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A few years ago, an author posted quite a few installments of a story based in a setting of their own creation and invited others to write stories in that setting as well. It apparently never caught on, but I found it extremely intriguing. So, I figured I'd pen such a tale and post chapters of it here. I tried to recap the gist of the setting itself so readers wouldn't have to hunt down the original story. I hope you enjoy it. CHAPTER 1 Today marks the third anniversary of my parents relocating to Preston, Kansas. It was on that day that my life changed forever. How could an almost-eighteen-year-old girl’s life be transformed so completely merely by moving to a new city? Well, that’s kind of a long story. But since you obviously came here to read a story, I’m guessing you won’t mind too much. Settle in and get comfy, because you may be here a while. So, back to my question of how something so minor could create such an upheaval in one’s life. The answer is both simple and complex. You see, Preston’s not exactly what could be defined as a normal Midwestern city. Far from it! I don’t claim to know all the particulars, but here’s what I DO know. Up until about a decade and a half ago, Preston was a town that was circling the drain. It had once been quite a hub of activity, thanks to a major railroad company making it their primary headquarters back in the day. The city picked up even more steam during World War II when its small ammunition plant received a massive government contract and exploded (no pun intended), creating more jobs than ever. But by 2005, the railroad had long since moved their main offices to Texas and the ammunition plant had gone belly-up, leaving behind a city that was a shell of its former self. Jobs were scarce, crime had risen and more citizens abandoned ship with each passing month. Like I said, Preston was circling the drain. That’s when a mysterious man from the deep south came into the picture. His name was Lucas Budd and he was freaking loaded! More cash than anyone could spend in five lifetimes. The rumor goes that he also had government connections in high places. And by that, I mean that practically all the bigwigs owed him for something or he had incriminating dirt on them. Or both. Who knows? The point is that he was able to use money and influence to gain total control of Preston. Total control. Here’s where things start getting crazy, but hang with me, okay? The total control I mentioned went way beyond anything that had been done before. Lucas Budd enacted laws of his own creation that even contradicted the Constitution itself. He must have caught a lot of government folks in the most lurid, illicit affairs imaginable to have pulled this off! He created a Patriarchy-based society that existed solely within the confines of a small city. It was extreme stuff too; not just the way it was in the 1950s. In a nutshell, women had no rights and had to be owned by men. The unowned women were essentially placed in the custody of the city government and, well, it wasn’t pretty. Oh, sure, there were laws that placed limits on what men could do to the women they owned, but that didn’t detract from the sickening fact that women were property. So, Lucas Budd and his family ruled over Preston. By all accounts, Budd comes off as a real charmer. You know the type. Classic Southern gentleman. But it’s all a facade. He’s one fucked up dude. I mean, that’s pretty plain to see, right? Some even claim that he possesses superhuman abilities of some vague nature. Whatever. His wife, Shyla, is some pillar of the community or some such and everyone just adores her. She organizes events, sets up fundraisers, blah, blah, blah. He has kids and a brother too, but I don’t know much about them. Can you see where this is all going? If not, you will momentarily. Now that the stage is set, let’s meet the cast of the fucked up theatrical play that is my life, starting with yours truly, Joella Myers. I used to go exclusively by “Jo”, but I’m no longer allowed that luxury. I really miss it too. It may not sound like much of a big deal to you, but it was an important part of my identity. I was “Jo”. Jo, the fearless tomboy. Jo, the headbanger chick. Jo, the badass who could handle just about anyone in a fight. Jo, the… well, you get the idea. I was a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of girl and I was happy with that. I found my niche. My parents didn’t care much for all that, though, and attempted to dissuade me whenever they could. Eventually, they gave up, which made my life a lot easier. What can I say? I’m a rebel. Since we’re already on the subject, let’s talk a bit about my parents. My father, Kenneth Myers, was raised in Preston, but his parents headed to the east coast when he was twelve years old. That was in 1992 or so, long before Lucas Budd infected the town with his patriarchal rubbish. Dad did okay for himself, though. He went to community college, which is where he met my mother, and then went on to business school. He managed a clothing store for quite a few years, but left that job when he decided to uproot and move back to Preston. My mother, Lillian Myers, is pretty much the exact opposite of me, in that she’s docile and feminine to the point of it