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Cloth Diapers & Panties
For the Cloth Diaper Lovers and their Panties of choice.
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By Bel George · Posted
Chapter 12 — One Thing Leading to Another Once Ellen had broken the spell of the house, the outings came weekly, and then more than weekly, and the world I had been ready to give up came back to me a piece at a time. The cinema was the one that undid an old private grief I had never told anyone about. For the better part of a year, since before I even had a name for what was wrong with me, I had stopped being able to sit through a film. I would go, and somewhere in the second half the need would arrive, and I would spend the climax of every story calculating instead of watching, and then I would get up in the dark and miss the ending, every time, and tell Ellen in the car that it had been fine, a bit long. I had quietly written off the cinema as a thing that was over for me, the way you write off running, or late nights, a small amputation of middle age. And then one ordinary evening Ellen took me to a film, in the thick daytime diaper, and we sat in the warm dark with the enormous screen in front of us, and the second half came, and the need came with it, the old familiar pressure, and I felt the first flicker of the old panic, the where-is-the-aisle, the how-long-till-the-end, and then I remembered, with a kind of vertigo, that none of that was my problem anymore. That I did not have to get up. That I could simply sit here, in the dark, beside my wife, and watch the end of the film like everyone else in the row, and let my body do its quiet thing into the padding that was made for exactly this, and the only consequence would be that I saw how the story ended. So that is what I did. Somewhere in the third act, with the music swelling and the hero in peril and four hundred strangers holding their breath around me, I let go, warm and silent and entirely comfortable, and I did not miss one frame of it, and when the lights came up I sat there with an absurd lump in my throat that had nothing to do with the film and everything to do with the fact that I had just watched a film all the way to the end, a small returned pleasure I had mourned and buried and been handed back, in the dark, by a thick white diaper and a wife who had refused to let me give up. "Good film," Ellen said, gathering her coat. "I saw the end of it," I said, and my voice did something, and she looked at me, and she understood, the way she understands everything, exactly what I was actually saying. "Yes," she said gently. "You did. You'll see the end of all of them now." And she took my hand on the way up the aisle, in the brightening lights, in front of everyone, and did not let go until we reached the car. The restaurant was the test of the thing in company, and it passed. It was the Hendriks' long-promised dinner, the one Ellen had accepted on my behalf and that I had dreaded for a fortnight, four couples we had known for years around a big table in a good restaurant for an evening that would, I knew from long experience, run to four hours and more, the kind of slow grazing European evening that has no natural end, course after course, the wine going round, nobody in any hurry, the precise sort of event that the old me, the secretly-leaking me, would have spent in a state of low controlled terror, mapping the route to the toilets, rationing my fluid, leaving early with an excuse. And I sat through the whole of it, all four hours of it, and I relaxed. That is the thing I want to convey, the sheer foreign luxury of it. Because the problem was already solved, sealed, handled before I ever sat down, I did not have to spend the evening managing it, and a man who is not managing his bladder for four hours has a startling amount of attention freed up for the actual evening, for the wine and the argument about the film festival and old Pieter's terrible jokes and Ellen's hand resting on the back of my chair. I drank what I liked. I laughed without calculating. When the body did its thing, twice across the long evening, I noticed it the way you notice a cloud cross the sun, a brief awareness and then gone, nothing to be done and nothing needing doing, and I went back to my plate. Once, late, I caught Ellen watching me across the table, watching me be easy in company in a way she had not seen me be in a year or more, and there was something in her face, something warm and assessing and pleased, that I did not have a name for at the time and would learn the name of soon enough. On the drive home, full and happy and a little wine-warm, the only flaw in the whole evening made itself known, and it became, in Ellen's hands, the next turn of the screw. "You leaked," she said, matter-of-fact, as I got out of the car in the garage. Not a question. She had felt it when I stood, or seen it, some small dampness at the seam of the thigh where four hours and a great deal of wine had finally found the one limit of even the thick daytime brand. "Not badly. But you did. The long evenings are too much for these, I can see that now. We had four hours and you'd had a lot to drink and it found the edge." "It held basically all of it." "Basically isn't the standard, Mark. Dry is the standard." She was already thinking, already revising, the way she does. "There's a premium range I've had my eye on. Thicker, better gathers at the leg, made for exactly this, the long days, the travel, the evenings out where you'll have a drink and be sitting a long time. I've been holding off because they're dear. But the long evenings are going to be part of our life now, I've decided that, so we may as well have the things that make them work properly." She closed the car door. "I'll order them tomorrow. For outings over a few hours, you'll wear those. No more finding the edge in the Hendriks' car park." And so the premium brand entered our