emzem

I'm pretty sure this is just a one off. She'll probably be fine, right? ? Good catch... Thanks ? That's what happens when there's too much wine in my sippy cup! Hey, I can't control other people's parenting! I guess we'll have to see if we get an explanation? ? Yikes, tough crowd. ? Glad you're enjoying! Thanks for the encouragement. ? I think this is probably the only time I've ever associated these four groups together in my life! ? Hey, it's tropey and silly... it's not supposed to be good! Just fun! ? I'd originally intended this just as a one-off, just to exercise the old writing muscles, but it seems like it got a little bit of love, so I do have another part for y'all. Just so we're clear on the intended audience, if you're looking for something good, original, and/or thought-provoking, you might want to try one by one of the many talented writers on this site. If you are interested in tactless, humiliating smut, you've come to the right place. ? As always, I do this for your love and appreciation, so please like and comment and let me know if you'd like to see a third part! ? Emsy I assume that things will go much better for Trisha in Part 2? ? Right? --- April Showers - Part 2 Trisha was quiet throughout dinner, and while Aunt Maribel’s cooking was good Trisha didn’t have much of an appetite. It was only 4:00 PM, she was used to eating much later, and besides, she had more pressing things on her mind. Trisha hadn’t sat on the potty after her mother had changed her Goodnite. She shook her head at the childish word and squirmed in her chair. Would her mother really make good on her threat? “No more wet accidents or it’s back to diapers, missy,” she had said. She wondered if her mom really meant it. Amy Walker was not a woman to be trifled with. When Trisha’s father had gotten sick when she was a toddler, Amy cared for him herself and ran the couple’s fabric design business, all while caring for baby Trisha. When he had died when Trisha was four, Amy had steeled her resolve and become all things to her daughter: mother, father, friend, and teacher, all wrapped into one. And to balance all of these roles in her daughter’s life, she developed strict routines for herself and her family. Trisha could feel scratchy padding of the Goodnite rustle against her bottom as she shifted nervously in her seat. She was used to the wet padding when she woke up in the morning, but it was strange to feel the dry pull-up against her skin during the day. Trisha had wet the bed most of her life, and she knew it would hold an accident. Of course it would. But her mother had made it abundantly clear that Goodnites were only for bedwetting accidents… wetting during the day would certainly attract her mom’s ire “More mama!” Trisha’s mom was allowing Mark to feed himself, giving him small pieces of chicken off of her fork as she ate herself, and discussing her sister’s baby shower plans for the next day. He was getting too old for the highchair, but he was a squirmy boy and it was just easier to have him stuck in one place. He was just in a diaper and t-shirt, and Trisha could already tell it was wet. She thought back to the warm feeling of the accident in the car, the wonderfully warm, soft wetness around her bottom and felt her face flush bright red. Mark was a bit of an afterthought. When Trisha was ten, her mom decided that she was going to have another child before it was too late; an eventuality that she and her late husband had planned for. And while she cared deeply about her children, she was strict; being strict was what held their family together, even during the difficult times. And that made what Trisha was contemplating doing even scarier. She remembered the last time she’d deliberately broken her mother’s rules. Fighting at school, yelling at her teacher when she tried to break it up, and getting in-school suspension for three days. Even now, she could feel the sting in her bottom from the spanking she’d received; if 12 was not too old, she imagined that 13 wasn’t too old either. “…yet, Trisha?” Trisha was snapped out of her reverie. “Oh…ummm… I’m sorry, what?” Aunt Maribel laughed. “Earth to Patricia! I asked if you’d started practicing for the Rite of Spring? Your mama said that you were going to be