being annoying sometimes. She defers to Dad on almost every matter. Sometimes I think she’d have been better suited to having grown up in the 1950s when women were expected to dote on their husbands and all that nonsense. Still, it’s hard to blame her, as her parents were into gender roles big time. So it was really all she ever knew. She has never worked as far as I’ve ever heard, but she sure keeps one hell of a spotless house. Then, there’s my younger sister, Megan, who’s just one month shy of being three years younger than myself. Megan is a bit more complicated than my parents. On one hand, she’s quite girly like my mother, but on the other hand, she has some of my father’s dominant personality traits. She’s not too big on Patriarchy though, which is her one saving grace in my eyes. Like most siblings, our relationship had its ups and downs when we were young, but when she turned thirteen, my parents decided that she would be left in charge when they were away. That changed our relationship for the worse… and that’s an understatement! Look, I know Megan was the quintessential good girl, always doing “the right thing” (whatever the hell that is) and obeyed every rule my parents instated. And, yeah, I also know that I had gotten into trouble at school prior to their decision, and once even had a cop bring me back home at three o’clock in the morning when a couple of friends and I snuck out of the house after curfew, but come on. She was three years younger than me, for shit’s sake! You can imagine how that rule settled with me. I already had a chip on my shoulder because she was so much taller and more developed than I was. So this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. From then on out, my behavior took a nosedive. In fact, I avoided home as much as possible, especially on weekends. I started hanging out a lot with Byron Kimball, a trans male whose parents were super lax. I went to school with him, though he was in the grade ahead of me. He was super “book smart” and kind of weird. He was into metal and horror flicks too, so we became friends about as soon as he moved to town. My parents didn’t like Byron much. They said his parents should “take a hand” with him and make him live as a girl. I hate that old fashioned mentality so much! So that was my life up until two months before we packed up and moved to Hell. I mean Preston. Same thing. I know what you’re thinking. “There has to be SOME catalyst that caused them to pull up stakes so suddenly.” You’d be right in thinking that and I can’t tell you how many times I wished I could rewind time and do things differently. Without going into all the particulars, I’ll just say that Byron and I ended up at a party that was raided by the police and, well, we were caught. The fact that we were both heavily intoxicated may have had something to do with why they managed to snag us so easily. All hell broke loose when the officers delivered me to my parents’ doorstep only for me to puke in the foyer. I was sent to bed and told that this would be dealt with in the morning. Pretty much standard issue parent crap. Or so I thought. My hungover ass was brought downstairs at the buttcrack of dawn by Megan. Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room with their “pissed off and disappointed” faces on. I knew I was in for it, but I had no idea just HOW much I was in for it. They explained that they weren’t going to stand by and watch me send my life into the gutter or some overly dramatic drivel like that. I was on a bad path and yadda, yadda, yadda. That’s when they hit me with the whole Preston thing. I was floored. How could a town like that even exist? We live in the 21st century and women have long since obtained our freedom. They went on to say that there would be big changes in store for us as a family, but that everything would be much better in the long run. They didn’t go into any detail whatsoever and wouldn’t divulge more no matter how much I pried. They kept everything under wraps for a couple of months. All I knew was that we were going to be moving to a town that strips women of our hard-earned rights. There was never any mention of the rest of their plans. Even my sister was pissed about the prospect of moving. After all, she wasn’t into patriarchy and had made a lot of friends. Of course, she blamed me more than my parents, but in retrospect, I can kind of understand that. To this day, I have no idea how much information they gave Megan. All I know is that the closer moving day we got, the more terrified I was. Mom and Dad spoke in hushed, conspiratorial voices, often while huddled around their laptop. Something major was happening and not knowing about it just about killed me. What kind of awful fate awaited me in the city of Preston, Kansas? The answer to that question was far more intense than I ever could have imagined.

