speak any of the thoughts that were rattling though her mind. Perhaps she was behind the times after all? Instead of confronting any of that, she swiftly changed the subject. After a few more long minutes of chat about old school friends, and getting to know Max, they reached the front of the queue, and made their way through the scanners, the bored security staff ushering them along. Claire went first, then Max, then Bonnie. As she was putting her shoes back on, and checking her hand luggage still had all its respective components, Claire noticed the flowery blue diaper mixed in amongst the books and hairbrushes, and she wondered if it wouldn't be such a bad idea to put it on. After all, there were no toilets on the plane, and after this morning's little accident, she didn't want to risk being stuck on a taxiway for hours with nowhere to go. Her pondering was cut short, however, by the unmistakable sound of Bonnie's voice. "Ugh, I'm telling you, it's my diaper!" Bonnie protested, as a security officer patted down the lower part of her belly and her bum with a confused look on his face. A few passengers looked up at the source of the noise, but most continued with their own journeys, either not noticing, or not choosing to notice. From the distance Claire was at, she couldn't make out exactly what the officer was saying, but she could tell by Bonnie's protests that she was not happy. The officer ushered her aside to speak to what looked like his supervisor - a flabby, middle-aged woman with an air of brisk importance - who was holding open Bonnie's hand luggage. "For the last time - They. Are. Spare. Diapers." Bonnie's irritated explanations drifted over the large, brightly lit room, and the supervisor appeared to ask her a further question. "So my boyfriend and I don't have to use you're crummy toilets! I bet they're disgusting," Bonnie answered. Claire noticed the supervising security officer's posture change from one of officiousness to acceptance, and not long after, Bonnie came grumpily up to where she was waiting, ready to fume. "You will never believe what just happened," Bonnie began, dragging Max behind her as they made their way through to the departure lounge. "I can and I will," Claire replied, "I watched it all unfold. But what I don't get is why they stopped you? I mean I have a diaper in my hand luggage and I went right on through..." Claire faltered. She hadn't meant to reveal her 'emergency' diaper, but just have it - just in case. However, now the cat was out of the bag, and Max picked up the thread straight away. "Wait, Claire, I thought you said you weren't a wetter anymore?" he drawled, nearly the first thing he had said all day, and threw a smirk to Bonnie. "Yeah Claire! You are still a wetter! I knew it!" Bonnie giggled, somehow managing to tease Chloe about bringing one old diaper to the airport, while her bag was clearly full of them. "But... I'm not wearing one! It was just for emergencies, like what if I got sick? ...and I didn't want to unpack my hold luggage to put it back in!" Claire protested, more to herself than to Bonnie or Max. Bonnie, however, believed none of it. "Well now is an emergency, isn't it? There are no toilets on the plane! What if we get stuck on the runway? Or end up circling Cologne for two hours?" she asked, before grasping Claire's hand and taking off in the direction of the nearest bathroom. "Come on! You can get changed here, I've got some powder." As they reached the door to the Ladies, Claire noticed that the Superdrug next door had a prominently placed promotional stack of what looked like 3-packs of Slumber Diapers, facing out across the hall. She didn't have much time to look for long, however, as Bonnie quickly whisked Claire into the bathroom, and then into a cubicle. Claire looked around. "Have cubicles got larger since I last came to an airport?" she wondered, "These certainly are new. Maybe it's for our 'growing population'?". The cubicle certainly was big, large enough at least for her and Bonnie to fit comfortably, but it didn't look much like a disabled stall. There were no handrails, no emergency cord, but there was a small, plastic rectangle, fixed to the wall opposite to the toilet role holder. Bonnie quickly sat down on the toilet lid, and flipped a catch at the top of the rectangle, which revealed itself to be a fold out tray - just like the ones on aeroplanes, but at an odd 90-degree angle to the toilet. "They say they're for keeping you bag and phone," Bonnie explained to a clearly curious Claire, "But everyone knows their for your diapers." She punctuated this information with a flourish from her bag, producing a bottle of what appeared to be diaper powder - it was once called baby powder, but that didn't test well in wetter focus groups - and what was apparently a Delite Diaper. The Diaper was about the same size as the one in Claire's bag, but clearly thicker, and although it had what looked like elasticated sides, it managed to look a lot less like an old-person 'incontinence pad', and at the same time, not