Sitting the Winstons

S i t t i n g … t h e … W i n s t o n s
by austin

Forward
This story just came to me and I thought, what the heck, why not write it down, despite the fact that I had decided not too long ago to retire from the art of diaper-story writing. So, before you read my alley-like return to the ring, keep a few things in mind. 1. This is not supposed to be a real story. 2. It is not supposed to be amazing, plot-twisting, edge-of-seat-sitting story. 3. I write for my own enjoyment and I always enjoy if you enjoy it too. But that is not my goal. 4. This story involves diapers and boys wearing diapers. Because for me, that is what this whole DL thing is all about. I fully understand that represented on this site is a broad spectrum of interests. I warn you that this story involves these interests so that if you don’t share them, you don’t have to read it. There is absolutely nothing sexual in this story, aside from the diapers. Ok, that all being said, I hope you enjoy…

Part 1 - Introduction

I guess I should have seen it coming. I mean the things I did, the actions I took; I basically asked for it. But I didn’t. And when it did happen, well, let’s just say I was surprised. I did not see it coming. I always felt I was in control of the situation, that I had respect, that I could do whatever I wanted and they would think it was cool, fun. And they did…until they got me back. And I guess then, at that point, the tables turned. Boy, did they ever. Whoo-ee.

I had been babysitting the Winston boys for three years. Why their mom would let a fifth grader babysit four younger boys, I still don’t know. But she did. And I was that fifth grader. When I started working for Mrs. Winston, Johnny was just over a year old, Ronney was four, Matthew six, and Paul, the oldest, had just turned seven.

People, as always, are complex. And I wouldn’t want to belittle the vast personalities of my four charges with short summaries of their character. But for the sake of succinct storytelling, I will. Paul, oldest, was a strong kid. He was definitely an oldest sibling of four rough and tumble boys. He could go from being the ultimate caregiver: tear-inducing love, to abusive biggun’. Such is the lot of big brothers. Matthew was the quiet one. Contemplative and soft, but strong. Almost as big as Paul, nearly two years his senior. He could hold his own but would often be the brunt of jokes from his brothers on both sides of the age spectrum. Ronney was the runt, forgive the alliteration. A small little kid, even at four. But man, tough as nails. Red haired and with every personality trait usually associated with that hair color. Even me, six years older, was afraid to mess with that fire ball. I guess you’ve got to be tough to be the small one of four brothers. Johnny? Well, Johnny was pretty darn young at this point. It is pretty safe to say his personality had yet to be defined. Later, three years later, he would reveal himself as a follower, but a very effective follower. He was a strong boy and did everything, everything, his older brothers told him to do. He had a confidence though. So I suppose he wasn’t much of a follower. More of an enforcer. In the mob sense of the word.

I was kind of old for fifth grade. An autumn birthday. When I began babysitting the Winston boys, I was ten. And Iike most ten-year-olds, I thought I was twenty. And I was quite miffed when people older than me treated me like a boy. My least favorite word ever had to be buddy. I hated it when older people would call me “buddy.” Made me feel so small. “Hey Buddy, how you doing?” Might as well pinch my cheek and ruffle my hair. “Jeez, Buddy, you’re getting so tall!” Yep, hated it. Hated feeling small, hated being young. Especially when I was pretty darn sure I was the smartest person around. Well, most the times. Occasionally, I would run across someone smarter than me. As the wit of Mark Twain so adequately expresses, I was entirely surprised by how much everyone else learned by the time I actually was twenty. But, I was still ten at the time, and still very much in control. Or, at least tried to be. It certainly wasn’t the case.

Maybe it was because I was so out of control in many parts of my life that I tried to feel in control over the situations I could. Control to balance the out-of-control. As is usual when we try to find balance, I overdid it. So the pendulum swings.

What was out of control?

For one, the constant fighting of my parents. They were both hard workers, my mom and dad. Hard work, long hours. That meant stress. That meant yelling. That meant a scared little boy wishing he could just fall asleep, but the yells and bangs of anger echoing through the house prevented peace. At times like those, which were often, I was very much ten-years-old. Very much: small. Very much: “buddy.” Here my knowledge, my smarts, failed me. There was nothing I knew that could make sense of the chaos. The fan I turned on high for noise did not muffle the discomfort, disappointment, and fear that permeated my body. Perhaps it was this helplessness that made me long for and enjoy control.

Second, the bed wetting. It came randomly and without warning. No rhyme or reason. It would have almost been better to have it happen every night. At least then I could expect wet sheets in the morning. I could control the expectation. But not every night. Maybe once a month. Just enough to make me scared every night. Not wanting to stay over at friend’s houses, not wanting to go to camp. Not often enough for my parents to require that I wear diapers at night. Just enough to keep a plastic sheet under the covers that crinkled every night when I crawled in bed and reminded me that I didn’t control anything. And once a month or so, I’d wake up, recognizing the feeling immediately. A wetness, a discomfort, and clammy cold. I’d drag the sheets into the laundry room and leave them in a pile (despite her busyness, my mom still did my laundry).

Third, I was the youngest in my family. And I played the part of the youngest brother quite well. I had perfected the art of annoying my older brother and sister. And I wasn’t aware of my youngest-sibling skill at all. Of course I thought I was perfect, and of course I thought everyone loved me as much as I loved myself. Of course with the power of hindsight, I realize now that I wasn’t the easiest person to be around. Maybe this is why, when it did happen, it really happened. But I always had this nagging feeling as the youngest that my older brother and sister found me annoying (which they did, certainly), and this confused me because I couldn’t control it. There was nothing I could do to enter into the good graces of my elders. I was predestined, as the youngest, to always be the nagging, annoying, occasionally bed-wetting, scrawny little brother.

And I cried. Easily. Not very often, I suppose. But at all the wrong times. I guess that was the forth thing. I couldn’t control my emotions. My tear ducts had a mind of their own. It was a cycle. I’d get frustrated because I couldn’t control, so I’d cry, and I’d cry because I couldn’t stop. It just kept on going. When most people would cry, when they got physically hurt, that is when I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t cry over a skinned knee, or jammed finger. Just emotional pain. That seemed to hurt worse than the physical. Yeah, I bet I was one heck of an annoying ten-year-old boy.

And finally, fifth, was my size. I was small. No way around it. Both my parents were slight and I guess both of their skinny genes combined, multiplied, became stronger, and made me really really small. This probably frustrated me more than anything else. I wanted so much to be big and strong. But I was one of the smallest kids in my class. I guess my confidence and strong attitude made it so others didn’t push me around much. But they could have, if they wanted to. Of course, I found that out when it happened. Even before it happened, I had the fear of being subdued because of my size. And because of that fear, that uncertainty, that lack of internal confidence, I over-compensated with exterior confidence.

Ok, I think you get the point.

The Winston’s house was messy. I guess that can be expected with four small boys. They lived in a lower-middle-class city neighborhood. Wasn’t particularly nice, wasn’t particularly dodgy. Just your typical working class. The house was on a corner lot. Grass in the front. The back yard, though, was just dirt. I suppose grass had been there at some point, maybe attempted to be grown, but with four pairs of active feet constantly assaulting the ground, grass had as much chance to grow there as greenery in the Sahara. Dust and dirt composed mild mounds, the back “yard” undulating at random. A sparse scattering of anemic weeds added some dull green color to the play hardened ground.

When I was babysitting the Winstons, most of the play occurred out there, in the back. Various games, the rules of which I don’t really remember, filled our time from 6:30 pm until 9:00 pm each Friday and Sunday night. Each Friday and Sunday evening for three years. I have to admit, it was fun. I was getting paid, I was technically working, but for all intents and purposes, I was playing. Ten years old isn’t that much older.

As year one, then two, and three rolled by, I was twelve, nearly thirteen. Paul was ten, Matthew nine, Ronney six, and Johnny darn near four. When it happened, Paul was as old as I was when I first started babysitting the Winstons.

The boy I was at twelve nearly thirteen wasn’t that much different than the boy I was at ten. The same five issues above where still very much around. And while three years was an eternity (boy years being much, much longer than adult years), not much had changed. I suppose the occasional bedwetting was all the more embarrassing and frustrating. With each passing year, it became even less OK (not that it was ever OK in the first place) to not be able to control my bladder while asleep. It reminded me that I had about as much control as Johnny, who was just starting to stay dry at night. How could he, at three nearly four, have more control than me: pretty much a teenager? Cause for concern, indeed.

So, I suppose, I started to release some of this frustration that was building up inside of me on the very children I was commissioned to care for. It started as small things, like me always having to win when we played with the electric car track. There was a particular car that always won. Always. And I always had to have it. You would think a twelve year old would be able to give up winning so that the children he cared for could feel self worth, the joy of victory. But, alas, no. I always had to win.