This story is now finished, so congratulations, new readers, you'll be able to finish without needing to wait for any further updates from me. There are, however, some things you should be aware before you begin. For first time readers, you should know that this story is a part of another one that I'm currently writing, All My Mother's Rules, covering the backstory of Lisa. The stories can be read in either order. You can start with this one first, or, if you choose to start with All My Mother's Rules, you'll be re-directed back to this story when necessary. A note from me to avoid some confusion. Lisa changes her name from Annabelle to Lisa at the conclusion of this story. (I've removed that name twist and kept her name as Lisa throughout when I've updated and posted the story elsewhere. I'm leaving that element here with this note so there isn't any confusion about her character). Synopsis: Annabelle, a teenage girl with a troubled past and trouble with keeping her pants dry, must confront what has been done to her if she is to begin a new life, one that she hopes will allow her to eventually be free from diapers. Content warning: This is a messed-up story. If profanity, violence, and references to suicide are off-putting, you probably shouldn’t read it. ----- Chapter 1: Therapy Session Present time My legs wobbled slightly as I followed the therapist down the hospital hallway and into her office. Even though a month had passed after the incident, standing for any length of time quickly tired me out, and walking was so much worse. To be fair, I had been offered a wheelchair, but I had turned it down. It wasn't as if I was too embarrassed or prideful to use the wheelchair, but the thought of being constrained... well, that just wasn't going to happen. Not now. Not again. Not ever. My therapist, Miss Amanda, said the room was private. I wasn't inclined to believe her. There was one of those one-way windows installed on the wall. She said it was only used for other clients, like if there was a parent or guardian that needed to be involved. I don't have any of those, well, at least not anymore. Though tiny, the room wasn't so small that it felt constraining. The room was muted, with only few splashes of color. A light-brown leather couch with a couple of bright, plush pillows sat along the wall opposite the fake window. The far wall had a large, flatscreen TV inside of a wood cabinet. "Annabelle, you can take a seat over there," Amanda said, motioning to the couch with her hand. The therapist took a seat herself in a swivel chair that was next to the far end of the couch. The binder Amanda was carrying remained closed. I wondered what it said about me in it. To be more accurate, I worried about what it said about me. In the first few days after the incident, I had talked a lot. Maybe I'd said more than I should have. Probably. But I had thought for once that I would have been believed. I'm still not sure if they do, or, if this therapy session is some sort of test or trick to discover what actually took place. I'm sure the transcripts of those initial interviews are in her binder. There's no way they would have let Amanda begin her first day as my therapist without providing her with that information. I tried to remember everything I had told them. It's not as if I hadn't been truthful, but I wasn't certain yet that I wanted to reveal any more than I already had. I fidgeted on the couch, but that was more due to my nerves being uncomfortable, not my bottom. It would, however, be inaccurate to describe the couch itself as comfortable, even if I didn't happen to be uncomfortable sitting on it. There are few benefits to being incontinent but having what is essentially a portable pillow for your butt is one of them. So, while the cushioning in the couch may have been lacking, the padding in the diaper I had taped on beneath my dress more than made up for it. Amanda opened the binder and began to peruse it silently without saying anything. I didn't get it. Was this some kind of trick into getting me to talk? All I knew about therapists was from what I'd seen on TV, which is to say, I didn't know much. Well fine. Staying silent was my modus operandi so why should I give a shit? A few minutes passed before Amanda looked up from the binder to talk to me. "Do you understand why we are having this conversation?" Amanda asked. Because some judge is worried that I might be a danger to society. That isn't what I said to Amanda though. I just shrugged nonchalantly. "Let's start by talking about how you're feeling right now." Talk about my feelings? Since when has anyone given two fucks, let alone a single one, about my feelings? "I... um... I... I don't know." Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Everything made sense in my head. The thoughts and words flowed seamlessly together. I knew exactly how I felt right now. Despite my ongoing efforts to repress those thoughts, Amanda's innocuous question had brought them forward again. I'm lonely after being in the hospital for a month with basically no visitors besides the doctors and nurses who have been caring for me. I'm embarrassed because even though I'm fourteen, I've never been able to move on from needing to wear diapers. And I'm confused, because a month ago I wanted to end my life, and now I want to live, but I have no clue as to what the future could possibly look like for me. But it all became a jumbled mess the moment I began to speak. I closed my mouth, shut my eyes, and curled up in a ball on my couch. Maybe going to juvie instead of this wouldn't be so bad after all. With my eyes closed and my mind all wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn't notice that Amanda had taken a seat on the couch until