Ephemeral Enuresis

[BabyAnna]

It wasn't the first time I'd spread my legs and penetrated myself for erotic purposes. Some needs kick in when you're all alone, and there's no shame in seeking the simple pleasures in life.

I had made sure I was all alone. I'd kicked out my last boyfriend months before, made sure I picked a week no friends had birthdays, turned down a couple of invitations and booked the whole week off work. This was between me and my cat, and she wasn't likely to tell anybody.

I looked closely at the plastic implement in my hands. Only a few inches long but abnormally slim, barely wider than a thick wire. Still, I reflected, it was going into a very delicate part of me and slender as it was I was still feeling nervous and tense. Unsure how long it would stay sterile now I'd removed it from its packaging I didn't dare delay further and, using a finger to find the spot, carefully started to insert it into my urethra.

I'd been looking for a way to force incontinence on myself for a few years. I had long been curious how I'd cope with incontinence, and aroused by the thought that I'd be dependent on diapers, a full loss of control. At the same time I had the sanity to know that this would not be good, and so my research had focussed on how I might achieve only temporary incontinence.

Hypnosis tapes weren't even a consideration. Not because they'd be irreversible but because I couldn't believe they'd actually work. Similarly just wearing and using diapers could condition me to relax and not care, but that wasn't really any better than choosing when to go.

Medication offered possibilities but diuretics just increased the flow. They didn't cause an actual loss of control. I'd tried a few too, although mainly to handle water retention: caffeine, dandelion, guarana, green tea, wondrous blends of herbs and spices; when you feel bloated once a month you try everything. Muscle relaxants were an interesting option but sustained use felt dangerous and I wasn't sure where to get them. 

Neural blockers could do the job but I didn't know an anaesthetist and wouldn't trust one that could agree to use them on someone just for fun. Obviously I didn't even explore the insanity of surgery. A fantasy situation of being forced by someone to wear diapers and prevented from removing them didn't translate to real life.

Which left catheters. Explicitly designed to allow unfettered relief to the bladder, liquid leaving as quickly as it enters, exiting the body through a small tube. Except that there were multiple risks with repeated catheter use, infections and the risk of muscle damage, the potential for serious health complications or actual permanent incontinence. Not something I wanted to risk and anyway, you could direct a catheter into a drainage bag or just plug the tube.

Technically I was now violating myself with a catheter. This was a one-off, the risks worth the substantial reward it would deliver.

I'd followed the instructions, used ice to numb the area and rubbed in a recommended gel that applied benzocaine and lidocaine as topical analgesics, but I could still feel the progress of the plastic into my body, the discomfort becoming pain and reaffirming my decision not to use catheters for incontinence.

This one wouldn't do that. It was too small and lacked an opening through which the bladder could empty. Its role was instead delivery of the tiny device I'd finally found on sale, a reputable healthcare company promoting its use and selling it through their retail website.

They'd provided a syringe containing sterile water, whatever that is, which I'd attached to the end of the narrow tube. Once the bright band on the catheter reached my body, indicating it had achieved the required depth inside me, I stopped, drew in a deep breath and forced myself to think about what I was about to do.

Pressing the plunger would force the water into the catheter, inflating its internal sacs that were now inside my urethra. Those were wrapped by the device I'd bought, a bioresorbable stent, and by inflating the sacs it would be expanded, pushed wide open inside me, its construction designed to prevent subsequent closure. My urethra would be held open until the stent was absorbed by my body, allowed my muscles to regain control, prevent the flow of liquid from my bladder.

Did I really want this? The device guidance stated 4-6 weeks before absorption was sufficient for the device to collapse and allow resumed control. This was my final chance to stop, be sensible, avoid several weeks of forced and unavoidable incontinence.

All that research, the expense of the device, the planning I'd done; I wasn't going to back out now. I pressed the plunger, felt a strange sensation inside me, committed myself to a new experience.

