Trading Post

"Breed me on a regular basis "?

I’m one of the few that (unfortunately) “untrained” unintentionally at night in a (very) short time. An illness, combined with how my body was made, the combination of medications used to get over that illness, and the side effects from the medications combined to convert occasional nocturia into occasional nocturnal enuresis.  It would be decades before there was a daytime component, again in part from how my body was made — with early onset BPH leading to reduced maximum functional bladder capacity and a minor occasional day time leakage.  The medications that impact this are prescribed to deal with other, typically life threatening if not treated, issues.  As such, I’m not going into specific medications in this section.

Sorry gang, in the rush to head out for an incredibly long work week I missed grabbing my personal laptop.  Given that I topped 70 hours in 5 days the odds of getting new chapters were low anyways.  I have some queued up and will post a little more frequently this week.   Chapter 9: A Long, Crinkly Night Dinner was an entirely new tier of psychological torture. I was marched out to the kitchen table, still pantless, the massive, boosted overnight diaper making a thunderous crinkle-crinkle-crinkle with every step. I tried to sit down in my usual chair, but the immense bulk of the two flow-through pads pressed between my thighs forced me to sit awkwardly forward, my knees spread wide apart just to accommodate the padding. "The mitts are staying on, Dylan," Mom announced firmly as she set a bowl of spaghetti down in front of me. "No exceptions until tomorrow morning. Your father and I aren't risking you peeling your tapes off the second our backs are turned." I stared down at the fork, then up at my heavy, fabric-covered clubs. "How am I supposed to eat?" I muttered, my face flushing red. "I'll be helping you," Mom said simply, pulling up a chair right next to mine. For the next twenty minutes, I had to sit there like a literal toddler, opening my mouth as my mother spoon-fed me bite after bite. To make the experience even more humiliating, Mom wasn't serving me a normal teenager's meal. She had taken a pork chop, mashed potatoes, and a side of mixed vegetables, and processed them into a juvenile format. The meat wasn't served as a whole cut; it had been meticulously diced into tiny, uniform square chunks that required absolutely no knife work, looking exactly like the finger foods given to a child just graduating from baby mush. Worse still was the choice of sides. Staring back at me from the plate was a heavy mound of steamed Brussels sprouts and slimy okra—two vegetables I absolutely detested and normally avoided at all costs. Whenever Dad grilled pork chops, I always managed to quietly push the greens to the edge of my plate or wrap them in a napkin when no one was looking. But with my hands securely locked away in the thick canvas mitts, I had zero control over my own dinner. Mom scooped up a forkful of the mashed potatoes, carefully burying two chunks of the bitter Brussels sprouts right into the middle of the mound. "Open wide, sweetie," she said, her voice dripping with maternal authority as she guided the silver prongs toward my face. I tried to turn my head away, my lips pressed firmly together in defiance. "I don't want the sprouts, Mom. You know I hate those." "Dylan, we aren't playing games at the dinner table," Mom scolded, holding the fork steady just inches from my nose. "You need your nutrition, especially with the new medication routines starting tonight. Now open up, or we can just pack things up right now and head straight to bed early." Knowing I was completely powerless, I defeatedly opened my mouth. The bitter, sulfurous taste of the sprouts filled my mouth, and because I couldn't use my hands to grab a napkin or a glass of juice to wash it down, I was forced to chew and swallow the entire bite under Mom’s watchful gaze. Bite after bite, she systematically emptied the plate, alternating between the tiny cubes of pork chop and the dreaded vegetables. Because I couldn't use my hands to wipe my mouth or control the pace of the feeding, gravy and stray pieces of okra slime smeared across my cheeks and chin. It was messy, degrading, and utterly agonizing. Every time a drop of sauce started to drip down my neck, Mom would patiently stop, wipe my face down with a wet paper towel with a firm, maternal swipe, and guide the next childishly diced forkful forward. To make matters worse, the hydration protocol was strictly enforced. During the meal, Mom forced me to chug two more full glasses of water, and another giant tumbler immediately after the table was cleared. By the time 7:45 PM rolled around, my stomach felt completely sloshing and painfully full of fluids. "Alright, Mr. Piddle Pants, it's almost eight o'clock. Bedtime," Mom declared, giving my heavily padded hip a firm pat that resulted in a loud, hollow whoomph of plastic and powder. I waddled my way up the stairs, the sheer density of the overnight diaper making me feel like a toddler learning to walk for the first time. When I reached my bedroom, Dad was already inside, standing beside my bed. He had a set of tools in his hands and was securely bolting a rusted, white metal toddler bed rail directly to the side of my wooden frame. "Dad, come on!" I protested, the thick plastic of my diaper crinkling loudly as I gestured with my mittened hands. "A bed rail? I'm sixteen! I haven't rolled out of bed since I was five!" "This isn't for rolling, son," Dad said, tightening the final bolt with a wrench. "The pharmacist warned us that these sleep regulation meds can cause severe sleepwalking. If your body tries to move on autopilot while your brain is locked in a deep sleep, this rail will act as a physical barrier to keep you safely in bed. Your mother and I are keeping your bedroom door completely closed tonight, too. We can't have you wandering the house in a daze." I opened my mouth to argue, but Mom stepped into the room, holding an old, faded plastic