Where To Now? Chapter 1

Oops, I’ve done it again! I know there are some unfinished stories around, but this one was running through my head last night.

Where To Now? Chapter 1


It was a Sunday morning, and the sun was streaming into the comfortable furnished bedroom through the tall French doors to the patio. Eva was still asleep in the big bed, having hardly moved since the she and Bob had undressed and stumbled into bed after a lengthy dinner at Eva’s boss’s house the previous evening.

Bob was awake, his eyes wide. His hangover seemed a remote care compared with his present fears. He slid his hand towards his legs. It definitely had happened. He had soaked the bed.

‘Eva, wake up,’ he said, pushing his wife’s bare shoulder.


‘Oh, Bob,’ said Eva, looking at Bob’s embarrassed face. ‘That’s three times in five nights.’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ said Bob dejectedly. ‘Maybe it’s alcohol, or something. We did have a lot to drink at Jen’s.’

‘That was days ago,’ said Eva. ‘It must be something else. You really have to see Sally, Bob, even if it’s embarrassing. And you have to tell her about, you know, when you were younger. What you told me.’

Bob didn’t answer straight away. He climbed out of bed, and sat on the bedclothes next to Eva.

‘I still think it’s that big dinner. I’m sure it won’t happen again. I’ve just got a feeling,’ said Bob. ‘Anyway, just to make sure, I’ll lie on a towel on a plastic, a garbage bag or something.’

‘Bob, you can’t sleep on a garbage bag,’ said Eva. ‘Or towels. I think you should see Sally.’

‘Let’s just try it,’ said Bob. ‘I’m sure it won’t happen again. I feel different this morning.’

Eva looked at him.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘One more night. This mattress won’t take another wetting, and I’ve ordered a new one anyway, so it won’t matter, but if you do wet, we go to Sally, OK? Understood?’

Bob nodded. He was the boss at work, and he felt a little uncomfortable with the way Eva was telling him what to do like this. Not that it mattered. The problem would stop. It did when he was younger. After he was finally potty trained, he had a few relapses, but they only ever lasted a few nights.

Bob didn’t like thinking about his secret past. His last relapse was when he was 20. A week of humiliating bedwetting, then, nothing. He had been living in a share house, and it had taken a bit of clever work to deal with the issue without being sprung by his house mates. There had been one or two cases of damp underwear, too, but nothing abnormal, or at least, unexplainable. He was sure the problem was more common than people thought, because no-one ever talked about it. He was quite normal.


Bob woke on a saturated towel. The garbage bag prevented the pee soaking into the mattress, and his hip was in a shallow pool of pee. Gingerly, Bob climbed out of bed, and was trying to pull the mass of wet toweling and plastic off the bed when Eva woke up. She didn’t say anything; she just looked at Bob.

‘I’ll call Sally after breakfast,’ she said. ‘I think you should take the day off, too. I’m sure Sal will see us straight away, and I think you might need a rest day. You keep saying how stressed you are at work. I think that’s what might be behind this, actually.’

Bob shrugged. He’d accepted that this would happen as soon as he woke up and realized his predicament. Anyway, he thought, a day off work was a good idea. He had plenty of underlings who could look after things.

‘You’ve got some new underwear in your drawer,’ said Eva as Bob emerged from the shower. ‘Without any stains on the front. I suggest you wear those to see Sally.’

Bob grunted in reply. What guy didn’t have a few marks on his underpants?

‘I’m not going to strip at the doctor’s,’ he said.

‘You don’t know,’ said Eva in response.

Bob opened his sock drawer and took out a pair of bright white underpants.

There wasn’t much conversation on the way to the clinic, and soon enough, Bob found himself sitting in Sally’s small consulting room. He was happy enough to let Eva do the talking. Bob simply felt embarrassed.

Eva described what had happened. Bob made his excuses.

‘OK,’ said Sally, a non-nonsense woman a few years older than Eva and Bob. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

Eva had worked with Sally a few years before, and the two had got along well. Sally had been their local doctor ever since.

Bob stood up, not sure what Sally wanted.

‘Pants off, pleased,’ said Sally.

Bob undid his belt and dropped his pants to his ankles.

‘Right off, please,’ said Sally.

Bob stepped out of his pooled pants and stood in his shirt, with his hands in front of him. Sally stepped forward and moved his hands aside.

‘A little damp, I see,’ she said, her latex-gloved fingers touching the front of Bob’s underpants where a dark patch about the size of an orange disfigured the new white cotton.

‘That’s normal,’ said Bob defensively. ‘It happens to everyone.’

