An Embarrassing Day On The Bus (F, slow, humil, fetish: diapers w incont)
by Peri in April 2010
Revision 1, April 2010
“That was a great meal, mom!” I said as I cleared the table.
“Thanks. Why don’t you load the car while I we get cleaned up here.”
I glanced at a clock; time was a little tight. “Sure.”
I dashed upstairs to do the last minute packing for my return trip. I tossed my laptop into my backpack, then dug through my duffle bag for my last two diapers. I transferred one of them into my backpack along with a couple of books and my MP3 player. I stuffed the dirty laundry bag into the duffle bag along with a few odds and ends, and zipped it shut.
I got out my powder and a few wipes and proceeded to change. I wasn’t completely soaked yet, but I wasn’t going to make it to the mid-way point on my return journey from holiday with my parents.
I ran a checklist in my head: duffle bag, toothbrush and bath supplies, laptop, power supply, purse, books, bus tickets, MP3: check, check, check. A glance under the bed and on the dressers to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, and I headed out. “I’m set to go mom.”
I gave my dad a hug and told him I love him. “See ya soon, old man!”
“Have a good trip.”
Twenty minutes later, mom and I were waiting at the commuter park & ride with a little time to spare. Mom and I made small talk until the bus arrived; I said my good-byes and piled onto the regional service.
My habit of planning usually works well, but had gone awry this trip. I’d missed a transfer on the way down due to a bus running late. I was also low on diapers, with only one left to change into at the mid-way layover.
But the return trip bus was on time, and all my layovers had a margin so timing wasn’t critical and I wouldn’t get stranded again. And one change was enough to get me home.
I pulled out a book and read half a chapter of a critique of twelve-step programs and new age self-help. It raised some good points, but was a tough read; it was made tougher by an uncomfortable feeling developing in my gut: I was going to need to do #2 at some point. I thought over the timetable: 2 hours to my first transfer point, a 20 minute layover, then another hour west to the long layover where I’d planned a change. From there, clean and dry, I’d make it all the way to home on my last diaper. I could hold it for 3 and a half hours.
I tried reading for 20 minutes or so, but couldn’t focus because I was increasingly urgent and uncomfortable, bordering on painful; unless I wanted to shit myself, I was going to have to use the bus’s toilet soon. Which was fine, except it meant changing my diaper because, despite advertiser claims of adjustability, the tapes never hold right after the first use. To make things worse, my existing diaper wasn’t that wet yet; lunch’s fluids hand’t made their way through yet. Damn it! I would definitely need to pick up more diapers along the way, but how and where? I tossed my junk in my backpack and headed to the on-board bathroom to do my business.
Returning to my seat wearing my last diaper, I read a bit more before switching over to music and watching the beautiful Berkshire villages and vistas we were now passing through. It was a gorgeous sunny day, and in addition to keeping my carbon footprint down, bussing was nice because I could enjoy the mountains while grooving to some tunes, rather than be focused on the roads and driving.
The next bus was running somewhat late at the transfer point, but that was okay because the next layover had a sizable margin. Unfortunately, now that I was on my last diaper my kidneys were making up lost time. I would need to get changed soon after making the next layover.
As we made out of western Massachusetts and toward “civilization”, the Wi-Fi on the bus kicked in. I pulled up Google Maps, located the next bus station, and searched for nearby pharmacies. Good: there was a store about half a kilometer from the station. I could make that in a brief walk; all would be good.
As we pulled into the station, I grabbed my stuff and prepared to disembark. And that’s where I saw yet another delay: some Department of Homeland Security folks were preparing to board. Inland paper checks: back in the 80’s, isn’t this the kind of thing we said was so terrible about the USSR? I sat back down and pulled out my passport, wondering how long the delay would be. If I didn’t deal with it soon, I’d have an overflowing diaper before I made it to the pharmacy.
I crossed my legs and concentrated on my bladder, not that it ever does much good. I also did some breathing exercises, trying to control the intimidation I always feel from authority figures and dealing with them. They moved right along, clearing a few people a minute, but I’d sat toward the back of the bus on this segment and it was still 17 minutes before they got to me.
“United States.” I flashed my passport, trying to sound neutral but hearing my voice quaver in irrational fear; I tried to avoid fidgeting in my now very wet diaper.
“Where do you live?”
I gave my city.
“Where are you coming from?”
I gave my parent’s city.
“Purpose of your trip?”
“Visiting for the holiday.”
“You seem nervous, miss. Is everything okay?”
“I really need to use the washroom.”
He turned his head to the nearby on-bus toilet, and looked back to me. “Really, miss? Seems like there’s been plenty of opportunity.”
Great! I’d had to waste an almost perfectly dry diaper, the bus was running late, Homeland Security was delaying me more, I was sitting in a soaked diaper and now I had the world’s biggest prick making sure I’m not an illegal alien, or even worse one of those or “tourists” that Dubya used to talk about.
From experience I knew it was best to be straight with them. “I’m incontinent, and I really need to use the washroom,” I insisted, looking at my feet as my face burned and turned red from embarrassment.
“May I see your supplies?”
“If you’re incontinent, you’ll have a change in your pack. I’d like to verify your story.”
I wanted to ask him just what the hell his problem was, but also knew better than talking back. Fight with these bastards, and they’ll just make your life hell. “I… I ran out, but…” I pulled down the top of my skirt to show the top of the diaper. As I glanced up at him I caught a “I’m pretending not to look but that’s so weird I can’t resist” gawk from the woman across the aisle and a seat back. “There’s a pharmacy a few blocks from here, I need to run over and get more during my transfer.”