I remember one particular evening. I walked in and the dad, Mr. Winston, sat me down at the kitchen table (which was always dirty, scattered with half finished bowls of cereal, stained homework, sticky substances). It was rare that Mr. Winston said more than “Thank you,” as he headed down to bed when he came home on Fridays and Sundays, so I knew something was up. Well, he pretty much tore me a new one for cheating on the electric car track. It fazed me. I was scared of him. The guy was like six foot four. I was holding steady at four foot ten. Needless to say, I let everyone else but me have the winning car from then on. Take one notch off my control.

Take the electric car situation and apply it to every competition. Bike racing, obstacle courses, doing tricks while jumping over mattresses, hide and seek. I always had to win. Strange enough, the Winston boys still loved me.

Things changed, though, October of that third year. I turned thirteen.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Would you take me seriously if I kneeled and groveled and begged you not to retire? Enough said…

Re: Sitting the Winstons

I have to second the previous post. Please don’t retire. I have read all or most of your stories and have enjoyed them all. This one looks like a winner too. So from your #1 fan in Indiana please keep writing and the all the good work too!!! Most of all thank you for all that you do! :slight_smile:

Re: Sitting the Winstons

This is madd good, mann :smiley: I await the next installment

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Thanks for the support. I appreciate it. A lot.
New chapter soonish.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Chapter 2: Groundwork

I forget how the game started. If it was me or one of the boys who thought it up, I forget. I think Paul, in one of his meaner oldest-brother moments, invented the “tickle monster.” The monster has most certainly seen numerous manifestations before by every oldest-brother out there. My older brother had some sort of heinous incarnation of this terrible, terrible being. Take one notch off my control.

The most awful feeling in the world, minus unbearable pain of course, has to be getting tickled. Of course, for someone like me who had to be in control, it was darn near as bad as unbearable pain. My brother was a champ at the tickle monster. Being so much bigger than me (even though he was less than two years older; the small genes of my parents must have been lost on him), it didn’t take much for him to get me on my back, his knees pinning my arms to the ground, and the electric tips of the fingers shocking with tremendous energy my armpits and tummy. Squirming and crying and laughing all at the same time and pleading him to “stop, stop, stop!” And then, mysteriously, the immediacy of the need to pee. Why tickling is directly connected to the muscles of the bladder, I do not know. Some reflex, some evolutionary response. Who knows? But tickling inevitably leads to the cry of, “Stop, I think I’m going to pee my pants!” Between gasps of laughter and crying of course. If not an all out wetting, then at least small squirts. And when mercy was finally granted, inevitably there would be a dark spot on the front of my pants. And little doubt as to where it came from. Man, I hated it.

If I hated it so much, one has to wonder why I ended up doing it to the Winstons.

Tickling epitomizes submission. The complete feeling of hopelessness. Exactly what I feared most. So, I suppose it would make sense in the broad scheme of balancing that I would use it. And nothing shows lack of control more than wetting your pants. If you wet your pants, it is pretty safe to say you are not in control. Also: if you wet your bed. So, lack of control and hopelessness would be being tickled to the point of wetting your pants. Struggling, wriggling, trying to get free, screeching and laughing (a terrible, painful laugh, like laughing at a funny movie so much it hurts and you can’t breathe and you actually wish you could stop laughing but you can’t). Eyes clinched closed, entire body shaking, squirming, legs kicking. “Stop! Stop! Please!” Gasps. Laugh/cry. “I’m going to…” “Please, really…” gasp “I’m going to wet my pants. I’m going to gasp pee gasp, please…” And it seems as soon as that feeling of helplessness, of spasming bladder muscles, of lack of control, peaks. When you know it is too late. The pee starts to squirt out, little bits at first but you are powerless to hold it back because dang that tickling and dang the squirming and laughing and crying but you can’t control yourself. You are less in control than 3 year old Johnny who still wets the bed but is starting to stay dry at night. He is starting to stay dry, you are peeing your pants. You’ve just turned thirteen. Squirming, laughing, peeing. Just when that happens, the tickle monster senses that the mission is accomplished and the monster stops. The electric fingertips retract from your armpits and tummy. But it is too late. At least a wet spot on the front of your jeans. Sometimes worse. Maybe you had a full bladder and you just keep wetting your pants. Really crying now. And the tickle monster sits back on its haunches, eyes gleaming with triumph, an evil smile itching to form on its merciless face. “You’ve wet your pants, baby,” the monster says, confirming the obvious. And, of course, you want to scream out, “Because you made me! What did you expect to happen?!” But what’s the point? It doesn’t change the fact that you peed right there in your pants and your older brother, who loves making fun of you for anything, is gloating there above you. The monster. The monster releases your arms and stands up, checking its own clothing to see if your wet pants have stained his. One last little laugh, as if to say, “Have fun.” A last sinister smile. Then the monster is gone. Then nothing. Just you lying on the floor. Thirteen-years-old and wet pants. No more control than Johnny, the three year old. Might as well wear the diapers Johnny still wears to bed. Your small self could probably still fit into them.

You get the picture.

If any of you have older siblings (older sisters in rare moments of maliciousness have been known to commit similar acts), I’m sure you know the drill.

Anyways, Paul was good at this. Seemed Matthew was a favorite target. Matthew, now nine, occasionally would wet the bed. Of course, his brothers were merciless when this happened. I could relate to Matthew and I genuinely felt bad for him. Wished I could say, “I know how you feel.” But I didn’t. Anyways, because of this, Matthew was generally the most common victim of the tickle monster.

At first, I just watched. But, unexpectedly, I found I took joy in watching this torture. To watch Matthew squirm under Paul’s firm hold. And Matthew always, always, wet his shorts. It got to be happening so often, Mrs. Winston actually told me to not let Paul do it anymore because she didn’t want to do the extra laundry. This didn’t stop it entirely.

Ronney never wet himself. He seemed to be immune to the electric touch of the tickle monster. He would play along and laugh and squirm for a while. Then he would tire and give up the act. It quickly became clear to Paul the tickle monster that the expected and desired wetting would not occur. And he’d eventually stop, give a firm punch to the shoulder (this would at least provide the pleasure of some crying. Older brothers…), and go back to whatever competition we were playing at that evening. Depending on the season and weather, this was either in the backyard Sahara or the downstairs playroom.

In my mind, the balancing act was commencing. I wasn’t aware of it, of course. Thirteen-year-olds are hardly that cognitively present. And I was hardly that intelligent. But in hindsight, the pieces connect. It makes sense. Here I was, desperately desiring control. And here was my chance. I could assume the character I so hated, so feared. The tickle monster. And in this, my redemption! I could regain the control that was rightfully mine, but was so cruelly stripped by forces much bigger than I could manage or comprehend. I could atone for my inability to reconcile the differences between my parents; my untimely, random, lack of bedtime bladder control; my knack for being an annoying little brother; my babyish crying; my small size. So swings the pendulum. So, so far to the other side. And with this momentum, it would swing so, so far back. In retrospect, whatever I gained I more than lost. Momentum. Transfer of energy. E=mc².

No one seemed to mess with Johnny. He possessed a certain immunity as youngest. It would seem logical to be the opposite. But I can’t recall Johnny ever getting tickled. Or even wetting himself. At least during the day.

Well, I suppose that is not entirely true. Remember that I started sitting the Winstons when Johnny was barely a year old. Of course, he wore diapers full time. I forget when exactly he stopped wearing diapers during the day. Probably around two, I’d imagine. When I started, Ronney was also wearing pull-ups to bed at night. By the time it happened, three years later, Johnny was dry during the day. Mrs. Winston still had him in diapers at night, and I still had to diaper him before bedtime. Unlike with Ronney, Mrs. Winston had Johnny wearing regular tape diapers, not the pull-ups. Not sure why. Maybe she decided the pull-ups didn’t work well with Ronney and stuck with the classic.