Sally didn’t answer, She looked quickly at Eva.

‘When was the last time you used the bathroom?’ she asked.

‘This morning,’ said Bob. ‘It’s just a bit of, you know, dampness,’

‘Do you always know when you need to use the bathroom?’ asked Sally.

‘Of course,’ said Bob.

‘Except at night,’ offered Eva.

This is excruciating, thought Bob.

‘We’ll get on that,’ said Sally. ‘Now, Bob, I want you to take off your underwear.’

Bob groaned.

‘OK,’ he said, and complied.

Normally, Bob wouldn’t have minded some woman asking him to strip. But this reminded him of going to the doctor’s with his mother when he was a child. He was glad he didn’t have an erection.

Sally had a good look and feel, asking Bob about his habits. They then talked about Bob’s bedwetting, and some ‘strategies’ for managing it.

‘It might not even happen again,’ said Bob as Sally was telling Eva about fluid regimes and even about protective bedwear.

‘We’ll see,’ said Sally. ‘We can’t be too optimistic, given your history.’

‘My history?’ said Bob, glaring at Eva. ‘Did you…?’

‘Bob, it’s in your medical history,’ said Sally. ‘Which I have. Your family doctor was very thorough.’

‘Christ,’ said Bob.

‘Bob, this is for your benefit,’ said Eva. ‘Try to be adult about this.’

‘I am being adult,’ said Bob crossly.

Sally seemed to ignore him, and continued talking to Eva.

‘I’ll put these in a plastic bag,’ said Sally, picking up Bob’s damp underpants. ‘I have some disposable pants he can wear home.’

Great, thought Bob.

Sally produced a white papery looking garment. She handed it to Bob, who put the pants on with obvious distaste. He pulled them up to his waist.

‘They’re huge,’ he complained, looking down at his encased loins.

‘They’re full cut for maximum protection,’ said Sally. ‘If you need it. Now, I’d like to see you both again in a week. I’d get a plastic sheet for the bed, too,’ she advised Eva. ‘The drug store down the street has them.’

There wasn’t much more to be said. Bob was glad to pull his trousers over the big white underpants. They weren’t just huge, they were made of layers, Bob thought. Like those old people’s pants. He would change as soon as he got home, he thought.

‘Now, Bob,’ said Sally, turning in the swivelling chair she now sat in, opposite Eva and Bob, who were both seated in slightly plainer chairs.

‘When you wet during the day, do you get much warning?’ she asked him.

‘Well,’ said Bob, it’s just very slight dripping, after a pee, you know. Like that,’ said Bob, hoping that would satisfy Sally’s humiliating curiosity.

‘Any involuntary dampness is clinically wetting,’ Sally assured him. ‘So do you get any warning before your daytime accidents?’

Bob was feeling angry. They weren’t ‘daytime accidents’, they were minor, insignificant… things, thought Bob, searching for some noun that didn’t give what was happening any status. Christ, he thought, he couldn’t even refer to it in his own head b any name other than ‘that thing’ or just ‘that’.

‘I wouldn’t call them accidents,’ Bob said firmly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Sally. ‘Do you mean to wet during the day sometimes?’

Bob was taken aback. Sally sounded perfectly serious. What really shocked Bob was some little part of him, some distant, high pitched voice, was shouting ‘Yes! Yes!’

‘Of course not,’ said Bob.

He almost felt the little figure in his head who had been shouting turn away in silence, and start to walk into the thickening fog that was developing around the little person. ‘Little person,’ Bob thought. ‘Odd. I wonder what that means, if anything?’

‘I see,’ said Sally. ‘They’re still clinically ‘daytime accidents’. Now, with what Eva has told me about your recent behaviour, wetting the bed at night and denying you have a problem - but we’ll talk about that - I’ll combine all those factors to give you a diagnosis.’

‘Behaviour?’ Bob interrupted. ‘It’s not behaviour, Sally, it’s just, just a thing that happens sometimes. It’s not serious. I’ve had it before.’

Instantly, Bob regretted what he had said. ‘I’ve had it before.’ Why non earth did he say that? Both women were looking at him. ‘They both know anyway,’ Bob thought crossly to himself. 'What’s the big deal? Apart from trying to super embarrass him, and he doubted they would do that. At least not both together. And not Eva, thought Bob. Probably not. Would she, he wondered. For the first time, he felt a little scared of his wife. What did she think of what was going on? Every day this week he had ended up with damp underpants. Quite damp, a couple of times. He had been lucky to get his trousers in the wash without Eva noticing. Although this morning she seemed to suspect something.

