This is a work in progress, and I’m not sure I’m completely satisfied with the tone on the whole, but seeing as I haven’t had the time to progress much lately, maybe some positive criticism will motivate me to perfect it and move it along…
It all began one humid june day. I shifted around in my bed feeling that the moistness was far greater than the weather should have dictated. I looked wearied-eyed at my wife standing over at the side of the bed, a perturbed look pasted upon her face.
“Ryan!” she exclaimed, “I really can’t believe you!”
I had no idea what she was talking about and responded with shooting her an inquisitive look.
“26 years old and you wet the freakin’ bed! I told you you had had too much to drink last night, but of course you ALWAYS get carried away.”
Wet the bed! That was insane, I was quite proud of my ability to hold my urine for as long as necessary and had certainly not wet the bed since I was five, probably earlier. But sure enough, it didn’t take much inspection to discover that what had happened. Maybe I HAD just had too much to drink the night before: between our going to that restaurant, getting-together with friends, she had to drive us home, and then we further indulged in alcoholic delights when we arrived home. Although, I recalled my wife insisting that I enjoy myself and drink more every step of the way…
Regardless of the cause, I reservedly helped my wife strip the bed and bring the soaked sheets down to the washing machine.
“Honestly I’d be surprised if this mattress is not completely ruined!” and we spent much of this unconventional Sunday attempting to clean it in one way or another and finally going out to purchase a new one, my wife getting the optional mattress cover with it “just in case,” though I was offended that she supposed such a thing would ever happen again.
Unfortunately, the next morning it did, and it seemed the soak was even more severe than the previous day.
“Thank God I decided on getting the cover!” she immediately exclaimed, while I was let speechless, unbelieving that it had happened again. We through the sheets and cover into the wash and then went off to our respective jobs: my wife being a lawyer and myself a public relations worker at an insurance company. The entire day at work I couldn’t get out of my mind thoughts of my repeat wettings. In fact, it bothered me so severely that I could swear I was making trips to the bathroom far more often than usual.
All-in-all, however, the day went as normal, as did the following evening, save for my wife advising I not drink so much before going to bed.
Sure enough, however, it happened again the next day. My wife spoke for both of us when she exclaimed that she had enough of it and that I really needed to go visit a doctor and figure out what was going on. I, of course, took off work and went to make an appointment immediately, but was disappointed that all the doctors I called would not take me for almost a week in some cases. Luckily, my lawyer wife handled a lot of cases involving lawsuits against doctors, and used her connections to get me an appointment that day.
I was upset to discover that the doctor, however, was a woman. This would not normally bother me, but something about the nature of my problem made this displeasing: something about a woman knowing of a problem in an intimate male area was somehow more embarrassing than if a man found out.
The doctor performed various tests, between blood pressure, blood work, and urine samples to try and pinpoint the source of the problem, but the resulted in to clear answers.
“We’ll have to wait a couple days for the results of a few tests to be complete,” she explained, “but honestly I don’t believe they’ll indicate much at all. My personal opinion is that stress is the key instigator or your problem, perhaps at work or at home. I’ll give you a prescription for some medication for that, and for some urine retention medication to take at night to give a little extra help as well.”
So I began taking the medication that evening, and in addition I drank absolutely nothing that night after supper, feeling confident that the next morning would finally be the end of my urinary problems.
The night brought on one of the strangest dreams I’d ever had in my adult life; I found myself lying in what appeared to be some sort of wooden cage. I tried to get up, but all efforts to do so seemed futile. I then became aware of an intense wetness in my crotch, and in trying to investigate further, my efforts were again frustrated by an alarming inability to move. Just then my wife appeared from overhead, much larger than she should have been.
“Well good morning my little sweetheart!” She exclaimed.
And to my surprise she lifted me out of this cage, holding me tight against her chest; it was at this moment I realized what was going on. Kicking and screaming I pounded my tiny fist against her shoulder, terrified at what was unfolding before me.
“Now now, don’t be such a cranky baby,” she cooed, “mommy will clean you up just as quick as possible and then we’ll fill your hungry little belly with some nice sweet milk.”