“That’s not very good planning.”
“I know, but there is fiasco. Please, before I start leaking,” I pleaded. There were giggles from the seat behind me; no doubt someone overheard and was laughing at my situation. I wanted to disappear.
“Okay miss, I’m sorry for the delay and your situation. Have a safe trip,” he said, handing me back my passport.
“Then haul your fucking ass back to the border, you un-American S.O.B.,” I didn’t say.
My diaper was now in a desperate situation. This bastard’s inquisition meant my 17 minutes of legs-crossed concentration were for naught: I’d lost concentration and my traitorous bladder was empty. As I hopped off the bus and grabbed my duffle from the cargo bay, I felt the diaper practically sloshing between my legs. I felt some run down my leg, indicating the diaper was done, soaked, kaput; I decided to hit the bathroom to ditch it, and hoped to make it to the pharmacy without too much damage.
My planned 2 hour layover was now down to about an hour, so I quickly made my way toward the pharmacy after ditching the sodden diaper. It’s weird to walk without a diaper for a while: cool instead of stuffy, no bulk between my legs. As I made my way through the city streets toward the pharmacy, I concentrated on my bladder again, hoping not to embarrass myself any more than Homeland Security had done.
The pharmacy was in sight across the street as I waited for the crossing sign at a busy intersection. So far, so good. As I crossed the intersection, though, somebody laid on their horn, angry at another driver. Being startled was precisely what I didn’t need at that moment: I felt fresh urine run down my legs; thankfully, my bladder wasn’t that full yet but it was still noticeable on my leggings. My face flushed as I arrived at the far corner and entered the store.
I glanced at the overhead signs, located the incontinence aisle, and made a bee-line for it. Grabbing a package of Depends, I returned to the front end and waited in line. A pair of teenage girls queued behind me, whispering to each other and giggling. I handed the package to the cashier, looking down, my face red.
“Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes”, I mumbled. “Um… Where’s your bathroom?” The girls behind me sniggered some more, whispering to each-other.
“In the far corner, near the pharmacy.” I paid for my purchase and headed toward the bathroom, but not before one of the girls could get out, “Those are for you, aren’t they?” I ignored her.
I cleaned myself up and put on a fresh diaper. I unpacked the rest, putting my wet leggings into the empty bag and stashing them with my dirty laundry. I crammed all the diapers I could fit into into the duffle bag, then sealed it up again. The rest I stuffed into my backpack, then headed out.
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the two girls from the checkout line waiting outside the door. I tried to ignore them as I waited for the walk light.
“She’s too old to wear diapers.”
“My grandma has to wear diapers, too.”
“But that’s really old, she’s not that old.”
“But why else would she wear them? And she did peed herself, she even took off her tights because they were wet.”
The walk light finally changed. It wasn’t long before I realized they were following, though. “Listen, you can hear it crinkling.” Which is why I liked the stirrup pants: they controlled the sound a bit. The mid-thigh skirt I was wearing made changing easier, but it didn’t do much for sound control.
“Just ask her if she wears them.”
“I know she does, I want to know why!”
Realizing they might just follow me all the way to the bus station, I finally had enough. I turned and looked straight at both of them. “What? Yes, I wear diapers. I can’t control my bladder. You might get to experience this too after you have kids. Are you looking forward to it?”
Confronted, they looked a bit sheepish as I stared them down. “Ah… Sorry,” one finally said.
I took a deep breath, turned, and continued back to the bus station, the crinkling now ringing in my ears. I imagined everyone I passed by could hear, knowing for certain that I’m just diaper girl that can’t keep her pants dry for 15 minutes.
As I arrived back at the station, someone yelled “Hey!”. I turned to see what she was yelling at. “Your skirt!” she continued, looking at me. I reached back to find my skirt was riding up, apparently a result of the duffle bag collaborating with the skirt to embarrass me further. She was nice enough not to say anything about the diaper, but I’m sure plenty of people had had quite a view of a diapered woman with a short skirt walking through central Albany.
I had enough time to grab a quick hot dog and pop before boarding commenced. I queued behind a woman with a young, blond-haired daughter who was staring at me. After about 15 seconds, she kneeled down and turned her head to look up my skirt.
“Sarah! That’s not appropriate,” her mom objected.
“Mommy, she’s wearing diapers. She’s the big girl that wears diapers on the other bus.” Heads in line turned to look at me. Christ, it just doesn’t stop! What God did I offend today?, I thought.
“Sarah!” The mother turned to me. “I’m so sorry, I…”
“She’s a kid. She doesn’t know any better,” I said as people whispered to each other and I blushed yet again.
“Mommy!” Sarah tugged at her mom’s leg. Her mom picked her up and started quietly explaining about watching what she said in front of others.
Finally, the rest of the journey went well. Homeland Security decided to check us before the bus left, but this time the officer recognized me and didn’t even want to see my passport– instead just asking, “You get everything taken care of, miss?”. Enroute, I talked with some folks returning home from a Boston sci-fi convention, one of whom kept eyeing me. He eventually worked up the courage to give me his e-mail, which judging by the “babyboy” in the name means he’s a diaper fetishist. He paid some nice comments, though, so I did’t mind.
The bus stayed on schedule and I arrived back at home on time. Sure, my diaper was wet and in need of changing, but life was devoid of further humiliation and chaos and I had a boy that thought I was sexy despite my diaper. I could live with that.
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