dancing in it in a couple of months?” Trisha loved ballet, and even though she wasn’t the best, the feeling of camaraderie, and sense of being in control “Oh, um… yeah, I’m not like a lead or anything. But I get to dance in the Rite of Sacrifice? I don’t know if I really like the music that much though…” Trisha felt a fullness in her bladder and glanced at Mark again. Maybe her mother wouldn’t notice if she used the Goodnite. And if she did, maybe she would follow through on her threat? She imagined being put back in diapers like her brother… and wondered if it wouldn’t be kind of nice? She shook her head. But maybe… She lifted herself off of her seat with her hands and pushed, letting out a tiny stream of pee in her pull-up. She felt a wave of shame wash over her. “And are there any boys you like, Trisha? At school and in ballet?” Aunt Maribel must have thought her blush was from the question and not the pleasant wetness in the seat of Trisha’s babyish panties, and smiled encouragingly. “Or girls maybe?” “Um… no,” Trisha said. “I don’t really like anyone like that,” she lied, biting her lip. Maybe it was technically true, though, since Mercy, her assistant dance coach, was like 19 or something. She was a woman, and definitely not a girl, with breasts and curves and a kind of grace that made Trisha both very attracted and very jealous. She loved stretching with her at the beginning of practice, and the gentle touch of her hands pressing Trisha’s knees to her chest… But Mercy was definitely not interested in some 13 year old who still wet the bed. What would she do if she was my babysitter? Trisha wondered. Sometimes she imagined Mercy being her older sister and scolding her in the morning for wetting her bed. Trisha bit her lip harder and let more pee flow into her Goodnite. Trisha pushed her food around her plate, half-heartedly listening to her aunt and her mother discuss the games they would play at the baby shower. What would it be like being put back into a diaper like a baby? What would it like to be changed like Mark? She imagined herself back on the changing table upstairs ,a stinky mess emanating from her bottom, her mother or maybe Mercy lifting her legs into the air, carefully wiping her bottom, gently rubbing in powder, and then taping up the clean diaper between her legs… and then waiting for her to wet herself to do it all again. It was a horrible, embarrassing, wonderful thought. She was terrified of knowing. But she wanted to know… Trisha screwed up her courage. She knew what she wanted, no needed, to do as the pressure built every so slightly in her stomach. She need to go now, before she was overwhelmed by the compulsion to do it. But Trisha was, at heart, a coward. “May I please be excused?” she interrupted. “When you finish your plate, dear,” her mother replied. “You know the rules.” The rules! Always some kind of stupid rule! How were you supposed to keep them all straight? Trisha huffed dramatically and crossed her arms. Maybe she should show her mother what happened when she insisted on stupid rules… The pressure built again in Trisha’s stomach, and this time she bore down. She put her hands on the sides of her chair and lifted up her bottom again, and felt something begin filling the seat of her pull-up. It was dense and sticky, warm but not in the pleasant way she had imagined. Her eyes shot open. This was a mistake. She. Did. Not. Want. This. Oh God, she would be in so much trouble. Her heart felt like it would burst through her chest, and she lowered her bottom back on the chair, unable to hold the position anymore. The mess squished horrible up the back of her juvenile undies. She had to leave the table without her mother noticing. She glanced at Mark, playing happily with a toy dinosaur in his highchair, and at her aunt and mother, engaged in all-consuming sisterly conversation. She began to eat as quickly as possibly, horribly bloated and full, sick to her stomach. She ate and ate. Five bites left. Four. Three. Two… “Uh oh,” Aunt Maribel said, “smells like somebody needs a diaper change.” She stood up and picked Mark up under his armpits, standing him on his highchair seat and patting the back of his diaper. “Hmm…” she said, opening the elastic waistband of the diaper and