Too late to change my mind, I lay back on my bed. Contorting myself to watch what I was doing and monitor the progress of that bright band had been uncomfortable and there was still mild pain and some discomfort from the procedure but it was mental relief I needed for the moment. I had actually done it, the device's design meant nothing short of surgery could undo it and, if it worked as advertised, I now had a stent extended beyond my internal and external urethral sphincters holding them irrevocably open. Well, for a few weeks anyway. In other words, I was now incontinent.

I shivered, shook my head, found my throat dry. I had avoided drinking anything for nearly seven hours now, so that I could be sure I'd emptied my bladder before doing this, and now it was over I was feeling thirsty. There was more to though than simple dehydration, some form of psychosomatic symptom translating my mental turmoil into corporeality.

I reached back down and pulled the plunger back out from the syringe, a built-in stopper letting me know it had returned to its original position, and that meant it had drawn the water back out from the sacs, allowing them to deflate. To test this I pulled tentatively at the catheter and it slid easily out of me, looking even slimmer now it had deployed its payload deep inside.

Using a finger I poked at myself, trying to feel the stent. The residual soreness flared back into pain, discouraged me from further exploration, but otherwise everything felt normal down there. Maybe everything was normal, if my plan had failed.

It seemed sensible to assume the plan had worked, and that I no longer had bladder control. Leaning over to my bedside table I picked up the disposable diaper I'd left there, knowing it would be the first thing I needed after completing the procedure. Fastening it should have been a familiar activity, well practiced through years of intentional use, and physically I went through my normal process. Despite that I knew this was very different, and that for the first time in my life I was putting myself in a diaper because I needed it, because I'd use it whether I wanted to or not, because I could not choose otherwise.

Safely secured in the diaper I pulled on my favourite nightie, tidied up my room and threw away the catheter and syringe. I could finally have a drink, although this late in the evening I opted to stick with water, avoid the stimulation tea or coffee would offer. Doing this so late in the day was very intentional, so that I could sleep away the exhaustion I had known the nervous tension of the situation would cause.

My light supper finished I went to bed, pulled up my nightie and checked my diaper. I hadn't felt myself use it, but didn't know whether I'd be able to tell or not. The diaper was dry but I wasn't: now that I was hydrated and had time to assimilate my new situation I was receptive to the underlying driver for this strange self-imposed disability.

"I'm incontinent," I said out loud, speaking to myself in the darkness. I could have said those words any time, but this time they were true, and that cut through me. My hand slipped inside my diaper and, well, sometimes fingers and thoughts are all you need.

Forty minutes later it was obvious I'd messed up. As my earlier hormonal boost wore off, the discomfort returned and I found myself unable to sleep, instead just lying there fretting for no reason, worrying that I'd been destructively stupid and caused myself permanent damage. I tried to console myself, retread the decision process that had brought me there, assured myself the risks were minimal and that it was all worthwhile, but logic plays no role when insomnia forces you to face the darkest hours.

Eventually fatigue overcame the discomfort and I drifted into a disjointed slumber, multiple fractured dreams that finally gave way to deep sleep. Dawn came and went, and midway through the morning a natural awakening gave me a gentle start to the day.

Struggling with multiple initial demands from my brain I rapidly sorted my thoughts and answered the immediate questions. The clock said it was nearly 11am, yes I had really done that last night and.. oh! My diaper was very wet.

I couldn't remember using it. The stent was working! I sat up and stretched both arms towards the ceiling, a mute celebration that ended as I allowed myself to fall back onto the bed. Was I actually incontinent? I decided to quickly shower, pull on a clean diaper and enjoy plenty to drink with my breakfast so that as the morning progressed I'd find out. Hmm. Make that brunch, and maybe the afternoon.

Pulling my nightie off I headed into the bathroom to shower and took off my diaper there. Bending to pick it up for rolling, sealing and disposal I froze and looked at it in horror. Yes, I'd wet overnight but urine isn't that colour. I'd clearly bled in it too - and I was still two weeks away from my next period. Panicking I ran through the house to find my computer, then ran back to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and returned to my computer. Sat on the towel I opened my browser, clicked on the bookmark I'd visited so often before and feverishly read through the guidance notes for the stent. 

