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By Bel George · Posted
I don't remember saying that, but I could be wrong. For me, this story is over here. I'd rather end it a chapter too early than a chapter too late. If I were to compare it to TV series: there are too many I really liked, but the final season unfortunately wasn't as captivating as the previous ones. I even hesitated about posting part 3 here, because I personally don't think it's as good as parts 1 and 2. But I had already written it, so I felt I couldn't keep it from you. -
Thank you, such a great story. Conclusion leaves the door ajar for a part 4. Is that on the cards, I think you said there might be, at one point? -
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By Bel George · Posted
Chapter 11 Charlotte’s room was dim, the curtains half-drawn. She sat cross-legged on her bed, still in her day clothes. I lingered in the doorway until she looked up, her eyes red around the edges. “Come in,” she muttered, voice low. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed. For a while we said nothing, the silence thick with everything that had happened that morning. The thirteenth sun, the reset, Mum’s calm words about maybe extending the trial period. Finally I whispered, “No more tricks.” Her head jerked up, eyes narrowing. “No more sabotaging,” I added quickly, “either of us.” She stared at me, searching my face, then let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” She pulled her knees tighter against her chest. “Mum thinks it was just the diuretics in Stockholm. But it wasn’t just that. I used them more than once. And that sleepover? I made sure it happened so she’d need a babysitter. The night Zoe came.” Charlotte bit her lip, eyes darting to the door. “I forged Mum’s note. I made it look like she wanted Zoe to give you a bottle, and I slipped her some tablets, saying they’d help you relax while Mum wasn’t around. They were laxatives, of course. I set you up for a wet and messy night.” The room tilted. I stared at her, speechless. “I never thought it would go this far,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “But once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was too easy. And you never suspected.” My chest tightened. “I suspected. Just not… not like that.” Her gaze sharpened. “And what about you? The way you wet on the fourteenth night, both times? The water bottle you chugged like you wanted to fail? You did it on purpose, Oliver. To keep me trapped.” Heat rushed to my face. I wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. I nodded slowly. “Yes. I wet on purpose. Not just the nights. On the way to the beach too. I knew Mum would make you wear the swim diaper as well. And I didn’t want to give up the only power I had over you.” Silence stretched between us. “So we’ve both been horrible,” Charlotte said finally, her voice flat. “Yes,” I admitted. “And it only made everything worse.” She took a shaky breath. “No more, then. If we really try, we can do it. Fourteen, and then we’re done.” I nodded, though unease twisted in my stomach. “No more.” The door creaked open, and Mum stepped in, carrying the bag. She raised an eyebrow, seeing us side by side, but said nothing. “Charlotte, your turn,” she said briskly. I slid off the bed, standing awkwardly as Mum laid out a thick disposable and plastic pants. Charlotte gave me a look, tired, raw, but not mocking, before lying back for her change. The tapes ripped loud in the quiet room, the scent of powder rising sharp. When Mum was done, she turned to me. “Your room, Oliver.” I hesitated, then shuffled toward the door. Her hand touched my shoulder lightly. “I know this reset was hard,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “But remember what I told you. If it happens again, the trial period will be extended. A full month if needed. Do you understand?” I nodded, my throat tight. “Good. Off to bed.” I walked back across the hall, the weight of her warning pressing heavier than the diaper waiting on my chair. One after another, day by day, the stickers filled the row until only a single empty square remained. Each morning, Charlotte hovered by the kitchen door, her eyes shining with a hope she tried not to speak aloud. On the fourteenth morning, Mum pressed the last golden sun into place. The neat line of fourteen gleamed in the morning light. “Fourteen,” she said simply. Charlotte let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh. Her hand gripped mine under the table. “You did it,” she whispered, her voice breaking with relief. I swallowed hard, my cheeks hot, pride and guilt tangled together in my chest. Mum turned from the chart, her face calm but certain. “Oliver is now no longer a bedwetter. You have proven that. The