she was sitting next to me with her arm tight around my shoulder. "You know what, why don't we do something different. It's only the first session after all." I opened my eyes and nodded, though I didn't turn to look at her. "Do you like to play videogames?" "I don't know." "Annabelle, you need to help me out a little. I'm sure you know if you like video games or not. And if you don't, that's OK. We can find something else to do." How I am supposed to explain to her that I had never been allowed to play videogames? Well, besides that one time. I felt really embarrassed. "But I don't know if I like them." "Why not?" "I.. I wasn't allowed to..." My voice trailed off into a stutter, and I felt Amanda's hand rubbing my shoulder. "Why weren't you allowed to play videogames?" The laughter started with a brief giggle, but I couldn't get it under control. In a few seconds I was laughing so hard that I was crying. This situation wasn't supposed to be funny, but the absurdity and irony of it was more than I could deal with. I gave a better explanation to Amanda a minute later when I finally managed to compose myself. "She said video games caused kids to be violent. You know, Columbine and all that stuff." "I don't think there is much truth to that," Amanda said. "Humans started being violent long before video games were invented. I'll get the Wii set up and we can play for a bit, OK?" Curious, I peaked over Amanda's shoulder as she knelt next to the TV cabinet and got the gaming system plugged in. My excitement to give it a try overpowered my cynicism that this was just a ploy Amanda was using to get on my good side. I mean, I knew that the cynic in me was right, but I wasn't going to pass up this opportunity. Amanda handed me the two remotes – Wiimotes, she called them. It was such as stupid pun that it made me giggle again. She started a bowling game on the Wii. Just another thing I'd never done before. After a few gutter balls to start, and one time where I threw the bowling ball backwards and scared all the Miis into jumping, I began to get the hang of it and even managed to pull off a couple of strikes. But the fun was over as quickly as it began. Amanda turned off the TV and placed the controls back in the cabinet. I knew she would be expecting me to be more talkative this time around, but I still wasn't ready for that. "Can I slip out to the restroom?" Amanda gave me a look. I guess her binder did have all my medical information in it as well. I shuffled my feet. Couldn't she just let me get away with saying I needed to go to the restroom? Why did I need to specify that I needed to do it to change my diaper? "To change myself," I added. "Can you wait until we're done?" Amanda asked, clearly feeling like she didn't want to interrupt the momentum she had gained from our gaming session. Why does everyone always assume that having a diaper on means that I can wait forever to go to the bathroom? Like, do they not get that it can be uncomfortable sitting in a wet or messy diaper, or that it will leak or smell if I wait too long? "Well, it might leak." That threat of having to deal with urine all over her couch was more than enough to get Amanda to give me permission to go to the restroom. I grabbed my backpack and slipped out into the hallow to a restroom that was a few doors down. It was a one-person family restroom, always nice for times when I need to change a diaper. I took a seat on the toilet without bothering to raise the lid. I slid my shorts down to my ankles and pulled my ankle-length dress up to my waist. The wetness indicator on the diaper had barely changed. I still hadn't gotten quite used to the new brand of diapers I switched to when I arrived at the hospital. They were more absorbent than I was accustomed to, so sometimes it was hard for me to determine if I needed to change myself without actually taking a look at the diaper. I decided that I didn't need to change myself quite yet. The diaper was slightly wet, but it will more than make it through the rest of the therapy session without any leaks. But the trip to the restroom served a second purpose. It gave me a mental break that I desperately needed. I figured I could at least take my time. It's not like Amanda knows how long it takes to change a diaper. This past month hadn't gone like I had imaged it would. Sure, I had escaped from her, but in my imagination, that had always been the moment where everything in the universe finally fell back in order for me. While I couldn't deny that my life had improved slightly, this still wasn't the life that I dreamed of. I paced back and forth across the restroom. It only took me four steps to go from one wall to the other. I already knew the question Amanda was going to ask when I returned. It wasn't so much that the truth was a problematic answer, but that there was so much to say that I didn't know where to begin. Amanda was seated in the swivel chair and reading through the binder when I returned to the therapy room. Without saying anything, I took a seat on the far end of the couch from her. "Annabelle, are you ready to begin?" No. I'm not at all ready. But does that matter? Not one bit. I stared at my hands as I picked at one of my fingernails. "Annabelle," she said again, sounding a bit impatient. I kept on ignoring her. "Annabelle, look at me. You need to be treating this seriously. You did tell the judge that you agreed to do this." I didn't agree to do shit. When presented with a choice between going through therapy or being sent to juvenile detention, was there really, actually, a choice to be made? "Would you rather just get right to the point?" Amanda asked, gently, but firmly. I relented and nodded silently, waiting for Amanda to continue. "Let's talk about why you tried to kill your mother."

