Trading Post

Hi everyone! Really sorry that it has taken this long for an update to the story. I can promise you that I will stick it out until the end - but I unfortunately cannot guarantee that there won't be long breaks in between sometimes.. Life, you know... Anyway, here are the next two chapters, I hope you enjoy them. More to come!   Chapter 28: Missed Calls Time at the Stavkroa was not linear. It was a foggy, bass-thumping mass of foaming beer and bellowing laughter and the heat of packed bodies pressing against each other in a space that smelled of wet wool and spilt lager and something sweet and fermented that might have been the floor itself. Liam had forgotten. It started as a small, nagging thought in the back of his skull — a flicker of text on a screen, a mother's voice saying ten minutes — but then Jake, the tall lad from Millfield with the backwards cap, had told a story about a teacher they'd locked in a toilet in Austria. Something about a ski boot jammed under the door and the man shouting in German for twenty minutes while the entire school stood outside crying with laughter. And Liam had laughed so hard that tears ran down his cheeks, and the nagging thought had drowned in the noise. He'd taken a long pull of his third beer — or was it the fourth? Or wait... fifth? The jug kept appearing, and Will kept topping him up, and the numbers had stopped meaning anything. Each sip pushed Grace's voice a little further away, until her rules and her deadlines and her toilet-photo surveillance system were nothing but a faint hum behind the music, like a radio playing in another room. The alcohol had done its work. It had anaesthetised his nerves. It had turned the zinc cream's clammy grip into a distant background sensation — still there, technically, but no longer screaming for attention. Even the pull-up, the thick DryNites model beneath his tight jeans, had stopped feeling like a foreign object strapped to his body. It had become just... a part of him. A warm, soft layer that absorbed and accommodated and forgave. When he laughed too hard and something gave way — a tiny release, barely a teaspoon — the pull-up caught it silently and he didn't even register the transaction. When he needed the toilet but couldn't face the ordeal of making four people stand up so he could shuffle out of the corner booth, the pull-up was there, patient and absorbent, and the decision not to move barely felt like a decision at all. He was comfortable. He was wedged into the corner, shoulder to shoulder with Sophie, and the world was warm and loud and golden. But he wasn't alone in claiming her attention. "You have not skied in France," Will teased, leaning across the table towards Sophie. He had broad shoulders and that easy, confident smile — the kind that came from a lifetime of team sports and knowing you looked good — that Liam envied down to his bones. "You look like someone who sticks to the green runs." Sophie laughed and slapped his arm playfully. "Excuse me! I'd ski you into the ground backwards with a blindfold on!" "Steady on, tiger," Jake grinned, winking at her. "We'll need to see it before we believe it. Fancy coming out with us tomorrow?" Liam felt the stab of jealousy — hot and sharp, cutting through the alcohol haze. They were flirting. Openly. And Sophie... she was enjoying it. She lit up in their company. She tossed her hair, her eyes sparkled, and she matched their banter beat for beat. She was in her element — the centre of attention, desired by confident, athletic boys who moved through the world without secrets or pull-ups or mothers who demanded toilet selfies. "I've got my own guide, actually," she said suddenly, and put a hand on Liam's thigh. She squeezed. High up. Almost at the waistline. Almost at the edge of the pull-up. If he hadn't been wearing it, his only thought would have been how close her hand was to his crotch — the universal, electrifying thrill of a girl's fingers on your upper thigh. But the pull-up rewired everything. Her hand wasn't close to him. It was close to it. Her fingers were separated from the elastic waistband by nothing more than a layer of denim and a prayer. "Liam looks after me," she said, squeezing his thigh again. "He's my own personal bodyguard." Liam straightened up. He sent the boys a look — a territorial look, the kind that said: See? She's with me. But the victory was hollow. Because under her hand, under the denim, he was wet. He noticed it only now — only because her touch had made him hyperaware of what was happening down there, forced his attention back to the region of his body he'd been ignoring for the last hour. And now that he was paying attention, the truth was unmistakable. He'd been leaking. Not a single event, not a moment of letting go — more like a slow, incremental surrender that had happened in stages without his conscious involvement. Little releases, barely noticed, absorbed silently each time. His body had just... let go. One small betrayal at a time, while his brain was somewhere else entirely — laughing at Jake's stories, arguing about ski runs, watching Sophie's face in the candlelight. The pull-up was heavy now. Noticeably heavy. It felt like a warm, wet poultice pressed against his groin — swollen, sagging slightly, the padding dense