Draw and everything by ConejoBlanco
That cat sure have a point in what she is saying here. But poor bunny seems like she have ended up wetting here underwear.
Potty rebels are still around making messes wherever they wants, like this bunny, whe just wants go in the blanket of her friend. :P
Draw and everything by ConejoBlanco
Maybe that was not the best place to let go and wet you underwear. It sure seems like the other bunny dont like that at all.
Looks like someone’s getting put back into diapers after soaking their big boy pants.
Text by ALittlePrince
Draw by Wen
Awww poor looks like ALittlePrince have woke up whit another night time accidents and this time his mother think it is time for him to get back into diapers again. Special during his sleep so the diaper can handle his bedwetting problems and the diaper helps his bed to stay dry and soft instead of being wet and cold. That most be match more nicer :)
Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
Mrs. Warren held out the clipboard for Doug to read, But Doug had no interest in reading the contract. It didn’t matter what it said: he had to sign it, and with any luck he wouldn’t have to honor it. It was immaterial what it said.
“I’ll sign it. It doesn’t matter. Just give me the pen, and let me out of here,” he said irritably.
Mrs. Warren smiled, and found a pen in her purse. She’d had a couple of boys like this. She certainly didn’t care whether they read the contract. For her it served as one of her backup weapons, in the unlikely event that her right to punish her boys as she saw fit was ever questioned. But in her three years at this job, through many hundreds of spankings and other punishments, she’d never had a boy seriously question her authority. Not after he understood about the pictures, and had thought through what making a formal complaint would mean. She knew that the police would have a hard time believing the story, and would likely end up harassing her client more than they would her. The newspapers, Mrs. Warren knew, would love to get a story like this one, and if they did, her career would be over, certainly, but so would the lives of her clients. Imagine an adult male allowing himself to be diapered and spanked repeatedly, allowing himself to be tied in his bathtub until he soiled his pants, allowing himself to be photographed in that state, even going shopping for diapers in the first place. Her clients had all considered the possibility, she was sure, and once they saw the absurdity of their case, and realized the implications of pressing charges, they swallowed their pride and behaved themselves like good little boys.
The contract was so that in the event that she enrolled a stupid or crazy client into her program (someone who *couldn’t* comprehend how damaging “coming out” would be to their lives), she could protect herself legally when he made the insane choice to sue. And it was another tool for her to use in coercing her boys: “Yes, I think you WILL bend yourself over my knee. I’ve got a signed agreement which I could have enforced by law if I wanted. Would you like the police to help me spank you?” It was as vain a threat, of course, as her boys’ threats to sue, for none of them, including Mrs. Warren, really wanted that much attention focused on their activities. But perhaps her boys didn’t know that.
At any rate, she simply smiled as she held the clipboard and pen so that Doug, in his bound state, could sign, which he did without so much as glancing over the page.
“I knew you’d be a good boy eventually,” Mrs. Warren said sweetly. “You will want to read that, perhaps after I’ve left. I will also leave a more detailed summary of the rules of the program with you so you can start learning, and obeying, them tonight. I advise you to read through it carefully, as you will be held accountable for all the numerous rules of your ICP, and I will start punishing you even tonight if you break any of them.”
Doug wasn’t really listening. Just nod at her, he thought to himself. Pretend like you care, and then she’ll leave, and you can figure out what to do to get out of this mess.
“Now, I just need to go over a couple of things with you before we get you cleaned up and into a nice, fresh diaper. I’ve had a look around your apartment, so I’m pretty sure of my facts, but I always like to confirm them with new clients. You work in the grad school’s lab in preparation for applying for their program next year. Is that right?”
Doug, as distracted as he was, was still shocked. This lady had been through his private things! He felt even more violated and vulnerable. What business was it of hers? Was there any limit to her intrusiveness?
Mrs. Warren *was* actually sure of her facts, and went through this presentation simply to scare her young charges. She wanted them to think that she knew everything and couldn’t be fooled. The reality, actually, wasn’t that much different. She took Doug’s expression of disbelief as evidence that she was having the desired effect.