A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy by brucejedi Numerous posts on omorashi.org inspired this story. The most immediate is Noface’s “An Inconvenient Entanglement” that imagines a world where all women are assumed incontinent. Readers will notice many similarities between his “green” world and mine, though also some important differences. A second inspiration comes from stories where girls must wait until adolescence to toilet-train, and thus experience it as a rite of passage. Satyr’s magnificent “Developmental Biology” is the best example I know. Both story types normalize female incontinence, allowing the characters to experience it without the customary stigmatization and without ABDL undertones. In that sense, the story I present here answers Tits’s call to combine omorashi and omutsu, where “a full-grown woman is…struggling with keeping her pants dry” and ends up “failing toilet-training”—or does she? Chapter 1. Diapers and Panties Courtney hit the search button once again, not expecting much from the bizarre string of terms she’d entered. Her literature review on women’s athleticwear essentially complete, she was merely checking for anything she’d missed. She was about to close the program when a strange title caught her eye: “Wolcott, J. (2020). A self-fulfilling prophecy? An environmental theory of female urinary incontinence.” Intrigued, she clicked on the link. <Access Denied> Weird, Courtney thought, never had that happen before. The creak of her boss’s door shook her back to reality. She clicked off the window and looked up from her screen. “Good morning, Mr. Mills,” she said in her most cheerful voice. “How’s your work going?” “Well enough. Did you finish the lit review?” “Just now I did, yes. Shall I send it over?” “Yeah, I’ll need it for my 10 o’clock.” “Certainly, sir.” Courtney took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Now was her best chance. She’d rehearsed the words all morning, but still she felt her pulse quicken. “I also…wanted to ask you something?” “Can you make it quick? My meeting’s in five.” “I was wondering, do you think I could give Monday’s presentation myself?” He seemed to consider it briefly but then said, “You know, Courtney, I better handle it.” “But…I’ve worked so hard on all the prep, and I feel like I know it so well…” The corner of his mouth turned upward. “I’m sure you do, but…could you make through the whole presentation?” “Of course! I mean, I’d have the slides to fall back on, and—” “—No, that’s not what I meant. Could you make it through?” Courtney’s confidence deflated like a struck balloon. “I mean…I assume so…I—” “—Right…but what if you couldn’t? What if you wet yourself in the middle of the presentation—in front of all our best clients?” As if on cue, she felt warmth spread between her thighs. The image he conjured must have triggered something in her subconscious. Keep it together, Courtney. He can’t have noticed it. Did he notice? She scanned his face for a sign, then stuttered, “I mean…I’d be wearing protection…” “Sorry, Courtney. Listen, you’re a fine research assistant, one of the best. But I think you can understand why the answer must be no. Have my slides ready by noon, okay?” And with that, he left for his 10 o’clock meeting. “Kettle’s hot!” she called after him. Then she reached under her skirt to the symbol of her subservience. Her diaper was bulging badly, almost to the point of leaking. Like her boss said, maybe she was better off behind a desk. * * * As she entered the changing room, Courtney caught glimpse of her friend Krystal. The young receptionist was sprawled out on one of the padded benches, wet-wipes in hand. A low divider hid her naked crotch from view. “Oh, hi Courtney!” she said. “Hi,” Courtney replied solemnly, lying back on the adjacent bench. “Someone’s having a bad morning.” Courtney hiked up her skirt and lifted her fanny. She undid the tapes and carefully folded her sopping wet diaper. She sighed a deep sigh. “Your boss, again, huh?” Courtney took a wet-wipe from her purse and began dabbing her crotch and butt. “Maybe it’s too much to ask,” she said, “but a teensy bit of respect would go a long way.” “Tell me about it!” said Krystal. Courtney fished around in her purse. “Crap!” she muttered. Krystal peaked over. “Oh no—all out? I’ve got plenty. You want pink or flowers?” “Whichever is more absorbent. I almost overflooded mine just now—too much coffee.” Krystal laughed. “Flowers, then. I love this brand—they’re almost like overnights.” “Thanks,” said Courtney, fastening the thick diaper around her hips. It felt comforting, especially after the stressful morning. “I’m sorry about Mr. Mills,” said Krystal. “He can be a real douchebag.” Courtney glanced at the toilet stall in the corner, her mind flipping between the exchange with her boss and the strange