Cloth Diapers & Panties

Maddison felt severe cramps and started to get suspicious of Ana; she had already gone to the bathroom on Sunday, so she shouldn't be needing to go again, yet the cramping was intense and constant. "Yeah, she's great; I do everything for her, and I managed to strike an excellent deal with her." Letting out a slightly wet-sounding fart, Maddison stood up and said, "I'm going to the bathroom."

I’ve had urinary urge incontinence for several years now, so I always wear a thick bulky plastic bag taped very very absorbent non-discreet type of adult diaper like REARZ North Shore with plastic pants   It’s kind of hard for me to hold it in the morning, so I always make my first big well formed large but not messy big turd in my diaper every morning. Usually I’ll relax for a while and then I’ll have to make another sizable turd about 90 minutes to 2 hours later so I just keep that diaper on with a pleasant non-messy big  load in it    Then  after I make a second time. I’ll relax a while and then clean up and change into a fresh diaper.   I recently met a girl through personals who also has urinary incontinence and a small bladder. So we didn’t have to hide the fact that we both used and needed to wear premium diapers   After going out a few times, she showed me her diaper closet. And her collection of plastic pants.   A number of her good friends know about her urinary problems. They kind of tease her about it sometimes.   I didn’t want to tell her today make a big load of turd in my diaper in the morning. But she asked when I was visiting her place how I felt about making turd in a diaper in addition to peeing in it. I told her that coming home from New York City or a concert in the summer I would feel pretty uncomfortable and I would just end up making in my diaper as there is not many people around.   She told me that she had a situation where her bowels are actually larger than normal. Something she mentioned of why that is. So she would always wait till she went in the morning or the evening cause she was worried that because of a large size they might plug up someone’s toilet if she went to friends house or some other place to use the bathroom    I thought she was kidding, but we were hanging out all morning, and I was comfortable enough to pee and then make a pretty big size turd in my diaper hanging out at her house   Soon after she peed a lot, and then started to make. She wasn’t kidding when she said her turd was actually huge and really took a lot of pushing and straining for her to make in the morning. But the turd was so big that it was at the middle of her diaper, and then literally went halfway up the front of her diaper, and then halfway up the back of her diaper, not far from the middle of her butt, not far from her anus.    She said they’re regularly that big thick but not messy. She made a second really huge to hurt after the first one a little while later.   Then I told her I could see how she’d be nervous about using a toilet at a friends house or somewhere away from her own house   So now we both regularly will pee and poop in our diapers in the morning and then in the late afternoon into the evening   If we’re at her house or both at home or coming back from New York City or a concert in the summer, but she feels more comfortable using her diaper because of the really unusual size of her bowels. There’s some condition that it’s actually called.   But she just feels more comfortable, having that heavy load in her diaper rather than trying to use a toilet out in public or at a friends  house.    She was nervous at first, but I told her I don’t mind her making a really big couple loads in her diaper in the morning in the evening then just relaxing for a while without having to worry about changing right away. Well usually watch a couple of TV shows or a movie both with  loaded diapers. 

A few years ago I tried hard to keep my diapers relatively covered from my wife (she's always been supportive).  This morning she left for work and I kissed her goodbye wearing just my night shirt and fully exposed soaked overnight diaper and she gave me a little butter pat when leaving.   Amazing how time changes your perspective.

Oooh do I have a treat for you! But its a tease, of course. This is the first chapter of today (Friday). The next chapter will be either before I eat dinner or before I go to bed.  Where could the story be going? Time is still going by very slowww for poor baby Jacob.  sloowwwmoootionnnfffaaaappp   CHAPTER 16 Jacob's hand shot forward and knocked the bottle from Lana's grip. It hit the carpet with a dull, wet thud, warm milk seeping from the nipple in a slow white rivulet that pooled against the baseboard. His legs swung off her lap and he was up — or trying to be up, the sodden diaper swinging between his thighs like a pendulum of shame, the crinkle violent and graceless, *krrrnch-krrrnch-krrrnch*, as he staggered two steps away from the armchair and turned to face her. "This doesn't make sense!" His voice cracked on the second word, splitting like kindling, and his hands flew up in front of him — palms out, fingers splayed, the gesture of someone trying to physically push reality away from his body. "None of this — you can't just — I'm not a *baby*, Lana! I'm not — I'm eighteen years old, I — I —" His voice hitched. His hands balled into fists and then opened again, trembling, the fingers unable to commit to either shape. He took another step backward and his heel caught the edge of the changing mat still crumpled on the floor. He stumbled. Caught himself on the dresser. A stack of LittleComfort diapers shifted and one slid free, drifting to the carpet with a soft *fwmp* like a lazy white cloud settling. "Everything you've done — the diapers, the bottle, the — the *duck thing* — you can't just *decide* that I'm — that I —" His breathing was ragged, each exhale punching out of him like something with weight. "Amanda *saw* me and you're sitting there telling me we're going to her *house* like it's — like it's a playdate? Like I'm just going to *waddle* over there in my —" He flailed. One arm swung wide and connected with the lamp on the dresser; it rocked, the amber light swinging across the walls in a sick carousel of shadows. *She's not even reacting. She's just sitting there. Why isn't she — say something!