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?
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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.