looking inside. Trisha quickly finished the last two bites of food, ready to pass out from the stress. “But if you’re not stinky, what’s that poopy smell?” Aunt Maribel tickled Mark under the armpits. He giggled. “May I please be excused?” Trisha asked. Her mother nodded. As Trisha made her way to the kitchen sink with her plate, her mother stood up behind her, frowning and gently grabbing her arm. Just like Aunt Maribel had done to Mark, Amy pushed her hand against her daughters bottom, smearing the poop in her pull-up everywhere. “Trisha,” she said sternly, “you didn’t…” Trisha started to cry and tried to pull away, but her mother tightened her grip and took the plate away with her free hand. Then, she smacked her daughter’s thigh, right below her poopy Goodnite. “Mom…” Trisha whined. But then she looked at her mother’s face, at the sheer anger and determination in her face, and thought better of it. Why had she done this to herself? When had this ever seemed like a good idea? Her mother silently marched her up the stairs to the bathroom across from the nursery and pushed her inside. “Stay right there and don’t move,” she said. She heard her mother go into the nursery, rummaging around for something, but she didn’t dare look to see what was happening. Tears were streaming down her face, and she was beginning to panic. What had she been thinking? When her mother returned, she sat on the closed toilet seat. “Come here,” she ordered. Still crying, Trisha obeyed, her mother undoing the straps of her overalls. She yelped as her mother pulled her roughly across her lap. Trisha could barely support herself with her hands as her feet left the ground. “Pooping your pants on purpose like a baby. I couldn’t be more upset with you.” And then her overalls were down around her ankles, the sides of her Goodnite torn free, and her mother was roughly wiping her poopy bottom with wet wipes, cold and harsh, nothing like her gentle fantasy at the dinner table. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. And she was. She would never think about wearing diapers again. “Not yet you aren’t,” her mother replied, throwing the used wet wipes in the Goodnite on the bathroom floor. And just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse… SPANK! “Owww!” Her mother’s heavy hand came down on her daughter’s upturned bottom. SPANK! Trisha could hear the impact before the burning sting in her butt cheeks. SPANK! Her face was burning almost as much as her bottom. SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! “Noo…” Trisha sobbed, devolving into heaving sobs. SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! Her mother had found her rhythm, and the stinging slaps rained down hard and fast, bouncing from one cheek to the other, to her tender sit spots, wrapping around into soft inner thighs. SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! A crescendo of pain, like the opening of the Strevensky, harsh, discordant, impossibly painful… The pain dissolved into something that transcended physical sensation, into the pure and horrible emotion of the moment, and Trisha let the waves of guilt and shame wash over her and reduce her into wonderful nothingness. Suddenly, she realized that the pain in her stinging bottom was subsiding, and Amy placed her diminutive daughter on the bathroom floor next to her soiled Goodnite. Lifting her legs, Amy placed one of Mark’s diapers under Trisha’s butt, powered her spanked bottom, and taping the clean diaper around her waist. It was far too tight, of course. But the babyish purple designs on the Luv seemed humiliatingly appropriate for the well-punished little girl. “Mom,” Trisha said, “I didn’t mean…” she was hiccuping now… “I didn’t… I’m sorry…” Her mother helped her up off the floor. “We’ll see,” Amy said, helping her daughter up off the cold tile floor. “Now,” she said, “let’s go to the medical supply store and get some diapers that are more in your size.” “But Mom!!” “Unless you’d like a spanking with the hairbrush first?” Trisha simply sobbed in reply and allowed herself to be led downstairs in nothing but her long band t-shirt and her baby Luvs, where her Aunt and toddler brother were waiting at the kitchen table, listening to everything.

Thanks Very kind of you!

