Mommies and Daddies

Chapter 4: A Wet Bed The wetness came first. A cold, spreading sensation against his hip that pulled Ryan from sleep with the sudden violence of a dropped glass. He jolted awake, his heart hammering, and stared down at the dark patch blooming across the pale sheets beneath him. Kimberly lay beside him, still asleep, her back turned, her breathing soft and even. The wetness extended from his side of the bed, a Rorschach blot of shame that had soaked through the fitted sheet and into the mattress protector. His own doing. His own failure. He lay frozen, staring at it, his mouth dry. The smell hit him then—ammonia and sleep-sweat, the pathetic odor of his own body betraying him. Again. Always. "Kimberly." His voice came out a whisper, barely audible. She didn't stir. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched her shoulder. "Kimberly. Wake up." She shifted, murmured something, then rolled toward him. Her eyes opened, unfocused, then sharpened as they took in his face, his expression, the damp sheets between them. She sat up. Looked down. The disgust that crossed her features was swift and complete, like a door slamming shut. "You wet the bed." The words were flat, almost wondering, as if she couldn't quite believe she had to say them out loud. "Ryan. You actually wet the bed." "I—I don't know what happened," he stammered, his hands pulling the duvet up as if he could somehow hide the evidence. "I was dreaming. I didn't feel it. I didn't—" "Stop." She held up her hand, cutting him off. She swung her legs out of bed, standing carefully to avoid the wet patch. "Just... take care of it. Strip the bed, put everything in the wash. And for God's sake, take a shower. You smell like a nursery." She didn't look at him as she walked to the closet. Ryan sat there in the damp sheets, his face burning, her words echoing in his head. You smell like a nursery. He moved mechanically, stripping the bed with hands that still shook. The wet fabric clung to his fingers, cold and humiliating. He gathered the sheets, the mattress protector, his soaked pajama pants, and carried them to the laundry room. The washing machine started its churning cycle, and he stood there for a moment, listening to it, as if the sound could wash him clean too. The shower. He needed the shower. He climbed the stairs, his legs heavy, and locked himself in the bathroom. The mirror showed him a pale, pinched face, eyes too wide, mouth tight. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand and stepped under the spray. He scrubbed. He scrubbed until his skin turned pink, until the smell of urine was replaced by the chemical bite of body wash. But the shame stayed, lodged deep in his chest, a weight he couldn't rinse away. He thought about the bed upstairs, stripped bare, the damp mattress protector the only barrier between the stain and the mattress itself. He thought about Kimberly downstairs, her disgust, her words. He thought about the day stretching before him, empty and heavy. The doorbell rang. Ryan froze, the water sluicing over his shoulders. He turned off the spray, straining to hear. The bell rang again, insistent. "Kimberly!" he called, his voice cracking. But she was already at the door—he could hear her footsteps, the creak of the front door opening, the low rumble of a male voice. Darnell. Ryan's stomach dropped. He was naked, wet, his hair dripping, his body still flushed from the hot water. He grabbed a towel, fumbling with it, his fingers clumsy. He dried himself roughly, his skin stinging, and pulled on his clothes with shaking hands—fresh tighty whities, jeans, a polo shirt that suddenly felt too tight, too childish. He heard them downstairs, Kimberly's voice higher than usual, Darnell's deep baritone responding. The sound of boots on tile, moving toward the kitchen. Ryan ran a comb through his wet hair, his reflection showing him a man who looked like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Which, in a way, he had. He descended the stairs slowly, each step a descent into deeper humiliation. They were in the kitchen—Kimberly in her yoga pants and tank top, Darnell in his work clothes, crouched by the open cabinet beneath the sink. The sight of him there, in Ryan's house, assessing Ryan's failure with such competent ease, made Ryan's chest tighten. "There's our man," Darnell said, turning his head. The words were casual, friendly, but something in his tone made Ryan's face flush. "Thought we might have lost you up there." "I was just... getting cleaned up," Ryan mumbled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. "Sure, sure," Darnell said, standing in one fluid motion. He turned to