Every Friday and Sunday, at about 8:20, I’d have the boys get ready for bed. Paul and Matthew shared one bedroom, Ronney and Johnny the other. As Paul and Matthew were getting changed into their pajamas, I’d take Johnny into his bedroom to diaper him for bed. We could do the routine with our eyes closed. I suppose when you’ve been doing something for all three years almost four of your life, you don’t think twice about it. And because I had been diapering him for nearly that long myself, I didn’t think much about it either. Until later, that is. After it happened. But yeah, he’d take off his pants and underwear and lay down on his bed. I’d go to the closet where the package of diapers was kept. I’m not sure the brand. I remember the package being blue. But, they all look the same. This is before tape diapers switched to the soft “cloth-like” exterior. Still plastic and crinkly. So I’d pull one out and open it up. Back by Johnny’s bed, he would be lying there waiting, board, anxious to get back into the bathroom so he could brush his teeth with his brothers. We were both entirely used to him being naked and he was so comfortable around his brothers, of course, that the door always stayed open. There wasn’t anything overtly special or unique about the diapering. I suppose that is how it is when you have someone in the family who wears them, especially a boy of nearly four years. I was an expert at diapering of course. I’d put the diaper on the bed and he’d lift up his bottom. I’d slip the diaper underneath and he’d sit back down and spread his legs. We didn’t do the whole oil or powder thing. So all I had to do was pull it snugly up and tape the tapes. Johnny would hop up and put on his pajama bottoms, then hurry into the bathroom so he could brush his teeth with his older brothers. That was it. Hardly ceremonious or memorable.

That would all change, though, when Mr. and Mrs. Winston asked that I watch the boys for an entire weekend.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Just skimming over it this seems like a cute story, but I like to really read them once they have a bit more length to them. Keep posting, this looks like it can turn out into something really good

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Another good addition and please keep up the good work!!! Thank you for getting to it so quickly too! I can also relate to the tickle monster too. As a boy I wet my bed and would wet my pants when tickled to much. And when you have a brother 8 years older than you it didn’t take him long to figure out that he would get that response when he tickled me.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Thanks for the responses! Here is Chap 3. Quite short. No worries there: it is a short story. Thanks for those of you who are reading. I’m writing as fast as possible. I do have a big paper due at the end of this week, so I probably wont write much more until the weekend.

Chapter 3: Impetus

I agreed to do it, of course. The Winstons were not well off. I didn’t get paid that much usually. It was honestly only 8 bucks night on a Friday or Sunday. That is like 2.50 an hour. But it was my only source of income and considering the amount of candy, soda, and additions for my bike I had to buy, it wasn’t nearly enough. So I jumped on the chance to earn fifty dollars.

The job seemed simple enough. I knew I could watch the boys and have fun, that was no problem. The responsibility didn’t really bug me because, well, a thirteen-year-old boy can rarely quantify accurately just how much responsibility he has. Mrs. Winston was going to buy more than enough food. Frozen or easily prepared. I was pretty competent with the stove. With my own parents gone so much, I often had to cook my own meals. I was absolutely sure I could handle the job.

I arrived Friday evening on my bike with my backpack, in which I had a few change of clothes and my walkman (remember those?). Mr. and Mrs. Winston said their goodbyes, left some emergency contact numbers and were gone, driving off in the beat-up family minivan.

I suppose the whole ordeal began shortly thereafter, in the alley behind their garage. Yeah, if I had to choose a spot where this particular story began in earnest, it would have to be when Matthew laughed at me.

We were jumping bikes off a jump we made in their alley behind the garage. The Winston’s garage was painted the same color as their house. A light blue that was peeling and in desperate need of a paint job. All the alleys in my town were dirt, and an ideal spot to build jumps. So there we were jumping bikes and one moment I was flying gracefully through the air, the essence of cool, the superhero that these boys looked up to, the best biker around…and the next I was lying on my back on the dirt alley, realizing I couldn’t breathe, and staring wide-eyed at the pealing blue paint of the garage.

I had the coolest bike. By far. And I’d put all my money into it for about three years, so it had all the coolest components: coolest shocks, coolest hand grips, coolest pedals, coolest breaks. I was pretty darn proud of my cool bike. The Winston boys had pretty trashy bikes. Remember, they weren’t very well off. But, lacking wisdom and judgment as the small boy I really was, I didn’t mind flouting just how cool my bike was. I’m sure I ignited fires of intense jealousy in those boys. Maybe that is partly why, when it did happen, it really happened.

So, of course, because I was the coolest kid and I had the coolest bike, I had better be the best jumper. Well, Paul had gone just before me and, to put it bluntly, kicked my butt. He way out-jumped me and was much more composed and stylish than I could ever hope to be. And his little brothers knew it. And I knew it. And man, that hurt. So when I lined up on that fateful jump, I had something to prove. Maybe I remember it so well because of what happened after. Circling out in the street, mustering up my courage and strength, eying the jump. Then, time. A last couple deep breaths, then hard pedaling. Down the street, up over the sidewalk, across the driveway, the last few feet, eyes steadfastly on the jump, then whoosh, up, jerking the hands, and flying! But unlike usual, the exhilaration didn’t subside with the jolt of the wheels landing on the packed dirt of the alley. Instead, a feeling of horror as the front end of the bike kept lifting. I had pulled too hard! Tried for too much air! I could feel my center of gravity rotating. I knew I was going to land. It was going to hurt…

And BAM. The impact much worse than I expected. That feeling when your body is overcome with too much pain and shock and it just feels jolted. I had essentially done an inverse belly flop (a back flop?) on hard packed dirt. Then I tried to breathe and I found I couldn’t. My lungs just wouldn’t respond. That moment of fear when you wonder if you’ll ever breathe again. I turned my eyes, wide open, tears already forming, towards the wall of the garage. My whole diaphragm pulling in and out as my lungs tried desperately to absorb oxygen. Pulling in and out, my whole chest, I could feel my ribs straining. But still no oxygen. I was crawling on my knees, still eying the peeling paint. Why didn’t they paint that darn wall? Crawling around, the front of my jeans getting scuffed with dirt. Then finally, just when I thought I would pass out, my lungs decided to work again. I took a deep breath and stopped crawling, relief spreading all over my body. I was alive! I could breathe!

And then, over the stinging that came from my back, I heard laughter. A cutting laugh. One without any mercy. It was cruel. I looked up, still on my knees, and saw Matthew knotted up in laughter. Paul immediately told him to shut up, but it was too late. I was hurt, I was mad. How dare he laugh at me.

After getting Matthew to stop laughing, Paul came over to me and asked if I was ok. I nodded, though still unsure if I was really ok or not. I lifted up my shirt and had him inspect my stinging back.

“Looks ok, just a couple cuts.”

I nodded. Though I wished it was a lot worse so they would think I was cool again for getting so hurt. There was nothing they could see that would really represent the pain I was feeling. Getting the wind knocked out of you never looks tough because you don’t get any cool cuts or bruises from it. You just look like a helpless fool for a while and everyone is silently thankful that it isn’t them crawling around in the dirt alley.

So instead of looking like a badass, I just looked like a big baby, a few cuts on my back, but nothing too bad. Looks ok. One notch off my control. I quickly dried my eyes hoping the Winston boys hadn’t seen me crying, though I knew that chance was slim. Glaring at Matthew with as much venom as I could muster, I picked up my bike and began to inspect my treasure for injury. As I turned toward the bike, I saw a flash of fear in Matthew’s eyes. Despite my small size, I was still bigger than him. He was nine and I was thirteen. And I think he knew I was dumb enough to try something, even though I was his babysitter.

Well, if I couldn’t win at bike jumping, we weren’t going to do it. So I told the boys it was time to go inside. I think they knew I was mad enough, they didn’t put up any protest. They all had different color hair. Paul dark brown, almost black. Matthew blond. Ronney, as I said already, had red hair, and Johnny had light brown. And they all followed me inside. I turned, looking back at the four boys. Matthew seemed to be holding back, his blond hair bobbing with each hesitant step. I glared at him. A plan was forming in my mind. I’d show him who’s boss. I’d show him what happens when you laugh at the coolest kid around.

Inside I set about making dinner. Top Ramen with some eggs cracked in for protein. A little high in sodium, but not that unhealthy. I pulled out the flat of soda pop the Winstons kept in the cupboard. I told the boys to have a pop, specifically putting one in front of Matthew. I could see the confusion in his eyes. He seemed to be wondering why the treat when I was so clearly mad. I forced a smile and wink and went back to stir the ramen.

I think I got Matthew to have at least two pops before dinner was even served. The sodium should make him even more thirsty…

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Chapter 4: My Side

During dinner, my plan solidified, as did my anger at Matthew. Looking at the table, one would have to wonder if more ramen got spilt than ate. Noodles, bits of them, curled, lay in pools of broth glistening with liquefied salt. You know how it pools into little balls on top of the broth. I slurped down the ramen with the boys and had a couple pops myself. Though I wasn’t worried about that. I knew I would be able to go to the bathroom. Matthew wouldn’t be so lucky. Matthew was about to have wet pants. Very wet pants.

After we ate, the five of us, full and satisfied, went downstairs.