sippy cup filled to the brim with warm milk. "In case you get thirsty in the middle of the night, Dylan. Since your hands are locked in those mitts, you won't be able to grip a normal glass without spilling it everywhere. This valve will keep your bed dry." She set the childish cup on my nightstand, right next to the stacks of diapers. I was forced to climb over the metal rail, my thick padding scraping against the bars with a loud, crinkling screech. I slid beneath the covers, feeling completely entombed. Mom stepped forward, shoving the therapeutic pacifier back between my lips to silence any further complaints, before turning off the lights and firmly shutting my bedroom door, leaving me completely alone in the pitch black. For the first hour, I lay there in pure, simmering anger, staring at the dark ceiling. The heavy sleep-aid pill was a time bomb, and I could feel it ticking. Slowly, a profound, unnatural heaviness began to creep into my limbs. My arms felt like solid lead inside the medical mitts, and my eyelids grew impossibly weighted. The urge to fight the routine slipped away as the medication dragged my conscious mind down, pulling me into a terrifyingly deep, black void of dreamless sleep. Sometime in the dead of night, the nightmare truly began. I woke up into a thick, medicine-induced stupor. My brain felt wrapped in absolute cotton, completely disconnected from reality. I couldn't fully open my eyes, and my head spun violently, but a sudden, searing spike of sharp pain deep in my gut snapped my instincts awake. My stomach was aching—a heavy, urgent, rolling cramp that signalled an absolute emergency. Driven by pure panic, I scrambled to my feet under the heavy fog of the medication. My legs felt weak and clumsy, and the massive overnight diaper between my thighs was already incredibly sodden and heavy, sagging drastically under my waistband from a massive, unconscious midnight release. The bathroom. I need the bathroom, my sluggish mind screamed. I threw my weight against the white toddler bed rail, tumbling blindly over the metal barrier and crashing heavily onto the floorboards with a thunderous, plastic-shattering CRASH. The impact sent a jolt through my stomach, and the final defences of my digestive system completely failed. A hot, heavy wave of semi-solid mush instantly flooded into the back of my diaper, squelching into the thick layers of padding and surging up toward the waistband. In a blind, panicked daze, I scrambled to my feet, my bare toes slipping on the hardwood. I lunged toward the bedroom door, desperately trying to open it to escape the suffocating room. But my hands were gone. I smashed my heavy, locked fabric mitts against the brass doorknob, sliding uselessly over the metal. I couldn't grip it. I couldn't turn it. I was completely trapped inside my own room, locked in a dark prison while my diaper grew heavier, warmer, and thoroughly ruined by the second. Frantic, muffled sobs escaped my lips as I beat my useless mitts against the wooden door panel, the loud, rhythmic crinkle-squish of my messy diaper echoing through the dark house as I thrashed in the medicine-driven fog.  At some point, my body gave up the fight and I sank to the floor, causing the hot mess to squish into every available space within my already destroyed diaper. Suddenly, the hallway lights flashed on beneath the door crack. The lock turned, and the door swung wide open. Mom and Dad stood in the doorway in their pyjamas, their eyes wide with alarm as they took in the chaotic scene. "Richard, look at him," Mom gasped, rushing forward into the room as the thick, unmistakable odour of the accident hit the air. She caught me by the shoulders as I wobbled on my feet, completely cross-eyed and incoherent from the heavy sleep-aid. "He’s completely out of it. He’s sleepwalking, just like Cheryl warned us." "Yeah, and he completely missed the toilet," Dad muttered, shaking his head as he looked at the heavy, sagging seat of my oversized Comfee Nights diaper. "The medication has him completely locked down. He doesn't even know where he is right now." "It's alright, honey, Momma’s got you," Mom cooed gently, steering my clumsy, heavily diapered body back toward the bed. I was too groggy to resist, my head lolling back onto the pillow as they lifted my legs over the toddler rail. Right there on the sheets, in the middle of the night, my parents worked as a coordinated team. The loud scritch of the four tapes being undone barely registered in my fading consciousness. I felt the cold blast of the wipes, the thick smear of the rash cream, and the heavy cloud of powder, but it all felt like a distant dream. Within minutes, my legs were hoisted, and another massive, crinkling overnight diaper was slid underneath me and taped tightly into place, sealing me back into a fresh plastic prison. "Get him settled, Susan," Dad whispered quietly as he stepped back toward the hallway, wiping his hands. He looked back at the bolting toddler rail, his expression completely serious. "That rail didn't do a damn thing to keep him contained. Tomorrow morning, I'm heading straight down to the shop. I'm building that teen-sized crib frame out of the oak lumber. We need him completely enclosed and safe before we give him another dose of those meds." "I agree," Mom whispered back, pulling the heavy covers back up over my fresh, loudly crinkling diaper. "Go ahead with the build first thing in the morning, Richard. It's the only way we're going to survive this routine." They shut the door, plunging the room back into darkness. Locked inside my mitts, packed into a fresh, towering mound of padding, and drowning in the heavy fog of the prescription medicine, I drifted back into the black void—completely unaware that by the time I woke up, my bedroom would never be the same again.

Yes, a better story is always appreciated, when compared to a faster story. Please make sure the last couple chapters are what you want them to be. Us readers will wait. I have enjoyed this story and look forward to the conclusion.

Mustang GT