much like the oversized baby diapers that Claire wore to bed every night for the first 15 years of her life. "I have to hand it to the product designers," Claire told Bonnie, as the bubbly young woman fiddled with her jean buttons, "It really looks like a diaper a... twenty something would wear." "Well, silly, it's definitely something that this twenty-something would wear," Bonnie exclaimed as she finally pulled her jeans down to her ankles, revealing the sodden green Delite underneath. Realising that she was intruding, Claire quickly left the stall and went next door, slipping off her pumps and pulling down her tights and schoolgirl skirt. Unclipping the "diaper table", as Bonnie called it, Claire tentatively placed her old Slumber Diaper on the ledge and slipped off her panties, carefully folding them up and placing them in her hand luggage. Her muscle memory kicking in - Claire had changed her own diapers from a fairly young age - she opened the diaper on the toilet lid and carefully slipped between its wings. Before long, her firm bottom and smooth pussy were comforted by a thick layer of absorbent padding, and Claire stepped back into her tights and skirt. Slipping out of the stall to quickly freshen up in front of the mirror, Claire saw Bonnie dispose of her used diaper in the usual sanitary bins, when a thought struck her. "Hey, how does Max get rid of diapers in public toilets? It's not like guys have periods!" Claire giggled at her friend. "Oh, they've started putting bins in some Men's toilets, but we don't really wear that much in the day, so it's not much of a problem," replied Bonnie, before glancing down at Claire's behind and snorting with laughter. "Oh babe! That skirt is a very bold choice to wear with a Slumber Diaper!" she laughed, as Claire glanced at her reflection in the mirror. "Can you see it?!" Claire pleaded with her friend. "Well, not exactly... but let's just say that most non-wetters don't have a skirt that sticks out 4 inches from their bum!". Claire went bright red, but quickly regained her composure. "Oh well," she said, stoically, "I guess it's only for the next few hours. I don't have any more diapers, anyway!" As they made their way back to the departure lounge, Bonnie smiled knowingly, but just out of sight of her friend.
  3. Chapter 3 The drive to Gatwick Airport was shorter than usual, perhaps in part by their early start. Though her flight wasn't until noon, Claire insisted they leave at 6, to give plenty of time for delays on the M25, delays at check in, delays at security, and the all important (though less emphasised to her mother) shopping at duty-free. As the roads were clear, they took the turnoff for the airport at about 7, pulling past an almost comically large billboard as they did so. Claire was transfixed - on the billboard, taking up most of the space, were two youngish-adults, a girl and a boy both about 20 years old, hugging and smiling in pajamas. From the shape and size of their bottoms, both were clearly wearing diapers. In big, bright, bubbly letters, the caption on the billboard read: DELITE
  4. Chapter Two Packing quickly - her flight was tomorrow at noon - Claire double, triple and quadruple checked she had everything she needed for her first six weeks living and working alone, in a foreign country. Her German phrasebook she cautiously placed in her hand luggage, despite her strong command of the language, she had only spoken to native speakers once, nearly six years ago, on a school trip to Berlin. Even then, she spent most of her time giggling with her school friends than actually speaking the language, despite her teacher's protests. "Better to have it, and not need it," Kathy interrupted Claire's reminiscence from the door to her bedroom, "than to need it and not have it!". "Umm, I think I speak enough German to get through an international airport, thanks Mum," Claire shot back with feigned exasperation. As her mother wandered away, humming out of tune, Claire pondered her choice of phrase: that was something that Kathy had said to her frequently as a child, but never about phrasebooks. It was always about diapers - when Claire had been dry at night for two or three days, she would occasionally plead with her mum to let her try a night without them, but her mother would never have it. "Better to have it and not need it..." she would start, and Claire would echo back, "than to need it and not have it." These moments of rebellion became rarer and rarer as Claire got older, in part, she thought, because of the increased visibility of wetters, and perhaps because she acquiesced to her night-time needs. Though she'd never told her mother, there had been rare occasions where, on waking up early in the morning with a full bladder and a dry diaper, Claire had 'accidents' that were perhaps more preventable than she made out. Whilst she was daydreaming, Claire had been almost automatically packing the last of her things into their respective bags. Reaching down for the last piece of clothing, she felt nothing much but