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Wet the bed again and again starting to night. From tonight you are a bedwetter. Just let it flow. You will wet your bed tonignt and each and every night. Night time means wetting time. No more worrying you will sleep through your wetting and wake up soaking wet in the morning. Totally natural one full bladder and one wet bed. Deep sleep and you are going to wet the bed tonight.and each and every night from now on. Your bladder will not hold anymore. You dont get to decide, your bladder will let go -
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By jblackbean2 · Posted
Chapter 1 Fifteen years of marriage had carved James and Louise into a familiar rhythm — not perfect, not dramatic, just lived‑in. Louise was the kind of woman who filled a room without trying. She worked for a cleaning company, but she treated it like a stage: every shift gave her new stories, new characters, new disasters to laugh about. Her co-workers adored her. Her clients trusted her. Her friends practically lived in their kitchen on Friday nights, eating pizza and shouting over board games while Louise kept the energy buzzing like a warm, bright engine. James loved watching her in those moments. He loved the way she could make people feel at home. But he never quite joined in. He’d slip away with a smile, retreating to his office — a dim corner lit by a monitor’s glow, headphones clamped over his ears, the soft hum of digital worlds waiting to swallow him whole. Out there, he was quiet. In here, he could disappear. Louise teased him about it sometimes. “You’re like a house cat,” she’d say, ruffling his hair as she passed. “Friendly, but only on your terms.” He’d laugh, because it was easier than explaining the truth: that the adult world felt too heavy, too sharp, too demanding. That he longed — achingly, secretly — for something softer. Something that let him stop being the responsible one. He never told her that part. He never told anyone. On this particular morning, Louise was already up, humming as she packed her lunch. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles, catching the dust motes in a lazy dance. She looked over her shoulder at him with that easy smile. “Morning, love. Coffee’s ready.” James murmured thanks, kissed her cheek, and carried his mug to his desk. The house felt peaceful. Ordinary. Safe. He opened his laptop. And that’s when he saw it. A subject line gleaming like a beacon: Congratulations, you’ve won. His heart gave a startled kick — but before he could even process it, his eyes dropped to the message just beneath it. The one he’d meant to delete. The one arranging a meeting with someone he should never have contacted. The one that could unravel everything. James hesitates before clicking. His finger hovers over the trackpad, the way it might hover over a detonator. He already knows what the message is — or rather, what it represents. The part of himself he keeps locked away. The part he pretends doesn’t exist when Louise is laughing in the kitchen. He opens it. The email expands, stark and undeniable. Saturday, 3 p.m. behind the café. Ask for “M.” I’ll bring what you asked for. Don’t be nervous. — The Babysitter His stomach twists. He hates that name — The Babysitter — but it’s what she called herself in the forum. A joke, a persona, a role she played for adults who wanted to hand over their responsibilities for an hour or two. She’d made it clear from the start: all clients must be over eighteen, no exceptions, no fantasies involving minors, no unsafe behaviour. It was structured, controlled, almost clinical. But the name still made him feel ridiculous. Exposed. Like someone had peeled back his skin and seen the soft, frightened thing underneath. He scrolls. There’s the thread of their conversation — coded phrases, careful wording, the kind of messages typed late at night when the world felt far away. He’d told himself it was just talk. A fantasy he’d never act on. A way to feel small and unburdened without actually doing anything. But he had acted. He’d set a time. A place. Paid the price and agreed to meet her. And now the email sits there, proof that his secret life isn’t just in his head anymore. From the kitchen, Louise calls out, “James? Did you take the last clean mug?” Her voice is warm. Familiar. Safe. He closes the laptop as if it’s burning him. The two worlds — the one he lives in and the one he hides in — are suddenly too close. Touching. Pressing against each other like tectonic plates about to shift. And for the first time, James wonders what will break when they do. James snaps the laptop shut a little too fast. The sound is sharp — a clap in an otherwise quiet room — and Louise’s humming stops mid‑note. She turns from the counter, a half‑wrapped sandwich in her hands, eyebrows lifting just slightly. It’s not suspicion, not yet. Just that subtle shift a spouse makes when something in the air changes. “You okay?” she asks, casual on the surface, but her eyes linger on him a beat too long. James forces a smile. His throat feels tight, like he’s swallowed something too large. “Yeah. Just… work stuff.” It’s a terrible lie. He doesn’t even have work emails on this laptop. Louise tilts her head, studying him. She’s always been good at reading people — clients, co-workers, friends. She can sense tension like a dog senses weather. And James, quiet as he is, has never been good at hiding from her. She wipes her hands on a towel and steps closer. “You look pale. Did something happen?” He shakes his head quickly. Too quickly. “No, no. Just… tired.” Louise’s gaze flicks to the laptop, then back to him. Not accusing. Just curious. Concerned. The kind of look that says she’s trying to decide whether to push or let it go. For a moment, James thinks she might reach for the laptop. The thought sends a jolt of panic through him so strong he has to grip the edge of the desk to steady himself. Louise notices that too. Her voice softens. “James… talk to me.” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The words he should say — the truth, the confession, the explanation — are stuck somewhere deep, tangled in fear and shame. Instead, he mutters, “It’s nothing. Really.” Louise doesn’t believe him. He can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her smile falters at the edges. But she also doesn’t press. She just nods slowly, as if filing the moment away for later. “Alright,” she says quietly. “If you say so.” She turns back to Preparing her lunch for work, but the atmosphere has changed. The kitchen feels smaller. The air heavier. And James knows — with a sinking certainty — that the secret he’s been hiding isn’t just a private burden anymore. It’s a presence in the room. Watching both of them. Waiting. Today As James sits there he almost dazes off imaging the Laptop screen, "Congratulations, you’ve won". James Imagines staring at it, pulse thudding in his ears. He doesn’t remember entering anything. He barely remembers half the things he does late at night, drifting through forums and niche corners of the internet when Louise has gone to bed and the house has gone quiet. But it’s the message beneath it — the one he meant to delete — that turns his stomach to ice. Saturday, 3 p.m. behind the café. Ask for “M.” He remembers typing it. He remembers the trembling in his hands. He remembers the thrill and the shame, tangled together like wires sparking in the dark. He’d told himself it was harmless. A fantasy. A conversation he’d never follow through on. But now the two emails sit together like a pair of witnesses. He’s spent fifteen years being the quiet one, the steady one, the man who never asks for anything. Louise fills the house with noise and people and life, and he slips into the background like a shadow. It works. It has always worked. Except for the part of him that never grew up. The part that wants to hand over the weight of adulthood, even for a moment. The part he’s never dared to name out loud. He sits there, heart hammering, Staring coldly at the fresh coffee Infront of him. Louise is still preparing her lunch, wiping her hands on a towel, sunlight catching in her hair. She looks so normal. So real. So far from the strange, secret world he’s been hiding. He wonders — for the first time — what would happen if that world collided with hers. And then his phone buzzes. A new message. “Looking forward to Saturday. Don’t be late.” James feels the tension in the room before Louise even speaks. It’s in the way her footsteps slow, the way her shoulders stiffen just slightly, the way the air seems to thicken between them. She’s not angry — that would almost be easier. She’s watching him. Reading him. And James has never been good at being read. He keeps his eyes on his coffee, pretending to study the swirl of steam. His pulse is still too fast. His palms are damp. He can feel the weight of the closed laptop behind him like a guilty conscience with hinges. Louise clears her throat lightly, the sound too bright, too deliberate. “So,” she says, forcing a little cheer into her voice, “I heard from Emma this morning.” James nods, hoping that’s enough. It isn’t. “She’s pregnant again.” He looks up, startled. Louise’s smile is soft, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s trying — trying to sound normal, trying to smooth over the tension, trying to pretend she didn’t just watch her husband flinch away from her like a startled animal. “That’s… nice,” James manages. Louise laughs, but it’s thin. “Yeah. She’s over the moon. Says she’s already craving pickles and ice cream. Again.” He tries to smile, but his face feels stiff, unfamiliar. Louise turns back to the counter, fiddling with the cling film around her sandwich. “Makes me wonder if I’m going to get broody,” she says lightly. “You know how I get when there’s a baby around.” James’s stomach drops. He knows exactly where this is going. They’ve danced around it for years — the quiet ache Louise never voices, the one she tries to bury under jokes and busy days and Friday nights with her girls. She glances at him over her shoulder, her expression gentle but searching. “Not that it matters. I know… I know we can’t.” The words land softly, but they still hit like a stone thrown into deep water. James swallows hard. He hates this part — the reminder of what he can’t give her, the reminder of the doctor’s quiet voice, the reminder of the way Louise held his hand afterward and said it didn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything. He forces himself to meet her eyes. “Lou… I’m sorry.” She shakes her head quickly. “No. Don’t. I’m not bringing it up to make you feel bad. I just…” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “I want you to talk to me. That’s all.” James feels something twist inside him — guilt, fear, longing, all tangled together. He wants to tell her everything. He wants to tell her nothing. He wants to be held. He wants to run. Instead, he whispers, “I’m fine. Really.” Louise watches him for a long moment, her expression softening into something sadder, quieter. “Okay,” she says at last. “If you say so.” But James can tell she doesn’t believe him. And the worst part is — she’s right not to. -
By jblackbean2 · Posted
Ooo thanks. Not wrote one in awhile so missed the new Section. Will post it and see.
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