She gently placed me upon a high-raised table, expertly unbuttoning my the long shirt I was wearing, gathered between the legs, and then untaping the soggy object tightly enclosing my waist. She wiped me clean and securely and (to my surprise) comfortably taped a nice new one on me.
I had been still squirming and struggling all the way up to the table, but all efforts ceased when she began cleaning me up; it was such a relief to be clean and dry afterall, and I didn’t want to frustrate her efforts. It was so calming too. In this now relaxed state, I began realizing there was no way this could be real, and began to enjoy the odd dream for what it was. She then snapped the shirt closed around my crotch once again and held me against her, settling with me upon a rocking chair. She then slowly opened up her nightgown, exposing her large, beautiful breasts. Carefully I was lowered level with them, my mouth encasing her stiff yet supple nipple. I sucked, and I was in ecstasy.
I awoke, my wife’s image hovering over me, and couldn’t help but to crack a grin with delight, traces of the dream still imprinted on my mind.
“Well good morning sweetheart!” she exclaimed, for a second filling me with terror and wonderment, “Glad to see you’re so cheery this morning. You soaked the bed so thoroughly last night that half my nightgown is wet.”
She scowled at me, causing the budding terror in me to explode. How could this happen with my new medication, paired with all the precautions I’d been taking? When was this waking nightmare ever going to end?
“Aaand my childish little husband I’ve been trying to wake you for at least 20 minutes, you’re going to be late for work! Looks like I’m stuck cleaning up your mess. Now go be a good little boy and get ready to go; I’m already very unhappy with you young man.”
“Stop it!” I shot back, “I’m not enjoying this thing anymore than you, and I’d appreciate you have a little understanding and support me instead of making me feel so guilty about it like I’m some kind of child.”
I went through the whole day nervous and depressed. Maybe, I thought, the medication was just taking a day or two to kick in. I fought the urge to call the doctor, both afraid she’d take me to be some kind of crazy hypochondriac, and also uneasy with the idea of her knowing of the continuation of a problem that might just stop any day. I stopped myself from pacing across my office floor, remembering that stress was the likely cause of all this discomfort. I took a deep breath, sat down, and busied myself with some paperwork. The demands of the office certainly weren’t helping much. Neither did the fact that I seemed to be running to the bathroom every hour at least.
As I pulled into my driveway that night, I ran into the house, just barely making it to the toilet in time. The rest of the night continued as normal, and I even found the urges less pronounced. I took my medication before bed, and joined my wife who had already gone off into our room.
And there it was.
Laid out on my side of the bed was a large, white cloth-like object. I immediately began to protest.
"NO! There is no way in Hell I’m going to put that on. I’ve been taking the medication for a couple days now and I’ve been doing all I can to prevent it. "
“OK sweetie, I give you a lot of credit, of course, for all you’ve been doing to fix this, but it’s clear there’s one very necessary precaution left to take. Nothing else has been working, and I’m very sick of cleaning wet sheets. C’mon honey, please just do this for me, for yourself, it’ll just be under the covers where no one can see it and I’m sure you’ll forget about it before long. If you’re right, then tomorrow you get to go without them, OK? Please dear, put this on or I’m gonna have to force it on you!”
I knew she was right: it was nothing more than a temporary precaution, VERY temporary, and I quickly and pensively snatched up the object and shuffled quickly into the bathroom, too embarrassed to do it in front of her. I fumbled and fidgeted with the object before I was finally satisfied it was on securely. I pulled up my boxers over it to conceal it, and joined my wife in bed.
“Wow baby, that took you a looong time. Maybe next time I could give you a little help,” she teased, “now get over here pull down those boxers of yours.” I never could refuse sex, no matter how hard it would be to put the thing back on.
But to my surprise, as I reached for one of the taped to take it off, she slapped away my hand, undoing and redoing each tape one by one until she was satisfied with the fit.
“You bitch!” I exclaimed, “I put the thing on just fine. Don’t tease me like that, and please don’t call me a baby again, I really don’t appreciate it.” The whole situation was so frustrating to me that I almost felt like I WOULD cry, feeling a bit more emotional than usual.
“Sorry sweetie, I was only using the term endearingly, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t leak is all.”
“Whatever, it’s OK,” tears actually lightly glazing my eyes, “you just got me a little excited; it feels like ages since we’ve had any decent sex.”
