Amy sat in her last period class, watching the clock move so slowly it seemed that the day would never end. All she knew was that she really needed it to end so that she could go to the bathroom. The substitute teacher had flatly refused to let her go, even though she had pleaded that her situation was urgent. Amy looked up at the old witch as the clock continued to sit dormant. She crossed her legs to ward off the pressure.

Finally, the period was over. Amy had just enough time to dash into the one close washroom before her bus would leave. She raced down the hall to the door, and was nearly knocked to the floor by her own force as she ran into it; it was locked. A sign on the wall nearby read, “Rest Room Out of Order.”

Amy shot a glance at the clock in the hall; there was no way that she would ever make it to the other girls’ room in time. She would just have to hold it until she got home.

On the way home, Amy sat in her seat on the bus squirming, trying not to think about the pressure that was constantly on her mind (and in her bladder). Only a little bit more to go, and she would be home. Just a few minutes longer, just after this next–

The bus slowed down suddenly in a place it did not usually stop. It came to a rest, still miles from her door, and Amy looked out at the line of stopped cars ahead of her, knowing instantly that she was in big trouble. The accident had stalled traffic for a mile, and the bus, along with all of the other vehicles, had to crawl past it in a single lane. Amy crossed her legs and pressed them together, praying that there would only be one accident on this road this afternoon.

By the time she got to her stop, Amy was indeed in desperate condition. She knew as soon as she got up and uncrossed her legs that it would be a miracle if she made it home. She flew out the door and began to run as fast as she could toward her house, feeling the pressure build with every step. About half way to the door, she lost control and wet herself completely.

Amy stopped running, devastated by what had happened. She had not wet herself since she was a small child, and now, in the eighth grade, she stood in the street near her home in a soaking wet pair of pants. Her bladder deflated itself completely, and Amy slowly finished her sodden trip to her door.

When she got into the house, she found her mother in an awful mood. She had been fighting with Amy’s little sister, Julie, the entire day. Julie was four and had been slow to toilet train, and her mother had apparently been cleaning up puddles all over the house. When she saw Amy walk in with wet pants, there was no reasoning with her.

“I don’t believe this!” she screamed. “It isn’t bad enough that I have to clean up one baby; now I have to deal with two!”

Amy tried to explain, but her mother would have none of it.

“Get to your room right now, young lady, and take off those wet things. I just put your sister back in diapers for wetting herself, and the same thing is going to happen to you.”

Her mother slammed the door as she walked away, leaving Amy alone at the foot of the stairs. Stunned, she turned and climbed to her room.

When Amy had taken off her wet clothes and thrown them into the hamper, her mother walked in. She was carrying several thick cloth diapers and a pair of Julie’s plastic panties. Amy protested, but her mother was determined. With skilled hands, she pinned the diapers onto her oldest daughter and pulled up the panties. Julie wore a very large size and Amy was pretty small; the panties fit her well.

“You will wear these for the evening as punishment for wetting your pants,” her mother said. “And don’t you dare touch them. If I think you have tried to take them off, you will wear them to school tomorrow with a very short skirt so everyone will know.”

Amy was left alone in her diapers. They felt odd to her, both foreign and somehow familiar, uncomfortable yet oddly comforting. She was not sure she liked the feeling, but she wss not sure she hated it either. But she did know that she was not going to wet them.

After a couple of hours, though, Amy was jumping up and down trying not to go. Finally, she gave in to the inevitable and sat down to wet the diapers.

Amy stood in front of her mirror, looking at the figure before her: a child with a face like hers, but clearly much younger, a little girl in obviously wet diapers. Slowly she focused on the dark area in the crotch where the wetness was. When she concentrated, she found she did not dislike the feeling; it was warm and satisfying. She reached her hand down to touch the wet spot, and felt a pleasant sensation she had never felt before. Slowly, she began to rub herself there, and the feeling became even more pleasurable. Soon she was experiencing the first orgasm of her young life.

Later, as she lay in the dark of her room, her mother came in carrying more diapers. She must have figured that Amy would be wet, and she spoke to her as if she were a little baby.

“Does mommy’s little girl need changing?” she asked as she turned on the light. “We don’t want to get a diaper rash, do we?”

She slipped her hand into the crotch of the panties. Finding them wet, she slipped them off, cooing at her daughter in a babyish tone. She unpinned the diapers and dropped them onto the floor. Lifting Amy’s legs, she slid another bunch of diapers beneath her and pinned them on.

“Good night, sweetheart,” she said as she left the room with the wet diapers and turned out the lights.

Amy lay on her bed, and realized that she missed the feeling of the warm, wet diapers between her legs. After thinking about it for only a moment, she strained just a bit and soaked the new ones as she had done earlier. Then she rolled over and went to sleep.

In the morning, as promised, Amy’s mother let her out of the diapers. But Amy had enjoyed the feeling. And her mother found that, at the age of thirteen, her daughter was suddenly developing control problems. Once or twice a week, she would have another “accident.” Each time, her mother would punish her with diapers. At times, Amy would find herself diapered for several days–or even weeks–at a time.

As she grew older, however, her mother tired of the routine. Julie had long since been out of diapers, and Amy’s mother decided that she didn’t want to do them any more. Amy found herself more and more responsible for her own changes and cleaning. That and the teasing of her little sister finally convinced her that she should give up on this silly game once and for all.

It was when Amy was away at college that diapers re-entered her life. She started dating a guy who, it turned out, was a bedwetter. When she discovered that he wore diapers to bed, all of her old feelings were renewed. She dropped a few hints, and soon found herself sharing an apartment with him: two big babies living in the same space.

Every once in a while, Amy visits her mother. She hasn’t ever told her that she still wears diapers. Julie knows; she comes over at times to babysit for her sister and brother-in-law. She enjoys watching them as they play in their playpen together, and she doesn’t even mind the occasional messy diaper. After all, what are sisters for?