They said nothing about issues after insertion so I clicked on the search bar, entered the brand name and a single simple keyword: "bleeding". The first two results didn't help but the third was a FAQ on the manufacturer's website, something I wish I'd seen before. I clicked through and read quickly, then sat back back and almost collapsed with relief. The catheter caused internal irritation, light bleeding was normal for the first couple of hours, and no cause for concern. Feeling a bit happier I got up and took the unsoiled towel back to the bathroom, where I put it to its intended use drying me after a welcome shower.

Back into a new disposable I enjoyed my brunch. Fruit, a cereal bar and some juice with a large cup of coffee was my normal start to the day and I added some toasted cheese so that I wouldn't need to eat again until evening. I'd planned for a quiet day, no chores to do, just my book, some TV and the jigsaw I was putting together on the dining room table.

Half an hour after drinking my coffee I could feel my diaper was wet. It was a modern design, discreetly thin until used when it would swell to alarming proportions, almost forcing a waddle as I walked. It hadn't reached that stage but had swollen enough for me to notice, and I'd been waiting for that. I'd felt no demands from my body, at no point had I needed to relieve my bladder; it had happily just emptied itself, the diaper the only reason my couch hadn't been soiled. But my immediate concern was whether I was still bleeding so I took off my skirt, untaped the diaper and pulled the front of it down.

My diaper was wet all right but there was no blood. I hadn't damaged myself, I was just incontinent. That thought sent a shiver through me and, well, my hand was busy again.

As the day progressed my thoughts turned to the next few weeks. Work didn't alarm me, even a wet diaper wouldn't be easily detected under one of my smart dresses, or a flared skirt. Any men that noticed could be easily put off with just two words: 'Lady problems'. The women might want more detail but I had a cover story prepared, one in which my own clumsiness with a self-administered swab had caused complications. That would earn me sympathy, should it be needed, but you don't probe too deeply on such topics at work.

Outside of work I needed to be more careful. Friends and family might notice, although the same cover story would suffice. I didn't have a choice now anyway, I'd be leaking whether I wore a diaper or not. Carrying a large purse wasn't my normal style but I had one that would hold a couple of spare diapers and a small packet of wipes. Diaper rash might be a concern but I could handle that at home, and voluntary use of diapers had taught me how to reduce the chances of it happening at all.

Long before dinner I decided the diaper needed changing. This was rather strange for me, intentional use gave me control over how wet a diaper got, and when it would need to be changed. This diaper had just incrementally become wetter as the day progressed, each drink exacerbating its condition with no intended input from me. I'd have to get used to that, start to better monitor my diaper's state and learn how to avoid over saturation, prevent leaks.

Another change before bed, a thicker diaper even when dry, intended for extended overnight use. I wanted a good night's sleep after all, and I knew a full bladder wouldn't be waking me. The diaper did its job, my bed dry when I woke, an evening's drinks safely absorbed by the thirsty padding.

A week off work was a holiday even when I stayed at home. Being stuck in diapers wasn't going to stop me enjoying it, and the next two days were spent visiting the stately gardens of a nearby Hall and thoroughly enjoying a shopping trip. The diapers did their job, didn't cause me any distress, just became a part of my life. Trying on clothes was a tense affair the first time I picked out a new skirt, but by the fourth shop I was treating the diapers as I would my normal underwear, something I kept discreet but otherwise perfectly normal.

Using the toilet still happened, that once a day need. When I was out it would have seemed more frequent but that was so that I could change into a clean diaper. I used the disabled toilets, the extra space extremely helpful. At some point it was likely I'd get challenged by someone thinking I shouldn't be using those, and I'd have to decide whether to reveal my diaper or not. That decision was one I was putting off, hoping it wouldn't be needed.

It was when I got home from the shopping trip that I suffered my first leak. I knew I'd get one eventually, that they're unavoidable if you're wearing diapers, but it wasn't something I wanted or looked forward to. Extra laundry, my leather couch needing a wipe clean, the carpet needing more than a wipe. Another thing to get used to for the next few weeks. I sighed, regretting the vicious reality of a diaper dependency even as I felt a thrill at being reminded of it.