life, earned, like every escalation before it, by an actual failure in the field, the small thigh-leak in the garage doing the same work the soaked office chair and the dentist and the staircase had done before it, providing Ellen with the evidence and therefore the reason. The new ones, when they came, were noticeably thicker than anything I had worn, bulkier, more substantial, and I noticed the difference the first time she taped me into one, and I noticed something else too, which was that I no longer reached, automatically, for the protest. Six months earlier I would have argued the bulk, defended the inner room. Now I stood and let her tape me into the thicker ones for the next outing and said nothing, and the not-arguing was itself a thing I half-noticed and did not examine, the quiet erosion of a resistance I had once thought was the core of me. And then there was the evening that changed the register of everything, and it began as the most ordinary evening imaginable, with the most ordinary of the four daily changes. It was the before-dinner one, the early-evening change, nothing special about it, a Tuesday or a Wednesday, the light going down outside and the smell of something good coming up from the kitchen where dinner was waiting on a low heat. She had me on the bed, on the towel, the way she did four times a day, and she was doing what she did, brisk and competent, the wipe, the fresh one ready, her hands sure and unhurried at their familiar work. I do not know precisely what was different that evening. Perhaps it was the wine still in me from the night before, or the long warm thread of all those outings, the cinema and the restaurant and the hand at the red light, all the accumulated closeness of those weeks finally reaching some threshold. Perhaps it was nothing but the ordinary alchemy of thirty years and a quiet house and a woman's gentle hands. But somewhere in the middle of that completely routine change, as her hand moved with its usual unhurried care, my body answered her. Plainly. Unmistakably. The way it had not answered anyone in some time, the way I had been half-afraid the whole wretched business had ended forever, and the way it now did, simply, in response to nothing more than her touch and her nearness and the strange tender helplessness of lying still and being tended. I felt the heat climb my face. I started to apologize, to deflect, to turn it into a joke, the reflexes of a mortified man. "Don't," Ellen said. She had gone still. Her hand had stilled too. And she was looking at me, not at the task, at me, at my face, and what was in her own face was not embarrassment and not clinical detachment and not the brisk competence of the last six months. It was something I had not seen directed at me in longer than I could say. It was the look from the foot of the bed thirty years ago, the look over the rim of the wineglass, recalibrated by everything that had happened since, and warmed by it, and made certain. "Well," she said softly. "Look at that. You still like my hands on you." A pause, and something turned over in her voice, a decision arriving the way her decisions arrive, fully formed and unhurried. "After all this. After everything I've been doing to you these six months. You still want me." "Ellen, I do." "It's all right," she said. "It's more than all right." And she did not finish the change, not the way she had finished a hundred changes before it, not briskly, not with the there and the light off and the going-down to dinner. She looked at me lying there, tended and helpless and wanting her, and she made a decision, the way she had made every decision in this story, quietly and completely and some moments before I understood it had been made, and then, slowly, deliberately, with the same sure hands that had been managing me for half a year, she began to do something else entirely. Dinner waited on its low heat downstairs and went on waiting. The light went down outside the window. And for the first time in longer than either of us had let ourselves count, my wife and I found our way back to each other in the last of a spring evening, slowly, both of us a little astonished, the old current running again, stronger for having been dammed, finding the channel it had been denied for the better part of a year. I will keep the rest of it between us, the way I kept the Saturday in the first chapter between us, because you do not need the particulars. You need to know what it was. What it was, was the door I had felt open that first night with the tapes, the door into the unsuspected room of our marriage, swinging fully open at last, and the two of us walking through it together, and finding the room warm. Afterward she lay with her head on my chest, in the dark we had not bothered to switch a light against, and neither of us said anything for a long time. Her hand rested flat on the fresh diaper she had eventually, much later, taped on me without a word, the one I had not even registered her changing me into in the warm aftermath, and the not-registering of it, the way it had simply happened, her hands taking care of me as naturally as breathing while we lay tangled and spent, was somehow the most intimate part of the whole astonishing evening. "The dinner's ruined," she said eventually, into my chest, and I felt her smile against my skin. "I don't care about the dinner." "No," she said. "Neither do I." And she did not move, and I did not move, and the ruined dinner sat downstairs on its dead low heat, and we lay there in the dark, thirty years married and newly, strangely, completely awake to each other, and I understood that something had changed that we were going to have to talk about, eventually, and that neither of us was going to talk about it yet. In the morning neither of us mentioned it. This is the truest thing I can tell you about thirty-year marriages, and about that particular morning. We got up, and she made the coffee, and