Story #84: Makeshift Make-Believe

Story #84: Makeshift Make-Believe (Content Tags: Messy Goodnites and briefs, bedwetting, slice-of-life, protagonist who likes diapers) Tate had known for all his life that he had this interest, from the moment that his memories had become solid, he could recall feeling this way. It wasn't something that he'd thought was peculiar in his early childhood, but as he got older, it became more apparent that his intrigue was less than typical. Diapers. He absolutely loved diapers. The mere mention of them would capture his undivided attention, and the sight of them would bring color to his cheeks. Their appearance was nothing short of perfection: the wrinkles and creases, the hulking padding, the taut way that they hugged around the side of the waist, the ruffling of the leg-guard... They were a work of art, and then there was what they represented; their symbolic image was just as important as their corporeal one, and a diaper at its core indicated a sense of helplessness. They also symbolized immaturity, idiocy, dirtiness, and innocence. For Tate, he could appreciate each of these elements alone, and his primary favor was fickle among them. At a certain age, he'd learned to keep this to himself. Talking about such juvenile things like diapers, and the various states they could be in, was seen as uncouth among his socially evolving peers. He had to evolve too, and that meant dropping the topic, besides the occasional lapse in control where he found a joke or an insult to weave it into. But while he could keep his mouth shut, he couldn't keep his mind from wanting what he wanted. He could recollect long sessions of imaginative play, alone in his bedroom with whatever briefs he thought looked the most like a diaper, pretending for hours on end that he was a big baby to be scorned or coddled. Several classes throughout grade school had him drifting into daydreams of diapered degradation and demotion. Diaper commercials left him squirming, and 'humorous tropes' of them in cartoons left him always hoping that he'd catch those particular episodes in reruns. He'd watched in jealousy over younger cousins or neighbors that still wore them, strutting and parading their allowance to still have them, while he could only nibble at his thumb and wonder if the same ones would fit him. They had, at least at certain points. From as early as the age of four, only six months from his departure of them, Tate was pilfering his first Pampers. Out of diaper bags, out of storage, out of nursery classes, and once even out of the trashcan. They would fit pretty well for a while, and he'd eventually get caught (early on, at least) or he'd eventually have to discard the stolen garment to keep his secret safe. Luvs, Huggies, Pampers, Pull-Ups... The chance hadn't arisen often, and Tate wasn't usually bold enough to act on the impulse, but the scattered times he had were some of the most defining memories of his young life. However, the time eventually came when it was getting more difficult to fit the smaller sizes; sure, he could put them on, since his frame wasn't all that broad, but they were less comfortable than they'd once been. They felt too puny. The only fortune there was that the diaper companies had at least continued to push the size envelope as Tate had grown, so he'd seen a spot of improvement. Still. The diapers he'd had the blessed chance to put on, from the age of four to eight years later, numbered around ten. For how deep his interest was, the slice of his life's pie that had him padded was dreadfully minuscule. The last time he'd had the chance had been shortly after turning ten, and since then, the opportunity hadn't presented itself. His only outlets were the occasional drawing or fanfiction that he'd make and then have to hide; the closest thing to a diaper he had access too was to wear as many pairs of his underpants as possible, stuffing random pairs with toilet paper to help simulate the bulk better. He'd stand in front of his mirror and admire the handiwork of his makeshift make-believe, giving his 'diaper' a firm pat and sticking his thumb in his mouth. When he was feeling exceptionally bold, or perhaps stupid, he'd go as far as to use his 'diaper' as its intended function. His undies were already stained from bedwetting and poor toileting etiquette (not to mention a sensitive tummy), so a few extra ones wouldn't cause any alarm in the wash. The bedwetting itself, as well as the less frequent 'tummy troubles', were actually a sort of cognitive dissonance within him. One would imagine the connection would be obvious, that he'd think about his overnight issue or the times he'd soiled himself by accident, but they were completely divorced from his diaper fixation. It made sense, in a strange way of its own. While his playtime in diapers was a choice, his history of accidents were not; waking up wet or having to waddle to the bathroom with poop in your pants was the gritty reality that fantasy painted over. He enjoyed it when it was under his careful control, when it didn't actually impact his real life; when there were no actual consequences. There was irony there, besides the obvious; Tate genuinely had maladies that would be best remedied by the protection of diapers, but his parents never put him in them, and he never once considered that he should need to wear them for his issues. Endless mornings of waking up to wet sheets, chafed thighs, and an all too familiar odor of ammonia, and he never connected his fantasies to his reality. The incongruent position was muddied further by the aspect of humiliation that he enjoyed so much with diapers. So many of his daydreams, even the earliest ones, had him left in a state of diapered shame, and yet he'd been too embarrassed to ever talk to his parents about possibly getting something for his bedwetting. It went back to the conflict of fantasy and reality; he would lose control once he made anything 'real'. So, that's where it all left him: standing in front of his mirror, while his parents were out running errands and his older sister was out at a friend's house, with a dozen or more pairs of TP-stuffed briefs. Sucking on a pacifier that he'd stolen and sanitized, tilting his head behind him so that he could watch himself as he began to strain his bowels. It was such an infrequent delight, that he really had to work against his natural instincts when he finally had the chance to do this. He had to work much harder to charm the brown snake into slithering out and into the pillowy seat of his homemade 'diaper'. It was always well worth the effort, especially when he got to see his backside bulge outward with the infantile deed, and then he'd reward his labor of love by roleplaying the flavor of the week. What would it be this time? Caught by a bully? Humiliated by the teacher in front of the whole class? Or maybe what his life might be under a tyrannical nanny? He was able to melt into his headspace so easily, his imagination was extremely well trained. He'd sit and mash his load once he was too entranced to turn backwards, which would inevitably make clean-up a Herculean effort, and