The next morning I was woken by a telephone call. 

"Good morning, I'm sorry to bother you." He identified himself as a doctor at the healthcare provider from whom I'd bought the stent. "Could you confirm some details for me?" he asked.

Yes, he was talking to the right person. Yes, I had bought the stent. Yes, I had used it.

"Ah," he said, ominously, "I was hoping we might have caught you before you inserted it."

This worried me. It's never good to hear something like that from a doctor. "Umm. Why? Is there a problem?" I asked nervously.

"Oh, no," he replied, "Is it performing as expected?"

"Yes," I said, "full incontinence. I have no control at all for the next 4-5 weeks."

"I see. Are you finding this manageable?" he asked.

"It's something I planned for," I admitted. Hell, they sold it for this purpose, this wasn't the time to be shy. "But you said you were hoping I hadn't used the stent. What's happening? Why did you call?"

"Well, we tested the stent extensively before it went on sale," he said, "Obviously we have regulatory approval to market it and the prototypes had no problems at all."

This didn't sound good. "The prototypes?" I challenged, "What about the production ones? What do I have inside me?"

"You have one of our production devices," he confirmed, "but we've identified a manufacturing issue in the batch yours is from. Now, don't be alarmed, this..."

"Don't be alarmed?!" I shouted, cutting him off, "what sort of issue? Stop prevaricating, tell me what you've done to me!"

"We haven't done anything!" he said defensively.

"What is inside me?" I demanded.

"It's a fully functional stent. The only change from what you're expecting is that it's unlikely to take 4-6 weeks to be reabsorbed," he told me.

"What? Well how long then?" I asked, "How long will I remain like that?"

"It may be the full 4-6 weeks," he said, hesitantly, "but our models suggest that it absorption will be much quicker. Your stent is very likely only going to last 4-6 days."

Relief almost crushed me. I'd been fearing the worse, and he hadn't delivered it. "Oh thank goodness," I said, "Why didn't you just tell me that to start? You had me panicking."

"I'm sorry," he said, "This is difficult for me too. I can assure you that we will give you any support you need should the device cease to operate ahead of schedule, including providing you with a replacement should that be something you desire."

That made me pause to think. The reality of incontinence was proving very inconvenient, constant diaper changes and the leak last night was just annoying, but it was also something I'd expected and did feel I could cope with. However I'd always intended this to be temporary so would a few days be all I needed? 

"I'm not sure," I said, "if it fails early then this is something we can perhaps discuss?"

"Of course," he reassured. He gave me a direct number, told me to ring him if I had any concerns, gave me another assurance that they would provide me with support.

I guessed they were worried about legal action. A medical device that failed substantially early could get them in all sorts of trouble. But their failure might be my release, freedom from constantly wetting myself.

For the moment that freedom was still denied to me. Even at the lower end I had at least another day of incontinence to survive. Or enjoy. I put it to good use, a long walk through a national park. It required my first outdoor diaper change, the nearest public toilet a few miles away and my diaper too sodden to risk wearing further. 

There was nobody in sight but I was still nervous. I had never been naked in public, and this wasn't simple nakedness, it was a diaper change. Leaving the track I hid behind thick bushes and undid the clips on my dungarees, lowering the bib to my waist and sliding them down to reveal my diaper. Fortunately this wasn't my first standing diaper change and I quickly had a clean one on, knowing it wouldn't stay that way but grateful for the momentary comfort. Quickly dressing again I returned to the track and found myself still alone, my worried precautions unnecessary.

That night I went to bed in another thick diaper, a onesie keeping my hands at bay, the babyish attire preventing very adult behaviour. Even as that thought amused me I realised that the diapers weren't arousing me any more. They were now just a part of my life, frequently uncomfortable, sometimes annoying, but never a source of genuine happiness. At that point I made my decision: When the stent was absorbed I'd return to using the toilet, revert back to using diapers only voluntarily, when I genuinely desired.