soft carpet, and smiled to herself, realising that she could get an early night after all. She went to zip up her two large, pink suitcases, and then moved over to her oversized handbag - perfect for packing every last thing into hand luggage on a plane. Looking down, she realised she had placed her solitary diaper in her hand luggage, and not in her overstuffed suitcases as she'd planned. "That's odd," she thought, "I must have been away with the fairies!". She did not, however, move the diaper. Part of her reasoning was that her bags were already neatly packed and organised, and taking everything out would take at least another half an hour, but another part of her heard her mother's words about the phrase book echo in her ear. After all, she thought, those airport queues can get dreadfully long. Her packing finished, Claire wandered out onto the landing to half-shout a goodnight to her mother, and went about her evening bathroom routines. Teeth and her long, brown hair brushed, she washed her face with a new facial scrub, and after that, delicately perched herself on the toilet, occupying her mind by flicking aimlessly through Facebook. After a fair amount of time, Claire considered herself finished, stood up, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling pine cupboard in the corner, absent mindedly opening it and reaching down to the bottom shelf. Shaking herself awake from her autopilot routine, Claire realised there wasn't any reason to be opening this cupboard - at least, not any more. When Claire was younger, that was where her mother would keep her stacks upon stacks of diapers, ready for Claire to put on at the end of her nightly routine. Of course, there weren't any left there anymore, just a few bottles of bleach, and what looked like a dead bluebottle. Bemused, Claire shut the door to the cupboard and made her way to bed. As she was drifting off, she pondered the few odd moments that had happened that evening. "Must just be the stress of moving to another country," she thought, before the warm embrace of sleep took her away. Claire awoke the next morning with a tremendous feeling of anticipation, but along with it, another feeling - she very much needed to use the bathroom. Throwing off the bed clothes, Claire hopped out onto the landing and towards the toilet, hurriedly pulling down her cotton pajama bottoms as she went. She just managed to set her petite bottom onto the seat before her muscles matters into their own hands, and the call of nature took it's natural course. However, instead of the now-familiar tinkle of pee against porcelain, Claire felt a warm sensation spreading between her legs. Looking down, she saw the source of the problem - in her drowsy haste, she had forgotten to remove her panties. They were thoroughly soaked through, and though she tried to clench her muscles, the stream remained in full swing. She felt the warm wee trickle down her legs, and though some of it had made it's way into the toilet bowl, most seemed to be soaked up by the absorbent cotton of her snug underwear. Eventually, the stream subsided, and Claire was able to clean herself up, removing her sodden panties and carefully wiping down her pussy and legs. As she got on her knees to clean up the small puddle of wee that had made its way onto the floor, she heard her mother call from the other side of the door. "Claire? Darling? Is everything okay in there?" Kathy cooed, ever helpful, but rarely wanted. "Yeah Mum everything's fine, I'm busy!" came Claire's worried reply, as she tried to make wiping up wee somehow less noisy. "Okay..." Kathy's voiced trailed off, not without an air of uncertainty. Claire quickly finished cleaning the toilet seat, and hopped in the shower, cursing her sleepy head for making another problem on such an important day. After toweling off, Claire collected her soaked underwear from the floor, and put an ear up against the bathroom door. Not hearing any signs of life, she attempted to tiptoe out onto the landing, but standing right there was her mother. "Oh!" Kathy exclaimed, clearly as startled as Claire, before wrinkling her nose and glancing down at the clearly wet panties bunched up in her daughter's hand. "Oh dear, Claire. Did you wet the bed again? Should I get some fresh sheets?" Kathy asked, with genuine concern and not a hint of disappointment. "Ugh, no Mum!" Claire replied, just as soon as she'd got over her shock. "I'm fine, I'm not a wetter, I was just half-asleep and I forgot to pull my panties down when I sat on the toilet!" "Oh, well if that's the case I'll pop those in the washing machine for you," Kathy said with almost business-like professionalism, "But you know if there's anything wrong, you don't hesitate to tell me. Anyway, it's not like something I haven't had to deal with before!" "Nothing's wrong Mum, I was just tired and barely awake. I'm going to put my things in the car - we need to get going if we want to beat the queues at the airport." Claire replied, but not before gingerly handing her panties over to her mother.
