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Sissy Room
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Nicely scripted chapter. Discontinuity is a structural issue when writing in a serial format. Best way to keep on top of it is to reread your product from start to finish periodically. I have reread mine four times so far, each resulting in a new spreadsheet. Characters, locations, the date on which the action is occurring ... there are lots of places where we can slip up. The spread sheets really help. The longer the story becomes, and the more times passes, the harder it becomes to stay on top of it all. -
I think about that quite a bit. I'd love to pull a buddy out of his diaper and hold it while he pees into my shorts or diaper. I'd also love to have a huge bedwetting playtime with a buddy, pressing against each other as we soak our thighty whities. -
They are both 18, sexually inexperienced, and horny. I wonder how many of the guys reading this story would have gladly changed places with them when they were 18. Any comments, guys?
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You should definitely be judging my story and judging me! Speak your mind! Also judge me for my inability to meet deadlines - its a lifelong problem and I need a Mommy to keep me in line! But then I'd still never make deadlines because I'd just want Mommy to punish me for being such a baby! Fappity-fap, please come back cause I'll do another chapter in a day or two, maybe tonight? Chapter 13 The nursery smell hung in the room like a held breath. Jacob didn't move. His body had locked the way a possum locks — total, involuntary, every muscle seized into stone while his nervous system ran its calculations and arrived at the same answer from every angle: *she saw me.* The bottle pressed flat against his sternum where he'd been holding it so tight he could almost crush it, apple juice sloshing inside the plastic with the tremble of his grip. The duck hood had fallen over his right eye. The star blanket tangled around his ankles where his legs had kicked once — just once — before the freeze took over. Talcum and lotion and fresh diaper plastic layered the air so thick he could taste it, powdery-sweet and cloying on the back of his tongue, and beneath it the warmer, more intimate scent of his own body sealed inside fleece and padding: *she smelt it.* Through the wall: water running. A faucet. The pipes in the bathroom wall groaned in that particular way they always groaned — a low, shuddering complaint that traveled through the plaster and into his headboard and directly into his skull. Then the sound that killed him. She turned it on the mask the sound, but he heard it clearly. Amanda peeing. The tinkle — bright, unmistakable, the particular pitch of urine hitting porcelain water from a seated position — carried through the thin shared wall with the clarity of a confession. His bladder, already screaming, already clenching against the diaper's thickness and slight dampness from the spurt that was let out when she stood in the door way, answered the sound the way a yawn answers a yawn. The muscle he'd been holding — the one he'd been clenching so hard his lower back ached — buckled. Not a release. A collapse. The first hot pulse spread into the front panel before he could react. His hand flew to his crotch, pressing the thick padding, feeling the warmth bloom outward under his palm like water spreading through a paper towel. The gel inside the diaper swelled immediately, the padding going from thick to *thicker* in a slow, heavy wave that pressed his thighs further apart. He bit down on nothing — no pacifier, no bottle, just air and the strangled sound that escaped his teeth, something between a groan and a whimper, *hhnnnggh*, the noise catching in the back of his throat like a sob swallowed sideways. If only he could be swallowed by the crack in the ceiling above his bed. The crack of his door another black hole pulling him further into embarrassment of having Amanda – of all people, Amanda. The crack of the floodgates into his babyish diaper was such an escalation of his first diaper change just the previous evening. He couldn't stop it. The sound of Amanda on the toilet, the mental image of her sitting there twenty feet away processing what she'd seen — *him, in a diaper, in a duck onesie, with a baby bottle on his chest* — the sheer seismic weight of that, it undid him. His bladder had been full since the first bottle in the kitchen, since the nearly full liter of apple juice Lana had poured, and the pressure had been building behind the dam of his clench and the dam was made of tissue paper and the tissue paper was on fire. The stream came in fits. A hot rush — *hsssss* — flooding the front panel, the gel drinking it in, the padding swelling between his legs until he could feel the diaper's weight shift on his hips, dragging the waistband lower. He clenched again, desperate, thighs pressing together, but the padding was too thick now, the swollen mass between his legs forcing them apart, and the clench only made the next wave worse — a longer, steadier