My first time writing anything in a while! Always appreciate your feedback (but mostly appreciate it if it’s positive!) ———— April Showers The ride to Aunt Maribel’s house was particularly boring; although it was only two hours away, the road seemed to stretch on endlessly like some laid-flat ribbon, a never-ending highway of cornfields. In the back of the minivan, 13-year old Trisha looked out the window window, imagining herself herself running alongside the car, ignoring her three year-old brother Mark in the car seat next to her. In truth, riding in the back of the minivan always made Trisha feel like a little kid. In spite of her age, her mother insisted that she use a booster seat until her feet sat comfortably on the floor of the car, even though technically—technically!—she weighed enough and was old enough to riding in the car without one. “Are we almost there?” “At least another 20 minutes, sweetie.” Trisha sighed. The booster seat was bad enough, but the butterfly Goodnite she wore beneath her brown overalls made her feel even more like a baby. Wetting the bed at night was one thing, but having to wear Goodnites in the car “just in case” she fell asleep was even worse. And worst of all, Trisha increasingly needed to pee, and she wasn’t even asleep. Mark was singing along to the Trout Fishing in America album that her mom insisted on playing on the trip. Sitting in his car seat, his diaper bulged out underneath his navy shorts around the crotch strap of his car seat harness. “I’ve gotta friend that lives with me, my friends’ name is nobody,” Mark sang. Her mother joined in occasionally, and Trish scowled. What would Melissa and the cheer squad think? A 13 years old wearing a diaper, sitting in a car seat, listening to baby music… Just thinking about the cool girls in her grade seeing her like this made Trisha’s cheeks flush. She wondered, just for a second, if her family could feel her face radiating the heat of a thousand suns. “Nobody sure gets me in trouble,” her mom sang to Mark, smiling blithely. Trisha’s bladder twinged. She ignored it, and imagined herself jumping from fence post to fence post along the endlessly straight highway. “Can we stop please? I need the restroom," Trisha said, trying to be polite. “Sweetheart, I told you, there’s nowhere to stop. You’ll have to wait until we get to your Aunt‘s house." To be fair, it wasn’t entirely her mother’s fault that she was in this situation. When her mom had “suggested” that she wear the Goodnite, she hadn’t taken it well. The same scene that had repeated itself on long car trips since she was 8 had repeated itself, starting with pouty defiance and ending with a crying Trisha wearing a Goodnite under threat of some kind of heinous punishment. The whole process had taken nearly 40 minutes, and Trisha hadn’t gone to the bathroom after putting up her diaper. Or pull-up. Or Goodnite. She tried to keep the words straight in her head to feel like a big girl. The pressure in her bladder was nearly unbearable now and she could feel the urine snaking its way forward through her urinary tract’s defenses. Suddenly, Mark fell silent, and if it weren’t for the sudden change in volume, Trisha wouldn’t have noticed. She felt her detrusor muscle spasm, and she clamped down her pelvic floor muscles with all her might as a trickle of urine escaped into her thirsty pull up. A smell began to permeate the car. Trisha looked at her brother. “Mom, Mark needs his pants changed,” Trisha said, her voice high and quiet, almost a whine. Her brother’s face was red with effort and she watched him shift in his car seat, spreading out the mess in his Luvs. “You’re both just going to have to wait, honey,” her mom said, with a grim smile on her drawn lips. “But it STINKS, Mom,” Trisha said, straining forward on on her car seat harness. Or booster seat, she corrected herself. “We’re almost there,” her mom told her, as a big more person escaped into her pull up. The stinky mess didn’t seem to bother Mark, but the nursery smells of urine and feces mixed with the sickly sweet smell of baby powder permeated the air. “It’s stinky,” Trisha said, opening a window. The pitch of her voice went up, drawing out the words. Her mother sighed, but didn’t say anything as she watched her daughter in the rear view mirror. She simply rolled her eyes and rolled up the window. Trisha tried again, but her mother had applied the child locks. “Mom…” Trisha was whining now. More pee escaped into her waiting Goodnite. The wetness in her pants seemed to make her urge to go worse, not better. Her cheeks seems to grow even more flushed. “Hush, Trisha, enough whining now.” The car slowed, and the her mom took the exit to Aunt Maribel‘s. The smell of Mark’s poopy diaper was overwhelming. Mark was singing along with the music again. Trisha huffed and crossed her arm over the babyish car seat harness. Aunt Maribel’s house was an unassuming blue two-story with a neatly kept yard. Trisha tried the sliding door of the minivan even before the car came to a stop, but the child locks, designed to keep Mark from falling out, kept her from opening the