I wrote this today (and intend to finish it tomorrow) just because I knew I hadn’t written anything in quite a while. It’s pretty cheeky, but hopefully you’ll have some fun with it.
“Do you think this is fun for me?!” I shout over the din of the rushing water, disgusted as I pick up her soiled jeans and panties off the bathroom floor.
“No,” she groans. I can hear the sarcasm in her voice, and it grates my nerves. “Sorry, Dad,” she huffs. Not a stitch of sincerity in it.
“All because you can’t be bothered to interrupt a goddamned VIDEO GAME to go to the damned bathroom! What is WRONG with you?!”
“I said I’m sorry, okay?!” she barks back. “Get over it already!”
That plucked my last nerve. I storm out of the bathroom and down to the basement, hurling the wet clothes into the washer when I arrive. I ordered the supplies for this online a few weeks ago, before school let out, but guilt prevented me from going forward with it. This was wrong, doing this to a 12-year-old girl, wasn’t it? Now it clearly was the only option. I’d tried buying her those bedwetting pants for older girls, but she only ever wore them if I checked up on her in the morning, and even then only after an extended screaming match. Half the time she’d ditch them later anyway. Of course, she never had “accidents” at school. Oh no, in fact the teachers complained she was constantly asking for a hall pass in the middle of class. If I hadn’t intimated to them all the toileting problems she had at home, they would have insisted she wait until between classes.
This, though, this is the end. No more of any of that, not for a long time. It’s the beginning of summer break, and I’m not going to deal with mountains of laundry and cleaning up puddles everywhere for the next three months. I listen; the shower is still running. Good. I have time, but I have to move fast. For once I’m grateful she has such a penchant for marathon bathing sessions.
By the time I hear the water cut off, the stage is set. Her underwear drawer has been properly reorganized; I’ll buy her new panties if and when she shows me that she’s ready to start using the damned bathroom on a consistent basis. Everything I need for this battle is sitting under the bed. I sit down at the foot and wait for her to come out of the bathroom. This is going to be a fight to end all fights, but I’m ready. If I have to, I’ll take her over my knee, something I haven’t done in years, though I quietly wonder if that fact hasn’t contributed to where we are now.
“Dad?! What the hell are you doing in here?!” she shrieks as she enters the room, clutching her towel.
“Sit down,” I say calmly, patting the bed next to me.
“Can’t we save ‘the talk’ for after I get dressed?!” she snaps.
“I SAID SIT DOWN!” I command. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in a while, and she startles, just as I expected her to. She complies, but not without a huff.
“I can’t believe you’re still pissed. What’s the big deal?” she grumbles.
“I’m not still pissed about that. And it’s not going to be a big deal anymore. You’ve made it perfectly clear to me that you don’t want to be responsible for your toileting anymore. So I’m going to handle it for you.”
“What does that even mean?!” she asks, her face a picture of confusion.
“Lie down,” I reply flatly.
“Wait, wha…”
“LIE DOWN!” She complies hurriedly, and I reach for the towel.
“Dad, what are you doing?!” she protests, clutching it tighter against her chest.
“Let go of the towel, Melissa.” I glare at her fiercely, and she relaxes her grip.
“What are you doing?” she repeats, her voice softer but just as confused.
“Just what I said. Handling your toileting for you.” The towel is spread out beneath her, and she’s lying there, naked and blushing. I reach under the bed and grab my supplies. Her eyes lock on one in particular, and it crinkles softly as I drop it next to her.
“DAD! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” she shrieks, retreating towards the head of the bed.
“Get your butt back on that towel and don’t move.” I grab her ankle and lock on as she squirms.
“I’m not wearing that! No fucking way!” She’s trying to pull away, but my deathlock is holding her fast. I grab the other ankle and pull her back down.
I scowl at her darkly. “If that word comes out of your mouth again, you’re going to be a very unhappy little girl. Now lay still.”
“Dad! Daddy! Come on! I’ll wear the pull-ups! Just not that! Please!” she pleads. She starts to squirm again. I quickly swat her on the thigh. Not hard, just enough to get her attention.