I came down showered and dressed at quarter past seven because that is the rule, and we ate breakfast across the table with the crossword between us exactly as we did every morning, and neither of us said one word about what had happened upstairs the evening before. Not out of awkwardness. Out of a kind of mutual care, a shared instinct that the thing was too new and too large to be picked up and examined over toast, that it needed to be left alone for a little while to settle into being real. But I thought about nothing else all day. I sat at my desk and the invoicing system might as well have been written in a language I had never learned, because the whole of my attention was upstairs, the evening before, the look on her face, you still want me, the slow deliberate turn of her hands from one kind of care into another. And I knew, from the particular quality of Ellen's quiet at breakfast, the specific way she had not quite met my eye over the coffee, that she had thought about nothing else either, all night, and was thinking about nothing else now, down in the kitchen, going about her day with a spreadsheet of my supplies open on the laptop and her mind entirely elsewhere. Something had shifted under us. The care and the wanting had touched, had turned out to be the same current after all, and there was no untouching them now. The thing I had been carrying alone and in horror for weeks, the secret that it was not only the diapers, it was her, the hands, the command, the being managed, had turned out, in one ordinary evening, not to be mine alone at all. She had felt it from her side. She had named it, even, lightly, into my chest in the dark. You still want me. After everything I've been doing to you. As though the everything-she-had-been-doing and the wanting were connected, as though she had begun, from her own direction, to suspect the same astonishing thing I had been so afraid to suspect alone. We did not talk about it. Not that morning, not that week. But the ten o'clock coffee came, and the hand checked the waistband, and this time when it did, something passed between us through that small ordinary contact that had never passed through it before, an acknowledgment, a current, a question neither of us was ready to ask out loud, and I said "thanks, El" in a voice that was almost steady, and she went out and clicked the door shut, and we both knew, now, that the door was open, and that sooner or later, one of us was going to have to walk all the way through it and say so. It would be her. Of course it would be her. But not yet. For now we simply lived inside the lovely unspoken new fact of it, and went out into the world, and came home, and she took care of me, and the taking care had become, without either of us saying the word, something neither of us had ever expected to find again at our age, and both of us, separately, in our silence, were profoundly and secretly glad of. -
By Diaperdeathbunny · Posted
hey everyone, im a 27m living in cumberland county nova scotia. just throwing a line out here to see if i can find some other friends in the abdl community around the area. it can be pretty tough to find people who get it locally, so i'm looking to expand my circle a bit. down to just chat online, share advice, or grab a coffee if you're close by. completely platonic, just looking for cool people to connect with. hit me up in the dms or reply here if you want to talk -
By Hannah YMS · Posted
Botox injections sound like a nice idea. For the urinary function, it always has the opposite effect of what you're looking for because the natural state of a sphincter is to be closed and muscle function is necessary to open them. As for anal injections, I imagine it'll work for a while, but as @Slomo points out, it's a temporary band aid that you get used to over time. @Reddy, keep us appraised if Botox + massive (sustained) stretching gives you that atrophy. I'm not in the business of FI, but I'm sure others would like to know. You've been doing good at keeping us updated so I'm sure you'll have no problem with that. Good luck! -
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By DiaperboyEddie12 · Posted
@spoonchicken I see another Scammer hit the road lol! Asmondena23 As I went to that post and someone got them before you did lol! Maybe @DailyDi Or @DiaperedDarkElf or one of the other Admins or Moderators. -
By Drownedinp · Posted
It was the weekend again and that meant "Baby day!" Joe, Holly, Mark, Mattie, Penelope, Vera, Bella, Cassie, Connie, Linda, Sarah, Sandra, Brandt, and somebody that hadn't been there before Gloria. The 5 oldest ones this month really gave Joe and Mark a show. No longer was it just touchy feely, Gloria had brought lots of toys for them to play with. Penelope and Vera had toys for the first time ever. Gloria had sex with Holly and Mattie. Joe just said "Mom?" He had never seen his mother like this, oh he knew she liked women just he had never seen her doing this before! Soon they were put back into diapers and the sheets needed changing in their cribs as they very all had very little control of their bladders. Soon the younger kids were brought back. They were fed bottles of milk and they were put down for naps. After naps they all played together, everybody seemed to enjoy themselves. Dinner of Chicken Nuggets and Mac and Cheese was eaten by all. It was getting dark and they were put down for the night, the bottles this time had something in them every body was soon asleep. Next morning everybody was changed out of their soaked diapers and put in dry ones. Most knew this was only temporary as most were incontinent. There were a few changes through out Sunday. Soon it was time for Baby day to end. Everybody hated parting, they had all had a wonderful time this weekend. Joe still couldn't forget his mom having sex with his wife Holly and Mattie. Has his mom and Holly had sex before?
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