“And you grocery shop every Sunday at `The Grocery Place?'” Doug could only nod dumbly, wondering how she could possibly know so much about him. (In fact, Mrs. Warren always marveled at how much could be learned about a person who kept receipts, as Doug did…)
She went on to `check’ with him about where he banked, rented videos, dry-cleaned. He simply nodded at each revelation, accepting this as evidence of how smart she was and how difficult getting out of this situation would be. He would have argued with her about her right to rifle through his apartment, but as he was still tightly bound, this wasn’t really the time.
This, of course, was all information she needed in order to keep track of Doug during his initial probation period. She would require him to let her know where he was at all times when he left the house, and she was adept at arranging for surrogate “babysitters” to keep eyes on him all over town. She didn’t need to ask about his drugstore, since he would now be shopping exclusively at The Drugstore, her employer.
And when she had gone over everything, she did finally release him. She undid his cuffs and removed the rope to the back beltloop of his jeans. Doug lowered his arms and just spent a moment savoring the feeling of blood in his hands again. Then he stood, and felt some not-quite-dry effluent slide down his pants leg and drop out onto the bathtub floor. Mrs. Warren made him remove his pants in the tub while she watched. Doug didn’t care. He assumed she wanted to watch in order to embarrass him some more, but he was past being embarrassed today. So he was caught off guard when he glanced up after pulling his filthy jeans off and saw a flash go off. Mrs. Warren was recording this moment with a small automatic camera, and had captured him as he stood in his brown-stained underpants with semisolid brown goo caked on his legs, and with his soaked jeans at his feet. He cared a little more about this, but not enough. It was done. He just wanted to shower.
She kept watching and got several more pictures as he peeled off his disgusting underpants, soaked socks, and his relatively clean shirt. She had him put his underpants in one small clear plastic baggy, and all the rest of his clothes into another larger one. She told him the larger bag would be available to him if he wanted to wash the contents later. He would not, however, see his abused underpants again. He was told he wouldn’t need to.
Then she observed his shower, and handed him a towel with which to dry himself. He felt much better, but still felt dazed as he followed Mrs. Warren into his bedroom, where he looked around as he stood there naked. He saw two large bags of disposable diapers and several other containers of what he took to be the stuffer pads. On his dresser were neatly stacked the contents of yet another bag of disposables, with shorter stacks of the stuffer pads next to them. His underwear drawer was slightly open, and he could see that it no longer contained his underwear, but was stuffed full of plastic panties. On his queen-sized bed was spread a large changing sheet, and a diaper and pad were already laid out on it, with lotion, vaseline, oil, and powder standing by and ready for his use. While he was still absorbing the transformation his room had undergone, Mrs. Warren instructed him to climb up on the changing pad and put on the diaper.
“I’ll just watch to make sure you do a good job. We don’t want leaks.”
As he walked to the bed, his hands attempting to hide his genitalia, his felt his face turn red. This was obviously more embarrassing than with Mrs. Sheffield in the store, not only because he was being watched, but because the observer had seen him wet and soil himself, and knew he needed to be in the diaper. *He* knew that he didn’t, or at least he thought he didn’t. And putting this diaper on felt to him an awful lot like giving up, which his pride made it difficult to do. But his practical side started talking, too: Look, it said. You’re not giving up. You’re actually tricking her by making her THINK you’re giving in. In fact you’re just trying to get her to leave, so that you can think clearly enough to figure a way out of this mess. You’ll win this game later, but to make it work, you’ve got to make her think you’re a “good little boy” by gritting your teeth and putting on this diaper.
So Doug slowly walked over to the bed and gingerly crawled up onto the changing pad, next to the open diaper. He looked doubtfully at the arrangement of powders and lotions next to him.
“It’s up to you,” Mrs. Warren said, reading his mind. “You have to care for your own skin. These are just possibilities. The only thing I require is that you use powder. Because I like the smell. You’ll appreciate it, too, once you get a little more experience with dirty diapers. So pile that on, but feel free to experiment with the rest of the stuff here.”
Doug didn’t want to use anything at all, but he obediently picked up the powder and sprinkled some on the open diaper, then set the bottle down next to it.