“Ow!” she yelps. Her eyes are filling with tears. “This is ridiculous, Daddy! Please! I promise I won’t do it anymore! Just don’t make me wear that!”
“Roll over,” I instruct, ignoring her begging.
“NO!” she shouts back. “I’m not wearing diapers Daddy!”
“Roll over, or I will do it for you, and then I’ll warm your little bottom up for you as well, Melissa,” I growl, deep and low. The tone that she knows means business.
“Daddy, please,” she whimpers as she turns over onto her stomach. She’s crying now, and a pang of guilt shoots through me as I pick up the tube of rash cream and gently apply it to the insides of her little butt cheeks.
“I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up,” I lied, picking up the baby powder and sprinkling it liberally all over her backside and the tops of her thighs. “This way, you’ll be able to sit there and play your little video games and not have to worry about going potty anymore.”
“I’m not a little kid Dad!” she snaps back through her tears. “I don’t need stupid diapers!”
Ignoring the protests, I unfold the diaper and spread it out next to her. It’s a noisy little thing, for sure, crinkling like a ball of grocery bags the whole time. Truth be told, I was rather surprised to discover that companies actually made larger-than-infant-sized diapers with cute prints like this, and I was downright tickled when I finally found one that produced a size small. Still yet, this thing was going to be huge on her. The better to keep her aware of it, I think to myself with a chuckle. “Roll over please,” I instruct.
She does, and more rustling ensues. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll take more bathroom breaks, I promise. Just don’t do this, please!”
More cream and powder in the front, and it’s fairly obvious she’s panicking now. I draw the front up. It rides right up above her belly button, just to the bottom of her ribcage. “Daddy PLEASE!” she shouts. She tries to stick her hand in between the two side panels, and I give it a sharp swat. She yelps, but tries again. This time I give her a firm smack on the thigh.
“Do it again and I’ll turn you back over and give you a real spanking,” I warn her. She whines an incoherent protest, but her hands return to her face. Recalling the video I watched on how to deal with four-tape diapers, I cinch the bottom tapes across and slightly down, then the top ones across and up. I run my fingers along the leg elastics; they’re snug, but not too tight. On her skinny frame, all the tapes comically overlap, obscuring the cute little pictures of baby animals printed all over them.
“I HATE YOU!” her shriek through the pillow breaks the moment. “I HATE YOU DADDY!” She flops over onto her stomach, the diaper rustling loudly in reply.
“I know you do, Pixie. I know,” I offer sympathetically as I rub her back. “Pixie” has been my pet name for her ever since she was able to walk; she’d always been long and gangly, and as soon as she had her feet, she flitted around the house and the yard like a little fairy, constantly on the run.
“Don’t call me that!” she pouted from under the pillow.
“I know, I know, Daddy’s a big meanie.” Thoughtlessly, I patted her bottom gently, and it responded with dull, hollow sounds along with the plastic rustling.
“How long do I have to wear this stupid thing?” she grumped.
“Well that’s entirely up to you, Pixie,” I said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“It means that, after you’ve had a chance to try out Daddy’s solution to your wetting problems, you’ll get to decide for yourself if you like this arrangement or if you’d rather handle them yourself like a responsible young woman.”
“Well I don’t like it. I want to wear my pull-ups!”
“Silly Pixie. You haven’t even given it a chance yet. In a week or so, we’ll talk about how you feel about this arrangement.”
I’d never seen her flip over so fast. “A week?!” she shouts, sitting back up with a loud crinkle.
“Or longer if you need.”
“NO!”
“That’s fine, a week should be long enough.”
“I have to wear diapers for a whole week?! This is so unfair!”
“Melissa, stop. This has been going on for nine months. I took you to the doctor, he sent you to the urologist, both of them said there was nothing wrong. It never happened at school, only here at home when you were lazing around playing your video games. I asked you to handle the problem yourself by wearing your pull-ups, and you refused unless I threatened to ground you, and even then you still took them off the first chance you got when my back was turned. And all the while Daddy was stuck washing two, three extra pairs of jeans and panties every day. So, now that school is out, Daddy’s going to handle the problem for a while, and a week from now you can decide if you like this arrangement better.”
