Toast, half a grapefruit, some orange juice and a nice hot cup of coffee. That last one was the problem, keeping it hot; I cheated by making it into a flask and waited until the baby monitor told me she’d finally woken up.
After pouring the coffee into a mug, I picked up the tray and bustled into her room. “Good morning, you’ve overslept so I thought I’d wake you with breakfast in bed.”
She yawned, looked at me and stretched, a smile breaking onto her face. “Breakfast! Oh, you’re so kind. This is a nice start to the weekend.”
I smiled back and ruined her weekend. “Stay dry last night?”
She seemed to remember what she was wearing for the first time and a range of expressions crossed her face. Confusion, curiosity, shock. “Umm. Yes,” she said, but we both knew she’d be terrible at poker.
I put the tray on the bedside table, leaned over and said calmly, “Let’s see the damage.” Pulling back the covers revealed her nightdress still damp, a circular stain on the sheet beneath.
“I thought you put a diaper on,” I asked, “you can’t have wet that much can you?”
She picked up the dry hem of her nightdress, pulled it towards her waist, looked at the diaper below. It had shifted in her sleep, now nowhere to be seen on the side she’d been lying on, discolouration showing the padding between her legs wasn’t dry. She started to weep, looking at me through eyes blurred by tears. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
I sighed, leaned towards her, held her head in both hands and as I tilted it up towards me, wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. “Why don’t you go and get a shower, and I’ll get some laundry on. No point crying over spilt milk.”
It wasn’t milk, but that may be what jolted her from her misery. Tenderness seemed necessary, I needed her compliant, not depressed. She stood up gingerly, one hand holding damp nightdress away from her body, the other needing to stop the wet diaper sliding down her legs.
As she waddled from the room I watched in amusement but kept quiet. By the time she was out of the shower the bed was stripped, mattress left bare to dry, sheets already washing. I waited downstairs for her, kept myself busy, gave her some time to recover.
“What’s going on?” She’d made it downstairs quietly, was stood in the doorway, looking at me with suspicion.
I shrugged, gave her a quizzical look. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. You’ve never had this issue before?”
She shook her head, came into the room and sat down. “I think I need to see a doctor.”
“That sounds sensible,” I agreed, suggested she contact her regular doctor, get an appointment for a couple of days time. That support settled her and she got out her phone, started making some plans.
At that point I went shopping, left her to it. The doctor wouldn’t want to see her at the weekend which gave me at least two more nights to reinforce her sense of losing control.
Dinner that night was subdued, me planning my next steps while she sat there lost in thought, clearly troubled by her current situation. It didn’t help later at bedtime, when I followed her into her room.
She’d made the bed while I was out, her desire to help admirable but her sense of responsibility not diminished. I’d need to work on that. Rather than mention it I merely held up a diaper.
“Come on, let’s get you safe for the night.”
“Please, I don’t need that,” she protested, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Ok, give it here, I know.”
It was time to escalate and she’d inadvertently given me extra ammunition. “No. You’ve wet the bed twice in the last three nights, and you didn’t even tell me about Thursday night. I had an awful shock when I opened the bin.”
That shut her up, made her blush guiltily.
“On top of that,” I said, pressing home my advantage, “Last night you couldn’t even put your diaper on right. So come on, get undressed and I’ll do it properly for you. That mattress has had enough damage.”
She wilted before me, and started to comply. Even as she undressed and lay back on the bed she was looking at me with uncertainty. Eventually she spoke, “That’s a different diaper. Didn’t we have several of the others left?”
She was right, on both counts. My explanation was both accurate and also a horrible lie. “After last night I thought we should try something with extra absorbency. It’s only a little thicker, but it’s a more expensive design, will keep the bedding dry no matter what.”
That made her wince, even after twice waking up with wet bedding. It was bad enough for her to know she needed overnight protection, being told she needed even more was humiliating. What she didn’t know is that these diapers didn’t hold more, as they were bulkier due to something I’d spent several hours fitting to half a dozen of them. Between the plastic backing and the padding of the diaper was a thin plastic bag, impossible to detect due to the plastic beside it. Each diaper had over half a pint of urine already inside that just needed releasing to soak the padding, look and feel to all intents as though it had been wet by the wearer.
My cunning design included a small device that would release it too, but it was the size of a cigarette packet, too large to conceal. I fitted the diaper first. “Lift your hips. Good girl. Ok, down again. Relax. There, all safe and secure.”
Rather than try and hide it I held the device up and showed it to her. “This is a wetness alarm, I got it while shopping earlier.” She didn’t know that was a lie, that it had been made for me weeks ago. “All I need to do is slide this electrode in here…”
I slid a slim plug in past the elasticated leg band right by her crotch, plugged it into the imperceptible socket attached to the bag built into the diaper. “Now, when you wet the alarm will sound, waking you up and giving you a chance to react.”
“Will that help?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Obviously it wouldn’t. Quite the contrary, it would receive the bluetooth signal that I would send when it was time for her diaper to go from dry to wet, would send its own signal through the wires to her diaper, use a small electrical charge to flick open the sluice gate and let that small bag empty into the padding. A few seconds delay and the alarm would then sound, accurately letting her know she had a wet diaper on.
“It might,” is all I told her, “but right now anything is worth a try. Now, I’m sorry but it’s back into the onesie for you.”
She protested at that, “I can’t get out of that in time to use the toilet!” She was wrong. She wouldn’t be able to get out of it at all now.
“You haven’t made it to the toilet three nights running,” I told her, “This will help hold the diaper in place, prevent a repeat of last night’s misfortune.”
That quietened her and she stepped into it of her own accord, let me fasten the buttons. As I sat behind her I swiftly pulled a needle from my sleeve, thread already attached, and sewed two of the button holes closed. It was only 2-3 loops each but that was enough to stop the button coming back out; I’d have to cut those threads to undress her in the morning.
Stopping her undressing was part of imposing my control on her anyway, but it also stopped wandering fingers fiddling with the diaper, displacing my device or worse, discovering the trap that it was waiting to spring.
“Time for cocoa,” I said, and let her alone to contemplate her fate while I went to make it. Unadulterated this time, I needed her bloodstream clean ahead of the doctor visit.
We both went to bed after that late drink, one of us smug and satisfied with a well executed plan, the other… enduring it.