Mrs. Warren shook her head. “Nice try. Keep going with the powder. I want you to put it on yourself AND in the diaper, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Doug crinkled up his nose, but he obeyed. He shook out a lot of powder into his crotch, and onto his thighs, then onto the diaper. She made him rub it in, and add several more handfuls to his bottom and stomach. When he was covered in powder, and nearly choking from the sweet perfume, she told him to put the diaper on. He carefully slid it under himself. She showed him how to center it and then fasten it lying down, so it fit best. He stood up carefully and noted with dismay how bulky the diaper felt now. Mrs. Sheffield had been right: this was way too much diaper for him. He could hardly bring his legs together, and there was no doubt that it would show clearly under any of the clothes he presently owned. This could be very bad. He’d never be able to hide it. But he was chagrinned to recognize that he only had himself and his libido to blame.
Mrs. Warren, however, seemed pleased. She stuck fingers into his waist and legs, testing the fit, and patted him on the rump, pronouncing him well-diapered. “I knew you could do it yourself. You know, Mrs. Sheffield thinks you’re something of an imbecile, or at least a little slow. She thought you’d need a lot of help.” She winked at him. “But I know better. So I’m going to be watching you very carefully.”
Doug got a chill down his spine. She was on to him. She knew he would be scheming. It was eerie the way she seemed to read his mind. He’d have to be very clever. Perhaps he’d even have to play along for longer than he’d thought before trying to escape, so that she’d let down her guard.
“Now, come downstairs and see what I’ve got for you.” Mrs. Warren led him downstairs wearing only his diaper. In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door, revealing a gallon jug of what looked like milk. She pulled it out and poured him a large glass.
“The diaper juice from before is very mild, but it is very long-lasting. It would ordinarily keep you rather…runny, for several days. So I want you to drink some special milk I have made to help slow your bowels down and to replace your electrolytes. The quicker you drink this milk, and the more of it you drink, the quicker your diarrhea will stop. So if the diarrhea gets worse, you need to drink more milk to fight it. Okay? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. If you can manage to drink this whole gallon by tomorrow, that ought to do the trick, and tomorrow you’ll get back to normal. Some people, I should warn you, though, do take a little longer to readjust.”
She set the glass in front of him. “Go ahead and drink this first glass now so I can make sure you at least get started.”
Doug nodded wearily, and drank it quickly down. He was disappointed that the diarrhea would last a while, and he was willing to try anything that would help. If it would help, he’d try to drink the whole gallon before dinner. It didn’t taste quite like milk; it was chalkier and slightly bitter. But since he had never had Milk of Magnesia, he didn’t recognize the taste, and assumed it was the extra medicine and electrolytes that made it taste funny.
In fact, this additional concoction of Mrs. Warren was designed to keep him very loose, out of control, and essentially diaper-dependent for at least the next few days. It would help get him started on the right track, and it amused her to think of Doug drinking this stuff to get rid of the very diarrhea it was causing. The more he drank, the worse it would be, and the more he’d drink. She’d check on him to make sure he didn’t really get dehydrated, and the game would stop after he was securely in the program and ran out of “milk.”
After he’d drained the glass, Mrs. Warren handed Doug a copy of the contract he’d signed, and a longer list of rules he’d be expected to follow. Doug thought that perhaps he’d read them tonight or tomorrow, just to satisfy his curiosity, but her told himself that it didn’t really matter.
Mrs. Warren then gave him his last minute instructions. “I’d advise you to use the rest of the day to explore your apartment and notice the changes I’ve made. Also, it would be wise to pore over those rules, because I’ll be checking on you often. I’ll definitely be back tomorrow, and I’ll probably be back overnight. I had keys to your apartment made, so I can check on you while you’re sleeping.” Doug looked a little shocked. “Oh, it’s perfectly standard. You told me I could do this in your contract. It’s a good little contract; perhaps you should read it sometime. And read the rules. You have some homework to do before I see you tomorrow.”
She winked at him as she was gathering her things to leave. “Promise me you’ll be a good little boy for me.”
“Okay,” Doug said unconvincingly.
“Now be nice. I see we’ll have to work on your manners. I’m trying to be kind, so you won’t get too many spankings right here at the beginning. But my kindness, you’ll find, only goes so far. So promise me you’ll be good.”