* Lana sat in the armchair exactly as she'd been sitting. Legs crossed at the ankle. One socked foot still bouncing its slow, patient rhythm against the other. Her hands rested in her lap where the bottle had been, fingers loosely interlaced. Her expression hadn't changed — not a millimeter, not a crease, not a flicker of the brow. The lamplight caught the gold watch on her wrist. The warm milk still soaking into carpet. The smell of talcum and the sharp, ammoniac edge rising from his swollen diaper, and she breathed it in like someone smelling weather. "Are you even *listening* to me?" Jacob's voice went high and reedy, climbing into a register that undercut every word he was trying to say. His eyes were wet and wide, nostrils flaring. "I'm *telling* you — I'm *saying* that I — this isn't —" He dropped. Not a decision. A collapse — his knees folding under him like the structure holding him upright had simply been removed, and he went down onto the carpet with a muffled *thump*, the wet diaper compressing beneath him with a long, low *shhhlorp* that filled the room. His hands came down in front of him on the carpet, fingers pressing into the fibers, and he crawled. Not toward anything. Not away from anything. Just — forward, on his knees, the diaper dragging between his legs, the crinkle and squelch marking every inch of movement like a metronome. "I don't *want* this," he sobbed, the words coming out in pieces between breaths that hitched and stuttered. "I'm not — I don't want to be — please, I'm not a baby, I'm *not*, I —" His voice broke into a sound that wasn't a word. A wail, thin and raw, the kind of noise that bypassed language entirely and came from somewhere lower in the chest than speech had access to. His shoulders heaved. A thread of snot hung from his upper lip. His fingers clawed at the carpet and then released, clawed and released, the rhythmic grasping of someone reaching for something that wasn't there. Lana watched him sprawl. Her expression didn't shift. The socked foot kept its rhythm against the other ankle. *Pat. Pat. Pat.* She'd said everything she needed to say. She knew the trajectory of this — had expected it, had prepared for it. The words had been spent. What was happening now was beyond language, beyond argument, beyond the reach of reason or rebuttal. He was breaking because he needed to break, and she'd learned long ago that the only thing you could do for someone mid-collapse was be the ground they fell onto. "Shhh," she murmured. Not loud. Just enough. "Shhh, shhh, shhh." The cooing was soft, rhythmic, meaningless in the way that only genuine comfort is meaningless — no information, no instruction, no argument. Just sound. Just warmth shaped into vowels. She leaned forward in the armchair and her arms opened, palms up, fingers extended, the gesture of someone receiving a package she'd been expecting. Jacob's crawl brought him to her feet. He stopped there, knees on the carpet, head hanging, shoulders shuddering with the effort of breathing. The diaper sagged behind him, heavy and warm, the plastic backing pulling away from his skin at the waistband where the tapes strained against the swelling weight. His hands found her shins and gripped — not grabbing, just resting there, fingers curling around the fabric of her lounge pants like someone finding the edge of a ledge. "Come here, baby," she whispered, and her hands slid under his arms — one beneath each, her fingers curling around the damp, powder-dusted skin of his armpits — and she drew him upward and forward and into her, and his weight came with him, crumpling like paper, all of it, his chest folding and his head dropping into her lap with a soft brush of hair against the velvet upholstery. She held him. One hand on the back of his head, fingers threading through the damp, sweat-stiff hair at his nape. The other arm wrapped around his back, her palm flat between his shoulder blades, feeling the architecture of his ribs expand and contract in staccato bursts. His sobs had quieted to shudders, then to whimpers, then to a trembling silence broken only by the wet *click* of his throat trying to swallow. The milk on the carpet had soaked a dark circle into the fibers near the baseboard. The lamp had settled. Lana let the silence hold for a long time. Her thumb traced the same slow circle on the back of his neck she'd been drawing earlier — that practiced, circular motion, pressure steady, rhythm unbroken. His breathing slowed. His fingers loosened on her lounge pants. The crinkle of the diaper had also settled into stillness. "Look at me," Lana said. Not soft this time. Not honey. The voice of a woman laying down a border, marking a line in sand that would not be redrawn. Her hand moved from the back of his head to his chin, tilting his face up. His eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, the lower lids puffy and dark. A track of snot had dried in a shiny line from his nostril to his chin. She didn't wipe it. Not yet. "I am going to say this one more