and saturated in a way that changed the shape of it. What had been a flat, discreet layer was now a thick, sodden mass. He was a bodyguard in a wet diaper. The surrealism of it almost made him laugh. Almost. How did this happen? Am I that drunk? "Bodyguard, is it?" Jake looked Liam up and down — an appraising look, the kind one male animal gives another when sizing up competition. "He looks a bit rattled to me. You alright, mate? You're sweating." "I'm fine," Liam snapped, and took a large swig of beer. The aggression in his voice surprised even him. He was overcompensating — performing confidence to cover the fact that he was sitting in a puddle of his own making. Next to him, Mia and Jade — the two Millfield girls — looked like they'd bitten into something sour. They were clearly used to being the centre of attention, but tonight it was Sophie who was running away with every pair of eyes in the booth. "Shall we play something?" Jade said sharply, pulling a pack of cards from her pocket. "Or are we just going to sit here listening to Sophie's ski stories all night?" "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Jade," Will teased, but he took the cards. "Let's play Pyramid. Loser downs their drink." Liam was in. He wanted to prove himself. He didn't want to be the quiet one, the careful one, the one who nursed a single beer while everyone else got loud. He drank when he lost. He drank when he won. He drank when someone made a joke and someone else shouted drink! for no particular reason. He forgot everything. He forgot that he was under surveillance. He forgot that his bladder was a ticking bomb that his mother monitored via text message. He forgot that he was sitting in a pull-up that was now so saturated it strained against his thighs when he moved — a heavy, warm weight that shifted and settled and shifted again, like a living thing adjusting itself to his body. He forgot all of it. And then the music stopped. Or rather, the band took a break. The lead singer said something into the microphone about being back in fifteen, and the roar of the room dropped a level — not to silence, but to a lower register. Conversations that had been shouted could now be spoken. The ringing in Liam's ears subsided to a high, thin whine. Sophie reached for her phone, which had been lying face-down on the table the entire evening. She picked it up to check the time. Her smile froze. The colour drained from her cheeks — visibly, even in the dim, amber light of the bar. "Fuck," she whispered. "What?" Liam asked, his voice slurred, leaning towards her. The room tilted slightly as he moved. "The time," she said, and turned the screen towards him. 23:14. Liam stared at the numbers. They didn't make sense. It was just before seven. They'd basically just sat down. The evening had lasted maybe an hour — two at most. How could it be— Then he saw the notifications stacked beneath the clock. 4 missed calls from Mum. 2 missed calls from Rob. 3 messages from Mum: "Liam???" "Where ARE you??" "We're driving down now!" The ice trickled down Liam's spine and killed the alcohol's warmth instantly — a chemical reversal, as if someone had injected cold water directly into his bloodstream. His stomach clenched. His hands went numb. They were supposed to be home at ten. Over an hour ago. And he hadn't sent a single photo since he'd walked through the door. "We're dead," he whispered. His voice shook. "We are so dead." "Liam, your mum..." Sophie looked at him with wide eyes. She knew how intense Grace was — she'd asked about it, talked about it, called her a helicopter mum. But even Sophie's frame of reference couldn't contain what was actually coming. "She'll practically call the police. Seriously." She stood up so fast she knocked over her half-empty glass. Beer flooded across the table, running off the edge into Will's lap. "We need to go! Now!" "Whoa, whoa, where's the fire?" Jake said, grabbing Sophie's arm. He was grinning — the grin of someone who'd never missed a curfew, or who'd missed plenty and simply didn't care. "The party's just getting started." "We have to go," Sophie said, breathless, pulling her arm free. "We've... we lost track of time. Our parents—" "Parents?" Will snorted. "Relax. You're seventeen. Tell them you got held up." "You don't understand," Liam said, and began fighting his way out of the corner. This was the moment he'd been dreading without knowing it — the moment he had to stand up and move after hours of sitting still. He had to push past Mia, and as he did, his thigh pressed against hers. The heavy, saturated pull-up was like a concrete block between his legs — dense and unyielding, nothing like the discreet padding he'd walked in with. He prayed she didn't feel the unnatural bulk. Prayed she'd interpret the contact as an elbow or a knee or just the general chaos of six people packed into a booth designed for four. He made it out onto the floor. Gravity pulled at the pull-up. It sagged low — much lower than it should have — dragging the crotch of his jeans down with it. The weight was astonishing. He had to walk with his thighs pressed together to keep it from dropping further, a careful, shuffling gait that was the opposite of everything a bodyguard should look like. "Hey, Sophie!" Jake stood up halfway. He