The downstairs at the Winston’s house was as messy and worn as the upstairs. A carpet covered what we fondly referred to as the rec room. It was frayed on the edges and hardly thick and cushy. It was easy to run on, which was necessary for our active pastimes. Stains of origin long forgotten spotted the carpet. Cigarette burns from a previous owner in the corner.

The laundry room was off to one side. Unfinished, the floor was cement, the walls the solid foundation of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Winston’s room was off to one side. Perhaps the only clean room in the house. The boys were not allowed in there. Even during hide and seek.

I was anxious to get on with my plan. I wanted to watch Matthew squirm. I wanted to be in control. But I knew I had to wait. Wait until he started showing signs that he needed to pee. As all young boys do, Matthew made it very clear when he needed to use the bathroom. And as most boys do, Matthew would usually put off going until he could barely hold it, the present activity much too exciting and captivating to miss even a moment for a quick pee. So I knew I would know when it was time. And sure enough, after almost an hour of patience (during which time all the other boys went to the bathroom, each trip making me more anxious that I might be waiting too long), Matthew started shifting around.

We were busy having a contest to see who could build the best lego tower. Everything had to be a contest, of course. Matthew wasn’t doing that bad, I had to admit. His tower may have looked even a little better than mine. One notch off my control. Even more reason to…

I suddenly leapt up and tackled Matthew. The look of surprise in his eyes as I pounced on him was priceless. I smiled as I cruelly pressed my knees into his arms, firmly holding him to the ground.

“I think we should play some tickle monster,” I said, and winked at Paul.

Paul, who never passed up a chance to torment his little brothers, nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I think that would be a great idea.”

Ronney and Johnny put down their legos and turned to watch the entertainment.

“Except, this time,” I said, “We’re going to play a little different.”

I still hadn’t lifted my grip on Matthew at all and he had momentarily stopped squirming. He knew what was coming and I could tell he wasn’t looking forward to it one bit. No one likes being tickled. It’s a horrible experience. Which was exactly why I was going to tickle Matthew until he wet his pants. When I said we were going to play differently, he blinked questioningly, his blond hair just touching the tips of his eye lashes.

“This time,” I continued, glancing at my wrist watch, “You have to last two minutes or else.”

“Or else what?!” Matthew said, his voice betraying his nervousness and fear.

“If you can hold your pee for at least two minutes, I’ll stop and you win. Simple.”

“What if I can’t?” Nervous and fearful. Matthew blinked again. His hair was getting in his eyes.

“If you wet your pants before two minutes is up, I’m going to put one of Johnny’s diapers on you and you have to wear it for the rest of the night.”

Matthew gasped.

Paul laughed out loud.

Ronney and Johnny laughed because Paul was laughing.

Matthew suddenly jerked around, trying to get free. “Let me go,” He said through clenched teeth. “You are not going to do this.”

“Oh, I think I am,” I said, giving him a little tickle under his arms. He jerked and squirmed, kicking his legs up behind me, trying to knock me off. As small as I was, I was still bigger than Matthew and he didn’t have a chance. His eyes were looking up at me and I could tell he was pleading, hoping I couldn’t possibly be so cruel as to diaper him like his three-year-old-almost-four-year-old brother. I could feel him trying with all his might to buck me. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to hold him, so I got down to business.

“Do you want me to let you go to the bathroom first?” I asked.

“Please!” Matthew almost shouted.

“Do you have to go already?”

Matthew nodded. There was a small bit of hope in his eyes. I think he might have thought, for a moment, that I was going to let him go pee first. Not a chance.

“Well, that should make it very hard for you to win, huh?” I asked, then began tickling him. The effect was immediate. Matthew was very, very ticklish. He started laughing, high shrieks. His whole nine-year-old body shaking with spasms. His legs kicking. His arms pushing up against my knees. But still I tickled.

“Let me go, you jerk!” He gasped.

I stopped for a moment and glanced at my watch. “One minute left.” And I was back at it. Squirming, shaking, shrieking. And then it happened. He wasn’t fighting anymore, just shaking and squirming because of the tickling, not because he was trying to break free. He wasn’t trying to call me a jerk anymore. So I stopped and got up. A large wet spot on the front of Matthew’s jeans was quickly spreading.

Paul, Ronny, and Johnny looked on in awe. Matthew clinched his eyes shut, clearly trying to cut off the flow. But it was useless. That pop was running right through him. He kept wetting until his pants were thoroughly soaked. I wasn’t worried, I would have time to do the laundry before Mrs. Winston returned. She wouldn’t be mad.

“Well,” I said with a laugh, “You lost. And I warned you what happens now. Paul, go get me one of Johnny’s diapers.”

Paul laughed loudly and ran up the stairs, yelling, “You got it!”

Matthew was still just lying there. He looked at me and I could see he was trying not to cry. Trying to be tough. “Is this because I laughed at you when you crashed?”

I shrugged. “It’s just a game, Matthew. It’s not 'cause of anything.”

“I don’t want you to put a diaper on me,” he said softly.

“Well, then you shouldn’t have played the game. You knew the rules.”

Anger flashed. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

I shrugged again, ignoring his logic. I didn’t really care. “Well, too late. Rules are rules.”

No wonder, when it did happen, it really happened. Matthew must have hated me in that moment. And, boy, did I deserve it. Jeez. Thinking back now, all I can do is shake my head. What an asshole I was. If you’re angry at me now, reader, I don’t blame you. Just take comfort in knowing I’m going to get what is coming to me. Matthew will have his revenge. But, that time is not yet. He is the one laying on the floor in wet pants and that is Paul coming down the stairs. “Here it is!” He yelps in joy! Oh how glorious! This defamation of his little brother.

Paul handed the diaper to me and I waved it in front of Matthew. “For the rest of the night,” I said. Matthew just glared at me. It didn’t look like he was going to fight. But he was mad.

I reached forward and unbuttoned his soaked jeans. I could see his body shiver at my touch. In hindsight, I think that shiver was anger, not fear.

Johnny and Ronney crowded forward, anxious to see the spectacle. They didn’t want to miss a second of their older brother getting diapered.

I pulled down his pants and underwear at the same time and tossed them in a pile off to the side. Those boys were naked around each other so often that he wasn’t a bit embarrassed to be laying there without any pants on. Matthew just kept on staring at me. I was starting to feel afraid. But I didn’t show it.

I slipped the diaper under his bottom and pulled it snugly up between his legs. It was a little tight, but it fit. Johnny was a pretty big kid for his age and needed bigger diapers, so they worked just fine for Matthew. I taped the diaper securely and patted him on the leg.

“There you go, buddy,” I said. I was a little deflated. A little disappointed. The feeling of joy and control that I had been expecting was nowhere to be found.

Matthew sat up and looked down at his diapered middle. Ronney half heartedly tried to make fun of Matthew. “Hey look, Matthew is wearing a diaper like Johnny.” But it fell flat. Matthew just stood up and walked up the stairs to the kitchen, the diaper swishing and crinkling.

I looked over at Paul and shrugged. “Well, that was fun.”

Paul shrugged back. “Yeah, I guess. He’s mad, though. Going to get you back.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

Re: Sitting the Winstons

I love your style, very eloquent with the right amount of description.

A couple things, though…

“Well, that should make it very hard for you to when, huh?”
‘win’…and

“Johnny was a pretty big kid for his age and need bigger diapers”

‘needed’ ?

Great job, perfect narrative.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Very astute observations considering conventions. The necessary changes will be made. Thank you for the close reading. Updates soon!

Re: Sitting the Winstons

So… I registered for the sole purpose of saying that I’m glad you haven’t completely given up writing stories (of an ABDL persuasion; with how you write, you must have plenty of experience writing other things, too).

In the hands of a lesser writer, I could see this story ending up as pretty standard fare, with little more to it than a bunch of people wetting themselves and getting put back into diapers. The difference is that, with you writing the story, we get a glimpse into the minds of characters that are more developed than what is typically found. The difference is in how you describe the setting, and how just having a clear picture of the Winstons’ home yields a clearer picture of the boys themselves. I’ve heard this saying elsewhere, but it really applies here: the difference is in the details.

And please do keep writing for yourself… creative pursuits just seem to go downhill when their creators start trying to please other people.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Tygon, that means a lot to me. Genuinely, thank you. I appreciate it. This chapter, however, might be a little more standard than you enjoy. But, I enjoyed writing it :slight_smile:

Chapter 5: It Begins

The four of us climbed the stairs into the kitchen and found Matthew sitting quietly at the kitchen table, still dirty with bits of ramen. He was still at the height where his legs didn’t touch the floor. In just a t-shirt and diaper, Matthew sat on the chair and his legs swung back and forth lazily. His hands were holding on tightly to a soda can. So tightly I could see it was dented. Man, he was angry.