“I know, we’ve both just been so stressed lately, and now, with you like this, I kinda feel weird about it you know? I hope you understand; don’t worry baby this will all be over soon, I’m sure.”
“I’m not a baby!” Holding back pouts; tears definitely streaming down my face. I quickly turned over and, with some effort, found my way to sleep.
The next morning I woke up and got up more normally than I had in almost a week. In fact I had, momentarily, completely forgotten about the past few mornings as if they were part of some long drawn-out dream. I had just entered into the bathroom to shower, when my wife quickly followed from behind.
I was slightly taken by surprised but mostly excited as she pulled down my boxers and turned me around. In the same instant we both became aware: I had wet my first diaper in over 22 years.
I quickly tore the object off my body and cast it into the garbage, quickly scrambling into the shower feeling as if cleansing my soul rather than my body, feeling close to tears for the second time in less than 24 hours.
“Honey,” my wife scolded, “that’s gonna make the whole bathroom smell like pee! For now I’ll just tie it tightly into a couple plastic bags, but I’m going to have to get a pail for the future.”
I cringed, not very satisfied with the picture of this “future” quickly enfolding before me.
Work was fairly typical, except that I seemed to be running to the bathroom more than ever. I found that I had to make an emergency stop on the way home at a McDonalds, and hurriedly found my way into the bathroom when I arrived home.
That night went much like the previous, except for an unspoken and resigned diapering of myself before bed; and I might add, I didn’t do too bad a job. I proudly examined my work in the mirror, before coming to fully realize the sight before me. I shuddered at the infantile image, and quickly pulled up my boxers.
I then took notice of a glaring reminder of my problem: in the corner near the door my wife had positioned the tall white diaper pail, a brightly glaring white that seemed to make my eyes tear up slightly just looking at it. What was happening to me? What was I becoming? Would it ever end? I began to fear what all this was doing to my marriage, even in light of my wife’s outward support. I felt insecure and in need of her affection. I trudged off to bed, positioned myself next to her sleeping body, and held on tight.
“I’m sorry all this is happening,” I whispered to her, tears now rolling down my face, “you still love me right? You don’t think any less of me? I’m doing all I can to put an end to this horrible thing.”
She turned to me wearily and shot me a warm and delicate smile.
“Sweetie, you know I love you no matter what. I understand how hard this is for you, and it’s hard for me too,” she enveloped her arms around me and held me secure against her body. In the past I’m might have protested against such treatment, being naturally inclined to identifying with “masculine” dominate role in the relationship, but in the state that I was, it was a welcome gesture.
“Don’t worry baby,” she continued, gently rubbing my chest, “I’ll help you with anything you need, anything that happens to you, until all this is over.”
And, comforted by my wife, I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I discovered, quite unsurprised, that my diaper was soaked. I was immediately cognizant of my wife taking notice; she didn’t say anything, but shot me a reassuring smile.
I shuffled into the bathroom, removed my diaper and disposed of it without much attention or thought on it or the receptacle, and showered and readied for work. My problem, quickly becoming the norm, was not getting better before worse: I seemed to be running to the bathroom at least every half hour, and I really feared my ride home. I was lucky that, despite what my worsening problem might indicate, work offered less demand than the norm, without any of the common, long and intense meetings. I certainly feared the possibility of one occurring, or even any long-term engagement with a co-worker; and the more I worried, the worse the urge seemed to become. By then end of the day, it was not uncommon for me to run into the restroom every ten minutes. I was really hoping no one noticed.
The drive home seemed to drag on forever, and was quite torturous. I stopped twice at different retail establishments: once at McDonalds and again at a Walmart, and even pulled behind a warehouse and urinated behind the building. I got home just in time to run into the bathroom and go again. Curiously, this was the first time my wife seemed to notice my urgency to go.
“Whoa honey!” she exclaimed, “there’s no way you have to go so bad you can’t say hi to your wife.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but she violently broke the silence.
“You’re not having trouble during the day too are you? Maybe, you know, you need to wear a little something during the day too; just in case. You haven’t had an accident have you?”
The suggestion hit right at my largest looming fear, and I fiercely retorted.