Bob had wet the bed again last night, but that wasn’t the important bit. When Bob came out of the shower, he found Eva holding the jeans he had been wearing the day before.

‘Honey, these smell very badly of pee,’ Eva said. ‘I’m going to wash them. I noticed it after you’d gone to bed last night. You’d soaked these jeans right down both thighs. No wonder you rushed in, then played computer games until it was dark, then tried to sneak these into the laundry basket. I found them in there this morning.’

Bob had protested, but Eva had made it a rule now that Bob was to change his trousers every day, while his previous day’s clothing were being washed. Bob objected strongly. He’d had a couple of slightly more serious ‘things’ happen in the last few days, but there were good reasons each time, and the other times were just what always happened. So why make a big deal of it and say my pants need washing every day because, something happen?

Eva had just shrugged, so Bob supposed the rule still stood. He had got used to Eva’s rules. She would only make a rule like that if she really thought it was more than just a slight blip in what had been happening for ages, Bob reasoned. Well, off and on, for ages, he thought. He had been properly out of diapers in the day and night just after he turned 10. That wasn’t unheard of, surely. Then at 20, he had a couple of weeks of serious bedwetting and real accidents in the daytime, which was a bit unusual, admittedly. Bob remembered how scared he had felt at the time, and how hard he had fought against the problem. It had gone away after a few weeks, but maybe it was back, for a few days anyway, thought Bob. He just had to get through a short time of this. Eva would eventually forget about it, if it bothered her at all, and all would be well.

‘Bob?’ Sally was asking him. ‘Where were you? You just drifted off while I was talking to you!’

Bob felt oddly vulnerable. He looked at Sally.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘I was saying, Bob, that considering all the facts, a sound diagnosis isn’t hard to arrive at,’ said Sally.

‘I could have told you that,’ said Bob cheerfully. ‘So hurry up, Sally, I’ve got things to do.’

Bob looked at Eva for confirmation. It had taken this doctor’s appointment, to have been dragged to a medical clinic to have some medical friend of Eva’s hear all about his most intimate things, all confessed while standing naked in front of this professional sort of psychologist or whatever she was specialising in after working at the same hospital in which Eva had been engaged to advise on catering.

Anyway, Bob was now back in charge. It was all bullshit and not serious. Bob sat back to wait for Sally’s diagnosis.

‘Bob!’ said Eva. ‘You don’t speak to Sally like that!’

Bob felt himself flinching the straightened his back. He apologized again. This was demeaning, and he couldn’t wait to leave.

‘Eva,’ Sally said, ‘I’m classifying Bob as a bedwetter, with mild daytime incontinence. No faecal incontinence at present. My recommendation is for Bob to wear diapers at night, and query his need for at least pullups during the day. I want to trial some unisex training pants during the daytime, starting now. Also query Bob taking long service leave, leave of absence, or a more permanent adjustment in his employment. And I’ll need to see you both in a week,’ concluded Sally, closing her file and standing up.

‘Thank you, Sally,’ said Eva.

‘This is crap,’ said Bob. ‘Eva, we’re going.’

Bob didn’t like the way Sally had addressed her ‘diagnosis’, which was crap, to Eva and not to him. He stood up and went to take Eva by the arm, but she stepped back.

‘No, Bob, I don’t think it is,’ said Eva with a seriousness that shocked Bob.

‘The other two adults in this room, Bob,’ are as aware as you are of your problems. But only two of the three adults here are admitting that there are any problems at all.’

‘There aren’t any problems,’ said Bob.

Sally answered him by moving towards him, and reached out to his belt.

‘My God,’ thought Bob, then remembered that Sally was a doctor and probably did that all day. Sally rapidly had Bob’s pants unbuckled, unzipped and around his ankles. Bob stiffened as she felt his underpants, without the latex glove on the time. Bob could feel it now, too.

‘You are quite wet, Bob,’ said Sally, squeezing Bob’s genitals gently but firmly though his wet underpants. Bob looked down to see a few drips hit the industrial carpet and make tiny wet patches before disappearing as the surrounding fibres wicked the moisture away. The few drops continued for a few seconds before becoming a stream. Bob could do nothing about it.

‘It’s OK, honey,’ Eva was saying soothingly.

Bob needed her assurance. He was fighting hard not to cry. He had been trying to ignore the fear that it might be serious, and now it seemed that perhaps it was. For today, anyway, he thought. It will pass. Probably, he admitted to himself, then he felt himself blacking out, or something.