face Ryan, his dark eyes direct, assessing. "Your wife was just showing me the situation. Nine months, she says. That's a long time to go without a working kitchen." "I've been busy," Ryan mumbled, though the excuse sounded hollow even to him. "With work, and—" "Easy to let things slide," Darnell said, not unkindly. "Lot on your plate, I'm sure." His gaze swept over Ryan, taking in his wet hair, his flushed face, his too-casual clothes. Something flickered in his expression—assessment, maybe, or a certain patient understanding. "Tell you what. I'll run to the hardware store, grab what we need. Then I can walk you through the fix. Show you how it's done." Ryan opened his mouth to protest, to say he couldn't possibly impose, but Kimberly spoke first. "That would be wonderful," she said, and Ryan heard the warmth in her voice again, the appreciation. "We've been living with this for so long." Darnell smiled, slow and genuine. "Back in twenty," he said, and was gone, his boots thudding on the front steps, his truck starting with a confident rumble. The silence he left behind felt heavy, charged. Ryan stood in the middle of his gutted kitchen, his wet hair dripping onto his collar, his hands shoved in his pockets. "You didn't tell me he was..." Kimberly started, then trailed off. She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to. "I didn't know," Ryan mumbled. "He's new. Just started this week." "He seems capable." "Yeah." Ryan's voice was flat. "He seems capable." They waited in tense silence. Ryan busied himself with straightening the already-straight items on the plywood counter, his movements jerky and over-cautious. When Darnell's truck rumbled back into the driveway, Ryan actually flinched. Darnell returned with two heavy bags from the hardware store, the plastic stretching under the weight. He moved with the same easy confidence, unpacking his purchases on the plywood counter: copper fittings, thread sealant tape, a new P-trap, heavy-duty supply lines. His hands moved over the materials with familiarity, like a surgeon with his instruments. "Alright," he said, turning to Ryan. "First lesson. Come here, get down where you can see." Ryan approached the cabinet slowly, his movements hesitant. He crouched down, his knees popping audibly, and peered into the dark space beneath the sink. Darnell squeezed in beside him, his larger frame somehow fitting with practiced ease. Ryan could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell that clean cotton scent mixed with something musky and male. "First thing," Darnell said, his voice patient, almost gentle, "you want to make sure the water's off. Main valve's under here, see?" He pointed to a brass handle. "Turn that clockwise until it's tight. Good. Now, when you're working with old pipes, you gotta be gentle but firm. Too soft, you won't get a seal. Too hard, you'll crack something." He demonstrated, wrapping the thread sealant tape around a fitting with deft, economical movements. His hands were sure, unhurried. Ryan watched, his own hands hovering uselessly. "Your turn," Darnell said, handing him the fitting. "Wrap it just like I showed you. Three, four turns, nice and tight." Ryan fumbled with the tape. It stuck to his fingers, tangled, tore. He managed a few messy wraps, the tape bunched and uneven. "That's... okay," Darnell said, his voice patient, forgiving. "Let's get it threaded. Hand me the wrench." Ryan reached for the pipe wrench on the counter behind him. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the handle. He positioned it on the fitting, began to turn. "Other way," Darnell said, not unkindly. "Counter-clockwise to loosen, clockwise to tighten. Remember?" Ryan flushed, reversed direction. He pulled on the wrench. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, his shoulder straining. The fitting turned a fraction, then stuck. "Put your back into it," Darnell said, his voice encouraging, like a teacher with a struggling student. "It's not gonna break. You gotta commit." Ryan pulled with all his strength. The wrench slipped, his hand flying free, and he stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the cabinet frame. He heard a sharp crack, a hiss, and then water was spraying everywhere, a cold jet hitting his chest, his face, soaking his jeans in seconds. "Easy now," Darnell said, his voice calm, almost soothing. He was already moving, reaching past Ryan to the main valve, his hand finding it unerringly in the spray. The water died to a trickle, then stopped. Ryan sat on the floor, drenched, his polo shirt plastered to his chest, his jeans dark and heavy with water. He could feel the cold spreading through the