  5. Chapter One "It's a big decision," Claire's mother worriedly commented. "Are you sure it's something you want to do at your age?" she asked, knowing that the answer would be the same as last time, and every time before that, ever since Claire had informed Kathy of her intentions six months ago. "Ugh, yes mum," the nineteen-year-old whined from the other room, exactly as Kathy expected. "Besides," Claire continued, lowering her voice to room temperature as she lugged a box into the kitchen, "It'll only be sixth weeks at a time, at least at first." Claire dropped the large brown cardboard box on the table with what she hoped would be a conversation-ending thud, but was disappointingly a merely a muffled comma. Her mother looked up from her rapidly cooling cup of tea, and was about to begin a new tack when Claire cut her off: "Anyway, it's not like they don't have the internet in Germany! And you know I'll always be a few hours flight away." It was the trip of a lifetime, and what's more, it tied into her studies at university, and so would even count towards her degree! She certainly wasn't going to let her neurotic mother get in the way. Kathy had always been more than a little nervous about Claire's various escapades, even something as little as a sleepover with school friends. Of course, Kathy had a little more reason to be worried than most parents. Claire had been, until the age of about 14, what they used to euphemistically call a 'bedwetter', but in the last few years had become known as 'wetters'. As it became clear that the new generation was increasingly likely to be only fully out of diapers by five, and a significant minority of about 20% were in need of night-time diapers until mid-adolescence, new phrases had begun to creep into common usage. The Government initially used the term "incontinence sufferers", but this was rapidly thrown out by the younger generation as patronising. They then moved onto "those who use toilets less", until settling for the simple, catch-all phrase "diaper wearers". Never one to miss an opportunity, of course, the diaper industry had thrived with this increase in marketing potential. Claire remembered the old "Drynites" brand vaguely, and shuddered at the thought of the unfortunate souls who had to wear them. Flimsy, low-capacity and small, they were quickly replaced by increasingly large sizes of baby diapers, and by the time Claire had finally outgrown her bedwetting, most large supermarkets sold tape-up diapers all the way up to a 32" waist, with capacity and print variations to suit plenty of tastes. Kathy's concern for her daughter was more of a hangover from the perceptions of bedwetters from her day - Claire would always tell her not to worry, as usually at least one other girl would be in diapers at any sleepover. Kathy, however, worried nonetheless, and Claire was quietly grateful. It was better, she thought, to have a mum who cared too much, instead of too little. So, 5 years free from diapers, Claire was here, packing for her first big trip abroad - six weeks working at the University in Cologne! Claire opened the large brown box and began placing its contents on the kitchen table. Books, pencil cases, protractors, notepaper - it was all here, stationary she hadn't needed since school days, neatly packed away by Kathy. Kathy, oblivious to Claire's silent thanks, began to fuss, "Well don't get it all out here! Take it up to your room, that's where your clothes and suitcases are!". Knowing she was right, Claire grunted in annoyed approval and began to quickly place the items back in the box. As she threw in the last pencil case, she felt her hand brush up against a familiar surface - a sort of fine cotton - but ironically she couldn't quite put her finger on what it reminded her of. Eager to escape her now irritated mother, she bustled upstairs, trying hard not to drop her now unbalanced box of school things as she went. Laying the stationary out on the slightly dusty floor of her bright, modern bedroom, she began to make piles - "take", "keep", and "throw away". Ikea pencils went in "throw away", treasured teenage doodles went in "keep", and her best pens went in "take", ready to packed off to Germany. As she reached the bottom of the box, having filled the "keep" pile far larger than her mother would have liked, Claire's hand again brushed up against that family fabric. Curious, she looked into the box. There, at the bottom in the corner, was a solitary diaper. It was clearly unused, and it was clearly hers - first, it was covered in a little blue flower pattern, and second, it looked about the size and thickness of a small parcel, certainly big enough for her 24" waist. Her heart beating imperceptibly faster, Claire reached down and picked it up. First, she went to put it into the throw away pile, "After all," she reasoned to herself, "No one would want one old diaper, and I certainly don't need it". But she stayed her hand, and placed it down in the "keep" pile. "Who knows," she though, "I might need it in the future - maybe I'll get the flu, and won't be able to make it to the toilet". She stood up, and was about to go downstairs when the blue and white diaper, perched on a pile of half-used school books and potentially useful post-it notes, caught her eye one more time. "Well, if I am going to be in Germany for 6 weeks, why wouldn't I need it then? Besides, I don't know what exactly the diaper situation is over there, so it may be the only thing I can find." To be on the safe side, then, she moved it to the "take" pile, ready to be packed. But first she went down stairs for a nice cup of tea.