Some time later, Bob was surprised to find himself sitting on the floor.

‘Welcome back,’ Sally was telling him.

Bob tried to think what had happened, but couldn’t recall anything.

‘You more or less collapsed, Bob,’ said Eva.

‘We know you put up a struggle against your situation, honey,’ said Eva, but you just couldn’t cope. You started crying and you couldn’t tell us what was wrong…’

‘You couldn’t verbalise,’ said Sally.

Bob couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘You’d wet quite a lot, honey’ said Eva. ‘Well before you started getting upset. You didn’t even notice you were doing it, but we did. You were squirming as you talked, then you stopped squirming and went on getting upset as if nothing had happened.’

‘Which along with everything else makes you clinically a bedwetter with some daytime incontinence, and part of the treatment for both is the wearing of protective clothing in addition to other management strategies. Eva will explain more about that to you when she gets you home,’ said Sally.

Bob really did feel like crying. Either this was a very bad dream, or he had relapsed again, and worse than he remembered when he was 20. This could take two weeks to go, like it did then! He recalled it getting so bad that he had to leave his share house and move back home with his mother, who put him in diapers day and night, which he was sure made things worse. Eventually, he seemed to almost will himself out of it. And this was only about day two this time. Or day three, perhaps. With good excuses almost every time, he told himself. But now, he didn’t even know he had peed, and he couldn’t even stop when he was peeing his pants in front of two women, one of them his wife.

Bob suddenly felt freezing cold. His back was cold. Bob didn’t have to turn to know who or what was behind him. He saw who it was quite clearly in some sort of compelling mental hologram. Standing behind Bob as he sat on the floor between the two women, was the child he’d heard so often, but had never seen so close.

A pudgy face, with red cheeks and framed by blonde curls, seemed right in his face.

‘You’re a baby!’ the apparition shouted at Bob. He felt the child’s fizzing breath and shivered.

‘I’m not a baby,’ said Bob, almost crying.

‘Shh,’ said Eva. ‘We know you’re not. Not really. But you are having a few problems, honey, and we want to deal with them in the best way possible.’

Bob was shocked that he had spoken aloud. He felt Sally release her grip. He realized too that he had finally stopped peeing.

‘What’s happening to me!’ Bob asked himself. ‘Am I going insane?’

‘Bob, we’re here to help,’ said Sally. ‘My diagnosis, which is correct, by the way, has probably given you a shock. You’re probably asking yourself all sorts of dire questions. Am I going mad? Even, should I commit suicide? But asking those questions is a waste of time, Bob. You are not mad or going mad, and your life is not and will not be so bad that you would ever want to end it.’

Bob was silent. How did Sally know what he was thinking? He realised that he could not help but trust her. He really did have problems. The treatment was not anything Bob would ever want, but it was the best way of dealing with this. Sally said ‘protective clothing’. That he needed it. She meant diapers. He had to wear them now. He needed them.

That conclusion thudded in Bob’s brain. ‘I need diapers,’ he told himself several times. What a shocking thing to say. To have to do! ‘I need to wear a diaper,’ he told himself. He felt Sally’s hand in his arm.

‘Yes, honey, but it may not be for all that long. I have some pants for you to wear home, and Eva knows what to do about your clothing after that. Belinda has some underwear and pants for you in the next room,’ Sally said.

Bob was confused. He wasn’t sure at all what was going on. He didn’t even know when he was speaking aloud or just thinking. He needed to wear a diaper now, that was obvious. But there was something else that was concerning him. For the life of him, Bob couldn’t think what it was. He thought it had been important, but it probably wasn’t. He let Sally take his hand and guide him into the next room. Then he remembered something. It wasn’t the thing he was looking for, but it was something.

‘Eva,’ he said accusingly, ‘Have you been talking to Sally about this without telling me?’

Eva looked steadily at Bob.

‘Bob, of course I have been talking to Sally. Why shouldn’t I? My husband of 30 years old starts wetting the bed and wets in the daytime too, and is childish enough about it to try to hide his wet pants by sneaking them into the wash, and in general denies that he is what he is,’ she said. Bob said nothing. He looked at the floor, and let Belinda pull him gently into the next room and close the door. Bob only realised he was crying when Belinda started tenderly wiping his face.

‘OK, mister,’ Belinda said. ‘One dry diaper, coming up!’

Bob stopped crying. He couldn’t help but giggle at Belinda’s pantomime way of expressing herself. She was a big woman, with big soft breasts - Bob saw that immediately and was finding it hard to think of anything else. He tried to suppress his giggle, but only succeeded in sounding even more pathetic.