time," she said, and each word landed with the deliberate weight of a stone placed on a scale. "One more time. And I need you to hear it, Jacob. Not argue with it. Not cry about it. *Hear* it." His chin trembled in her grip. His eyes, wet and enormous, held hers. "You are back in diapers." Her thumb pressed against his jaw. "You’re irresponsible. You wet the bed. You wet your diapers. You drank from a baby bottle. You wore a duck onesie. You sucked on a pacifier. You sat on the kitchen floor and drank your baba while Mommy made dinner. You let Mommy feed you with a baby spoon. You let Mommy powder you and lotion you and tape you into diapers with cartoon giraffes on them." Each sentence landed separately. A pause between them. The room so quiet that the hum of the fridge downstairs carried through the floorboards like a distant engine. "You have done *everything* —" her voice dropped lower, harder, the consonants gaining edges, "— *everything* — to prove that you deserve to be treated like a baby. Every single thing. And tonight, the neighbor saw you in a diaper and a duck onesie with a bottle on your chest, and you know what she said? She said you were *adorable*." Jacob's face contorted. His mouth opened — a protest forming, the shape of *no* or *that's not* or *please* — and she held his chin firmer. "Uh-uh. I'm talking." Her hazel eyes were steady and absolutely without cruelty, and also absolutely without mercy. "You seem to like your bottle just fine. You seem to like sitting on the floor close to Mommy. You seem to like being fed. You didn't fight the pacifier. You didn't fight the onesie. You've been fighting *me* with words while your body has been doing something else entirely, and we both know it." She released his chin. Her hand moved to the front of his diaper — not groping, not teasing, just resting there, palm flat against the swollen, warm padding, feeling the weight of it. The plastic was taut beneath her hand. "So here is what's going to happen." Her voice had gone quiet again — not soft, not hard, just *level*, the voice of someone reading a verdict. "If you protest any further — if you throw another tantrum, if you argue, if you tell me you're not a baby one more time — Mommy is going to bend you over this armchair, peel down your diaper and give the spanking you deserve. Your padded little bottom will be bright red underneath that diaper for days. Do you understand me?" The silence that followed was physical. It pressed against the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Jacob's eyes were locked on hers. His mouth was open, but nothing came out — not a word, not a sound, not a breath. The lamp hummed. The milk soaked into the carpet. His diaper crinkled once, softly, as his body gave a single, involuntary shudder. He said nothing. His expression was all she needed. The fight had gone out of it like air from a torn balloon. What remained was something raw and exposed — not acceptance, not yet, but the exhaustion that comes right before acceptance, the moment where the muscles stop clenching against the current and the body goes still and the river carries you where it carries you. Lana let the silence hold for ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. The clock on his nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a dog barked twice and went quiet. The evening had settled fully into night, the window showing nothing but black glass and the faint amber reflection of his lamp. "Alright," Lana said, and her voice was different now — not warm, not cold, but practical. The voice of a woman moving to the next item on a list. She shifted beneath him, easing his weight off her lap, and stood. The armchair's cushion exhaled. "It's time for bed." Jacob's head, released from her lap, dropped forward. He knelt on the carpet, hands on his thighs, staring at nothing. The diaper sagged between his legs. His face was a ruin of salt and swollen pink skin and the dried shiny line of snot she hadn't wiped away. "I'm not tired," he mumbled. The words came out flat, automatic, the last reflex of a mouth that didn't know how to stop saying the opposite of what was true. Lana's hand came down on his thigh — not gentle, not brutal, a sharp *smack* that rang off the bedroom walls and left a pink outline on the pale skin above his knee. The sting bloomed immediate and hot. "*What did Mommy just say?*" The question landed like a slap of its own. Jacob flinched. His jaw clamped shut. His eyes dropped to the carpet. She didn't wait for an answer. Her hand found his arm — the soft inside of his forearm, her fingers wrapping around it with a grip that was firm and unhurried and entirely non-negotiable — and she pulled. He rose, knees unfolding, the diaper swinging heavy between his thighs as she steered him toward the bed with the same guiding pressure she'd been using all day. Three steps. Four. The crinkle marked each one. The comforter was already pulled back from earlier. She turned him at the mattress edge, her hands on his shoulders, and pressed him down. He sat. The wet padding compressed with a sound like a sponge being wrung — *shhhlrpp* — and the warmth spread beneath him, old and cold and somehow still spreading. She bent and pulled his legs up onto the mattress, one hand guiding his ankles, the other pulling the sheet across his shins. Lana quickly walked to the other side of the room where leaking bottle of milk still rested against the floor board, leaning down while Jacob watched from his bed, wiping up the wet spot with a nearby sock. She picked it up, set it aside, and placed the half-drunk bottle of warm milk beside the lamp. The cartoon animals grinned. The