would later warrant a comment from his mom about how he needed to be better at keeping his undies cleaner. Eventually, a glance at the clock would tell him it was time to shut everything down, and he'd go through the less fun part of erasing evidence of what he'd done. The first pair of briefs that he'd put on in the stack would be trashed carefully (in many, many plastic grocery bags), the rest would be thrown in the wash with his wet bedsheets, and he'd liberally spray air freshener around the vicinity. It really just wasn't enough though. It was but a crude facsimile, a pitiful imitation, of what he knew the real thing was. It wasn't until the weeks to come that he'd concoct a better fix to placate his frenzied diaper obsession, and it would finally come from the bedwetting angle that he'd ignored for so long. Tate was due to go on a little trip over Spring break, to a little camp that was hosted by the church he was forced to attend. He'd be sharing a cabin with a dozen other boys around his age, which would mean there would be no hiding it if he had an overnight accident. He was genuinely caught between the pragmatism of actually needing protection to guard his dignity and the consideration that this was his 'in' to finally having a fully sanctioned diaper of sorts. His mother's philosophy has generally been that something like diapers would extend the duration of bedwetting in a child, because it would make them complacent; this was a more traditionalist approach, and it wasn't backed by any hard evidence, but it was the primary reason that Tate had awoken to soggy sheets for all these years. A secondary consideration of hers was that it would be bad for his self-esteem, to suffer such an embarrassment as returning to the infancy of diapers, which was ironic when one considered the boy's proclivities. Even with that hardline stance, this trip gave room to wiggle. The woman was compassionate enough to understand that it would be humiliating for her son to be outed as a bedwetter in front of his Sunday school peers. So after an awkward heart-to-heart, where the boy could barely get the words out, she finally agreed to get him some Goodnites for the trip. It'd felt dreamlike, when he'd come home from school the week before the trip, and sitting on his bed was the blue package of them. He'd felt the plastic of the box before at the grocery store, when he'd run off to find some item on the list, and he'd intentionally detour down the diaper aisle, but now to give the package a squeeze in his own bedroom? It didn't feel real. His mother wanted him to try them on to make sure that they fit him, and he didn't need to be asked twice. Pulling them up and feeling the cushion pressing up against him, a big smile had plastered his face. He'd had to work to make his expression more neutral, when his mom asked him to come show her that they fit alright. That part had been less enjoyable, as it was another clash of fantasy and reality. Much like he hated for her to ask him whether or not he'd had an accident in bed, he felt a certain shame about having to present his padded posterior to her, for her to check whether it fit snugly or not. The one positive note was that she seemed more accepting of the Goodnite now, perhaps from seeing that it was similar to underpants, and also from the pride of her son being responsible enough to come to her about this in the first place. The garments were packed away in his bag, along with some big ziploc baggies for the wet ones to go in over the nights that he'd be spending away from home. Tate planned on being more indulgent than just using them as intended though, and he had snuck one on under his pants before getting on the bus to go to camp. That week saw him wearing the glorified Pull-Ups all day, every day. He wasn't confident enough to use them, except for the occasional naughty dribbling, and the more obvious overnight lapse of control; that was enough for him though, to simply feel them against his skin and to revel in the knowledge that he was a little 'diaper boy' and nobody else knew. Not even his best friend who had gone on the trip with him. It was disappointing to see the week come to an end, especially since he was convinced that his mom probably wouldn't allow him to stay in Goodnites at night from now on, except maybe for special instances. It wasn't a good sign that she had taken the rest of the package away after getting out enough for the trip. Like the bus ride there, he wore one on the ride back, and decided that with this last fresh pair of his, that he'd find an opportunity to use it to the maximum of its capacity. It wouldn't be until later in the following week, when he again had the house to himself, that he'd hole up in his room with the Goodnite that he'd stowed. Wetting it was simple, since that was already what he'd done with all the other pairs; what he really wanted to do was to poop in it, and so that was exactly what he did. He got himself in front of the mirror and smiled at the sight of the puffy bedwetter briefs; it was sad to see this last one go, but he'd give it a proper sendoff. Pushing with all the might his tiny body could muster, while his teeth clamped down on the bulb of his pacifier, he felt a loud wind blast the backside. Immediately he was able to drift into little-space, and he began to pretend that he was a dumb little pantsfiller that couldn't help what was happening. "Uh-oh! Me makin' poopies..!" He quietly announced behind the pacifier, and a log made a sluggish descent into the confines of the Goodnite. He excitedly watched in the mirror, really having to crane his neck to watch as the load made landfall and began to create a defining bulge in the seat. "B-big, big poopies...!" What could be better than this? It was everything he wanted, even if it had to be in this unimpressive and ephemeral format. Only midway through with soiling himself and he could already confirm that this was significantly better than the makeshift diapers he'd been relegated to for far too long. It was a high that he had to keep chasing. The deposit took a turn for the softer as he continued to push, and the hot poop was beginning to pile and spread much more than it had when it'd just been a firm steamer. He was far too diaper-brained to worry about the garment leaking, so he just proceeded with befouling himself freely. By the end of the smelly soiling, the Goodnite sagged and swelled with the smoldering mound of his disgraceful droppings. He groped the backside of it and smiled stupidly at the amazing sensation of a full 'diaper', and after setting down a towel, he sat down in the bubbling muck. It was a lot harder to give it up when it came time to clean himself off, but after a couple of wettings, the fully utilized trainer was beginning to leak down his thighs. So, begrudgingly, he went to shower off and then disposed of the poopy Goodnite in the same way he was accustomed to tossing out his messy briefs. The experience had clenched it for him; makeshift wouldn't cut it anymore for his make-believe. He was totally hooked on getting the real thing, the only persistent question would be 'how'?