flow, *hssssssss*, the warmth spreading backward, wicking under his buttocks, the seat of the diaper growing heavy and warm and *full* and he could feel it pooling against his skin before the gel caught up and absorbed it. His hand reached through the gap shrinking gap through the side of his onsie, pressed the front of the diaper and felt the padding give under his fingers like a warm, waterlogged sponge. The plastic backing had gone taut — the diaper's capacity stretching, the swelling pushing his legs wider, the bulk now pronounced enough that the onesie's snaps pulled audibly against the fleece. A tear slid from the corner of his eye into the duck hood. Not crying. Not exactly. Just the overflow of a body that had run out of ways to process what was happening to it. Through the wall, the toilet flushed. The pipes shrieked. *She saw you. She saw you and she went to the bathroom like it was nothing and she flushed the toilet and now she's going to go downstairs and tell Lana and—* The faucet. Water running. The squeak of hands being washed — he could hear the soap dispenser's plastic *chk-chk* — and then the water cut off and the bathroom door opened with its particular creak, the one that sounded like a question mark. Footsteps in the hallway. Socked feet on carpet. Amanda was walking back toward the stairs. The seam of hall light across his floor shifted as her shadow crossed it — a dark shape, brief, gone. Then her footsteps paused. Jacob's heart slammed so hard he felt the bottle bounce on his chest with the force of his own pulse. He could picture her standing there, wine glass probably still in her hand, her head turned toward the three-inch gap in his door, the curiosity that Lana had warned him about — *she asks questions, she doesn't let things go* — pulling at her like a current. A sound. Small, controlled, deliberate. A clear of her throat — *ahem* — muffled, tucked behind closed lips. The kind of throat-clearing that wasn't about mucus. The kind that came when someone was pressing their lips together very hard to keep a sound inside, the sound being a laugh, the laugh being the kind that rises unbidden when you've just had a suspicion confirmed in the most spectacular possible way. Then the footsteps resumed. Faster now. Toward the stairs. The third stair groaned under her weight. Jacob didn't breathe until the sound of her reached the ground floor and the low murmur of voices rose from the living room — Lana's question, something brief and bright, Amanda's response, something he couldn't quite parse. Then silence. Not the comfortable silence of two women sipping wine. The other kind. The loaded kind. The silence that happened when someone was saying something too important — or too shocking — to say at full volume. They were whispering. His fingers dug into the wet padding. The diaper was warm and heavy between his legs, the gel saturated enough that the padding had gone from cloud to clay, thick and dense and pressing against him with a weight that felt punitive. The wetness had spread everywhere — front to back, the leg gathers doing their job, the diaper holding it all in its swollen embrace. He could smell it now, faint beneath the powder and lotion: the sharp, slightly sweet ammoniac edge of fresh urine mixing with talcum, a scent that belonged in a nursery, not an eighteen-year-old's bedroom. *Did she actually see me?* The question ran laps in his skull. The door was cracked three inches. The hall light had been on. He'd been lying there with the star blanket tangled at his ankles, the duck hood on his head, the bottle on his chest. The diaper's thickness had been visible — the way it forced his legs into that M-shape, the padding bunching under the onesie's snaps. The room had smelled like her toddler son’s. But maybe — maybe the shadow had been fast, maybe the light had been tricky, maybe she'd just been walking to the bathroom and the throat-clear was about wine going down the wrong pipe and— The silence downstairs stretched. One minute. Two. The attempt to grasp the glimmer of hope felt in reach, but faded with the realization that the giddiness had ended. It was too quiet. He stood up. The diaper hit him like an anchor. The weight of it — sodden, swollen, the gel having expanded to what felt like three times its dry volume — pulled his hips downward and forced his stance into a waddle before he'd taken a single step. The crinkle was catastrophic. The wet padding shifted and squelched with the motion, the plastic backing shrieking against the fleece onesie, and the sound was so loud in the quiet room that he froze mid-stand, one hand on the nightstand, the bottle wobbling from his haste of setting it down back on the nightstand. He looked down. The diaper had swelled *enormously*. The front panel, usually flat and snug against his belly, now bulged outward in a heavy, rounded dome, the pastel blocks and smiling giraffes stretched across the expanded padding like a cartoon on a balloon. The leg gathers had thickened, the elastic straining around his thighs, the ruffled edges now pressed tight against skin gone pink and damp. Between his legs, the