A Perculiar Habit

[DiaperDarling]

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.

[irishdemon98]

This is a great piece, are you actually English or are just a great impersonator. (stupid question but I don't like to assume, assuming leads to awkward situations)

[Drownedinp]

[ragtime]

This is one of the raddest story concepts I've read here! Do continue.

[DiaperDarling]

This is a great piece, are you actually English or are just a great impersonator. (stupid question but I don't like to assume, assuming leads to awkward situations)

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?

This is one of the raddest story concepts I've read here! Do continue.

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.

[irishdemon98]

It was a little bit of a shift but i was able to comprehend and consume the story well. It was really enjoyable and creative with the theme of a family being incontinent out of spite for social normalities. I hope that you intend to continue the story.

[DiaperDarling]

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.