All Part Of The Plan, Ch. 1

All Part of the Plan, Ch. 1

This caption is part of a series I'm lucky enough to write with the great @boysrbabies! Hope everyone enjoys it as much as me!

“Babe, look at me! You know I love you, you don’t have to be so embarrassed! It’s just a diaper!”

Easy for you to say.

I never thought I’d be in this situation. But here I am, being comforted by my girlfriend after putting me in my first diaper since I was potty trained.

It’s so humiliating.

This diaper, this horrible conversation is the culmination of the most embarrassing two weeks of my life. I have no idea how it got to this point. It all happened so fast.

All I know is ever since she woke me up that first morning in a puddle, my bladder control has cratered. I haven’t woken up to a dry bed since. Stripping the sheets and making the walk of shame to the laundry room became horribly routine.

As humiliating as it is waking up to a wet bed—and boy, is it humiliating—it was just the beginning. My life got much, much worse.

Turns out, peeing yourself in the middle of a bar, surrounded by your friends, makes bedwetting seem fun. I didn’t even know I had to go. One minute, I was sitting down, drinking a beer. The next, I’m looking around, wondering who spilled their beer.

At least, I thought someone spilled until I realized my lap wasn’t cold—it was warm. If I know anything about beer, it’s that beer is not warm. And then it hit me: I, ostensibly an adult, just peed my pants in public.

My girlfriend seemed to put the pieces together before I did. Maybe she saw the look of terror on my face. I don’t know. Luckily for me, she sprang into action, “accidentally” spilling her drink on me to give me an excuse for my now-soaked jeans before telling our friends that she was a little too tipsy, giving us a reason to leave.

I expected her to be angry or embarrassed on the drive home, but she wasn’t. Quite the opposite, really. To be honest, she almost seemed…excited? I don’t know. My wet pants were all I could think about.

She spent the entire drive assuaging my crushed ego, convincing me what had happened was not embarrassing, that it was just one accident, and that it was probably just stress. She promised she’d do whatever it took to help.

I have no idea what I’d have done without her there for me. She never complained about waking up to a wet bed, assuring me that it wasn't a big deal and that she would never judge me for any medical problem like bedwetting or daytime accidents. She will love me no matter what.

She was her cheerful, loving self even after my accident in her brand-new car. She calmly assured me that she understood it was an accident. She would take care of it; nothing to worry about. I shouldn’t worry or feel bad, she loved me all the same. Though she did make me sit in the back seat after.

But even with her promises that she'd love me no matter how many more accidents I had, I couldn’t shake the terror growing inside me. How could she love me when I’m suddenly peeing myself like an unpotty-trained toddler? She deserves to be with a man, not a baby.

I knew exactly what would happen if I didn’t get my accidents under control. And it terrified me.

She never said the word “diapers,” but I knew what she meant when she said we would have to find a “solution” if my accidents continued. As loving and supportive as she was, there was a definite tone of finality when she said it. She was serious. I’d be in diapers very soon unless something drastically changed—and fast.

Which brings me to the diaper she just finished taping on me.

As always, she knew what happened before I did. One second, I was watching the movie, the next I heard: “Babe, you had another accident, didn’t you?”

My cheeks burned so red you could have lit a cigarette off it.

She sighed, as if summoning her strength. “I know you’ve been trying so hard to stop having accidents, but it doesn't look like they’re stopping anytime soon. It’s time you start wearing diapers, babe.”

I sat there, too stunned to speak, as she went into our bedroom without another word. She returned a minute later with the most gut-wrenching armful of supplies I’ve ever seen.

I could have sworn there was a hint of a smile on her face, though admittedly, I was distracted by the thick, poofy diaper in her hand. But it wasn’t just a diaper. She also had a changing pad, wipes, powder, and rash cream.

She was prepared for this…

Thoughts raced in my mind. Why did she have everything ready? When did she even get everything?

"Down on the changing pad," she demanded, the authority in her voice unmistakable. She wasn’t asking.

My pants were off in a flash, wordlessly and unceremoniously stripped away.

She went to work putting me in a diaper with ruthless, expert efficiency. Everything she did was purposeful—this was not her first time putting a diaper on someone.

The implication terrified me.

“All done, baby!” she said proudly, “is your diaper comfortable?”

I’ve never been less comfortable in my life. And did she just call me baby?

She playfully tapped my diaper, forcing my attention to it. The diaper was much thicker than I ever expected, every crinkle booming in my mind as I nervously fidgeted.

How did it come to this?

There was no dignity in this position. Laying on my back, diaper fully exposed, with my girlfriend towering over me, kneeling between my legs and admiring her handiwork.

“Awww, don’t look so grumpy! You’re going to love your diapies, you'll see!”

Something about the way she said diaper—and the triumph in her voice—filled me with dread.

Did she want this?