“And what if I have to pee?” He asked quietly.

I looked at Paul, who looked away quickly. I was getting the feeling he wanted to distance himself from the situation so as not to incur the wrath of Matthew. I kinda wanted to give up, throw in the towel and give Matthew some dry pants, but I couldn’t do that. That would be a sign of weakness. One notch off my control. So I stood fast.

“Well, guess you’ll just have to use the diaper.”

I watched the can dent a little more.

From time to time when I was babysitting the Winstons, I liked to show the boys how cool I was and call one of my friends on the phone. I thought that definitely made me look cool. You know? That I had friends and I could call them. It struck me that now might be a good time to show the Winston boys how cool I was.

“I gotta make a call,” I said nonchalantly. So cool. I grabbed the cordless and walked out of the room, taking my backpack with me. Down in the basement, I dialed the number to my best friend, Trevor.

I don’t exactly recall what we talked about. It was probably like five minutes or something. The events that followed directly after the call – during it actually – made me forget that. I remember I had pulled out my walkman and was having Trevor listen to a song. I was pressing one of the earphones up against the mouthpiece. I’m sure it sounded like crap and Trevor was bored out of his mind, but he let me do it. He was a good friend.

I was just thinking about how much of the song I should play for Trevor when I heard the shuffling of feet on the stairs.

“Private conversation!” I shouted. “Don’t come down here.” So cool.

But the shuffling didn’t stop. I turned around in a rage, letting the walkman earphones drop to the ground. I suppose that is when I got the sinking feeling in my stomach. Dread. I think I knew I was about to be shown just how un-cool I actually was. Just how small. How much control I really didn’t have. Lined up at the bottom of the stairs stood the Winston boys.

The first sign of trouble was the fact that Matthew wasn’t wearing the diaper any more. He was in dry shorts. He’d changed his shirt too. This revealed to me that my authority no longer existed. I was no longer the babysitter. Matthew had directly disobeyed me.

“Uh, Trevor?” I said into the phone.

“Yeah man, cool song.”

“Thanks.” I mumbled. “Hey, I gotta go.”

“Sure dude. Have fun babysitting.”

“Yeah…” I said softly, and hung up.

“What’s going on?” I asked the Winston boys. They were standing in a row. Coincidentally (I don’t think this was on purpose), they were standing from shortest to tallest. Johnny, light brown hair. Ronney, red. The Matthew, blond with dry shorts. And finally Paul, almost black. The rainbowed hair of the Winston boys. Damn those dry shorts Matthew was wearing, those spelled trouble. “I thought I told you to keep that diaper on!” I said, trying to reassert my control.

Matthew shrugged. “I took it off. I’m not the baby here.”

“Oh is that right?” I responded hotly. “Paul, grab him!”

But Paul just shook his head and crossed his arms. “No way, man. It is your turn.”

Yeah, that was definitely dread I was feeling right then. My stomach sinking.

Paul walked slowly around me and started rummaging in the toy bin.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He didn’t respond.

I briefly considered running. I was pretty sure I could outrun them. But I knew that was out of the question. Leaving the boys alone when they were my responsibility. I wasn’t sure, but I could probably get arrested for that. I eyed Paul warily. He seemed to finally find what he was looking for, but what he pulled out didn’t answer any questions of mine. It was the Twister mat. You know that large sheet of plastic with the colored circles on it?

“We playing Twister?”

Paul still didn’t respond. He just spread out the mat on the frayed carpet of the rec room. Right next to the pile of Matthews wet pants and briefs. Paul then looked over at Matthew and Ronney and Johnny (mob enforcer) and nodded.

They jumped me. Remember I wasn’t much bigger than them. Still a pretty darn small boy. So it didn’t take much. They had me on the ground in a second. Oh I struggled. I fought. I wiggled and writhed and shouted threats. “I’ll put you all in diapers for this!” I shouted (bad idea). Paul just laughed. “I’ll tell your parents!” Paul just shrugged. Ronney and Johnny were sitting on each arm. Matthew was holding my legs down. As much as I tried to kick my legs, I could barely move them.

“Alright, let’s move him to the Twister mat,” Paul directed. I was still confused about the mat. It was going to be hard for me to play Twister with three boys sitting on me. Paul reached down and grabbed my arms, telling his two youngest brothers to get off. Matthew got up and grabbed me legs. They lifted. I was hanging there between Matthew and Paul, completely helpless. They swung me a bit and laughed. I tried to wiggle free, but found it just made them laugh harder. I must have looked really silly. They walked slowly over to the twister mat and laid me down in the center of it.

“You see,” Paul said softly to me. “We don’t want you to get the carpet wet. Because we aren’t going to let you go until you wet your pants. Pee right in them, just like you made Matthew do.”

I felt that dread again. My tummy turning circles. “It’s not going to happen,” I said through gritted teeth. Again trying to get loose. But Paul had a tight grip on my hands and was holding them to the mat above me head. Matthew was sitting on my legs. I couldn’t move. “I’m not going to wet my pants.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that.” Paul said. “Go get the chairs,” he directed Ronny and Johnny (mob enforcer). “And the rope from the garage.”

Maybe why I was so afraid is I didn’t even believe myself when I told Paul I wouldn’t wet my pants. You see, I had had a two pops at dinner, about an hour and a half before. And I, like most boys do, had been waiting to pee until I had the proper chance. And I knew that feeling in my lower tummy, in my bladder. It was starting to get full. I was starting to feel like I had to pee. And here I was, pinned down on top of a Twister mat so that if I peed my pants, I wouldn’t get the carpet wet.

I heard a racket coming down the stairs and I could picture little Johnny wrestling the big chair. There were probably a few fresh dents in the wall. But nothing to worry about that there. Plenty of other dents for those new ones to lose themselves amongst. No, to worry about was the pressure I was feeling right about where my jeans buttoned up. I shifted around and tried to look back at Paul. “Please let me go,” I said. “I’ll…I won’t tell your parents anything. I’ll go buy you guys ice cream.” There was a Dairy Queen at the end of their block, right next to the supermarket.

“We don’t want ice cream,” Paul said simply. “And I don’t think my parents will care. They would be a lot more angry at you if they knew you put a diaper on Matthew.”

I knew he was right. And this added to my dread. Why hadn’t I thought that through? I shifted around again.

“Look at that,” Matthew laughed. “You know, Paul, I think he already has to pee.”

“Is that true?” Paul said, watching me shift. It was clearly true. “Jeez, I thought we were going to have to wait for a while. This will be easy.”

The racket stopped and I heard Johnny dragging the chair across the rec room carpet. Then a new racket began and I knew Ronney was making his way down the stairs.

“Got the rope too?” Paul called.

“Yep!” came the reply.

I shifted around some more, wishing I could at least cross my legs. But Matthew was making sure that didn’t happen.

“I’ll buy you ice cream every weekend!” I tried again, hoping, wishing that they would let me go.

“I told you we don’t want ice cream,” Paul said softly. “Hey Ronney, hurry up. I think he is going to wet his pants soon.”

The racket increased. Definitely some new dents. But Ronney didn’t want to miss the spectacle. And then he was dragging the chair across the carpet. “Do you want us to tie him up?” I heard the rope hit the ground right by my head.

“Not yet,” Paul replied.

How had they planned this all in the short time I was on the phone, I wondered? Trying to keep my mind off my aching bladder. Sometimes you can stave off a dire need to pee by thinking about something else. Like on a long car ride and you’re not sure you’re going to make it to the rest stop and you warn your dad that you really, really have to pee. And he sighs loudly and says, think about something else, son. If you think about having to go to the bathroom, it will make you have to go more. So you concentrate on the road signs and try to imagine who lives in the house over there on the hill. And it works for a moment. Then your older brother says, I think he’s going to pee his pants, dad! He’s squeezing down there. And all your attempts to think of something else fail and your back to thinking about the aching, having to go so bad. And your dad swears in the front seat. I swear, he says, if you pee on my seats. That’s not helping! Your mom says. Always the diplomat. And you almost want to cry. 'Cause you’re twelve and holding onto your privates like a little boy. Squirming. And your brother laughs again. I think I see a wet spot! He gleefully shouts. Damnit! Shouts your dad. And you feel the breaks on the car and know you’re at the rest stop. You cross your legs the other way. Just one more minute! Your mom says. It is like a sporting event and everyone (except your brother, of course) is cheering you on. You can do it! Just a little more! Like you’re running a race. But then the pee starts to really come out and you know you’ve failed. You didn’t win the race. He’s wetting his pants, dad! Your brother shouts. Damnit! Shouts your dad. Oh honey! Says your mom, looking back from the front passenger seat, a look of pity on her face. Or maybe she just wants to see it actually happen. She watches as you soak your pants and the seat you are sitting on. And you start crying. Gross, your brother says and scoots away. You should just put him in diapers, says your brother. Your dad grunts and you know he almost wishes he could.