door. “Mama, poopy!” Mark seemed almost gleeful about the poop in his pants, and Trisha was jealous, just for a moment, of the relief Mark must feel from wearing a diaper. Her full bladder felt like a balloon about to burst, and the intermittent spasms threatened to overwhelm her at any moment. Trisha’s mom parked the car and opened Mark’s door first, carefully unbuckling the toddler from his car seat. “What a stinky boy!” she said, laughing, picking him up in her arms. “Let’s go get that stinky diaper changed.” Slowly—entirely too slowly for Trisha’s taste—she went around to Tisha’s side of the car, opening the childlocked door and unbuckling the embarrassing child harness from her eldest child’s chest. Without saying a word, Trisha bolted out of the car and to the front door, ringing the door bell frantically. “My word,” the incredibly pregnant Aunt Maribel exclaimed, opening the door. The 13-year old rushed past her without a word, running into the downstairs half bath without even shutting the door. The toilet in sight, Trisha’s need to pee exploded exponentially… Maybe if I just let out a tiny bit, she thought, fumbling with the buckles on her brown corduroy overalls. She heard her mother put Mark on the floor and exchange hugs with her aunt. She was working on the second buckle, which just would come unstuck, and relaxed her bladder experimentally—just a tiny bit—to overcome the impossible pressure. She gasped as urine flooded the Goodnite between her legs. She could feel the warm wetness wick simultaneously up the front and back of her diaper, past her privates, onto her stomach, around her butt cheeks, and no matter how hard she squeezed, it just wouldn’t stop. Trisha let out a half cry, half sob, as she heard her mother come up behind her and undo the second buckle on her overalls and pull them down below her waist. “Oh for God’s sake, Trisha,” her mom said, catching site of the sodden pull-up. “These are just supposed to be for nighttime, not daytime accidents too. I thought we were past this.” She tsk’ed her tongue, and Trisha began to cry. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” she said, pulling up the front of the overalls over the soaking pull-up, and fasting the stubborn buckle. “Let’s get the two of you changed.” Holding Mark on one arm and pulling Trisha along on the other, the two children were led upstairs to the nursery. “You first, stinky boy.” Mark giggled as he was laid down on the changing table, his experienced mother making quick work of his dirty bottom and changing him into a new diaper. Trisha watched, sobbing, as he was lifted off the changing table and placed on the floor with a loving pat on his diapered bottom. She left the used diaper on the changing table. “Up you come, little girl,” Tisha’s mother said, helping her onto the baby table. Her overalls were taken down, the sides of the Goodnite ripped off, and soon her mother was wiping her bottom with a cold baby wipe just like her baby brother. Trisha cried harder from the shame, and turned her head away, only to be confronted by her brother’s wet and dirty diaper right next to her face. “Now,” her mother said, “two wet pull-ups and you’ll be back in diapers just like Mark.” “But I don’t need…” “Hush little girl, I’ve had enough of your whining. I will not be replacing a wet pull up with big girl undies after you’ve had an accident!” Trisha’s shoes were taken off and so did her overalls; a new pull-up was quickly slipped under her bottom and her mother redressed her, just like a toddler. “Now, why don’t you get your auntie’s presents out of the van?” Face still dripping tears, Trisha went out to the can and grabbed two boxes out of the van. “There she is,” her aunt smiled as she came into the house and kissed her on the top of the head. “Why don’t you bring those right up here,” he mom called from upstairs. Trisha slowly climbed the stairs, her aunt eagerly following asking questions Trisha about school that she only seemed to be able to answer monosyllabically. “I would have waited until the shower, but we’re in desperate need,” Trisha’s mom said, grabbing a box from Trisha and handing it to her sister. “Oh a diaper genie!” Aunt Maribel squeezed her sister with delight. “We’ve gotten 13 years of use out of ours,” Trisha’s mom said,. Trisha didn’t think her body could blush any hotter. “They truly are the best. Take it out of the box!” The diaper genie was unpacked and put next to the changing table, and Trisha watched as her mom threw a soiled pull-up and a poopy diaper into the bin. “No more wet accidents, or it’s back to diapers, missy.” Trisha bit her lip and wondered if her mother would make good on the threat. Did they even make diapers—real diapers—in her size? she wondered what it would feel like to be changed into a diaper like her little brother, to pee and poop her pants in the car seat without a care in the world. She wrinkled her nose and sighed. “Now let’s all wash our hands and have some supper.”

Hi All, It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, but I just wanna post some stories! Always enjoy connecting and hearing your feedback! Emma