fabric, soaking into his tighty whities beneath, the familiar sensation of wetness against his skin. The smell of iron and old pipe filled the small space. Darnell looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced up, toward where Kimberly stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. "These old valves," Darnell said, his voice easy, explanatory. "They get brittle. Not your fault, boss. Happens to the best of us." But Ryan saw the way Kimberly was looking at Darnell—not at him, at Darnell—with something that might have been admiration, might have been relief. The competent man who'd stopped the flood. The man who hadn't panicked, hadn't failed, hadn't ended up soaked and pathetic on his own kitchen floor. "Ryan," she said, her voice strange, tight. "Go change. You're soaked." He stood on wooden legs, water dripping from his clothes onto the tile, leaving a trail as he walked toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Darnell moving again, the clink of tools, the low murmur of his voice explaining something to Kimberly. Ryan didn't turn around. He couldn't bear to see them together, the competent man and the disappointed wife, united in his failure. Upstairs, he stripped off his wet clothes, his fingers numb. The tighty whities clung to him, transparent and childish, and he pulled them off with a violence that surprised him. He stood naked in the bedroom, shivering, staring at the stripped bed, the damp mattress protector, the evidence of all his failures laid bare. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—pale, soft, his small cock shriveled against his thigh, barely an inch of pink flesh nestled in sparse hair. It looked even smaller now, wet and cold, a ridiculous nub that seemed to mock everything he wasn't. He thought of Darnell downstairs, the easy confidence of his movements, the way his clothes fit his solid frame. The way Kimberly had looked at him. He thought of his own body, the way it failed him. The bedwetting. The premature ejaculations. The micropenis that had never satisfied anyone, least of all himself. He wasn't a man. He was something else, something lesser, a creature of damp sheets and failed repairs and pathetic spurts that ended before they began. He dressed again—dry tighty whities, fresh jeans, a shirt that hadn't been sprayed with pipe water. He took his time, delaying the return downstairs, the continuation of his humiliation. But eventually, he had to go back. Darnell had the leak stopped, the new fitting in place, the supply lines reconnected. He was tightening the final connection when Ryan entered the kitchen, his movements slow and careful, as if he were handling something precious. Kimberly stood nearby, watching, a cup of coffee in her hands that Ryan hadn't seen her make. "All set," Darnell said, standing. He turned the valve, and water flowed—quietly, cleanly, no spray, no leak. "Good as new. Better, probably." "Thank you so much," Kimberly said, and Ryan heard the warmth in her voice again, the appreciation. "I don't know what we would have done without you." "Happy to help," Darnell said. He didn't pack his tools right away. Instead, he turned slowly, taking in the full scope of the gutted kitchen—the pile of cabinet boxes, the disconnected appliances, the plywood counters, the exposed wiring. His gaze was assessing, calculating. "You know, I was looking at this while you were upstairs, Ryan. This is a bigger job than just the sink. You've got electrical that needs finishing, cabinets to hang, countertops to install. Flooring, probably, once the cabinets are in." Ryan felt his stomach clench. "I know. I've been... I've been meaning to get to it." "Sure," Darnell said, not unkindly. "But here's the thing. You try to tackle this piece by piece, weekends when you can squeeze it in, it's gonna drag on for another year. Maybe more." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Ryan's. "What if we did it different? What if we made a real plan? I could come by tomorrow, bring more supplies. We could start mapping out the electrical, figure out what you need for the cabinets. Get this thing moving." The offer hung in the air. Tomorrow. Not next week, not someday, but tomorrow. Ryan felt Kimberly's eyes on him, waiting. He thought about saying no, about claiming he could handle it, about protecting some shred of dignity. But the thought of Darnell leaving, of returning to the endless limbo of their half-finished house, of facing Kimberly's contempt day after day—it was too much. "That would be... that would be great," Ryan mumbled, looking at the floor. "If you really don't mind." "Don't mind at all," Darnell said, and Ryan heard the