“No, I haven’t had a fucking accident! I can control myself, but they stress: it’s just getting to my and making me think I need to go or tricking my body or something,” I shook away all haunting speculation, “either way, it’s only in certain situations, places where I’m most stressed, and I haven’t had any trouble at home beyond the night-time thing.”
For me, the issue was settled, and my wife I guess could sense this, dropping any further inquiry. We continued through our usual routine of supper, dishes, and television viewing, together on the couch.
In the middle of a program, I began to feel unusually tired, and shifted around slightly, giving in to the fatigue. My wife noticed, and I guess continuing the supportive stance of the previous night, gathered herself around me, so I might rest comfortably in her arms.
The next thing I remember, my wife was hovering over me, and I became subtly aware that I was no longer on the couch. The scene around me was so unstable that I was unsure whether I was only very partially awake, or if I was dreaming. The picture fit so well with the dream from the other night that I resigned to it being a kind of repeat. I could feel my wife gently wipe my crotch, lightly lift my legs to slide under a diaper, and expertly wrap it around my waist. Next, as before, I was aware of her bosom resting next to my face. I lightly encased my lips around a stiffened nipple, sucked lightly a couple times, and then simply buried my face into her chest, drifting off to sleep.
“I can’t believe you fucking diapered me! I’m not a child!” I exclaimed, as soon as I woke up , trying to make sense of how I ended up diapered and in bed.
“Sweetheart,” my wife shot back, “I know you are quite capable, but first, you don’t know half the story. You wet the couch. Yeah I know, good thing it’s leather right: me might be able to revive it, but still. I’m guessing your stress is really draining your energy; and I tried to wake you, but the best I could do was get you to sleep walk to the bed, so I took things into my own hands.”
I tried my best to come to terms with my diapering, of course not helped any by the soaked garment around my waist. I couldn’t believe I had been diapered like a young child, no, like a baby. And how much of my “dream” was real? All of it!? Was I really becoming so infantile both inward and out? Did I secretly want all this despite my resisting? The questions were more than I could bear, and teary-eyed, readily headed to the bathroom.
It was now Saturday, and I was more than relieved I didn’t have to go to work, now thinking of very little other than my problem and consistent urges to go throughout the day. I knew I was stressing myself out, perhaps frustrating my situation in the process, but it’s certainly unnerving when one’s most basic functions are disrupted. My wife, throughout breakfast, insistent we go out and buy a few things we needed for the house, and apparently she had some clothing articles in mind as well, but I was adamant about staying home. I certainly didn’t want to chance being away from a toilet any point of the day, simultaneously fretting over the reality that I was putting off the inevitable.
I resolved to mow the lawn and do yard work the whole day, and I guess I was forceful enough in my decision that she conceded. Immediately after breakfast I headed outside and proceeded to weed the gardens, clean out the gutters, and even partook in what I reminded myself, with newly uplifted ego, was the manly and adult task of changing the oil on my car and replacing some belts and sparkplugs.
The strenuous activity, paired with my newly elevated self-image must have keep me stress -free and focused enough that I didn’t think of the problems I’d been having lately, nor did I feel the urge quite as strong. It seemed, though, that as that thought crossed my mind, my bladed felt as if squeezed by a vice. I immediately dropped the sparkplug resting in my hand and bolted inside, just barely making it to the toilet in time, and actually spurting a little on the way in.
“Is everything ok dear?” My wife implored.
“Yea I’m ok, just, uh going to the bathroom nothing special.”
“Ok sweetie, just making sure, it’s well, you ran in here in such a hurry I thought something might be wrong. I was so afraid you might have had an accident.”
Glaring at me from that bathroom corner was that dreaded diaper pail. I didn’t even think what kind of “accident” she might have meant and immediately snapped at her.
“Shut up!” I yelled back at her, at little overwhelmed with tears at the thought, “nothing like that’s ever gonna happen, so please acting like I’m some helpless fucking toddler!”
“ok, ok honey, calm down, relax. You know I love you and I would say anything to hurt you baby. You a big strong man who can completely control himself; there’s no need to be so defensive. Why don’t you come out here and show mama just how big and strong you are.”
I didn’t know how to react: her words sounded more or less reassuring, but still too many taunting, belittling terms were used. I quickly looked past that, of course, excited by the prospect of actually getting sex for once. I rushed out of the bathroom as quick as possible, sans pants, and into her arms outside the bathroom.