Doug swallowed. “Yes, Ma’am. I promise.”
She patted his diapered bottom. “Yes, Doug. I’m sure you’ll be a very good boy for me.”
Then she left, and Doug waddled upstairs to his room, carrying his rules and contract with him. He collapsed on his bed, exhausted from the physical ordeal and from mental fatigue. He had a lot to think about, but it would have to wait.
Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
You can find more story’s like this one posted on My ABDL Life. The only thing you need to do is to check out this page to find them.
Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
As the time dragged on, Doug became more uncomfortable than he could ever remember being. His arms burned, his hands were numb, his back was stiff, and his bottom and legs were cold, wet, and squishy. This isn’t at all the way he thought things would turn out. He watched as his clock crept toward the three hour mark, indicating that his test was over, and at the exact instant it read three hours, he heard a key turn a lock in his front door downstairs. Damn, he thought, she’s good.
He listened to the sounds of Mrs. Warren climbing the stairs, whistling to herself. He saw her enter the bathroom with her clipboard in her hand.
“Whew!” she commented. “Smells like there’s a little boy who has some stinky pants that need changing.”
He lowered his eyes in silence. Words couldn’t describe how humiliated he felt as he sat tied up in his bathtup with very messy and wet pants. She made it worse by laughing when she looked closer at him.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind my pronouncing judgment BEFORE we look at your underpants, but I think it’s quite safe to say you didn’t exactly pass this test.” She chuckled again. “I mean, I’ve seen other little boys fail, but not with so much enthusiasm.” She leaned over to inspect him. “You certainly did quite a number on those pants, and it’s porbably a blessing that you won’t be needing to wear those underpants again at any time in the near future. I don’t even WANT to know what color they are now. Deal?” she asked cheerfully as she packed her timer and monitor into her little black bag.
He couldn’t speak. He was simply mortified. That this could happen at all, that anyone would see him, that she would make fun of him. It was all so terrible.
She sat on the toilet lid to talk to him, then saw his expression and knew his feelings. “Oh, don’t worry, little boy,” she said, reaching over to stroke his hair maternally. “As I said, I’ve had lots of boys fail my test. You weren’t the first. And likewise, you won’t be the first to wear diapers for me, either. It doesn’t have to be a big deal at all, if you just accept it. Life goes on, even if you have an accident, and even if you’re wearing diapers.”
“But…” Doug tried to speak for the first time. “But I really don’t NEED to wear diapers,” he insisted, nearly in tears. “I’m NOT incontinent.”
“Uh, huh, of course you aren’t,” Mrs. Warren said with a patronizing lilt. “But your pants might want to argue with you. Maybe we don’t understand what incontinent means,” she suggested gently.
“No,” he said acidly. “I know exactly what it means. I’m just saying that I had horrible luck today. I’m sick, I think, and I had a lot of beer last night. I…I never have accidents normally,” he sputtered with exasperation.
“No, you’re not sick,” she replied. “Part of it was the diaper juice.”
“The diaper juice,” she repeated. This was always tricky. “It wasn’t Gatorade you drank, though it is very similar. It had a touch of a mild laxative in it,” she lied. Giving a hint of the truth often helped her credibility. But she found it best to keep him doubting his ability to stay clean and dry. He’ll be easier in the short run if he wonders whether he actually needs the diapers.
“I like to call it diaper juice because it helps me decide who needs diapers. You see, it doesn’t make everyone soil their pants, just those with some underlying incontinence. If your sphincters are a little weak anyway, this stuff will tip you over the edge, and you’ll have an accident. Or two,” she added, noting the wetness in his pants as well.
“My company has spent a lot of time testing this drink, and we’ve found that the vast majority of people are a little `challenged’ by the test, but that they stay clean and dry with no real problems. Only those we know by other tests to be incontinent had a soiling problem. It turns out to be quite a valid test,” she concluded. She had phrased that well. He ought to believe that story. “Of course, that doesn’t reeally explain why you wet your pants as well. The diaper juice doesn’t have anything in it to cause that. You did that on your own,” she lied.
