Rainbow Diapers

This is a very good story please continue

Chapter 55: Déjà vu I winced as the minivan hit a pothole, causing me to twist abruptly in my seat. The pain was entirely worth it. For the first time in four days, my skin wasn't encased in thick padding. The seam of my denim shorts rubbed uncomfortably directly against my bare thighs. It was a very pleasant discomfort. No crinkle. No bulk. No plastic. Just a few more minutes. Then I'd be back in underwear for good. No one had noticed how I had avoided wearing a pull-up during our departure from the hospital. Nearly a half-hour later, I was still dry. I glanced out the window toward the park as we passed it. No sight of Emma or Angie. I was looking forward to getting back out there with them soon. "Home sweet home," Dad said as the minivan came to a stop in the driveway. I rolled my eyes. Properly this time. I examined the driveway. Grace's car was absent. That was good. I didn't need her to alert Mom to the lack of a pull-up under my shorts. All I needed to do now was to continue to use the toilet properly for the rest of the day, and then I could convince Mom to drop her insistence on the pull-ups. I unbuckled my seatbelt. I shoved the heavy sliding door open and slid out of the backseat. My legs felt slightly shaky from spending the last several days in a hospital bed, but I planted my feet firmly on the pavement. Finally, I was so looking forward to sitting on the couch and playing a video game. I stood up. I took one step up the driveway. The dam broke. There was no warning. No pressure. No urge. Just a sudden warmth that ended nearly as quickly as it had begun. I glanced down. There was no mistaking what the darker hue on the front of my denim shorts meant. The accident had been enough to leave a baseball-size wet spot on the front of my shorts but not enough to create a puddle on the pavement. Mom rounded the back of the minivan, holding her purse in one hand. She stopped when she saw me standing rigidly next to the open door. "I can get the bag for you," she said. My heart beat rapidly. I clamped my legs tightly together, terrified that if I moved even a fraction of an inch, that mom would notice. The wet denim chafed against my sensitive skin. I couldn't let her know. I couldn't let her see that I had failed the very second I got home. If she knew I had thrown away the pull-up and immediately wet myself, she would never trust me without them again. I gripped the strap of my bag. "I'm fine," I snapped without turning around. "I can carry my own bag." I waited until she was facing away before I finally forced myself to move, with the bag carefully positioned in front of me to keep the wet spot out of sight. My eyes remained focused on the ground as I slipped past Mom, who was holding the front door open for me, and into the house. <><><> I tossed the wet denim shorts into the empty hamper in my bedroom. I marched over to my dresser. Mom had explicitly said that I needed to wear the pull-ups. The doctors had said my bladder was still recovering. I didn't care. I wasn't going to be a baby. I didn't care if I needed to go sit on the toilet on a strict schedule and do those Kegel exercises every thirty minutes. Anything to not have to wear a pull-up ever again. I pulled out a pair of regular cotton underwear and a pair of cotton shorts. The soft, dry fabric felt amazing against my skin. There was no bulky padding. No tight elastic waistband digging into my sides. Just absolute normalcy. I was perfectly fine. I just needed to be a little more careful, that was all. I had to be focused on what was happening with my body. I couldn't let my mind wander. I took a moment to practice the exercise I had learned in the hospital. I squeezed the muscles in my lower abdomen, attempting the Kegel exercises the nurse had taught me. I closed my eyes and focused all my attention on my bladder. I held the squeeze for a count of three, just like I had practiced at the hospital. I took two steps toward the bedroom door and noticed an immediate problem. There was no sound. The underwear and shorts were silent. That wouldn't do. If I was going to hide that I wasn't wearing pull-ups I would need to put on a much more convincing act. I spun around and dropped to my knees next to the small trash can beside my desk. I dug past a few crumpled pieces of notebook paper and grabbed a crinkled plastic wrapper. I folded the plastic in half and shoved it deep into the right pocket of my shorts. I took an exaggerated step across the carpet. The ensuing crinkle wasn't perfect, but it was close enough. As long as the plastic rustled against my leg when I walked, no one would have any reason to suspect I was wearing regular underwear. I walked into the upstairs bathroom and shut the door. I pulled my shorts and underwear down and sat down on the cold toilet seat. I needed to make absolutely sure the accident outside had been the last one. I sat down on the toilet. Nothing happened. A sharp twinge of pain flared in my lower back, but not a single drop of urine fell into the bowl. I relaxed and tried again, bearing down harder this time. It felt like I was flexing against empty space. I couldn't even feel the muscles I was supposed to be tightening. In the hospital, the Kegels had worked. They had brought my bladder back to life. But now, it was completely dead again. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wiped myself just in case, and stood up. I was fine. There just wasn't anything that needed to come out now. <><><> I eased myself down the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing at all times. For as much as I had laid down the past several days, I was still very exhausted. Nevertheless, I savored the sensation of walking in normal clothes. I reached the bottom landing and turned toward the kitchen. Mom was waiting for me. Had she seen my wet shorts when I scrambled inside from the van? Her gaze dropped to my new shorts. "Why did you change clothes?" she asked. My throat felt tight. I squeezed my right hand into a fist, feeling the crinkled plastic wrapper hidden deep inside my pocket. "The shorts weren't comfortable," I said. The truth mixed well with the lie. "The waistband was rubbing right against where my back still hurts. These are softer." "Did you have a leak with the pull-up?" Mom asked. The question was embarrassing, but at least it implied that she didn't think I was attempting to avoid wearing pull-ups altogether. "No," I said. "There wasn't a leak. I'm completely dry." Mom sighed. "Okay. Well, remember what the doctors said about hydration. You need to be consistently drinking water." She opened a cabinet and pulled down a tall glass that she filled with water and handed to me. "And you need to keep up with the tracking chart," Mom added. "You need to log every time you drink water, and every time you use the toilet or have an accident. I set it on the dining room table, you can take it upstairs to your bedroom." I accepted the glass of water. I would have to be careful with the sheet. But at least by the end of today it would show enough evidence to prove that it was time to move away from pull-ups. I walked out of the kitchen, heading into the living room with the glass in hand. Grace was sitting in the smaller couch watching TV. Dad was sitting in his recliner, tapping away on his laptop. I slid my free hand into the pocket with the wrapper, making sure it crinkled on my way to take a seat on the couch. I wanted nothing more than everyone in my family to know I was back to wearing big girl underwear, faking instead that I was wearing a pull-up felt incredibly off. Grace took a brief glance in my direction and then returned her focus to the TV. I had no doubt she would think I still had a pull-up on, eliminating the risk of an off-hand comment from her spoiling the secret I was keeping from Mom. I sipped from the cup absentmindedly, and it wasn't long before it was completely empty. I took a look at my phone. Twenty-five minutes since my last bathroom trip. I made a mental note that I would need to get up in five minutes to go to the toilet. My body didn't care about my plans. I was just starting to relax into the soft cushions of the couch. I hadn't felt even the slightest twinge of pressure. There was absolutely no warning. The deluge was instantaneous. The wet spot spread rapidly across the front of my shorts before dripping down off the front of the leather couch onto the carpet. This wasn't the small accident that had happened outside. This was a full emptying of my bladder. My face burned. I couldn't move. I couldn't even try to cover myself, not that there was anything I could use. No one had noticed yet. Grace was focused on her show. Dad was typing away at his laptop still. If I was quick, could I get out before anyone noticed? "Maddy?" Mom asked sharply from the hallway. Her voice alerted both Dad and Grace, both of whom turned in my direction. The room was silent except for the droning of a commercial coming from the TV. An ad for adult diapers was playing, showing a handful of carefree women putting on the absorbent products before going out for a evening of adventure and stress-free fun. Mom's posture stiffened as she gazed down at my midsection. She sighed. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." There was nothing to do but follow Mom out of the room and down the hallway toward the stairs. "You're not wearing the pull-up." Mom said when we reached the foot of the stairs. It wasn't a question. "That's why you changed out of your denim shorts. You had an accident outside and you changed into those new shorts to hide it." I opened my mouth to lie. I tried to think of an excuse. I couldn't. I expected her to yell. I expected her to be furious about the ruined couch and the soaked carpet. But she didn't raise her voice. She just turned and stared at me. "I" I stammered, my voice cracking. "I didn't." "Stop." Mom's voice was quiet, but it cut straight through my panic. "We are not doing this down here. We need to get upstairs to get you cleaned up." Mom marched into the bedroom ahead of me. She left the door open. I trailed miserably behind her. She spun around the moment we crossed the threshold. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Where are the denim shorts you were wearing when we got home?" Mom asked. I swallowed hard. My dripping shorts squished uncomfortably against my thighs. I was caught. I was standing in front of her completely soaked in urine. But the habit of lying was so deeply ingrained that my mouth moved before I could stop it. "In the hamper," I mumbled. I looked away. "But they didn't get wet. I just... I just wanted to change." Even while standing in the evidence of my latest accident, I couldn't bring myself to admit the truth of the previous one. Mom didn't even dignify the lie with a response. She turned her back on me and walked straight across the carpet to the tall plastic hamper. She reached inside. The hamper was completely empty, completely devoid of any other laundry to hide my shame. My shorts were sitting entirely exposed on the bottom. Mom pulled them out. I looked down at my feet. Mom let the shorts drop back into the hamper with a heavy thud. She turned back to face me. "Maddy, listen to me," Mom said. Her voice was stern, leaving absolutely zero room for argument. "It's OK to be upset about the pull-ups and the accidents. But you still need to wear them." "But Mom," I pleaded. "This isn't something we are going to negotiate," she said. I stared at the carpet. Tears burned in my eyes. The wetness of my shorts seemed to magnify the humiliation. It wasn't fair. It had taken so much work to get her to let me wear pull-ups in the first place; it should have been easy for her to let me out of them. "It simply isn't going to work for you to have accidents all over the house through the day," Mom continued. "It is a lot of work to clean up and it isn't hygienic for you and everyone else." "I don't want to wear them," I whispered. A single tear escaped and traced a hot path down my cheek. "I'm not a baby." "No one is saying you are a baby," Mom said. Mom gestured toward the dresser. "I want you to take off those wet clothes. I want you to put on a pull-up, and then I want you to put on clean clothes. When you are done, you will bring your wet things down to the laundry room and put them in the washer. You can't let them sit. They need to be cleaned right away." Mom didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked out of the bedroom. She pulled the door shut behind her to give me privacy. I was left standing alone in the center of the room, wet clothes clinging to my skin. I peeled the soaked shorts and underwear off my legs. I walked over to the dresser and pulled open the one drawer I never wanted to see again. I tugged angrily at my hair as I stared down at what felt like an endless supply of disposable underwear, both the old store brand ones and the new ones she had brought me for the trip home from the hospital. But then I did the math. If I kept peeing myself like this, they would barely last a week. I grabbed one of the generic pull-ups. It felt just a little less shameful than the other option. I stepped into the leg holes and pulled it up. The elastic waistband snapped securely against my skin, hugging my waist. It didn't matter what Mom said. I felt like a baby. I grabbed a dry pair of athletic shorts and pulled them on over the bulky padding. Keeping the pull-up out of sight did nothing to improve my mood. I gathered my soaked shorts, underwear, and the damp denim shorts from the hamper. I bundled them into a tight ball against my chest and opened the bedroom door. I made it to the laundry room without running into anyone, crinkling naturally this time as I walked. I caught a glimpse of Mom going to the living room, cleaning supplies in hand. I threw the wet clothes into the washing machine in the basement and trudged back upstairs, intent on retreating to my bedroom where I could at least hide until it was time for dinner. Mom intercepted me on the way up. Before I could say a word, she spread her arms wide and gave me a big hug. "I know it's been a rough day," she said. "But everything is going to be alright." Mom lowered one of the hands she had wrapped around my waist and gently patted my bottom twice. My bottom crinkled in response. <><><> I stayed locked in my bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. I told Mom I just needed to rest and recover from the hospital. It was a perfect excuse, and she readily agreed. But physical exhaustion - while present - wasn't the problem. I flipped past page after page. My eyes whipped back and forth across countless lines of text, but the words weren't making it to my brain. I was hiding. I couldn't face Dad. I couldn't face Grace. I certainly couldn't face Mom again. I closed my door and stayed in bed. I sat propped up against my pillows, holding the thick hardcover book open in my lap. I read the same paragraph over and over again. None of the words registered in my brain. My mind was entirely focused on the padding between my legs. There was no warning. My bladder simply failed again in a few seconds of disaster. A small spurt of urine leaked into the pull-up. It wasn't a full flood, but the absorbent core swelled slightly, trapping the liquid against my skin. The total lack of control was terrifying. I couldn't feel the urge beforehand. I couldn't stop the flow once it started. My body was just acting on its own. I slammed the book shut and scrambled out of bed. There was no longer any satisfaction to be gained by remaining in a wet pull-up. I slid off my athletic shorts and ripped the wet pull-up down the side seams. I scrubbed myself dry with a wet wipes and pulled on a fresh pull-up from the dresser. I balled up the wet one and shoved it into the small trash can beside my desk. It should have gone in the bathroom