title of that article. Out of the blue, she asked, “You think we’d gain more respect if we weren’t in diapers?” “Wait, what?” Krystal looked confused. “How would wetting our clothes gain us respect?” “No, silly. Like if we didn’t need diapers. Like if we had…control down there…like men do.” “Oh, I see what you meant!” Krystal laughed. “Yeah, that would be awesome. Keep dreaming, right?” Courtney sighed again. “Wait, you’re serious, aren’t you?” Krystal suppressed another giggle. “Didn’t you pay attention in health class? We don’t have penises, remember? Control isn’t possible without one—everyone knows that! Fun to imagine, though, huh?” Krystal touched up her makeup before waving goodbye. * * * That evening, Courtney sat at her laptop, entering in search after search, but nothing more than the mysterious title ever came up: “Self-fulfilling prophecy”—what could that mean? A twinge between her legs caught her attention. Often she didn’t feel it coming, but this time she did. She rolled her hips around, hoping to maybe suppress it? But the feeling only intensified. She pressed her thighs together. Nope, that didn’t work either. A trickle emerged, erupting into a spray. Changing her diaper could wait, though. That was one nice thing, at least—using the bathroom at your own convenience, not when natured called. She tried a new idea. “Wolcott, J.”—what could that stand for: John? Jake? James? Still no hits. Ah ha! How about this? She typed in, “Jane Wolcott female incontinence.” And there it was, the top hit: A video of the woman being interviewed by some obscure local news channel. Courtney leaned back and clicked play. ~ ~ A balding newsman stared into the camera. “We end tonight with a heartwarming story about a medical researcher chasing women’s equality. Over to you, Kate.” The screen switched to a young redhead with impeccable makeup. “Thanks, Bob. My guest tonight is Jane Wolcott, who believes she’s uncovered a vast conspiracy targeted at women. I know I’m all ears. So Miss Wolcott, can you tell us about your theory?” “Thank you for having me. It’s Dr. Wolcott, by the way.” Kate the newscaster smiled politely as her guest continued: “Did you know that boys’ and girls’ urinary tracts are virtually identical at birth, save for the final portion?” “I didn’t,” answered Kate, “that’s so interesting. So then, why are women naturally incontinent?” “Well, that’s just it,” Jane replied, “I’m not sure we are. We possess all the necessary anatomy—the urethral sphincter, nerves around the bladder. We just need to learn to use it all. I see no reason why females cannot toilet-train like males can.” “Wow,” said Kate, “you mean I could be saving a whole lot on diapers?” Jane smiled. “And that’s not all. Think of it: Freed from diapers, women could finally gain equal status. A lot of the excuses for excluding us from sports leagues, leadership positions, and high-powered jobs, begin to melt away. No one could claim, ‘But what if your diaper leaks in the middle of [fill in the blank]?’” “We’ve all heard that one!” laughed Kate. “So I hear you brought something to show us?” Dr. Wolcott held up a strange garment, similar to men’s briefs but without a fly. A hint of lace adorned the waistline. “Those are pretty,” said Kate. “What are they?” “Female underwear, patent pending.” Kate felt the fabric. “They’re so silky and delicate! I’d love to wear those—not that I could, but…” “What makes you so sure? Like most women I’ve spoken with, I imagine you’ve never once tried to end your dependence on diapers.” “Well,” said Kate, “there was that time in tenth grade. Vending machines were out, friends were out. It was the end of the school day, and I thought I could make it home in just a skirt. We’ve all been there, right?” “Did you make it?” “This may be TMI for cable television, but as I was walking home, I didn’t even feel it coming.” Kate laughed. “It went all down my legs. I can still remember the squishing sound my shoes made the rest of the way. When I got home, my little brother watched me flee to my room in a wet skirt. Since then, I’ve never been so careless.” Jane nodded. “Every woman has a story like that. The level of self-doubt I see is enormous. But consider how young boys potty-train. It takes time and effort, with no shortage of mishaps. What if the same were expected of young girls?” “Fun to imagine, isn’t it? In the meantime, is there any hope for the rest of us?” “Well, that’s where my research comes in. The goal, of course, is to get to these”—Jane held up the silk underwear again—“but we start with these.” In her other hand, she displayed a slightly thicker pair, almost like a woman’s diaper with no tapes. They vaguely resembled something a little boy might wear. “The techniques we use would sound familiar to anyone with a male toddler—for example, setting a timer to remind yourself to try peeing on the toilet.” “Wow,” said Kate. “Sounds really annoying and difficult. Had any success?” “Well,” said Jane, “the results are still preliminary. But I’m quite confident that if—” “—What do the results show?” Kate cut in. “Unfortunately, the grant agencies haven’t funded a long enough trial. A few subjects start to show progress, but then the funds run dry. It’s quite frustrating.” “Speaking of which, that’s all the time we have. Thank you for