  6. Chapter Three Time slowed to a crawl, if only briefly. Whilst our family's peculiarity was, as I have covered, well known and tolerated by our guests, it was rare that they would take part themselves. Sometimes, some would get curious; Ethel's pal from school, Lily Phipps, was known to, when the mood struck her, request nappies from the maids, and I once recall her wetting the bed on purpose. They never, however, took part in it for very long, nor did they ever speak of the peculiar habit in the way the family did - they would either call it a 'desire', or 'simply more convenient'. Thus, when hearing Cherry describe the "switch being flicked", not to mention the well sodden party dress and faint, but distinctive, smell, I was both surprised and enamored with her. "Yes," she giggled, bringing me back to the moment, "as though everything has slotted neatly into place!" She smiled a wide smile, and batted her eyelids as only morsels like her can. "Perhaps we should retire upstairs for a few moments," I suggested, after a couple of false starts. "Why would we do that? I'm having such a lovely time down here!" she bounced back. "Well, darling, you appear to have wet yourself," I replied, tastefully omitting my suspicion that she may also be sitting on a slightly more mushy surface than a few moments ago, "And I thought you may want to get changed." "Oh, so I have!" she bemused, "I hadn't really thought it mattered until you pointed it out, dear, but now you mention it, yes I ought to get changed." It was clear old Cherry was still a bit skewif, so I helped her to her feet. As we left the drawing room I turned to excuse us to the family, telling them frankly that Cherry had lost control of her functions, though that perhaps was not needed. As her firm but plump behind swayed out of the room, a noticeable dark brown patch was visible on the seat of her dress. We took the great stair to our room, making conversation on the way as only Cherry can, which is to say, not particularly well. "I think I have also made a mess in my panties, darling" she cooed, confirming my earlier suspicions. "I should like to know why," Cherry continued, "I was not wearing a nappy? It seems only sensible given that I wasn't using a toilet at the time." Taking my leave from Mother, ten years before, I motioned to a passing footman to bring us some 'familial supplies', before replying to the object of my attentions. "I shouldn't worry about that now, darling, but it may be wise to change into one, once I get you cleaned up. You never know when it might be useful!". "Of course, silly! What did you think I was going to wear, my cotton panties? They don't soak up wee at all, it drips right through!" Cherry, replied, incredulous at even the suggestion. I was, at this point, tempted to remind her of her attitude to my mother's suggestions of the same only earlier that day, but I thought better of it. 'The Female of the Species', a poem by R. Whatshisface, Esq (or was it Lord Thingy?), reminds us that women, on the whole, are pretty much a pain to deal with in any capacity other than agreement, especially when that woman has rapidly cooling urine running down her legs. We reached my room, and I helped Cherry up to my changing table. I carefully unbuttoned her evening dress, whilst reaching into my chest of drawers for the requisites; nappy wipes, cream, and talcum powder. These things I attempted simultaneously, and, as I'm sure it takes no stretch to imagine, failed miserably. I lost my grip on Cherry's dress, the pot of nappy cream danced from my fingers and I fell to the floor in a heap, punctuated by a puff of talcum powder like the last flourish on a symphony. I also began to wet my nappy. To make matters even more ridiculous, it was at this point that Ethel entered unannounced.