or been taken to the garbage bin in the garage, but that would mean carrying the evidence of my condition outside of this room. After getting cleaned up, I sat on the toilet for a few unsuccessful minutes. The pattern repeated itself over the next couple of hours. Small accidents. Immediate changes. Every single drop of urine ending up in my pull-ups rather than the toilet. Mom knocked on my door twice to hand me a fresh glass of water, not leaving until I had made good progress with drinking it. Eventually, I stopped fighting it. My bladder leaked for the fifth time that afternoon. I felt the familiar rush of heat, but I didn't move. My legs felt like lead. I just couldn't force myself to get out of bed again. I sank deeper into the pillows. I let the wet pull-up swell and squish heavily against my skin. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable, clammy weight. I sat there for far too long. When I finally shifted my weight to turn a page in my book, a cold sensation brushed against the back of my thigh. I gasped and sat up. The side of the pull-up had shifted. A quarter-sized wet spot had leaked completely through the fabric of my athletic shorts. Thankfully, the sheets underneath were still dry. I couldn't change my shorts again. If I walked downstairs for dinner in a third outfit, Mom would instantly know what had happened. Grace would stare at me again. I frantically grabbed the fabric of my shorts. I pulled the wet spot away from the thick padding underneath. I pressed the heels of my hands against the damp nylon and rubbed vigorously. The friction generated a small amount of heat. My palms burned from the rapid motion. I just kept rubbing for a minute until the wet spot was completely erased. <><><> The bright glow of the TV screen illuminated the room. I sank nervously into the couch. Dinner was finally over. The ordeal of sitting at the dining room table had completely drained whatever energy I had left. I had spent the entire meal terrified that the pull-up would leak again, especially after wetting it again in the middle of the meal. But I had survived. Nobody had noticed. Jackson had just trudged upstairs to take his bath. That left only Mom, Dad, Grace, and me downstairs. I pulled my knees up to my chest. The thick padding of the pull-up bunched uncomfortably between my legs. I shifted my weight. I tried to find a position that didn't amplify the babyish bulk underneath my clothes. Dad flipped through the channels. Grace was glued to her phone. Mom drank her tea in silence. I sat rigidly on the cushion. I had to pretend the massive accident on the couch hadn't happened. I had finally returned to playing the Harry Potter game on the Switch, but after my character died for the third time in a row I had hit the pause button and set the device beside me on the couch. The television settled on a rerun of a cooking show. I would much rather have been upstairs, but Mom had insisted that I shouldn't spend the entire evening shut away. The dam broke again. There was no warning twitch. No pressure building in my lower abdomen. Just a sudden rush of heat flooding between my legs. The leak was even heavier than the ones in my bedroom. Heavier even than when I had wet my shorts on the couch earlier today. I had obediently finished a large glass of iced tea with dinner, and my body simply couldn't hold it. The pull-up swelled at a rapid pace. It didn't have nearly enough absorbent padding inside. The leak began on the inside of my right thigh. The urine soaked straight through the fabric of my shorts, leaking out once again onto the couch and floor. I had to get out of the room. I had to get upstairs to clean up in privacy. I planted my feet and pushed myself up from the couch. I stood up in one frantic, jerky motion. "Maddy?" Mom said. There was a hint of irritation in her voice now. Her voice cut through the background noise of the television. I froze mid-step. I didn't turn around. I couldn't turn around. I lowered my gaze to the floor. The room fell dead silent. Dad had paused the TV. I felt the collective weight of their stares. Dad had lowered his remote. Grace had looked up from her phone. Mom was staring directly at the massive, dark stain across my shorts. Mom stood up from the couch. She crossed her arms over her chest. Given my massive, blatant lie in the living room just a few hours ago, her conclusion was instantaneous. "Maddy, I told you that you needed to wear the pull-ups," she said with disappointment in her voice. She didn't believe I was wearing one. She thought I had defied her again. Grace quickly averted her eyes. Dad's glanced down to my waist and back up. I had spent the entire afternoon terrified of this exact moment. I had changed into clean ones so many times. I'd tried to go to the toilet. I'd done more Kegel exercises. I had followed her rules. I had worn the pull-up. And it hadn't mattered. It leaked anyway. "Yes," I snapped in annoyance at being falsely accused. My voice trembled with a mixture of exhaustion and anger. "I did." "Maddy, do not lie to me again." Mom took a step closer. The skeptical frown deepened on her face. "Look at your shorts. You are completely soaked. If you were wearing the pull-up like I told you to, that wouldn't have happened." "I'm wearing it," I replied back loudly. "I really