Mommies and Daddies

you're right that was a typo on my part! thanks for picking it up! Chapter 6: Another Wet Morning   The wetness was familiar now. Ryan woke to it with a sinking resignation, the cold spreading against his hip, the smell already rising from the sheets. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heart heavy with the inevitability of it. Again. Of course again. Kimberly stirred beside him. She rolled toward him, her eyes still closed, then snapped open as the dampness registered. Her face hardened instantly, the soft confusion of sleep replaced by something harder, more brittle. "Ryan." His name came out sharp, accusatory. "Again?" "I don't—" he started, but the words died in his throat. What was there to say? He'd dreamed of water, of pressure, of release. He'd dreamed he was pissing and woken to find it true. Kimberly sat up, throwing the covers back with violence. The stain was larger this time, spreading across his side of the bed, dark and shameful. She stood, her movements jerky, and walked to the closet without looking at him. "I can't keep doing this," she said, her voice muffled by clothes. "I can't keep waking up in your... your mess." Ryan sat up, the damp sheets clinging to his back. "I'll take care of it. I'll wash everything, I'll—" "Just stop." She emerged from the closet, dressed in leggings and a loose sweater, her hair pulled back tight. "Stop promising. Stop explaining. Just..." She waved her hand, a gesture of dismissal that cut deeper than words. "I'm going to the pharmacy. I need to get out of this house." She was gone before he could respond, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, the front door slamming with a finality that made him flinch. Ryan sat alone in the wet bed, the smell rising around him, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall. He moved mechanically, stripping the sheets again, gathering the damp fabric, starting the washing machine. The routine was becoming familiar, a rhythm of shame he performed without thought. He showered, scrubbing until his skin turned pink, then dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, his hands shaking slightly. The clock read 7:42. Darnell would arrive in eighteen minutes. Kimberly returned at 7:56. Ryan heard her car in the driveway, the front door opening, her footsteps in the entryway. He was in the kitchen, standing awkwardly by the plywood counter, when she entered. She carried a small plastic bag from the pharmacy, white and anonymous. She walked past him without a word, disappearing into the bedroom. He heard the closet open, the rustle of fabric, then she emerged empty-handed, the bag left behind somewhere private. "I need to run another errand," she said, not meeting his eyes. "Groceries. I'll be back this afternoon." "Kimberly—" he started, but she was already moving toward the door. "Darnell will be here any minute," she said, pausing at the threshold. "Try to... just try to do what he says. Okay?" Then she was gone, and Ryan stood alone with his shame and the sound of a truck pulling into the driveway. Darnell arrived at exactly 8:00. Ryan watched through the window as he stepped from his truck, a large canvas bag in one hand, a coffee carrier in the other. He moved with that same easy confidence, his work boots crunching on the gravel, his shoulders broad and unburdened beneath a flannel shirt. Ryan opened the door before he could knock. "Right on time," Darnell said, smiling, holding out the coffee carrier. "Brought you one. Black, hope that's alright." "Thank you," Ryan mumbled, taking the cup. It was warm against his palm, solid, something Darnell had thought to bring. They stood in the kitchen, Darnell surveying the space with that same assessing gaze. He set down his bag, unzipped it, began unpacking tools with methodical precision. "Today we're tackling cabinets," he said, pulling out a level, a drill, a tape measure. "Got the sink working yesterday, so now we move up. Literally." He smiled at his own joke, then gestured toward the pile of flat-packed cabinet boxes by the back door. "First thing, we need to prep the walls. Find the studs, mark everything out. Then we start hanging." Ryan nodded, though his stomach clenched. He'd watched videos about cabinet installation, had read articles, but the actual doing of it—the measuring, the drilling, the heavy lifting—felt beyond him. "Grab that stud finder," Darnell said, nodding toward his bag. "Let's see what we're working with." Ryan fumbled in the bag, his fingers clumsy. He found the stud finder, a yellow plastic rectangle, and held it uncertainly. "You ever use one of those?" Darnell asked, not unkindly. Ryan shook his head. "Alright, simple enough." Darnell stepped close, his arm brushing Ryan's shoulder as he reached for the tool. He was warm, solid, his presence enveloping. "Hold it against the wall like this. Press the button. Slide it slowly. When it beeps, you found a stud." He demonstrated, the tool beeping against the drywall. He marked the spot with a pencil, then handed the stud finder back to Ryan. "Your turn. Find the next one." Ryan pressed the tool against the wall. His hand shook slightly. He slid it too fast, then too slow, the silence stretching. He pressed the button again, moved it, nothing. "Easy," Darnell said, his voice patient. "Don't overthink it. Just... feel it." Ryan tried again. The tool remained silent. He could feel Darnell watching him, could feel his own inadequacy radiating outward like heat. "Here," Darnell said finally, stepping close again. His hand covered Ryan's, guiding it, pressing the tool flat against the wall. "Slow and steady. Like this." The tool beeped. Darnell's hand stayed on his for a moment longer than necessary, warm and sure, then withdrew. "See? Nothing to it." Darnell marked the spot, then stepped back. "You try the next one. I'll be over here, getting the first cabinet ready." Ryan stood alone at the wall, the stud finder heavy in his hand. He tried again. And again. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of Darnell unpacking hardware, the clink of metal against metal. "Let me get that," Darnell said, crossing the space between them. He took the stud finder from Ryan's hand, his fingers brushing Ryan's palm. "You can help me with the cabinets. Hold them steady while I drill. That work?" Ryan nodded, unable to speak. They worked in silence, Darnell finding studs with efficient precision, Ryan holding cabinets against the wall while Darnell secured them. The work was physical, demanding, and Ryan found himself struggling with the weight, his arms trembling, his grip slipping. "Easy there," Darnell said, more than once. "Got it? Need a break?" Ryan shook his head each time, determined to finish, to prove something. But his arms burned, his hands cramped, and twice Darnell had to steady the cabinet himself when Ryan's grip failed. By eleven, they had three cabinets hung. Ryan's shirt was soaked with sweat, his jeans smudged with drywall dust. Darnell, by contrast, looked barely winded, his movements still fluid and sure. "Let's take five," Darnell said, pulling a water bottle from his bag. He drank deeply, his throat working, then offered the bottle to Ryan. Ryan shook his head. "I'm fine." "Suit yourself." Darnell capped the bottle, leaned against the counter. "Making good progress. Your wife's gonna be surprised." Ryan managed a small nod, his throat tight. The front door opened. Kimberly's footsteps in the entryway. Ryan turned, his heart lifting and sinking simultaneously. She entered the kitchen carrying grocery bags, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She stopped when she saw them, Darnell leaning against the counter, Ryan sweating and dusty beside the half-finished cabinets. "Making progress," Darnell said, his voice warm. "Ryan's been a big help." Kimberly's eyes moved between them, taking in the scene. Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe, or assessment. She set down her bags. "I can see that," she said, and Ryan heard the edge beneath the words, the unspoken commentary on his appearance. "I should put these away." She moved to the small refrigerator, unpacking groceries with brisk efficiency. Darnell watched her for a moment, then turned back to Ryan. "Why don't you grab us some lunch?" he said, nodding toward the door. "There's a sandwich place two blocks over. My treat. I'll keep working here, get the next cabinet prepped." Ryan nodded, grateful for the escape. He grabbed his coat, his keys, and fled the kitchen, the weight of Kimberly's gaze and Darnell's presence lifting slightly as he closed the front door behind him. When he returned twenty minutes later, bags of sandwiches in hand, he heard them before he saw them. Laughter. Kimberly's, higher and warmer than he'd heard in months. Darnell's, low and rumbling. He paused in the entryway, listening, his stomach clenching. "...can't believe he actually tried to use the level like that," Darnell was saying. "I know," Kimberly replied, her voice amused, intimate. "He's just... he's not good with his hands. Never has been." "Some men aren't," Darnell said, and Ryan could hear the smile in his voice. "Different strengths." "Different strengths," Kimberly repeated, and Ryan heard something in her tone that made his chest tighten—a wistfulness, a longing for strengths she didn't see in him. He stepped into the kitchen, his footsteps loud on the tile. They turned, Kimberly's face flushing slightly, Darnell's expression settling into easy neutrality. "Lunch," Ryan said, holding up the bags, his voice too high, too cheerful. They ate at the plywood counter, Darnell and Kimberly on either side of Ryan, the conversation flowing around him like water around a stone. They talked about the renovation, about Darnell's other projects, about the neighborhood. Ryan contributed little, his sandwich tasteless in his mouth, his mind circling back to the laughter he'd heard, the intimacy of it. After lunch, Kimberly left again—more errands, she said, her eyes not meeting Ryan's. Darnell returned to the cabinets, Ryan to his role as holder and fetcher. The afternoon passed in a blur of physical inadequacy, Ryan's arms trembling, his grip failing, Darnell's patient corrections becoming more frequent, more necessary. By four, they had six cabinets hung. Ryan was exhausted, his body aching, his hands cramping. Darnell packed his tools with methodical precision, his movements still fluid, still unburdened. "Same time next Saturday?" he asked, shrugging into his jacket. Ryan nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight with the accumulated humiliation of the day. Darnell clapped his shoulder, his hand