  7. Thanks! I am English, and relatively posh, but I'm not an aristocrat, and a fair bit of the language in this piece is period (in that it's about 100 years out of date). I was slightly worried that the vocab was a bit obscure - did you find it all comprehensible? I'm glad it seemed original. I think genre diaper fiction is something one rarely reads, so I thought it would stand out a bit.
  8. Author's Note: Set in England in the recent past, an minor aristocratic family has a rather odd approach to potty training. My first attempt at a diaper story, I hope to keep it short, sweet, and slightly funny. Chapter One I feel, dear reader, that I must bring you up to speed. It has often been observed by our own sort, but more frequently (and, rather obviously) by our observers, that the landed gentry develop idiosyncratic ways. Cooped up, as they often are, in drafty old houses miles from even a mere whiff of civilisation, bizarre microcosms of humanity begin to form. This of course was compounded before the advent of the motorcar, so the prospect of reprieve was so distant that complete acceptance of their lot was pretty much guaranteed. Some formed little languages of their own - I once spent a summer in a Tudor dump up north where the word "peach" was used for so many things I could barely keep track. One of my distant uncles, I'm reliably informed by the man in the pub, started a tradition of shooting at funny shaped clouds every morning at five o'clock. More shockingly, the Preston-Barts in Hampshire are Catholic. Our family, however, is perhaps the most peculiar of them all (N.B. - ought that to be perculairest? Look up later.). Since around about the mid 17th Century - no one is quite sure of the date - almost all of our family have returned to nappies pretty sharpish after they were so unjustly taken from us. Indeed, so common is this circumstance that when the 6th Baronet demolished the family home to rebuild it in the Georgian style, he neglected to add any toilets. Of course, the attempt to potty train is still made, although the lack of alternative facilities makes this really part of the whole dance. I was around five when I was taken out of nappies in the day, and about six when I was taken out of them at night. I was soon whisked off to school, and, only returning to the old place a few times a year, was mostly using the W of C as one might expect. I did still, however, wet the bed, perhaps once or twice a week, but by summer term of my second year, that too subsided. A few cycles of the heavens later, as that chap from Greece might have said, I was facing a rather long stretch in the house over summer. My father usually took us off to Italy in the nicer months, but having lost a fair bit on a rather extravagant bet involving a friendly game of chess and an absurd amount of rice, it was safe to say he didn't have the oomph that particular year. So, at they joyful age of 12, I was stuck in that rotten place with no one near my age except my older sister, Ethel. Ethel had just turned eighteen, and was ghastly. Although I'm not certain what exactly a ghast is like, she was certainly like one. So it was that one morning about two weeks into my incarceration that I was lying on my stomach in the drawing room pretending to practice my Latin grammar, when really drawing rather vicious caricatures of my house masters at school. Ethel was curled up in an armchair reading "The Arabic Princess" and padded up to the nines in nappies. She had only spent about a year out of them, as it happens, at age fourteen, and was dreadfully engrossed in her book; made even more apparent by the growing wet patch between her legs. As I lay there attempting to recall the precise shape and nature of Mr Mulch's nose, I suddenly felt as though a small switch had been flicked in my brain. I couldn't tell then what the switch was controlling, but rather soon it made itself very clear. I noticed, one rapidly after the other, a pressure in my bladder and bowels. I very quickly filled my underwear with those respective contents, continuing to examine the visual faculties of noses as I did so. Now, it wasn't as though it had snuck up on me, as it does when one wets the bed, nor was it that I had made a conscious effort to empty myself, but more that I simply no longer cared. Ethel, ghastly as ever, didn't notice my change in state, but to be fair, I barely did either. It wasn't until mother came in to call us for lunch that I was discovered. Mother squealed in delight - "I knew you'd come round, dear. Let's pop upstairs, shall we?". I was, waddling slightly, led up to my room, where, after asking the maid for supplies, mother and I opened my chest of drawers and formed a pile of my underwear on the bedspread. "I shan't expect I'll be needing these anymore," I informed her with a hint of triumph in my voice. The maid soon returned with supplies - a vast quantity of nappies, talcum powder and flannels, a changing mat and waterproof mattress cover - and took away my underwear to be disposed of. I was thereafter