was holding his phone out. He was looking past Liam as if Liam weren't there — as if Liam were furniture, or wallpaper, or simply not worth addressing. "Drop me your number, yeah? We can meet up tomorrow. Without bodyguards." He looked at Liam as he said bodyguards. A small, contemptuous smile. The smile of a boy who could smell weakness. Liam stood there. In his tight jeans, with a soaking wet pull-up sagging between his legs, sweating with panic and alcohol. He knew what he must look like — flushed, unsteady, slightly hunched, one hand instinctively hovering near his hip as if holding something in place. He looked like someone who was about to be sick. Sophie hesitated. She looked at Liam. She looked at Jake. Liam willed her to say no. Willed her to grab his hand, to say I'm with him, to walk away without looking back. But his will had no power here — not in this room, not in this state, not with his secret dragging him down by the crotch. Sophie took Jake's phone. She typed quickly — her thumbs flying over the screen with the practised speed of someone who'd exchanged numbers a hundred times. "Text me," she said, and handed the phone back with a small, guilty smile. A smile that said sorry but also said I'm keeping my options open. "Count on it, gorgeous." "Come on, Liam!" She grabbed Liam's hand and pulled him towards the exit. He followed. He shambled behind her, humiliated and heavy, his legs stiff and wide, the pull-up swinging between his thighs with each step like a pendulum. He'd lost the territorial battle to a boy who didn't wear a diaper. someone who could stand up from a booth without calculating whether the bulge in his jeans was visible. A man who could dance and flirt and not worry about leaking. And now he was running home to his mother. To get changed. They burst out into the cold. The night air hit him like a slap — sharp, black, punishingly cold after the furnace of the bar. The sweat on his forehead turned to ice. His breath came in ragged clouds. The car park was nearly empty. A few taxis idled by the kerb. A group of Norwegians were singing somewhere in the darkness. No car was waiting for them. Rob hadn't come. Or he'd come and left because they hadn't answered. Liam fumbled his phone out of his pocket with shaking hands. The screen was too bright. He squinted at it. Another message from Grace, sent two minutes ago: I'm in the car outside. Come to the car NOW. He looked up. Further down the road, past the row of parked cars and the orange glow of a streetlamp, sat the big black Audi. Headlights on. Engine running. A plume of exhaust rising into the frozen air like a signal flare. In the driver's seat sat Grace. She was looking directly at them. Even at fifty metres, even through the windscreen, even in the darkness, Liam could feel the cold of her gaze. It reached him like a physical force — a beam of maternal fury that cut through the alcohol and the night air and landed squarely on the centre of his chest. "Fuck," Sophie whispered, her breath a white cloud. "She looks angry." Liam said nothing. He couldn't speak. The adrenaline was doing something to his body — sharpening everything, stripping away the comforting fog of the alcohol and leaving only the raw, cold facts. He could feel the urine turning cold against his skin. The pull-up, which had been warm inside the bar, was now a frigid, clammy mass clinging to his thighs. And for the first time — standing here in the car park, staring at his mother's silhouette behind the steering wheel — he thought about what came next. Not the shouting. Not the lecture. The practical reality. He was going to get into that car. He was going to sit down. And the pressure of sitting was going to compress the saturated pull-up, and the urine was going to seep outwards — into the fabric of his jeans, onto the car seat, into the air as a warm, unmistakable scent. And Grace was going to know. Within seconds. She would smell it, or see the dark stain spreading across the seat, or simply look at his face and read the truth. And he didn't have a spare pull-up. The supply bag was at the cabin, in Grace's room. He had no way to change, no way to hide, no way to fix this. How the fuck did this happen? Why didn't I hold it? How did I get this drunk? "Fuck," he whispered, the word barely audible. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Sophie was already walking towards the car, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold. She looked back at him. "Liam? Come on. Might as well get it over with." He took a step. The pull-up shifted — cold and heavy, like a bag of wet sand strapped to his hips. Another step. And another. He walked towards the car, towards his mother, towards whatever was waiting on the other side of that windscreen. The Stavkroa's music started up again behind him — faint, muffled, the sound of a world he was leaving behind. Chapter 29: The Tribunal Liam sat in the back seat of the Audi and stared out into the darkness. He was freezing. The party, the warmth, the intoxicating sensation of being free and normal and seventeen — all of it had evaporated the instant he saw Grace's face through the windscreen. Now he sat here, pressed into the corner behind the driver's seat, watching the white road markings vanish beneath the car