As Doug heard this, Mrs. Warren’s words made his head spin. So, it had been a laxative, but he should have been able to hold it. But he didn’t, so was he really incontinent? And he had peed in his pants, too, so that juice wasn’t entirely to blame. He didn’t know what to think. He had to admit, it sounded like he had legitimately failed this test. But…but he simply wasn’t incontinent. He mumbled this again, since it was his only line of defense.
“That’s simply denial,” she responded easily. “And I don’t blame you for using denial as a defense mechanism. Bladder and bowel control are some of our most elemental skills. It’s embarrassing and a little scary when we discover somehow that we have lost it to some degree, even if it’s just temporary. I know that you are scared and embarrassed. Now, I can’t tell you why you are incontinent, only a doctor can. And Mrs. Sheffield says you’ve been to see a doctor already about it, so I’ll take your word for it, and we don’t need to address the reasons WHY you’re incontinent. Our job is to deal with it.”
Doug cursed himself for having mentioned a doctor in his made-up story about needing diapers last Saturday. But he never thought it would be used against him.
She went on. “But whether you choose to accept it or not, or whether you were aware of it or not, today we have proven that you have a problem with incontinence.”
He still felt dizzy. She sounded so reasonable. “But if I AM incontinent, I should have known about it. Right?”
“And I’m sure you did, on some level, but you chose to ignore it, or not to believe it. Perhaps we can find some other earlier clues. Think back. I bet you can remember wetting your bed, or having daytime accidents when you were very little. Right?”
He nodded. He could. But couldn’t everyone?
“Studies we have done have shown that our incontinent clients have specific memories like that more often than people with good control. And this makes sense. If you can remember such incidents, you were probably older than most people by the time you gained control, and late bloomers often have trouble throughout life with bladder and bowel control.” This was a fabrication she had practiced many times, and it usually had the desired effect. It did here. She could see that it had made him think. Time to hit him with more lies.
“Here’s another clue. Another subtle sign of an underlying incontinence problem is if after you pee (and I mean intentionally, in the toilet) you ever have a little problem dribbling into your underpants once you’re finished. Normal people don’t have this problem, but all of my other little boys do, and it’s another pretty sensitive sign.” Of course, Mrs. Warren chuckled to herself, how could this boy know that was a lie? Most men didn’t examine other men in public restrooms. And indeed, Doug looked shocked. He had thought that a little dribbling was normal. Mrs. Warren smiled. Time to hit him with the big one.
“Finally, psychologists tell us that we sometimes deeply desire things we know we need but which we can’t admit we need, out of embarrassment or fear. These desires appear in different ways, but one way incontinent people manifest the desire for additional bladder protection is a sexual attraction to diapers. You mentioned something earlier about this, so I’ll bet that’s the case with you, and I bet that from an early age you’ve had a fetish for diapers. It may seem perverted to you, or embarrassing, so you probably haven’t told a lot of people. But the fact is that this is your unconscious telling you that you have a serious problem, and that if you aren’t going to fix it consciously, your unconscious will help you fix it automatically. It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve secretly worn diapers before, haven’t you?”
She was looking at him with such a knowing expression. Doug nodded slowly as she nodded with him. Yes, of course he’d worn diapers. Was this why he liked them?
Mrs. Warren smiled. That was one thing she could count on. All of these poor boys wanted to know why they liked diapers, and they tended to believe any credible reason you gave them.
“You see, you’ve always had this problem, and you’ve always wanted help, but have been too afraid or embarrassed to get it. Not anymore. From now on, you’ll get the help you need, Doug. And to make it easier on your ego, I’m not going to give you a choice. Sometimes we can’t admit what we need, but we still need it. You may not be able to tell me you need to wear diapers, but you have all the symptoms of incontinence, and we proved today that you have a problem.
“Now, it would be nice if you could admit you have a problem, so that we can work together to fix it. Working together is so much nicer than struggling with each other, and my experience is that it helps you more to admit your problem and cooperate with me. But I must tell you that it is hardly necessary for you to help me. It’s far more pleasant for you if you cooperate, but one way or another you’ll be wearing your diapers like a good little boy.”