That wasn't the next day. I didn't panic, it could still be another five weeks yet, and although I was ready to discard diapers it was always intended to be many weeks before that would be an option. In good heart I finished my jigsaw, took a photograph, went shopping for a new one.

The next morning things were different. I woke up early, severe discomfort down below. It took me a minute to get out of my onesie, undo the diaper, take a look inside. Immediately I felt sick, found myself on the edge of tears, stared at the blood soaking the diaper. It was still a week until my period was due, and I'd worn a diaper for that before, knew it didn't look like this.

Forcing myself to be calm I took a shower, fastened a new diaper on, dressed myself to go out and called the doctor. 

"Good morning," he said, after I'd introduced myself, "How are you doing? Is the stent being absorbed?"

"I don't know," I said, and described my morning's findings. 

"Ok, stop there," he told me, "I'm going to send one of our ambulances to pick you up, and we're going to give you a full examination."

I guess that's the advantage of buying dodgy devices from a large healthcare provider. They have facilities all over, including one near enough to me that I was there under an hour later, my diaper on display to two nurses and a female doctor. Then it was just me on display, that awkward uncomfortable pose, legs akimbo, cold metal invading me in a very personal way.

Strange scans followed, xrays and something else. A large machine, loud noises, the operator hiding behind a protective shield. I was already back in a diaper by then, the blood clearly coming from my urethra but diluted by more normal waste, something I still couldn't control. Instinctively I had tried and it caused pain, as though I was being pricked by a needle deep inside. 

That was five days ago. The sharp stabbing pain has gone now, but the scar tissue remains. The manufacturing error meant the stent wasn't properly absorbed, had instead broken up inside me, solid fragments cutting into me from the inside. They've said that surgery wouldn't help, that the scar tissue means a catheter isn't an option, that it might heal by itself.

They wouldn't say how long that might take. At least I wasn't in pain any more, even the discomfort had faded. I'd fantasised for so long about being incontinent, carefully arranged to temporarily experience it, enjoyed that fleeting wish fulfilment.

I shifted uncomfortably, realised my diaper needed changing again. I wasn't enjoying it now, the terrible reality of needing diapers, repeatedly wetting them, hour after hour, day after day. They'd promised to keep me well supplied, my choice of diapers from their range for as long as I needed.

That was the problem. I didn't know how long I'd need it. They didn't either, couldn't even promise me my last remaining hope: That it would end, that I'm not now stuck in diapers permanently. 

It wasn't the first time I'd spread my legs and wiped myself clean between them, replaced a soaked diaper with a fresh clean one. It certainly wasn't going to be the last..

[kerry]

Nicely done, Anna, and very realistic as well. I suspect that most ABDLs in this situation would react the same way. One question left unexplained (or, if it was, I missed it): what legitimate medical use would this stent have?

[WBDaddy]

1 hour ago, kerry said:

Nicely done, Anna, and very realistic as well. I suspect that most ABDLs in this situation would react the same way. One question left unexplained (or, if it was, I missed it): what legitimate medical use would this stent have?

Compared to a regular Foley catheter, it would be a godsend for many people with urethral strictures and other problems emptying their bladders.  No need to change them out, just insert a new one when you realize the old one has ceased to function.  No tube hanging out of the end, the tube being the primary driver of UTI's in the first place.  

Yeah, it'd be a huge technological improvement over standard catheters for people who needed them chronically. 

[Bonsai]

From the moment you introduced the concept of a re-absorbing stent, I knew this was going to end badly.

My guess was a plugged urethra, an extremely swollen bladder and an embarrassing visit to ER.

Prototype testing would likely be done on pigs or other large mammals. That would be a concept that could be used for further fiction.

[Cute_Kitten]

A very realistic wish gone wrong story.  This almost feels like a diapered version of The Monkey's Paw.? I thoroughly enjoyed it. Good job showing the character researching and being hesitant and worrying about the downsides, it added to the realistic feel.