am." Mom continued to stare at me. She didn't believe a word I was saying. She thought I was doubling down on another massive lie. I couldn't take it anymore. I had to prove I wasn't lying. I didn't care how embarrassing it was. I grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and yanked it up. Then I grabbed the waistband of my shorts with my other hand and pulled them down a half-inch. I stood in the middle of the room, right in front of Dad and Grace, the top line of the pull-up waistband clearly visible. Dad looked back at his laptop. Mom bit her lip. "Why don't you go get changed upstairs," she said. "I'll get things cleaned up down here." <><><> I stared blankly at the mountain of pull-ups overflowing from my small bedroom trash can. I sat on the edge of the mattress. The entire evening had been a disaster. That wasn't right. The entire day had been a disaster. Or was it the entire week, or the entire month, or the entire past three years? Mom had come upstairs and apologized for accusing me of lying. I barely listened. She was already talking about researching other products from the doctor's list. I walked heavily over to my desk. The mandated bladder and liquids tracking chart sat flat. I hadn't been able to bring myself to write in it earlier, but Mom had brought it up and insisted that it be filled out before I went to bed. I picked up the pen. My hand shook slightly. I had to record the accidents to make the chart look believable for Mom. But I still couldn't bring myself to be completely honest. I checked off "wet" for the late afternoon. I checked off "wet" once for the evening. I purposefully ignored a few of the other times I had leaked into a pull-up. Writing them all down was too humiliating. I wasn't going to look like a baby on my own tracking sheet. Next I noted how much I had to drink. It was more than usual. I tried to pretend that this had been the cause of my accidents. But that wasn't even a lie I could convince myself to believe. I considered marking a line that I had gone to the toilet successfully. The pen hovered an inch from the surface. But I found myself unable to stretch the truth that far. I dropped the pen onto the desk. <><><> My eyes snapped open in the pitch black of my bedroom. I was shivering. The thick comforter was tangled around my legs. I kicked it away. I tried to escape the freezing, clammy sensation clinging to my skin. It didn't help. My pajama pants were completely soaked. I reached down and pressed my hand against the wet sheets. The dampness had soaked straight through to the mattress protector. The pull-up had leaked down my leg. It wasn't a massive flood, but the fabric was ruined. My bladder was completely broken. I dragged myself up from the mattress. The heavy, saturated padding of the pull-up swung uncomfortably between my legs. I turned on the bedroom light, blinking rapidly until my eyes adjusted to the brightness and I could see that the accident had left a massive wet spot on the sheets. I knew exactly what to do, because I had done it way too many times before. I peeled the wet sheets off the corners of the mattress. I gathered the entire heavy, pungent pile into my arms and carried it over to the corner of the room. I dumped it on the floor next to my overflowing trash can. Next, I stripped off my wet clothes, tossing them in the pile as well. The pull-up was last to come off. As I peered down at the interior padding as it slid down my legs it was clear that it could not have held any more. I bunched it up, hiding the yellow-stained padding from sight. I had to push the pile of pull-ups in the garbage bin down to make room for it to fit. I knew I needed to properly dispose of them. That it was only going to make my room smell bad. I'd deal with it tomorrow. I stared at the pull-ups in the drawer for a while before conceding that I had no option other than to put one on beneath my clean set of pajamas. I grabbed one of the new ones Mom had got for me. I didn't really think they would work much better, but maybe they would prevent a second set of sheets from getting wet. No one woke during my trek to the laundry room and back. There unfortunately wouldn't be any way to hide from Mom that something had gone awry overnight. But I still wasn't done. I had to wipe the plastic-covered mattress clean and dry before stifling a yawn as I fitted a clean set of sheets on it. I didn't want to be better in a few days or a few weeks or a month. I wanted to be better now. I elected not to update the chart laying on my desk. That was a problem to be dealt with tomorrow. --- Links to all my stories can be found at https://abdlwriter.wordpress.com

I've had the opposite happen to me. Sometimes while in the hospital I've had nurses threaten to not allow me to wear a diaper. Thankfully I always bring a spare diaper with me. Even to outpatient surgeries where they shouldn't have any reason to take my diaper off when going under.

You're lucky some Karen didn't call the cops on you. From what I've seen, some of then have just gotten bat $#!÷ crazy.

Combined, Homage and Aardvark have passed 300,000 views. I wanted to pause for a moment to thank everyone who has stopped by to read one or both stories. They have been fun to write, and I hope that you will continue to enjoy these tales as we move forward.