The summer seemed endless. Finally, one morning Nancy came in with some news. “Only three weeks until you go home, young man. I don’t think your mother would appreciate it if she had to start all over with you. It’s a big task, but I think we’ll be able to potty train you on time.”
Tom wasn’t sure how to react to this news. As badly as he wanted to get out of diapers, the prospect of a humiliating toilet training frightened him. He somehow had assumed that one day Nancy would simply end his torture by removing his diaper and handing him his clothes. Sadly, he realized that his control had deteriorated so much that he seldom even knew he was wetting or soiling himself until he felt he diaper bunch between his legs or press against his bottom. The chance of accidents at home, though, scared him even more than the humiliation of potty training.
No sooner had he convinced himself that toilet training wasn’t such a bad idea, however, than Nancy entered the room with a grotesque-looking potty chair. The seat was almost adult-sized, but it sat barely eight inches off of the ground. Beneath the hole in the seat rested a rounded pink plastic bowl. The back of the chair had little lambs and ducks dancing in the rain pasted to it. Tom couldn’t take his eyes off this monstrosity. He was big enough to use the regular toilet and began to say so to Nancy.
“Don’t be nervous, Tommie,” Nancy said sternly, ignoring his protests. “You’re not ready to start using the big-boy potty yet. First we have to keep track of your toilet habits.”
As she spoke, Nancy lifted up a very large cardboard poster board titled “Tommy’s Potty Chart.” The whole next week had been marked out on one side, with the time written in 15-minute intervals along the top. A felt-tip marker dangled from a string in one corner. Nancy hung the chart on the wall above Tom’s changing table.
“From now on, we’ll keep close track of every time you go pee-pee or poo-poo, baby. That way we’ll know when to put you on the potty with the best chance of success. Conditioning should take care of it from there. Of course…” here Tom could hear the smirk in her voice, "we’ll have to check your diaper much more often.
When she finished speaking, Nancy came over and put her hand down the front of Tom’s blue plastic panties. “Oh, my, aren’t you wet this morning. Time for a change.”
As she put Tom down on the changing table, Nancy leaned over and took the marker in her hand. Tom cringed as he watched her write next to the 8:30 a.m. entry , in large letters, “SOAKED.”
That whole week, Nancy and Lisa took every opportunity to check Tom’s condition, either by putting a hand or finger inside his panties or sniffing his crotch and bottom. At times, they checked him every ten or fifteen minutes. Any pride he may have had left vanished. If that wasn’t bad enough, his potty chart began to fill with notes and comments about when he was wet or soiled and even the amount of pee or poop each time. Lying in his crib, looking at the chart that revealed his most intimate functions, the humiliation was immense.
It was a great relief when Nancy announced that his training would begin. Lisa and Nancy each lifted Tom up from the crib, lowered his panties and diapers, and for the first time sat him on the potty chair. His knees came up to his shoulders and he had to squeeze onto the slightly undersized seat. It dawned on him that he hadn’t sat on a toilet seat for over three months.
“Come on, little Tommie, you can do it. Let’s hear a little tinkle for Mommy and Auntie Lisa.” Tom looked up at Lisa as she taunted him. He was sure she had deliberately chosen to wear a revealing halter top and short skirt as a tease. It seemed like years since she had moaned with pleasure at his passion. Now she saw his penis mainly as a tool that needed her help to urinate.
Tom wanted to pee, but the two women hovering over him urging him on and occasionally directing his penis down into the potty was too much. The embarrassment seemed to dry him up.
After five minutes or so, Nancy gave up. “Ok, baby, we’ll try again later. Let’s get those didies back on.” As Tom stood up and turned back toward the changing table, the release or tension relaxed his bladder. Within seconds, a gusher of pee streamed from him, soaking Nancy and leaving a puddle on the floor. Tom was horrified as Nancy glared at him, speechless, and Lisa howled with laughter.
“Man, he really got you that time! Are you sure he can’t control himself?” Lisa gasped, breathless with glee. Nancy said nothing as she cleaned Tom up, put a fresh diaper on and then placed him back into the crib. Five minutes later, a more solemn Lisa entered the room with a bucket and mop.
Tom lay in the crib for half a day without being changed or placed on the potty. Nancy entered the room with bottles of formula but never spoke. Tom was too scared to say anything.
Finally, Nancy came in and stood by the side of the crib. She looked calm and spoke softly. “I shouldn’t have been angry earlier. Once I calmed down, I realized that you couldn’t have done that on purpose. You have no more control of your eliminations than any 12-month old. Now, what do you say we take off that smelly diaper and try the potty again?”