padding was a solid mass — thick enough that his thighs couldn't come close to touching, the gap between them wide enough to fit his fist. The onesie's snaps pulled taut, the fleece stretched over the diaper's bulk, every contour visible through the fabric. He reached behind him. His hand sank into the seat of the diaper — warm, dense, the padding back there equally sodden, swollen and heavy against his buttocks. But it held. The plastic backing was stressed but intact, no leaks, the leg gathers sealed. His fingers pressed the thickness and the padding gave, squelching softly, but there was give left in it. The diaper could hold more. The realization made his stomach lurch because it meant Lana had been right — *these could hold two floods* — and it meant the diaper was doing exactly what it was designed to do, which meant he was doing exactly what he was designed to do in it, which meant— He walked. Slowly. Each step was a negotiation between his body and the swollen mass between his legs, the crinkle announcing every inch of movement — *krrnk-shlop, krrnk-shlop* — the wet padding shifting with each hip roll, the weight swinging between his thighs like a pendulum. His bare feet stuck slightly to the hardwood with each step, sweat and the dampness at the edges of the leg gathers creating a faint tackiness. The onesie's duck hood bounced against his back with every step, the snaps between his legs creaking against the diaper's bulk. By the time he reached the door — eight steps that felt like eighty — the voices downstairs had resumed. They were further away now. Moving. The murmur traveled from the living room toward the front hall, the words still indistinct but the tones audible: Lana's voice low, measured, the voice she used when she was managing a situation. Amanda's voice — and here something had changed. The pitch had lifted. The cadence had brightened. She sounded *giddy* again. The front door opened. Evening air moved through the house — warm, carrying cut grass and the neighbor's sprinkler and something cooking on someone's grill three doors down — and it reached Jacob's room in a thin draft that carried the smell of his wet diaper out into the hallway like a flag. " — so that's the plan," Lana was saying, her voice carrying up the stairs with that particular projection she used when she wanted to be overheard but wanted it to seem accidental. "You do what you need to do I'll make sure everything is okay upstairs." *Upstairs.* The word landed on Jacob like a hand on his chest. She was talking about him. She was talking about *his room*, *his diapers*, *his situation*, and she was talking about it with Amanda, and Amanda already *knew*, and the two of them were standing at the front door discussing him like a project, like a scheduling conflict, like a thing that needed managing. "Oh, I'm sure it will be *perfect*," Amanda said, and her voice had that brightness — that too-high, too-bright brightness of someone who'd just been told something delightful and was trying not to show the full extent of their delight. "I'll speak with them and I'm sure it will be perfect." *Speak with them.* Jacob's hand gripped the doorframe. His knuckles went white. The wet diaper sagged between his legs, heavy and warm, the crinkle soft now with the padding saturated, the onesie's snaps straining. *Speak with them.* Them. Who was *them*? Amanda didn't have to speak with anyone — Amanda was the neighbor, Amanda brought cucumbers and drank wine and asked questions and filed the answers away like coupons, she didn't *speak with* people about— Amanda's footsteps crossed the porch. The screen door didn't have a spring so it just hung open, letting the evening in. They continued their goodbyes, Lana saying something indiscernible and with a bit of a giggle. "I CAN'T wait!" Amanda's voice — loud, bright, completely uncontrolled now, the delight spilling out of her like wine from an overfilled glass — carried across the yard, across the quiet street, through the open windows of every house on the block. The screen door finally clapped shut behind her with a wooden *thwack* that echoed in the warm air. Lana stood at the front door for a moment. Jacob could hear her breathing. Then the door closed — *click* — and the deadbolt turned, slow and deliberate, that same heavy *thunk* from this morning when she'd locked Amanda out. Only now Amanda was on the other side of it, and she was *excited*, and she was going to *speak with them*, and whatever "them" meant, it meant this was moving, it was accelerating, it was going somewhere Jacob couldn't see and couldn't stop and couldn't— The stairs creaked. One step. Then another. Coming up. “I can hear you, baby.” Lana announced, a return to her sweet, motherly tone, “Mommy’s coming.” -
Almost got there but everything stayed contained! Definitely not your preferred kind of mess lol but it wasn't a bad cleanup. Today I got home from work in a pretty wet Northshore 6 hour with booster pad and couldn't hold it while making lunch. It's been a couple hours now and I've wet through so time to change!
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