satisfaction in his voice, quiet and sure. "I'll bring my truck, load it up with what we need. We'll get you sorted, boss. Step by step, until this place starts looking like a real kitchen again." He smiled, slow and genuine. "Eight o'clock tomorrow?" "We'll be here," Kimberly said, and Ryan heard something in her voice that made his chest tighten—not resignation, but anticipation. Darnell nodded, satisfied, and packed his tools. At the door, he paused, looking back at them both. "See you tomorrow then. Bright and early." He was gone, his truck rumbling away into the afternoon, leaving Ryan standing in his kitchen with his dry clothes and his wet shame. Kimberly set down her coffee cup with a deliberate click and turned to him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright in a way he hadn't seen in months. "That was embarrassing," she said, but her voice wasn't angry. It was something else, something heated and strange. "You, soaked like that. Unable to handle a simple wrench." "I know," Ryan mumbled, looking at the floor. "I'm sorry. I'll learn. He said he'd teach me—" "Stop talking." She moved toward him, her movements quick and purposeful. She was close now, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of coffee on her breath. "I don't want to hear you apologize. I don't want to hear you explain." She kissed him, hard and sudden, her hands coming up to grip his shirt. It wasn't tender. It was desperate, hungry, like she was trying to consume something through him. He stumbled back, surprised, his hands finding her waist. "Kimberly—" "Shut up." She was pulling at his belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. "Just... just be quiet. Don't talk." She pushed him against the plywood counter, her mouth on his neck, her hands yanking at his jeans. He was hard already, his body responding to her urgency even as his mind reeled. She got his jeans down, his tighty whities with them, and her hand closed around his small, straining cock. It was too much. The feel of her hand, the heat of her body, the lingering adrenaline of his humiliation. He gasped, his hips bucking, and then he was coming, spilling over her fingers in weak, pathetic spurts, his knees buckling, his breath coming in ragged hitches. She froze. Her hand stayed where it was, wrapped around his softening flesh, the evidence of his failure dripping down her wrist. She pulled back, slowly, and looked at him. Really looked at him. "Already?" The word was barely a whisper, but it cut deeper than any shout. "That was... that was seconds. Seconds, Ryan." "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his face burning, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall. "I couldn't—it's been so long, and you were so—" "Don't." She stepped back, wiping her hand on her yoga pants with a grimace of disgust. "Just... don't." She turned away, her shoulders stiff, her movements jerky. "Pull up your pants. I'm going upstairs." She was gone before he could respond, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, the bedroom door closing with a sound that felt final. Ryan stood in the kitchen, his jeans around his thighs, his small cock already shriveling against his damp tighty whities, the smell of his own premature ejaculation mixing with the iron scent of the pipes. The new fitting gleamed under the sink, Darnell's handiwork, perfect and complete. The water ran quietly, cleanly, a testament to competence he would never possess. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Darnell's words echoed in his head. Bright and early, with more supplies, more lessons, more opportunities for Ryan to fail while Kimberly watched. He pulled up his pants with shaking hands. He buttoned them, buckled his belt, the metal cold against his sweating fingers. The kitchen was quiet around him, the afternoon light slanting through the windows, illuminating the dust motes in the air. He thought about the morning to come. Darnell in his house again, in his kitchen, competent and capable while Ryan fumbled and failed. Kimberly watching. Learning exactly what her husband was not. The weight of the day settled on him, heavy and familiar. He was a small pipe, trying to carry too much volume. Everything got wet. Everything failed. He stood in his gutted kitchen, alone with his shame, and waited for tomorrow to come.

Just changed out of a PTD BeddyByes which was completely soaked (had some beers last night). Now I am in a pair of terry cloth lined trainer pants for breakfast. 

That for me is perfection, a whole 8 hours sleep not disturbed by needing to pee, waking up in a wet nappy feeling rested and relaxed & ready for my day.

Bishop

Dunno.