sharing your fascinating work, Miss Wolcott. To all the ladies out there, how would your life be different if you weren’t reliant on diapers? Share your thoughts on our website! Back to you, Bob.” “Thanks, Kate,” the balding man replied. “It’s fun to hear divergent views, isn’t it—no matter how far-fetched. So Kate, would you wear those—what should I call them, ‘panties’ maybe?” He smirked. “I’ll stick with diapers, thanks. I prefer my clothes to stay dry.” “And there you’ve heard it from our very own Kate Kovac! Good night, everyone!” ~ ~ Courtney sat staring at the screen. “Crap!” she muttered, noticing the time. Her boyfriend would be home at any minute, and she hated greeting him with her diaper this wet. She retreated to the bathroom to change. * * * An hour later, Courtney lay naked next to her lover, a broad smile across her face. A plastic lined towel beneath her protected the sheets and mattress. “That felt awesome, babe,” she sighed. “Could you hand me my diaper? Don’t worry, it’s dry.” “You mean this one?” Kyle dangled it just out of reach. “Hey, stop! Can I have it, please?” “Whoops!” He tossed it on the floor beside him. “You’re mean,” Courtney said with a pout. She reached across him to grab it. “Wait. What if you left it off for a bit?” A chill ran through her. “You serious?” “Like, how long do you think you could last?” “Without making a mess? I have no idea—it’s totally random.” He touched her arm gently. “Do you ever feel warning signs?” “Sometimes.” “Suppose you felt one right now. Think you could make it to the toilet?” The thought scared her. She gazed down longingly at the diaper on the floor. “Why are you asking, sweetheart?” “I’m curious.” “Um…honestly no, I don’t think I could.” He hugged her from behind, clutching her naked chest in his arms. “What does it feel like when you wet?” “Well, this is getting rather personal…” She glanced at her exposed crotch. “Are you sure you want me in your lap like this?” He pulled the towel up around her bottom, shielding himself and the bed—but not her legs—from a possible accident. “How’s that, better?” He brought his hand down close to her sex. “So what’s it feel like?” She considered the question. “A lot of times, like nothing. If it’s just a leak, I feel a bit of warmth in my diaper—that’s about it.” “You don’t feel when it starts to come out?” Courtney shook her head. “But if it’s a larger wetting, I do. A sudden pressure builds…and then releases.” As she spoke, something hard pressed against her back. “Oh my gosh, this is turning you on, isn’t it?” A lot of men had wetting fetishes, but she didn’t know that about Kyle. He seemed embarrassed, so she turned the conversation in a new direction. “What’s it feel like for you?” “Hmm, I guess like that pressure you describe, but building much more slowly. I hardly think about it until I know I have to go.” “How do you know?” Courtney asked with genuine curiosity. “It’s instinctual, I guess. As a girl, I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand.” He retrieved her diaper from the floor and held it up. “I like the lace details on this style,” he said. “Cute, right? Honey, I really need it back now. I’m getting nervous.” He smiled and placed it in her lap. Relief washed over her as she fastened it. She had not yet had an accident in bed with him, and she intended to keep it that way.

I twisted my wrists against the cuffs, the faux fur lining had long gone from a tickling novelty to a scratchy irritant, my sweat slick and sticky. It was my fault, I had to have the cute purple ones. I was a hot mess all over, my hair was stuck down to my forehead, the sweat trickling down in runnels and I couldn’t bring my hands down to wipe my eyes, all because of my stupid cute purple cuffs. My arms and shoulders ached from my hands being tied above me, least my pillow kept my back reasonably ache free, though it’d need a wash when I was done. I sucked greedily at the gag, nursing the teat had become a total reflex action after all these long hours. The thin milky stuff that I knew was loaded with laxatives and diuretics, had kept well hydrated, though my poor tummy did look bloated from drinking all that formula. I wanted to poke it, just to make sure I somehow hadn’t gained the baby fat she was always teasing me with. Sure little babies are chubby but I don’t want that many Xs in my clothing labels thank you very much. It was probably just bloating and water retention, not the damn cuffs would let me check. As I looked down, I noticed the drool trails, my tits were covered in slobber, like a dog had been licking them or something and it was all going south. Not that there was much dry down there any more. When this was all over I was gonna have one hell of a bath, with bubbles! With a sigh I wiggled my legs trying to find a dry place but no, there was nowhere. I could see the underside of the thighs and calves were turning red and had starting to itch, that bath could not come soon enough. I noticed more rivulets of pee escaping my completely soaked and full diaper. I hope the plastic mattress holds up. I was peeing, again. I know she wants me to be totally diaper dependant but surely that means using the diaper not drowning in my own pee. Thankfully I’d kicked my stuffies out of my crib when the leaks had started, they didn’t deserve to drown, though I really wish I could cuddle them right now. I could Ms Bunny, just, if I craned my neck she was laying there on the cold hardwood staring up at the ceiling, like she was saying ‘What has become of my life?’ Right with you there sister. Every time I shifted a little I felt the mess surrounding me, the sodden thick diaper so bloated with my pee, and the gross mess underneath me. It was so cold and clammy and I couldn’t help but blush each time I felt it I remembered the powerful, humiliating orgasm I’d had when I messed myself. She’d said those tapes would turn me into a diaper slut, I’d barely needed the magic wand she’s tape to my diaper for the first few hours. Now it just lay there, dead, even the duct tape she’d used to attach it was starting to peel off. Least if the damn thing was still working I’d have something to take my mind off all this. The room stank, shit, piss and sweat, though most embarrassingly the smell of my sex. Just remembering how I’d strained and squirmed, desperate for more, all while those tapes played their damned music. But now it’d all ran out, except my bladder it seems. She’d done this to me! She’d toyed and played until I was her perfect baby doll. What kind of pervert makes a grown woman piss and shit herself and then makes her love it. Oh gods, she’d laughed her ass off that time in the grocery store. Me biting my fist, trying to stop the moaning, squatting in the middle of the isle like a damn toddler. It was probably the best orgasm of my life. I’d let her do this to me, and begged for it. The attention, the love, the cuddles, the pampering, both literal and figurative. That first date after she’d told me what she wanted. Walking through the park at sunset, wearing that first diaper, it’d seemed so ludicrously thick, how I learned. Being pushed on the swings, holding her hand as I climbed up the slide. Her hand on my crotch and making out as I wet the first time, climaxing there on the swings as she kissed me and telling me over and over what a good girl I was and how she’d take care of everything. I laid back the best I could and stared up at the ceiling. The unicorn mobile we’d made together hung there, each needle felted steed mid gallop or in the case of one particularly silly one shooting rainbows out of it’s butt. The stars, moons and planets stuck to the ceiling were just being to take on their greenish glow as the evening’s light faded. That had been such a fun Christmas when we’d first put this nursery together, knitting big baby blankets, embroidering cute and naughty messages on bibs and diaper covers. We’d gotten so silly painting this room, of course I was only allowed to paint in just my diaper, which was totally unfair, so I painted the seat of her jeans so she could join me in just, all be it in thinner, undies. It was a good thing we planned to take up the carpet anyway She’d been late before but never this late. I always said to take the bus back if she had to ride in late night traffic. That bike just was not safe, and she never put stabilises on it like mine! That was just reckless. I still can believe she pulled that off. Where did she ever manage to find the design of the bike I had at age seven, the exact same Disney princess design. Then getting it painted on a grown up bicycle, even the tassels matched! That woman is a witch. Gods I hope she’s okay. What if she’s been killed, side swiped by some idiot tech bro’s Mercedes, and then Mom finds me here like a week from now, dead from diaper rash and lack of hugs. No she’s okay, she’s got to be. Mommy. I woke late with a start, tears still clinging to my lashes, the door had just banged open. What now, burglars? Clowns? Vampires? Vampire Clowns? Vampire Clowns who wanted to steal the TV? Vampire Clowns who wanted to steal Ms Bunny! It was full dark now, only the dim glow of my ceiling planetarium, the lack of a proper night light was upsetting me more than I though it would. Fresh tears were pouring down my face, I groaned into my gag and squirmed against my bonds, trying to hide without even thinking. The corridor light clicked on and I heard the click of heels rushing towards me, till a silhouette blocked the light. In the flash of the room light turning on she was at my crib side. She hadn’t even taken her helmet off, red faced like she’d run a marathon, the scarf I knitted her last christmas dangling from her neck. “Oh my gods Princess I’m so so sorry, you’re such a mess. There was a thing at work and then the traffic, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry”. She kept repeating the last as she undid the restraints and picked me up hugging me tight too her, still whispering “sorry, sorry, sorry”. We stood there; hugging tight together, both crying with a tickle from me dripping steadily on the floor. “Quick let’s get you out of this horrid thing” she said once we broke apart slightly. “Bath” I croaked through my tears and disused voice. “Of course princess”, she first quickly undid the tapes of my diaper, that were barely holding on anyway, and picked me up bare bum to the world. Not caring in the least that I was dribbling on her fancy work coat. I rested my head on her shoulder as she carried me to my long awaited bath. I whispered in my croaky voice. “love you Mommy”. “Love you baby”. The end