So right then, I felt I was in the car again, like when I was twelve and I had wet my pants on a road trip. That wasn’t even a year ago. Mathew and Paul pinning me down. I was trying to think of something else, but I knew it was a lost cause.

“Look! Look!” Shouted Johnny. “He’s wetting his pants.”

And I was. Laying on the colored circles of a twister mat peeing in my pants. There were no more notches to take off my control. I had lost them all. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t help but see the grinning face of Matthew watch as I soaked my pants.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Chapter 6: It Happens

Right about then, in that particular moment when one feels absolutely no control, perhaps like a marionette on strings: it is a rather frightening yet freeing feeling. For me, more frightening than freeing. Because who knows which way those marionette strings will lead you. Especially frightening: the fact that these strings are more than a bit mad at you and more than a bit interested in revenge. For the time being, the marionette strings made me lie there on the now wet Twister mat with soaked pants. The strings were also laughing, some hysterically. And deep down in my puppet eyes I felt tears start to well up. And why not cry? I was no longer the tough guy. The cool kid with the cool bike who listened to cool music and called his cool friends. Nope. I was just a small boy being held down on the colored circles of a Twister mat; pants wet.

And they were really wet. Two pops, twelve ounces each. I think all twenty-four ounces ended up in my pants. I wasn’t fighting anymore. What was the point. My legs were starting to feel numb where Matthew was sitting on them.

“Ok, you got me,” I said. I wasn’t crying yet. But talking nearly made me. “Ok,” I said again. “Just let me up, huh? We’re even.”

I saw Matthew shake his head and I certainly felt more fright than free.

“No, we’re not,” Matthew said. “If I remember right, you made me wet my pants, then you put one of Johnny’s diapers on me. Right?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Or did you do something worse?” Paul said. “I can’t quite remember.”

“No, I didn’t,” I blurted.

“So what did you do?”

I felt like I was being questioned by my parents. And here I was, the oldest boy here.

“I…” I stopped. I felt embarrassed to say out loud what I did. It sounded so stupid now. So foolish. “I put one of Johnny’s diapers on Matthew.”

Matthew smirked and seemed to put even more weight on my legs.

“Yes,” Paul said. “Yes you did. So, I don’t think we’re even yet, are we?”

I closed my eyes. There were those tears welling up again.

“Are we?!” Paul said roughly, yanking my arms back.

It hurt. I let out a short breath in pain. “No,” I said. Almost whimpered. I tried again to move my arms and legs, thinking perhaps Matthew and Paul had relaxed their grip. But it was futile. All I felt in my movement was the slickness of the wet Twister mat and how it grabbed at my pants, seeming to pull them up more tightly against my middle. Then it struck me that if the Winston boys followed through on their implied threat, to diaper me, surely they would then see me naked. I did not share their comfort around each other. I was not their brother. I had not spent the greater part of my life growing up around these boys. They had not seen me naked before. And I wanted to keep it that way.

There was just something about it. I was always nervous when it came to my body. I didn’t like changing in the locker room at the swimming pool. Always used the stall to slip off my underwear and pull on my swimming trunks. And I wondered at the other boys who could freely walk around amongst the benches and lockers, their boyhood out for all to see. It surprised me and I admired their confidence. Wished it upon myself. But that confidence was only apparent when I was sitting the Winstons. No more, that.

I felt that inevitability. That palpable inevitability. It sits somewhere in your tummy, seeps down into your legs. A sort of heaviness. A weight. Like when you get in trouble while you’re having dinner with your family at your grandmas. Said something disrespectful to your mom and stomped out of the room. And your dad follows you into the kitchen and grabs your arm. The kind of grab that lets you know you’re in trouble. You don’t talk to your mom that way, he says. Putting his finger under your chin and pulling up so that you have to look into his eyes, piercing in their righteousness. Especially in front of your grandma, he says. You squirm a bit and try to look away, but his finger and arm are firm and you give up and look into his eyes, trying to be strong. But you know you’re in trouble. Go back in, your dad says, and sit down, he says, and expect a spanking when you get home. You feel that inevitability then. That heaviness somewhere in your tummy, seeping down into your legs. And it makes you hang your head as you walk back into the room and sit, obediently, already feeling the sting of the spanking on your bottom. You clench your butt cheeks, already feeling the pain. And that inevitability: it makes the food that was so tasty five minutes ago tasteless.

And it was that feeling, laying there. That feeling that something horrible was going to happen. Something that was going to be very, very uncomfortable. But there was nothing you could do to stop it.

“Johnny?” Paul motioned with one hand toward the upstairs. “Will you go get one of your diapers?” Johnny, the enforcer, scampered up the stairs. I could hear his small feet drawing quiet squeaks from the floorboards. The squeaks traveled across the kitchen, right over our heads, down the hallway. Then stopped. I knew Johnny was rummaging around in his closet, pulling out one of his oversized, overnight diapers. Bigger, of course, because he was a pretty big kid. Big enough that they’d probably still fit on me. Barely. The squeaks started to come back, a bit quicker this time. Johnny, the enforcer, was excited. Then down the stairs. A thud as Johnny jumped the last three stairs.

“Here you go,” he said. Nearly four years old.

I struggled again, giving a violent jerk with my legs, trying to knock Matthew loose. He was caught slightly off guard, but I could not slip free before he again gained control of my legs. This time, he gripped my ankles tightly. I looked up and saw Johnny hand the diaper to Paul, who kept one arm tightly holding my hands down. When I saw that diaper, having come unfolded in transit, I struggled again, trying in vain to defy the inevitability.

“Johnny, Ronney?” Paul asks.

“Yes?”

Always obedient to their oldest brother.

“Do you think you can keep his arms down?”

“Yes.”

The two youngest Winstons moved out of my line of sight. I felt two pairs of smaller hands holding down each of my arms. Paul moved into my line of sight and smiled down at me.

“We’ll help you out of those wet pants. Don’t worry.” He said with a wink.

Those tears were trying to come back again. So far I had been successful in holding them back. But I was the marionette and the strings were about to make me very uncomfortable. And I afraid. I was nervous. Paul kneeled beside me.

“I’ve gotten Johnny ready for bed a few times, so I’m pretty good at this,” he said. I’m not sure if he was trying to comfort me or not.

The nervousness was almost nauseating. Paul reached down and unbuttoned me jeans. Quickly unzipping them. And I closed my eyes shut with no intention of opening them ever, ever again. Then a yank and the wet jeans were around my knees. Another yank, at the ankles. I could feel the cold wet plastic of the Twister mat stick to my bare legs. I shivered. Bright spots appeared before my tightly closed eyelids as the radiance of the ceiling lights shone through. I counted three bright spots as I felt my underwear being peeled back. They were barely to my knees before there was a laugh. Matthew’s. I heard Paul join in. I closed my eyes even tighter. I knew why they were laughing. I knew why I didn’t like to change in the locker room.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a bigger penis if you are older?” Matthew laughed. “Jeez, that is not much bigger than Ronney’s.”

Johnny and Ronney laughed too, but I’m sure they didn’t know what they were laughing about. Just following along. Mob enforcers.

I felt tears squeeze out of my marionette eyes. The strings were being utterly cruel to make fun of something over which I had no control. Not that there were any more notches to take off my control, but find another one, hidden somewhere, to take off. Because I felt even littler and smaller and weaker.

The wet underpants finally made their way down to my ankles, joining the wet jeans.

“Now, be a good boy and lift up,” Paul said, still laughing. “I have a feeling this diaper is going to fit just fine.”

Of course, I had no intention of cooperating. The puppet masters would have to do all the work. I felt a violent pull of the strings on my legs and I had no choice but to lift. The diaper was quickly thrust under my bottom and the strings let me back down. I felt Paul’s hand reach between my legs, grabbing the front of the diaper. I tried to close my legs tight, but Matthew pulled them apart, his hands still holding strong to my ankles. The diaper came up tight over my boyhood. I was covered, but hardly less embarrassed. I felt Paul struggling to pull the tapes over and fasten the diaper, but it was too tight. I was too big for Johnny’s diapers.

“I’ll just go get some tape. It is just here in the washroom.” Paul said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you in these.”