night diapers end here.” Mum turned to Charlotte, her tone steady. “And so do yours. And since Oliver hasn’t had a daytime accident in over two months, the rule about diapers for longer outings will end as well. You have shown you can manage, Oliver. You are both free of them now.” She let that sink in, then added, her eyes moving from one of us to the other: “But let this be clear. Every choice has consequences. What started with one trick, one lie, became weeks of punishment, humiliation, and resentment. I hope both of you have learned from the way things kept building, one mistake leading to another. I will not see it repeated.” Charlotte nodded quickly, unable to hide her smile. She almost looked like herself again, lighter, freer. I nodded too. The following weekend, Mum gathered the props into boxes: the booster seat, the bottles, the chart from the kitchen door. She stacked them neatly, one on top of the other, and carried them up the narrow steps to the attic. “Out of sight,” she said simply. “We won’t be needing these again.” Charlotte watched from the doorway, arms folded, her expression unreadable. For her, it was a kind of closure, proof that the long months were finally over. The first nights without diapers felt strange. At first I was almost giddy climbing into bed in just pajamas, the fabric light and thin compared to the heavy bulk I had grown used to. Charlotte grinned openly at breakfast those first mornings, stretching out her legs at the table like she had finally been set free from invisible chains. But as the days passed, the thrill faded. I lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling, the blanket tucked under my chin. The bed felt empty without the familiar weight pressing between my thighs. The sheets felt vulnerable, too exposed. I missed the warmth, the certainty. I turned onto my side, clutching the pillow tighter. I had promised myself I never wanted to be treated like a baby again, yet the silence of the room and the absence of that soft, crinkling bulk made me restless. Asking Mum to put me back in one would be unthinkable. It would be admitting that I had enjoyed parts of the punishment. And I didn’t. At least, that’s what I told myself. Still, the longer I lay there, the more I missed it. I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, the cool sheet clinging to my legs. My bladder ached faintly, familiar and insistent. I thought of the golden suns lined neatly across the chart, of Charlotte’s relief when the last one had been placed, and of how empty the nights had felt since. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and let go. Warmth spread quickly, soaking through my pajamas, pooling under me. The sheet darkened, the smell rising faint but unmistakable. Shame washed over me, but with it came relief, that small, shameful comfort of being back where I understood the rules. When Mum came in the next morning, she pulled back the blanket, saw the sodden sheets, and nodded once. Her voice was calm, steady. “Until this passes, you’ll be back in nighttime diapers. Charlotte or I will change you. And you will learn to do it yourself as well, so no babysitter or caregiver is ever needed again. That is how it will be.” Charlotte didn’t argue. She only glanced at me, her expression softer than I had expected. That evening, it was her turn. She laid out the cloth and plastic pants carefully on the bed, then looked at me. “Come on,” she said quietly. I lay back, my heart pounding. But she was gentle, her hands steady, no mocking smile, no sharp words. She pinned the folds snug, dusted powder with a kind of careful respect, and tugged the plastic pants up into place. The crinkle was there, but it felt different under her touch, less humiliating, mostly safe. When she zipped the sleeper closed, she gave the shoulder a small pat. “There,” she said simply. “All set.” I looked up at her, searching for the smirk that never came. She only met my eyes, calm and firm, and I felt nothing but gratitude. And, as the house settled into silence, my hand strayed to the drawer of my nightstand. Inside, tucked under a pair of socks, was the one thing Mum hadn’t taken upstairs: a pacifier. I hadn’t hidden it very well, and part of me knew she must have seen it. But she’d left it, as if to say the choice was mine. I slipped the pacifier into my mouth, the rubber soothing in a way I couldn’t quite admit to myself. Shame prickled hot under my skin. But beneath it was a small, guilty comfort. And in the dark, I let that comfort carry me to sleep. -
By Dartplayerinwvc · Posted
nope, wife knew I was DL and some minor control issues and we found out it was MS and am now 24-7 urinary incont / bedwetting because of it
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