Tom nodded eagerly. As soon as he sat on the potty, he heard the tinkling of urine hitting the plastic guard and trickling into the bowl. He looked down, astonished and pleased. Nancy beamed and even bent down and kissed him. She took a silver star from her pocket and put it on his potty chart. “Gold is for BMs,” she told him, smiling. Tom was smiling, too, as Nancy re-diapered him, never once reflecting on how foolish he would have felt three months earlier at being proud of peeing into a bowl.
Within three days, Tom’s chart began to get more stars, silver and gold, than anything else. The women had begun to write “ACCIDENT” in big letters whenever he used his diapers, and the embarrassment of looking at these entries on the chart gave him even more incentive to regain control of his toilet habits.
When the chart finally began to show only two or three accidents daily, Nancy presented Tom with several pairs of brightly-colored training pants. Tom was so pleased to be out of diapers that he didn’t even complain that some of the panties were pink while others had little slogans stitched on the front or back, like "Slippery When Wet " and “The Devil Made Me Do It.”
Tom’s freedom began to increase as he moved around the house, unencumbered by the thick cloth diapers he had worn for so long. He was permitted to walk, not crawl, and he began to feel more like an adult each day, with one notable exception. Whenever he felt the urge to go to the bathroom, he wasn’t allowed to go to the toilet on his own. He had to tell Nancy or Lisa, and then either bring the potty chair to them or have them go with him to the nursery.
One day shortly after his training began, Tom sat watching television when Sherry, Nancy’s friend, dropped by. Tom was able to ignore the chatter for awhile, but then felt an urgent need to urinate. He glanced at Sherry, hoping she would leave. Showing no indication that she would be departing soon, he got up and whispered in Nancy’s ear.
“Well, then, go get the potty chair and bring it here,” Nancy said in a loud voice. “And you’d better hurry, so that we don’t have a repeat of your accident this morning.”
Tom blushed as he ran up the stairs and got the potty chair. Returning to the living room, he avoided Sherry’s eyes as he set the chair on the rubber sheet Nancy had spread out on the floor. He stood still as Nancy undid his jeans and pulled them to his ankles, revealing pink training panties with white lacy trim. Tom quickly sat on the potty. Nancy kneeled beside him and held his penis in a downward position. No sooner had she done this than Tom’s bladder released, and the familiar splatter of pee onto plastic sounded loudly in the room.
“How wonderful!” Tom heard Sherry say, then cringed as the woman came up next to him. “You’ve grown up so much. It seems like only yesterday you were suckling from my breast in your dirty, smelly diapers. Now you’re wearing such pretty big-girl panties. Stand up and let me see.”
As Tom stood, a light odor of the yellow puddle beneath him rose to his nose. Nancy took the bowl out and showed it to Sherry, who gushed at the progress the “little baby” had made. As Nancy left the room to empty the bowl into the toilet, Tom stood before Sherry with his panties and jeans still at his ankles. He would be spanked if he pulled them up himself.
Sherry smiled at Tom’s awkward condition. “Let me help you,” she said. “My, these are pretty panties. Let’s check them, shall we? Let’s see, the front and crotch are dry, although I believe those little yellow stains show that you’re not quite a big girl yet. And, oh dear. You’ve soiled these panties recently, haven’t you? It’s so hard to get all those panty stains clean in the wash. You really should do better.”
Tom stood silently as Sherry buckled his pants, ignoring her comments about his still being a long way from ready to have the boys get into his panties. As she finished, Nancy entered the room. Tom fled to the laughter of the two women, more determined than ever to regain total control.
Tom beamed when, only one day before his mother arrived to pick him up, he made it back into his own underwear and clothes. He hadn’t had an accident for almost two days. He felt confident and cocky, especially when Nancy and Lisa sat with him for an hour coming up with a story of how Tom spent his summer that he could use on his mother and his friends back home.
Tom ran to his mother’s car when she came to pick him up, anxious to leave and to return to some level of normalcy. He was disappointed when she berated him for his rude behavior and had him come back inside for a drink of tea with Nancy before they left. Finally, they were packed and on the road.
Nancy leaned against the front door as she watched the car disappear down the road. Soon, she found herself smiling. The effects of the powerful diuretic and laxative she had spiked Tom’s tea with would begin to be felt in about 45 minutes, just after the only stop on the tollway for over seventy miles. The way Tom’s mother drove, never going above fifty miles per hour, he wouldn’t come even close to making it. She laughed as she closed the door, anxious for the phone call she knew would come soon.