In a moment Paul had come and returned and I could hear the screech of the tape being pulled back. Packing tape probably. Then it was being wrapped around my waist, around the diaper, and it didn’t matter that the diaper was too small. The packing tape held it firmly in place.

“There,” was all Paul said. “Look at that.”

I didn’t open my eyes, but I felt four pairs of them taking in the sight. Their thirteen-year-old babysitter: wet pants and underwear around his ankles, diaper taped (literally) around his middle. It must have been quite a sight. Quite a surprise to the Winston boys. Quite a victory.

But all that glory they must have been basking in, that sweet revenge, must have disappeared in an instant when from the stairs came a voice much deeper than mine or any of the Winston boys, “What the hell is going on?!?”

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Great story so far and revenge is so sweet. But I think that the crap is about to hit the fan! Can’t wait until the next installment!

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Thanks for the support y’all. Hope you enjoy. Things slow down a bit in this chapter.

Chapter 7 – Dread

I winced as Mrs. Winston cut the tape that was wrapped around my waist. Pain shot up from the soft skin of my tummy as she started to pull back the hastily applied packing tape. I gasped and closed my eyes tight.

“Am I hurting you?” Mrs. Winston asked softly.

I nodded and tried to be tough.

Mrs. Winston was a gentle lady. Also quite tall. With both their parents’ genes, the Winston boys were going to be giants. Despite her height (she had a good five or six inches on me), Mrs. Winston was not as imposing as her husband. She was soft spoken and quiet. I think I had gotten on her good side with my habit of cleaning up the kitchen before they got home on Fridays and Sundays.

She got the tape off and in one swoop, pulled the diaper off of me. And there I was lying naked as the day I was born on Matthew’s bed right in front of Mrs. Winston. She didn’t even blink as she turned towards the closet.

“Well, your clothes are soaked. Maybe you can fit into Paul’s.” She looked over at me, eying my size. I had sat up on the edge of the bed and conveniently pulled the edge of Matthew’s duvet over my privates. “Yeah, I bet these will fit.” She reached in to the closet and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. “Underpants…,” she said, more to herself than to me, as she opened a drawer and pulled out some white briefs. “Might be a bit tight, but they’ll do,” Mrs. Winston said as she handed both to me.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

Mrs. Winston started to walk out of the room. She paused in the doorway and looked back, about to say something. But she turned and walked out, clearly thinking it best to just stay quiet.

I hadn’t said anything to her either. Except thanks.

When Mr. Winston had walked in on the diaper torture session, after his initial surprise wore off (quickly), he had sent the Winston boys into his and Mrs. Winston’s bedroom to await interrogation.

I had slowly sat up on the Twister mat, feeling the diaper gripping tightly to my middle. So tight that it hurt.

“What was going on?!” Mr. Winston had asked sternly as Mrs. Winston peaked her head down the stairs and gasped.

I just shrugged my shoulders. “They were mad at me,” I had said.

“For what?”

I just shrugged again.

He had reached out his hand and helped me stand up. I had almost fallen right back over as my wet pants around my ankles acted like shoelaces tied together. Mrs. Winston had rushed over and helped me step out of them. Mr. Winston had taken another look at me, shook his head, then stomped into the bedroom. The only clean room in the house.

As I stepped into Paul’s underpants (they were a little tight) and sweatpants, I wondered what was going on in that room now. What were the boys telling Mr. Winston? Surely they had not already forgotten what I had done to Matthew. But Paul had been part of that too. Then they had done worse to me.

I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there on Matthew’s bed and waited. Mrs. Winston hadn’t given me a shirt. I thought about getting one from the closet, but felt it best not to take anything not offered. Didn’t want to get in more trouble. A red stripe ran across my tummy. A mark from the tape. It was still hurt.

Matthew and Paul’s room was a complete mess. Dirty clothes and toys lay scattered on the floor. They shared a bunk bed (I was on the bottom bunk). It was old and flimsy and every move I made caused the frame to squeak and groan. Childish curtains covered the window, clearly homemade. They were blue. Spaceships, planets, and stars dotted the cloth. I was surprised Paul hadn’t insisted on something more mature now that he was getting a little older.

Despite the fact that Matthew occasionally wet the bed, he didn’t have a plastic sheet on his bed. Apparently he wet less often than me. I felt a wave of embarrassment. I still had a plastic sheet on my bed. My mom required it. And when I wet the bed, I had to carry my wet sheets and pajamas down the hall, past the kitchen, past everyone eating breakfast, down the stairs and into the washroom. A few times a month. I’d walk by the kitchen and I’d hear my brother snicker and my face would glow red with anger and embarrassment. My brother’s small little thirteen-year-old brother who still wet the bed and looked like he wasn’t a day past ten.

My brother and I shared a room until he was eleven and I was nine. And when I got my own room, I was scared to sleep in there alone and would often sleep on a sleeping bag in my brother’s room. I’m surprised he let me. I guess he could be nice sometimes. While we shared a room, we had a bunk bed like the Winston’s. Except ours was white. Theirs was red. My brother always got the top bunk, no matter how long I whined and how much I complained to my parents. His reason was that when I wet the bed, he didn’t want it dripping on him. This, of course, was impossible, as I pointed out as forcefully as I could. There was a plastic sheet on my bed. It won’t leak. Doesn’t matter, said my brother, you can’t have top. It will find a way to leak, he said, and we only need you wetting one bed, not two. And I’d try to swallow the lump in my throat that told me I was about to start crying. Unless, my brother would say to my parents after a quick sneer at me, unless he wears diapers. Then, you can have top, he would say to me. With a diaper on you and a plastic sheet on the bed, I’ll feel safe, said my brother. Then I’d fail at swallowing the lump and I’d start crying and run into our room, crawl deep under my covers, the plastic sheet mocking me as it crinkled. A while later my mom would come in and try to comfort me. But I never got top bunk.

Matthew didn’t have a plastic sheet on his bed.

I heard footsteps in the hall and I felt myself clinching my butt like I did when I was about to get spanked by my dad. Though I knew Mr. Winston wouldn’t be spanking me. But it was that same feeling of dread.

He stood in the doorway and looked at me. I glanced at him, then directed my eyes toward the spaceship curtains.

“The boys said you did it to Matthew first.” His voice was calm. Scary.

“Paul helped,” I mumbled.

“Yes, I know that. But, you might’ve had that coming,” he nodded toward the floor, indicating downstairs. “Now,” he said, taking a deep breath and walking into the room, “That doesn’t make what they did OK.” Mr. Winston took a seat on the bed next to me. I scooted over. “But it makes you guilty too.”

Dread. Deep in my tummy. I stared straight at the curtains.

“Now, I know your parents are at the conference too…”

He was referring to the church conference they were supposed to be attending. And yes, my parents were gone. The dread deepened. Mr. Winston knew I couldn’t go home. My parents wouldn’t want their small, little son there by himself, even though he was thirteen.

“…so I can’t just send you home,” Mr. Winston continued.

“I have a key, I can get in,” I tried.

“Well, I’m going to call your parents and see what they have to say.”

Dread. They were not going to be happy. They were not going to let me go home.

"Why did…"I started to ask.

“Why what?”

“Why did you come home early?”

“Bet you wished we hadn’t, huh?” Mr. Winston said.

I didn’t reply.

“My mother had a fall and she was admitted to the hospital. Broken hip, they think.”

Mr. Winston stood up and walked to the door. He paused, much like Mrs. Winston had done before, except Mr. Winston said what was on his mind. “I don’t know what was going on. Why you put a diaper, of all things, on Matthew in the first place. Why?”

I shrugged, counting spaceships.

“Sometimes I just don’t get you boys,” He said, then turned and left.

I was right about both things. My parents were mad. And they weren’t going to let me go home. I was to spend the weekend at the Winstons. When I got on the phone with them (they made me), they too asked, why? I still didn’t know. Well, they said, we’re going to talk to Mr. Winston tomorrow about punishment. Punishment? I asked. Yes, punishment. Dread. Like I was about to get spanked. But you had better be on your best behavior for the rest of the weekend, my dad said sternly, or it will be even worse. What’s going to happen? I asked. Like I said, we’ll talk tomorrow, said my dad.

As I hung up the phone, all four Winston boys marched past, glaring at me. They were directed to go straight to bed.

I was to sleep on a sleeping pad and sleeping bag in Matthew and Paul’s room. After Mrs. Winston set it up for me, I crawled in. Matthew and Paul didn’t say a word. Their bunk bed creaking slightly as Paul moved around.

After the lights were turned out and the door was shut, I tried to offer an apology. If I was going to be here for the weekend, I wanted to at least try and mend the fence.