She reached into her black bag, drew out a camera, and before Doug could object, she took several pictures of him as he sat in his obviously wet and messy pants in the tub.
“What are you doing?” he cried. Evidence of his experience today was the last thing he wanted. He thought of his job, his grad program application.
“Now just relax,” she cooed, replacing her camera. “These pictures won’t find their way anywhere important if you behave yourself. They are more as an insurance policy for me. As I said, I’m not going to give you the option of not participating in this program. I know your tendency is to avoid the issue of your incontinence, but I’m very serious about forcing you to confront it, or at the very least, to control it. The pictures will just help me make sure you’ll stay in my program.”
That was bad news indeed. This woman was arming herself with more and more weapons, Doug saw. How could he avoid this catastrophe?
“Okay,” Mrs. Warren said, noting that the pictures had the desired effect. She would take more pictures later, and they would be her trump card for this fellow. “The next order of business is signing a contract for your personal incontinence control program, or ICP. After we do that, we can get you a little more comfortable.” With that, she showed him her clipboard, which had on it an official-looking document with a space to sign his name. Doug got a sudden feeling of panic. He couldn’t sign. This was it, the last nail in his coffin. If he signed this, he’d never be able to get out of this program thing.
So he shook his head. “I’m not signing,” he said defiantly.
Mrs. Warren took the clipboard back and shook her head. “Your choice,” she clucked. “You don’t have to sign now.” Doug was relieved. Maybe there was some way out of this. “But I will tell you that you don’t move from that tub until I have your John Hancock on this page. As long as you’re comfortable, you don’t have to sign. You want to sit for a while?”
Doug grimaced. He couldn’t bear sitting here any more. But…
When he didn’t answer immediately, Mrs. Warren stood. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll check back in a little while, after I’ve prepared your apartment. If you’re not ready to sign by then, I can leave you until tomorrow morning. I’ve certainly got plenty of time, you won’t starve before then, and you don’t exactly need special bathroom facilities. And if you get thirsty, I’ve always got some Gatorade you could have.” He heard her chuckling as she went downstairs.
When he was alone he lifted himself up a little and relieved himself once more into his pants. He had had cramps throughout that conversation but had held on until she left. That would have been way too embarrassing.
Now what could he do? She had him by the balls, he knew. She had blackmail material, and he couldn’t sit here forever. He was so stiff and sore and generally uncomfortable that even a dry diaper sounded like a dream to him. This lady was too good, and right now she had him right where she wanted him. He had to sign the paper. There was no way around it. He dejectedly accepted this over the next few moments.
More disturbing was the thought she had planted in his head about actually being incontinent. It didn’t sound possible, but she made it sound obvious. And if it was true, did he have any business objecting to this ICP thing?
But his bladder and bowel control was fine, he thought. He never had an accident. He’d never needed diapers before. And yet, why did he always want them? His head spun with the implications, and he was far too hungry and uncomfortable to sort it all out. He’d be best off if he signed the damn paper, got out of this tub, and got her out of his house. Then he could think about it all he needed to, and devise some way to get out of this whole mess. He couldn’t think of any ways now, but there had to be some escape.
He listened to the sounds of the house while he waited for her to return. He heard the front door open and close several times, and Mrs. Warren made several trips up and down the stairs as well. He heard bags ripping, and the downstairs toilet flush. He had no idea what was going on. And honestly, he didn’t care. His mind was set on getting out of here. So when Mrs. Warren finally reappeared in the bathroom and asked if he was interested in joined her ICP, Doug nodded vigorously.
“Good,” she said, and held out her clipboard.
Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
You can find more story’s like this one posted on My ABDL Life. The only thing you need to do is to check out this page to find them.
A little kitty cat was working on a test while really needing to go and he decided to push through until he was done, so in the end he may have passed the test, but he might have failed potty training a bit too.
Draw and everything by Erin-Cloverfox
Aww poor cat is it someplace you really wont to avoid having a accident is it the school. He sure is making one big spot of pee on the floor now. Poor thing this sure going to be allot of blushing and embarrassing moment now for this cat when his classmate is going to notes what happen. I sure hope that his teacher are able to help him now.