in a hypnotic, accusatory rhythm. Each one a second lost. Each one a metre closer to the cabin. He had brought a secret into the car. A heavy, cold, wet secret. The DryNites pull-up, which two hours ago had been an invisible safety net — discreet, dry, a minor indignity he could almost forget about — was now an enemy. It was saturated. The liquid had distributed itself throughout the absorbent core, expanding it into a dense, swollen mass that pressed against his crotch, against his buttocks, against the inside of both thighs. In the cool air of the car, the warmth was gone. What remained was a clammy, frigid weight that clung to his skin like a compress made of cold porridge. And the worst part: the pressure. He was sitting on it. The full weight of his body was compressing the sodden padding, and he could feel — or thought he could feel — moisture being squeezed outwards through the leak guards, through the fabric shell, into the denim of his jeans. Into the seat beneath him. He sat completely still. He didn't dare move. He didn't dare shift his weight or uncross his legs or adjust his position, because any movement might force more liquid out. He was a bomb disposal unit, frozen mid-procedure, except the bomb was between his legs and the shrapnel was urine. On the front seat, Sophie was not still. "I seriously don't see the problem," she said sharply, turning half around towards Grace, who was driving with her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "We were an hour late. One hour! We're on holiday. We were having a good time." "It's not about the time, Sophie," Grace said. Her voice was low, vibrating with controlled fury — the kind of anger that's more dangerous for being held in check. "It's about agreements. And about the fact that neither of you answered your phones." "It was loud!" Sophie shot back. "We couldn't hear them. And honestly, Grace... you rang four times in five minutes. That's basically stalking." "It's responsibility," Grace snapped. Liam said nothing. He couldn't speak. He couldn't enter this argument, because he knew — with the sick, certain clarity that had replaced the alcohol — that Grace's anger wasn't about the curfew. Not really. The curfew was the public grievance, the one she could prosecute in front of Sophie. The real crime was the photo he hadn't sent. The contract he'd broken. The three-hour toilet check he'd ignored entirely. If he opened his mouth now — if he said a single word in his own defence — she might say it out loud. She might turn around and say, And Liam, where's the photo? You know what I mean. The one from the toilet. The one that proves you actually went. And then Sophie would hear, and the game would be over. So he sat in silence, in the dark, in the wet, and let Sophie fight the battle alone. They turned onto the gravel drive in front of the cabin. The snow crunched under the tyres. Every window was lit — warm, golden rectangles against the dark mountainside, like the portholes of a ship that was expecting them. "Out," said Grace, and killed the engine. They went inside. The hallway felt like a courtroom. Rob and James were sitting at the dining table. They had clearly been waiting. There was no wine on the table — just coffee cups and serious faces. Rob no longer looked like the jovial Team Dry conspirator who'd winked over his beer and mouthed silent toasts. He looked like a disappointed father. His arms were folded, his jaw set, and he regarded them as they stepped into the light with the heavy-browed expression of a man who'd been sitting in this chair for an hour and a half, imagining the worst. "Well," he said, unfolding his arms just enough to gesture towards them. "The prodigals return." Liam stayed by the door. He kept his jacket on. He didn't dare take it off — the jacket was long enough to cover his hips, and he'd pulled it down as far as it would go, bunching the fabric around his waist. He was terrified that removing it would release the smell. Old beer and warm urine — the fermented cocktail that he'd been marinating in for the last five hours. Or that the wet pull-up had created a dark shadow on his jeans, a stain that would be visible the moment the jacket came off. "We're sorry," he mumbled, looking at the floor. The floorboards were pine, knotted and pale. He stared at a single knot as if it contained the answer to everything. "Sorry?" Sophie kicked off her boots with a bang and walked straight into the living area. She wasn't visibly drunk any more — the cold and the adrenaline had burned it off — but she was angry. Properly, magnificently angry, in the way that only seventeen-year-olds who believe they're in the right can be. "We met some other English people. We talked. Time got away from us. Is that really a criminal offence?" "It's disrespectful," said James, heavily. His voice had a weight to it — the weight of a man who'd been worrying and was now ashamed of having worried. "When we're sitting here concerned about you." "Concerned about what?" Sophie flung her arms wide. "That we got eaten by a wolf? Or that Liam's leg started hurting?" She pointed at Liam. "He was fine! He was dancing on the tables! He was having fun for the first time all week, until you lot started ringing us like we were twelve years old! And the fact that we even have to stand here and defend ourselves for acting like adults is just — it's so stupid!" Liam flinched. He wished she would stop. Every word she said in defence of his "adulthood" made the fall deeper. She was building a pedestal for him in front of everyone — he's an adult, he's fine, he was dancing — and every brick she laid was a brick he'd have to fall from when the truth came out. He was dancing on the tables. In a wet diaper. "Sophie, mind your tone," said Claire, emerging from the kitchen. She looked tired — the exhausted look of a mother who'd spent the evening mediating between her husband's anger and her own instinct to give her daughter the benefit of the doubt. "No, Mum," Sophie said stubbornly. "The rules are too strict. 