changed into a nappy for the first time in six years, and followed mother down to lunch. Chapter Two A decade later, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, brings us up to just before now. I was rattling up the drive in my new car, pretty chuffed with the world. I shifted my weight in my soaked nappy as I changed gear, and felt thankful for the modern marvel of synthetic leather - I'd had the car reupholstered in it, by the same chaps in Florence who make our changing mats. Much had changed in the intervening ten years, although mostly along the obvious path, but not so much re: the nappy situation, although no one would really expect it to. I did relatively well in my schooling exams, and went up to Oxford to read Art History. Never had much trouble about the choice of underwear, but then again my family's habit was well known even amongst those who didn't know me, and so it was let slide. After all, Peeker Preston-Barts was a Catholic! So I graduated with a Third Class Honours, which was to be expected, and spent a while hanging around Europe. It was there I met a corker of a woman - Cherry Otherington. You see, it wasn't just an overfull nappy that accompanied me up the drive, but the delight that was Cherry herself. I'm not one for gushing, but she was certainly very pretty. Not particularly tall - definitely not in the vein of a Michelangelo - but if I were to stretch the sculptural analogy, much more suited to a bust, if you hop on my drift. A small blonde bob topped the whole thing off, like a... Well, like a cherry, I suppose. We pulled up outside the house and the footmen, a fair number of them new, scurried away our luggage, and, shortly, the car. Mother met us over the threshold, beaming. "I hope you had a pleasant journey," she said, "and you must be Cherry, oh how lovely it is to meet you at last!". "It's lovely to see you too, Ma," I failed to reply. "Now," she continued, "We're just about to serve tea in the conservatory; do either of you need a change?" Cherry, after a flash of bemusement sent my way, diplomatically replied, "No, I think these clothes will be fine 'til the evening, if that's alright with you?". "Don't be silly!" Mother replied, "Do you need to change your nappy? - I know I do, I was just too excited waiting for you!". A further and more intense glance of bemusement was pinged my way, this time by both women; a veritable barrage of pinging. "Oh I know this old chap does," Cherry returned, "But I have been free from nappies since I was about four, thank you." "Well I'm not sure I would call it a freedom, Cherry, but you might struggle here. This house is rather lacking in the way of toilets. I imagined my son would have informed you!" Mother batted back, her English temperament almost straining at the leash. "I'm sure I'll be fine," my corker replied, before finally turning her attention to me, "Come on, you need a change though, don't you? Let's get that sorted and then come down for tea." The situation not so much de-escalted as hovering in mid air, we moved toward the staircase, and I let my soon to be removed nappy fill with poo. Mother briskly, although with slightly apart legs, called a maid for assistance in a ground-floor changing room. Once upstairs, like a cheap tailor, I attempted to patch things up with Cherry. "Look here," I said, as she removed my filled nappy, "I don't want you and Mother getting off on the wrong foot, but you should be alright with the lack of toilets; there's one in the gamekeeper's cottage at the back of the south garden." "Oh thank you, darling," she replied whilst applying copious amounts of talcum powder, "but I think I shall be alright until tomorrow." She patted my now fresh nappy and handed me my trousers, after which we made our way back down the staircase at to tea. The rest of the day passed rather smoothly - I took a brief leave to change Ethel, now slightly less ghastly, as she was as ever engrossed in a book and demanded not to be disturbed. Dinner was tremendous - the wine flowed much as wine does when it does flow - and we were all, I dare say, getting pretty squiffy in the drawing room at around ten. Cherry, due perhaps to her non-Michaelangelo stature, was really rather drunk, and so took some herbal tea to sober up. Ethel, having finished her book, was now repeating the entire plot to an audience who were so un-captive that 'bored out of their sculls' would hardly cut it. Cherry, after sitting quiet for a while and appearing as though she was gently dodging invisible fish, leaned over and whispered in my ear. "I say, I've just had the most peculiar sensation - like a switch being flicked!". No sooner as she had finished speaking, the sound well known in our house - that of a stream of pee against the enameled floor - gently lifted itself through the air. "Darling," she continued with no hint of sorrow, "I think I've had an accident". I do mean to continue this, but, If I don't, I hope that was satisfactory. Comments appreciated.
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