Bob really was wet, and Belinda helped him onto a long, low table. She took a few minutes before Bob was trussed up in a thick, taped diaper. Bob didn’t speak during the procedure. He did exactly as he was told, and when Belinda had him in his training pants, she produced a pair fo pael yellow track pants the clinic kept for such emergencies. She tugged them up high around Bob’s waist.

Bob soon found himself back in Sally’s consulting room, holding his wife’s hand and politely saying goodbye to Sally.

‘And say thank you to Sally for lending you such a nice pair of pants, please Bob,’ Eva said.

What’s the use, Bob thought.

‘Thank you, Sally, for giving me such yummy pants!’ Bob said, then let his mouth hang open.

How could he be talking like that? He looked down at his pants. He thought he could notice the slight extra thickness of the training pants. And the pants weren’t yummy. They were a sort of icky yellow. He swung around Eva with one step and wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t know what else to do.

Bob was acutely aware of the pants as they walked past the people in the waiting room. Bob was glad that he didn’t see anyone in the waiting room who had seen him go into the doctor’s office wearing the trousers Eva was now carrying in a plastic bag. Except the receptionist, he thought with a groan to himself. The girl smiled warmly at Bob as they passed her. He glanced away, and hurried through the door.

‘Come on, baby,’ Eva said, taking Bob’s hand as he stood looking vague at the entrance to the clinic. He trailed her to the carpark, and got into the passenger side as Eva held the door open. They drove in relative silence for the first half hour of the 50 minute journey. At the half hour point, Eva stopped at a 24 hour bakery. Bob had realised he was wet as he got out of the car. The shop was small, busy and not well lit. Eva had insisted he come into the shop with her, and Bob had felt safe enough taking the chance. However, he took Dr Sally’s advice and held on to Eva’s hand as they entered the busy shop.

Bob was actually glad of the training pants as he followed Eva through the shop. He could feel their wet weight. It was a strange feeling, but Bob understood that it was nothing to be ashamed of now. As Sally had told him, it was a ‘clinical’ thing.

Eva bought her items, and the couple left the shop without incident.

‘I think I’m a bit wet,’ said Bob quietly as they returned to the car.

‘I know, honey. I’ll change you when we get home,’ Eva had replied.

She’s pretty calm about it, thought Bob. I wonder how she knew?

By the time they arrived home, Bob was feeling keen to get out of the cold, clammy underpants. At least he’d feel normal again.

Eva had other ideas. Against Bob’s strong objections, she put him in another pair of the damned training pants, citing doctor’s orders.

‘Don’t you remember what Sally said?’ Eva asked him.

So much had been said, and Bob was so annoyed, and then had blacked out, that he hardly remembered anything Sally had said. He wasn’t usually so out of it, he thought, but these were unusual times.

‘Not really,’ Bob said quietly.

‘Oh, Bob,’ said Eva. ‘She wants you to wear these training pants during the day for a while, and keep track of your daytime wetting.’

‘It’s not daytime wetting!’ said Bob.

‘Bob, I haven’t got time for this,’ said Eva. ‘We will follow Sally’s instructions, so, leg in please.’

‘I can do it,’ said Bob, trying to take the offending pants from Eva.

‘No, Bob,’ Eva said. ‘I’m in charge of this. And I don’t want a fight tonight, either.’

Bob cringed. He remembered at last what Sally had said. ‘Incontinence pants at night.’ They weren’t what he was wearing now. He had a vision of his mother putting him in his thick nighttime diapers. He kept quiet and let Eva pull up his training pants, then he stepped back into the awful yellow track pants. The sooner they were well worn and in the wash to go back to Sally, the better, he thought.


The previous night was something of a blur. Bob had endured the ignominy of being taped into a thick diaper by Eva, but at least he felt more comfortable now than he had waking up on the wet towels and the garbage bag.

‘How are you feeling, honey?’ asked Eva.

She was already up, and Bob rolled over. He knew he was wet.

‘Hop up, and into the shower, then I’ll get you ready for the day,’ Eva said. ‘Are you wet?’ she added.

‘Yes,’ said Bob.

Eva said nothing, but pulled back the bedclothes and untapped his diaper while Bob lay back on the bed. Free at last, Bob got into the shower.

Wearing the training pants under his jeans was an odd feeling, but Bob soon forgot about it. Eva suggested that he do some gardening, and he spent the next hour happily weeding. He had always found it a very therapeutic activity.

To be continued.