'Send a text,' 'be home by ten,' 'where are you.' We can't breathe! Liam practically doesn't dare go to the toilet without asking permission first — I don't even know what that's about!" The silence that followed was deafening. Liam closed his eyes. She was so close to the truth. Centimetres from it. She'd meant it as hyperbole — a teenager's exaggeration to make a point about overbearing parents. But the literal accuracy of her words was devastating. Liam practically doesn't dare go to the toilet without asking permission first. She had no idea. She had no idea that he literally, actually, in point of fact, had to ask permission. Had to send photographic proof. Had to be supervised, checked, scheduled, wiped. And while she was downstairs defending his right to toilet autonomy, he was standing by the door with a soaking wet pull-up sagging between his legs. Grace stepped forward. She removed her jacket with slow, controlled movements — folding it once, draping it over the back of a chair, each gesture deliberate, calibrated. Then she looked at Liam. Her gaze moved over him — not a quick glance, but a systematic assessment. His wide stance. The jacket pulled down over his hips. The way he was gripping the hem with both hands. The posture that screamed guilt. She knew. Liam could see it in the micro-expression that crossed her face — a tiny tightening around the mouth, a slight flare of the nostrils. Not surprise. Confirmation. "I think," Grace said calmly, her voice cutting through Sophie's rebellion like a blade through silk, "that we need to split this up. Rob, Claire — you have a chat with Sophie about how things work when you're seventeen in your family. That's between you." "You can count on it," said Rob, and stood up. He looked at Liam — a disappointed look, heavy with the knowledge of what "the whole situation" actually meant — but said nothing to him directly. He walked over to Sophie and put a hand on her shoulder. "Come into the lounge, love." "And Liam," Grace continued, turning to her son. Her voice had dropped — not to a whisper, but to a register that was meant for him alone. "You're coming with me. Upstairs. Now." "But—" Liam tried. "No discussion," said James from the table. Liam looked at his father. James wasn't looking at him. He was sitting with his head bowed, staring into his coffee, as if he were ashamed on his son's behalf. The posture of a man who knew. Liam was certain of it — certain from the way James held himself, from the way he refused to make eye contact, from the quiet, defeated authority in those two words. James knew about the broken agreement, the missing photos, the three-hour schedule that had been ignored. He probably knew, or had guessed, what state Liam was in right now. And he'd chosen to look away. The room divided. Sophie was led into the lounge area by her parents — still protesting, still arguing for their collective freedom, her voice rising and falling behind the closed door. Claire's murmur was audible beneath it, soothing and firm. Liam was led towards the stairs by Grace. He went first. She was behind him — close enough that he could hear her breathing, steady and controlled, a metronome of maternal patience running on its last reserves. He had to take small steps. The pull-up was so heavy now that it hung low in the crotch of his jeans, dragging the denim down with it. He could feel the wet core swinging against his inner thighs with each step. Slap. Slap. Slap. Three steps up. The sound was unmistakable — the heavy, liquid rhythm of saturated padding in motion. It wasn't loud. It wouldn't carry to the living room. But it was there, right there, in the narrow stairwell between him and his mother. She was two steps behind him. She could hear it. She could probably smell it — the stale, ammoniac tang of hours-old urine mixed with zinc cream and sweat, rising in the warm air of the stairwell. She said nothing. She just followed. They reached the mezzanine. Liam walked into his "room" — the corner under the sloping ceiling, the mattress on the floor, the skylight full of stars. He stood in the middle of the floor with his back to Grace. He heard her draw the curtain across the stairwell opening — the thin cotton fabric that was the only barrier between this space and the rest of the cabin. The only thing separating his trial from Sophie's. The silence up here was different from downstairs. Downstairs was a social conflict — raised voices, family politics, the theatre of parental disappointment. Up here, the air was still and