The picture in front of me is downright adorable. She’s sitting there in a lotus position, her tear-streaked face hanging low, staring at her feet while she picks at the fuzzballs on her socks, the huge, colorful diaper engulfing her middle. Twelve going on three; I can’t help but chuckle a bit. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whimpers.
“Sorry for what, Pixie?” I ask.
“Sorry for being lazy and not wearing my pull-ups.”
“Come here, Pixie.” She rustles over and straddles my lap, wrapping herself completely around me. I return her embrace, though I can’t help but pat her crinkly bottom with one hand. “I know you’re sorry, sweetie. And I know you’re not happy with this right now. But you also know why I had to do something, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers into my shoulder.
“And you know I still love you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does my Pixie still hate me?”
“No.”
“Daddy’s glad to hear that. Now why don’t you go find a t-shirt to wear, and then you can go back to your Fallout or whatever you were playing, okay?”
“And some jeans?” she asked.
“You can sure as heck try to put jeans on over that, but I’ll bet you the next Destiny DLC that none of them will fit.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” she whined.
“It’s summer, you’re in the house, you don’t really need pants.”
“But what if we go out?! I only have like…”
“One dress, no skirts. Which is why you’re going to wear that dress tomorrow when we go down to Goodwill and get you some more.”
“But I hate that dress!” She’s getting worked up again, and I have to stop it.
“Would you rather go in a t-shirt and diaper?”
“NO!” Her arms drop away and now she’s pouting up at me again.
“I know you hate the church dress, but you’re the one who decided she was too ‘cool’ to wear skirts or dresses to school anymore and filled your closet and dresser with jeans and t-shirts. So tomorrow, after you have a chance to get used to our new arrangement, we’ll fix that problem, okay?”
She’s still pouting, but she mutters, “Okay.”
“Go find a t-shirt, Pixie.”
She huffs as she slides off my lap with a crinkle and waddles over to her dresser. “Oh my god, this thing is huge!” she complains. “It’s like I got a big pillow between my legs!”
“Why do you think I’m giving you the rest of the day to get used to it before we go out in public?” I ask, doing my best not to laugh.
“Hmph!” she grumps, no doubt frustrated at my lack of sympathy. Several rustles later, and she’s sliding something I’m sure she used to wear as a nightshirt down her skinny arms and poking her head out of the top. It still doesn’t hide her puffy new underwear, despite all her tugging and hemming and hawing over it. She turns back to face me and sticks her tongue out, half a diaper poking out from under the shirt, before stalking out of the room, the crunching plastic announcing her departure and echoing the whole way down the hall. I finally let loose the laugh I’d been holding back the whole time. The more a little girl grows up, the more she’s still a little girl at times, and nothing could ever prove that point more perfectly than the spectacle I just witnessed. All that’s changed are the toys she plays with now.
The TV in the living room quietly announces that she’s back to work shooting up hapless players from all over the globe, and her trash-talking confirms it. I have another job yet to do, and I may as well get it done now rather than wait until the issue actually arises.
I get up and head back to my bedroom, removing a Lowe’s bag from my drawer. Three key lock doorknobs; one for my bathroom, one each for her door to the second bathroom and the hallway entrance. I couldn’t trust her to wear the damned bedwetting pants I bought for her, I’m certainly not going to give her a chance to try and take her diaper off to go to the bathroom now. With her headset on and engrossed in the game, there’s zero chance of her hearing me replacing the knobs. I get straight to work, quickly and quietly popping the screws, starting with the door in her room. Once the new knob is in place, I lock it from the inside and close the door firmly. Half an hour later, I’m finished. I peek into the living room; for all her consternation over her new underwear, it certainly hasn’t affected her fixation on the Xbox.
Chuckling, I head over to the kitchen and get started on dinner. The work day is pretty well shot, but I’ll make up my production later on tonight, after the next big fight I’m quite certain is coming.
If this is all you end up writing for it, it works as a stand alone piece. It’s a more realistic than the typical, generic diaper story (where a character wets their pants once then parental unit freaks out, puts them in diapers full time, long list of rules and somehow transforms bedroom into nursery in the process). You’ve set up a more believable scenario.