warm and heavy. "You're getting the hang of it, boss. Slow and steady, right?" He was gone before Ryan could respond, the words of encouragement ringing hollow in his ears. Ryan stood in the kitchen, surrounded by Darnell's handiwork, his own failures. The cabinets hung straight and true, level and secure. He had held them, had tried to help, but the work was Darnell's, the competence was Darnell's, the kitchen slowly becoming something functional through no effort of his own. Kimberly returned as the light was fading. She moved through the house with quick efficiency, unpacking bags, putting away groceries. At dinner, she was quiet, her eyes distant, her phone face-down beside her plate. Afterward, she disappeared upstairs. Ryan followed slowly, his body aching, his mind heavy with the day's accumulated failures. She was waiting in the bedroom. The pharmacy bag sat on the nightstand, open now, the package visible. White and purple, cartoon characters on the front. GoodNites. Bedwetting pants for boys. For children. "Ryan," she said, her voice flat, controlled. "We need to talk." He stood in the doorway, frozen, his stomach dropping. She picked up the package, held it toward him. "I bought these. For you. To wear. At night." Ryan felt his face burn, his eyes sting. "Kimberly, I'm not a—I'm not a child. I don't need—" "You do," she said, cutting him off. Her voice was hard now, final. "You need something, Ryan. Because what you're doing now isn't working. This—" she gestured at the stripped bed, the laundry basket of damp sheets, "—this isn't working." She stood, crossed the space between them. She was close now, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of pharmacy plastic on her fingers. "You're going to wear these," she said, her voice firm, commanding. "Tonight. Every night. Until you figure out how to stop... this." She turned away, moved to the bed, pulled back the covers. "Now get ready for bed. Take off your clothes." Ryan stood frozen, his humiliation complete, his resistance crumbling. Slowly, mechanically, he unbuttoned his shirt. He unbuckled his belt. He pushed his jeans down, his tighty whities with them, standing exposed in the bedroom, his small cock shriveled and pathetic in the evening light. Kimberly didn't look at him there. Her eyes stayed on the package in her hands, determined, focused. She opened it, pulled out one of the garments. White, padded, with stretchy sides. Designed for a child's body, but sized larger. For him. "Step in," she said, holding it open at his feet. He hesitated, his face burning, his eyes stinging with tears he couldn't stop. "Step in, Ryan." He lifted one foot, then the other. She pulled the garment up his legs, her hands efficient and impersonal, settling it around his hips. The material was soft, crinkling slightly as it settled into place. It fit snugly, the padding thick between his legs, the waistband sitting high on his hips. She stepped back, surveying her work. Her expression was unreadable, something between satisfaction and sadness. "There," she said. "Now get in bed." He pulled on pajama pants over it, the bulk obvious, undeniable. He climbed into bed beside her, the padding crinkling softly, the mattress protector still damp beneath the fresh sheets. She turned off the light. The room went dark. "Goodnight, Ryan," she said, her voice distant. "Goodnight," he whispered. He lay awake, listening to her breathing, feeling the thick padding between his legs, his small cock shriveled and useless against the absorbent material. Beside him, her phone buzzed. He watched her silhouette in the darkness, her face illuminated by the screen's glow, her cheeks flushing, a small smile playing at her lips as her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. "Who is that?" he asked, his voice tentative. "No one," she said, too quickly. "A friend from work." She was lying. He knew she was lying. But he didn't press, didn't ask again. He lay in his diaper, his pajamas hiding the shameful secret, and watched her blush at her phone, her fingers moving quickly, her smile growing wider in the dark. He thought of Darnell, of Kimberly's laughter, of the phone buzzing in her hands. He thought of tomorrow, and the next weekend, and all the weekends after. The diaper was warm, snug, a soft prison he couldn't escape. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep, waiting for the wetness that would come, knowing now it didn't matter, knowing now he was taken care of in the only way left to him. He was a small pipe. Everything got wet. Everything failed. But at least, now, the bed would be dry.

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I think I'll probably have a quieter day today.  I'll probably stay in the house.  I'm still not doing any grown-up stuff though.  I'm still in my overnight nappy and jamas just now, but I'll go for my shower and change soon.  Not sure what I'll wear today, but it'll be age-appropriate, and my dummy stays in my mouth until Mummy gets home this evening.  And then some, I should think.  I've probably racked up about 22 hours of dummy in the past 24, without having to try.  Can't go much higher than that or there'd be a very hungry baby here.

52 hours in double diaper

I couldn't if I tried.  My wetting's on automatic these days, and my bladder empties itself long before it's full.