close, and the only sounds were the hum of the radiator and the distant, muffled rhythm of Sophie's ongoing protest filtering up through the floorboards. Up here was a sentencing. "Turn around," Grace said. Her voice was no longer angry. It was just... flat. Cold. Stripped of emotion, like a machine that had moved past feeling and into procedure. Liam turned slowly. Grace stood with her arms folded. She looked at him as if he were a stranger — or worse, as if he were exactly what she'd expected him to be. As if this moment had been inevitable from the second she'd let him walk into the Stavkroa. "You didn't send the photo," she stated. Not a question. A verdict. "I forgot," Liam whispered. "We were just having fun—" "You've been drinking heavily," she said. "I can smell it from here. I told you to take it easy." "It was only a couple—" "You broke every agreement, Liam," she cut in, and each word landed like a stone dropped into still water. "Every single one. You drank excessive amounts of alcohol — which is a diuretic, in case you've forgotten what that means. You lost track of time. You ignored my calls. You ignored your toilet schedule." She took a step closer. "You played at being grown-up tonight, Liam. You've been out there acting the big man all evening — you and Sophie, winding each other up, feeding each other's rebellions." Liam looked at the floor. The shame was a physical heat in his face, radiating outward from his cheekbones. "But think about it for a second," she said, low and precise. "Right now, you are a boy who can't tell when he needs to wee. A boy who needs his mum to remind him." She pointed at his trousers. At his jeans. "And here we are. It's half eleven. You've been drinking beer for five hours. And I haven't received a single piece of evidence that you've used a toilet since you walked into that bar." Liam swallowed hard. He tightened his grip on his jacket — still clutching the hem, the last barrier. Grace extended her hand. Palm up. Waiting. "Take the jacket off, Liam." Liam shook his head. "Mum, please. I'll just go to bed. I'm tired." "Jacket off," she repeated. Harder this time. The two words compressed into a command that left no room for negotiation. Liam let the zip slide down. He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. It pooled at his feet like a shed skin. He stood in his t-shirt and his jeans. Grace looked at his crotch. The jeans were dark — dark enough that stains were difficult to see in the dim light of the mezzanine. But the shape was unmistakable. The bulge was obvious. The dry, discreet DryNites from earlier in the evening was now a massive, swollen lump pushing the denim outward. It sat like a cushion between his legs — distorted, heavy, pressing the fabric into a shape that no pair of boxer shorts could ever produce. The outline of the leg cuffs was visible through the jeans, two ridges running down his inner thighs where the pull-up's elastic had been overwhelmed by the sheer volume inside. Grace saw it. She saw the extent of it. She lifted her gaze and met his eyes. There was no mercy in her expression. Only consequence. "You say you're an adult," she said, quietly. "You say the rules are too strict. That you've got it under control." She took a deep breath. "Prove it." Liam stared at her. "What?" "Prove it," she said again. "If you've got it under control, then you're dry right now. You used the toilet down there, like a grown man." She pointed at his waistband. A commanding gesture — index finger aimed like a weapon. "Trousers down, Liam. I want to see that you're dry." Liam froze. From downstairs, he could hear Sophie laugh scornfully at something — a last burst of defiance, muffled by the floorboards. Up here, defiance was over. He was standing face to face with reality. He couldn't prove it. Because he wasn't dry. He was soaked through. He stood perfectly still, while the seconds ticked past, and the weight between his legs pulled him towards the floor.

I do remember reading a longer format story in the same vein as this one. I can't remember if it was on here or somewhere else. But it was in a world where diapers were the norm, toilets were a forgotten technology (kinda makes me wonder how goldfish get to heaven! Lol), and many places had some robots to change people's diapers. The main character dude also turned out to have a toilet fetish, and discovered the world of toilet training! I think it ended on a bit of a cliffhanger of him hitting the road to find a town that used toilets. I thought it was a fun read, not too long, pretty fun story.  I re-read this one, and it's still just a fun little gem! Just short and sweet! Not sure where it really could go for a long-run story, honestly. Just a bunch of chapters of him getting used to his new padded world, and probably a bunch of "why are you acting so odd?" and similar reactions from people. I mean, could be fun, but just my $.02

Thanks to @Wayne S. for donating $50!

Answer: Yes.

Lucky you! Now with the weather warming up, I dream of going outside in just a t-shirt and diaper! I live in a more densely populated area with no yard fence and neighbors all around. One day we'll change that. Thankfully, my g/f doesn't mind me going full Tommy Pickles around the house, so I at least can do that!