nipple gleamed, wet from condensation. Lana looked down at him. At the swollen diaper taped around his hips, the pastel blocks stretched across the expanded front panel, the leg gathers darkened with moisture, the padding so heavy it had pulled the waistband down to reveal the top of his pubic bone. She looked at it the way a mechanic looks at an engine that's running fine — assessing, cataloguing, dismissing. She reached for the blanket to pull it over him "Wait —" Jacob's voice came out small, cracked, barely a whisper. His hand caught her wrist. "Aren't you going to —" He swallowed. The Adam's apple bobbed. "— change me?" "The diaper can hold more," she said. "I'm in charge of your diapers, Jacob. Not you." Her hand pulled free from his grip, gently but with the finality of a vault door. She reached for the comforter and drew it up to his chest, tucking it beneath his shoulders the way she'd done earlier — smooth, flat, sealing him into the cocoon of fleece and sheet. "Tonight, you can go to sleep with a wet bum." Her voice was matter-of-fact, the tone of a woman delivering a natural consequence. "You can think about your little toddler tantrum while you lie there." She pulled and let go and the comforter settled. Jacob's hands emerged from beneath it, fingers gripping the edge. His face was flushed and blotchy, the redness uneven across his cheeks where the crying had broken capillaries. The dried snot still shone on his upper lip. His eyes — red-rimmed, swollen, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the hour — stared at the ceiling. The crack staring back after Jacob’s recent crumble. Lana picked up the bottle. She held it for a moment, the warm weight of it in her palm, the milk shifting inside with a soft, liquid sound. Then she leaned down and placed it in his hands — curling his fingers around it the way you'd curl a child's fingers around a stuffed animal, positioning each one, pressing his grip into the plastic. "Goodnight," she said. Her voice had gone soft — not the honey-soft of the armchair, not the hard-soft of the verdict. Something simpler. Something that belonged to the quiet of a room at the end of a long day, to the click of a lamp and the hush of a hallway. She pulled the comforter tighter. One last tuck — her fingers pressing the fabric beneath the mattress edge on the far side, smoothing the crease, the gesture so practiced it had become muscle memory. She straightened. Pushed a tuft of damp hair off his forehead with her thumb. The gesture was brief and almost — almost — tender, in the way that tending to something you own can be tender. Jacob's fingers tightened around the bottle. The warm milk shifted inside. He didn't bring the nipple to his mouth. He just held it, the cartoon animals facing the ceiling, the condensation beading on the plastic and running down over his knuckles in slow, warm tracks. "Goodnight," he said. The word came out like something pulled from him with pliers. Small. Thick. The *g* swallowed, the *t* bitten off. His eyes stayed on the ceiling, on the hairline crack that branched once near the light fixture, tracing it like a familiar road. Lana turned. Her bare feet crossed the carpet — three steps to the door. The hallway light threw her shadow long across the floor. She paused in the doorframe, one hand on the jamb, and looked back over her shoulder. The lamp caught the gold of her watch. The nursery smell poured past her into the hallway like a tide. "Goodnight, *baby*." The emphasis was gentle. The word was a period at the end of a sentence, a key turning in a lock, a door closing on a room where a grown man lay in a wet diaper holding a bottle of warm milk in a room that smelled like a nursery. "Goodnight, Mommy." The words came out barely louder than breathing. His eyes closed. The bottle rested on his chest, rising and falling with each shallow exhale, the warm milk inside shifting like a heartbeat. Lana reached for the light switch. The lamp clicked off. The room dropped into darkness broken only by the thin seam of hallway light cutting across the carpet and the faint amber glow of the streetlight through the blinds, still painting horizontal bars across the bed, across the blanket, across the bottle on his chest. She pulled the door shut. The *click* was soft and final. Her footsteps moved down the hall — *pad, pad, pad* — and then the stairs creaked, one at a time, each one a countdown, and then the distant sound of the kitchen faucet running and a cabinet closing and the house settling back into its nighttime hum of fridge and ductwork and the particular silence of a room where a boy lay in the dark, holding a bottle, in a diaper he'd been told to sleep in, staring at the ceiling crack he'd memorized, listening to the house breathe around him. The milk cooled in the bottle against his chest. The diaper grew colder between his legs. He did not drink. He did not move. His thumb traced the raised seam on the bottle's side — back and forth, back and forth — the only motion in the dark room, automatic and purposeless, the gesture of fingers that had forgotten what else to do. The bottles nipple simply fell to his lips and he closed his mouth over it gently. Suck. Squeeze. Swallow

Like a hawk Ana noticed the look of discomfort on Madison's face the medicine was working like a charm, but she had to keep going, "It's very adorable, does look a little bit like pajamas though, but I can understand my little girl prefers to be in her jammies too, but anyway how are you liking your mommy she seems like a very smart and capable young woman." Again Madison's blushed and looked around thankfully no one seemed to care or know this what Ana said.