“Whoa there buckaroo; you’re very sweaty and dirty, so not right now. Later after you get everything done ok? I was, ya know, just trying to boost you up a bit. I know things have been tough for you lately.”
She had no idea; just the possibility of sex was enough to forget about lunch and hurry outside to finish working on the car and the lawn so I could shower and find myself pressed against her naked body.
As I mowed, I began to feel the quickly-building urge to go, but I tried my hardest to push through it and finish, not wanting to waste a second. To my surprise, the need diminished and did, in fact, pass away. Proud that I had conquered what most bothered me, mentally and physically, I triumphantly finished off the lawn and paraded into the house to claim my prize. I passed my wife, cooking in the kitchen, on my way to the bathroom.
“Baby you’re soaked!”
Offended, I immediately defended myself:
“Yes dear, that’s what happens when you mow the lawn: you get sweaty. Now I’m headed to the shower to promptly remedy that.”
“No Ryan, I mean you are completely soaked!” She pulled down my shorts to reveal a bit more than a little sweat “and you reek terribly of pee! I can’t believe you peed your pants; perfectly awake and alert!”
She carefully, but with determination, slipped off my shorts and underwear.
“Now hurry along into the bathroom, mister, and clean yourself up!” She carefully carried my soaked garments to the washer downstairs.
Through all this I was silent, both in shock of what had happened, and really there was nothing I could say. I was an adult, a man, and there was no reason something like this should happen. I was still frozen in front of the bathroom door, coming to terms with what had happened when my wife came back up the stairs. My worst nightmare had come true, and there was no way I could venture from my house without fear of it happening again. Should I really wear a diaper full-time now? Would people notice? Was I completely losing my control? Mentally too? I thought back to my dream a few nights back, and the dream-like reality of the night before. I feared I was losing more than control, but my manhood as well, reverting to a degraded infantile state. My wife came upon not a “big strong man,” but a tearful, piss-covered child.
She helped me into the shower, and I calmed down quite a bit as she helped me clean off. Our naked bodies pressed together, I remembered again her proposal for sex, and my mood quickly lightened. Indeed, following the shower we found ourselves in the bedroom my naked body upon hers, lying on the bed.
“C’mon baby put it in me,” she teased, “hot mama’s all wet and ready for you,” she continued, spreading apart her vaginal lips.
But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get erect, and of course the more I worried over this, the worse matters became.
“Hmm, I see the stress is affecting you in more ways than one,” she gently pushed my head down against her crotch, “I guess you’ll just have to try another approach.”
I looked up at her, pouting, obviously because I wasn’t getting any relief.
“Aww poor baby fussy and needs a little rubbing?”
I nodded eagerly.
“I don’t know: baby’s been so very messy today, squirting all over the place, can’t have another bed-wetting can we? Go get on some protection while mama gets herself ready.”
Her demand was a little off, and had we not been in the middle of some much-needed sex I would have fought against it, but my erection problems as they were, I had little other choice but to do things her way. As I, strangely enough, eagerly tapped myself in a diaper, she got off with a large vibrating dildo she used from time to time when our moods were “out-of-sync.” I shuffled over to her, headed face-first toward her crotch.
“No, no, no!” she scolded, “I can’t reach you from there now can I? How do you expect me to help you from there?”
“What do you expect then?” I pleaded, “you get yourself off with a dildo while I just sit back and get rubbed.”
“Come here,” gently pulling me again her breast, “you can suck on this if you need something to get into it; and hell it feels good for me too!”
So I suckled her breast, in a diaper, as she rubbed me through the diaper. Had I been watching the scene rather than partaking in it, I would have been appalled, but damn did I need relief! We came about the same time, my still-limp penis exploding inside the diaper as she screamed out in ecstasy.
“Alright baby, let’s get you cleaned up,” my wife finally concluded after a good 10 minutes. I just then realized I had still been (very relaxed) sucking at her breast the whole time, and being back in reality, snapped out of the trance and started out of bed.
“Where you think you’re going?” she snapped, pulling me toward her by the waist of my diaper, “I said let’s get you cleaned up!”