“I’m sorry we got caught,” I said softly.

Two grunts came back as a reply.

I lay awake for a long while, worried about punishment and worried about wetting the bed. I rarely slept over at other people’s houses because of the worry. And I knew that tonight my luck had not been with me. And, oh god, I did not want to wake up in wet pajamas and a wet sleeping bag at the Winston house. That would be the worst.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Chapter 8 – It Begins Again

It was a long night. I didn’t get much sleep, what with my worry and the racket that Mr. and Mrs. Winston made in the middle of the night. I had just fallen asleep when the back door opened and slammed. Apparently, they didn’t care if they woke us up. I assumed they were getting back from the hospital. Visiting Mr. Winston’s mom. I must have fallen asleep after that because I don’t remember much until morning. But it was awful sleep. You know the kind where you are worried you’ll miss your alarm the night of an important job interview? So you wake up every hour, each time you wake up scared that you missed it and there was no way you were getting the job now. But you check the clock and it’s just three A.M. Yeah, that kind of sleep. So when Paul and Matthew started stirring as the sun peaked around the edges of the spaceship curtains, I had been laying there for quite a while. Exhausted and scared.

The whole “punishment” thing gave me the creeps, I’ll be honest. Punishment by your parents, getting spanked or sent to your room for trying to slip your dinner vegetables to the dog or hide them under your napkin, isn’t that bad. I mean, it’s bad. But at least you know what to expect. But from someone else… jeez. I was scared.

Paul first, then Matthew, crawled out of bed. Paul expertly negotiated the rickety ladder that connected the top bunk to the bottom. He was wearing green pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that used to be white. His dark hair was all sorts of messed up, his eyes puffy from sleep. An imprint of the edge of a bed sheet was visible on his cheek. Matthew, too, looked the part of a boy waking up from a night’s sleep. His red pajamas still dry, I noted.

I was dry too, thank god. At least that fear hadn’t come to pass.

The two brothers stared at me as they walked by. I mumbled, “Good morning,” but got no reply. Apparently the night had done little to dilute their anger. Or maybe they hadn’t slept well either and were just grumpy. Either way, their silence did little to ease my sense of impending doom. I crawled out of my sleeping bag and timidly followed them into the kitchen.

There was a note on the kitchen table (ramen spillage cleaned off) next to two boxes of cold cereal and some bowls. The note was simple: Milk in the fridge. Don’t leave the house. At hospital visiting grandma. Back by ten.

I glanced at the wall clock and saw that it was nearly ten. Not much time.

Judging by the sun streaming through the window and the clear blue sky beyond the roof of the garage across the desert backyard, it was going to be a nice day. Weather wise, at least.

Not long after the three of us sat down and began eating the bland breakfast of Kellog’s cold cereal, Ronny and Johnny appeared. As they took a seat at the table, I noticed that Johnny hadn’t bothered to take off his nighttime diaper. It clearly showed through his blue pajamas. Unlike Matthew and Paul, both the younger Winstons had matching tops and bottoms. Johnny didn’t seem the slightest bit worried about still wearing his diaper. I wondered if he did this every morning.

“So, uh, what do you think is going to happen to us?” I asked softly.

Matthew and Paul shrugged.

“Not sure,” Paul said after a moment of thoughtful chewing. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

“Why not? I get the feeling your dad was pretty angry last night.”

“Oh, he was. But there is nothing we can do now. So, let’s not worry too much,” Paul said.

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

“Do you forgive us?” Matthew asked.

I didn’t even have to think. I wanted these boys on my side. “Yeah, for sure. And I’m sorry for starting it all.”

“Ok, we forgive you,” Paul said with an air of finality. His younger brothers would agree.

This was good. I was starting to feel a little bit of control again. And a kinship with the Winston boys that I had never had before. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Though, when I heard the car doors slam in the driveway, that kind thought was quickly forgotten. It might as well have not even existed when I saw what was in the bags Mr. and Mrs. Winston brought through the door.

All my short life, I had been struggling to be bigger than I was. To be more mature than I seemed. To be strong. To be cool. When I saw what was in the bags, I knew that, at least for the next day, I was going to be in a state very, very far from what I wanted. And from the amount, I guessed that I would not be the only one.

The game was simple. Johnny and Ronny had been sent out back to play. They were not deemed to have been gross offenders like the three remaining boys sitting at the kitchen table. Mr. and Mrs. Winston sat too. And on the table, two paper bags full of four packages of youth diapers. They had made a stop off at a medical supply store on the way back from the hospital this morning. They diapers would fit, they assured us.

“Even you,” Mr. Winston said to me, just in case I was confused.

Disbelief had me so frozen, I couldn’t even nod. But I believed him.

“Though you’re not that much bigger than Paul,” Mr. Winston mused.

Disbelief and embarrassment. I couldn’t help being small. No more notches of control to take though. They were all gone. Very gone.

I had never really liked Mr. Winston. He was a hard man. Guess you have to be, though, with four boys and not a whole lot of money. Like I said before, he was tall. Some tall people are really thin. Sticks. But Mr. Winston, though definitely not fat, was not a stick. A muscular, athletic body made his height even more imposing. He hadn’t shaved yet today and a grizzled stubble shadowed his face. His hair was as dark as the stubble promised to be. Black as night (I could see where Paul got his hair color). It was strait and he had it styled in a disturbingly antique comb over. You don’t see those much anymore. Beneath thick eye brows, Mr. Winston’s beady black eyes glared at me behind thin glasses. The glasses were hanging on the tip of his nose and seemed to be likely to fall off at any moment. But they didn’t.

Sitting next to Mr. Winston, Mrs. Winston seemed quite content to let her beady-eyed husband do all the talking. She was staring blankly at the bag in front of her and I was having trouble reading her emotions. Not that she ever showed any anyways. Mrs. Winston was an efficient mom to the core. You’d have to be to raise four wild, dirty, rowdy boys. When she did smile, it was quick, almost like she was apologizing for showing any happiness at all. The even rarer laugh was painful to listen to. High pitched, piercing, and telling of the hard life she lived. With her bland efficiency, Mrs. Winston struck me as a beat woman who had accepted that life would never produce the dreams of her childhood. Infinitely different than my own mother who fought life every chance she got with anger. At least it was some emotion. Mrs. Winston provided no such gauge of how bad my situation was. Blank stare. That was all. Enough indication to tell me nothing at all. But her brown locks of hair forever preserved in soft curls (no doubt dutifully created every morning. Perhaps after the children went to school. And Johnny, not yet in school, was down for his morning nap) and her gentle eyes and expressionless mouth: I couldn’t fear her like Mr. Winston. The bland efficiency couldn’t be that destructive. Right?

The game was simple.

Mr. Winston explained to us that we were much too old to be playing with each other like we had been last night. Much too old to be tickling each other until we wet our pants. Much too old to be playing with diapers. In fact, Mr. Winston said coldly, this interest in diapers was fascinating. Unhealthy and something that certainly needed to stop.

“I don’t know where it came from,” Mr. Winston said. “But today it will end. You will be so sick of diapers by the end of the day, you’ll never want to see another diaper again. Even when your eighty and peeing yourself for real. You’ll rather pee your pants.”

I had a pretty good idea where four packages of youth diapers were going to fit into that.

“And,” Mr. Winston was staring at me again. “Your parents wholeheartedly agree with this. It might even be worse for you when you get home.”

Beady eyes. Cutting. I was pretty sure I hated him now.

The game was simple. To get out of the punishment, Mr. Winston said, all we had to do was not wet ourselves for ten minutes. We would each take turns. But if one of us wet, either Matthew, or Paul, or me, then it was all over. Diaper punishment for the rest of the weekend. For all of us.

Ten minutes? I thought. This had to be some kind of trick. Anyone could hold it for ten minutes. Even a baby.

“But first, you need to drink this.” Mr. Winston pulled a bottle out of the brown paper bag. Ah, there it was. The trick. As if on cue, Mrs. Winston stood up and got three cups from the cupboard, filling each with water before she brought them over to the table. Mr. Winston poured out a stream of dark brown liquid into each cup. Even from across the table, I could smell it. Stale black licorice.

“Matthew, you’re first,” Mr. Winston said, a judge handing down a sentence. “Drink up.” He pushed a cup over to Matthew who eyed it cautiously.

Matthew leaned over the cup and sniffed. Immediately he backed up, a look of disgust on his face. “It smells awful, dad,” Matthew said, trying to lean as far back from the cup as possible.

“Well, you can just skip this step, if you’d like. And just wear diapers all day. I’m giving you a way out. You don’t have to take it.”

Matthew grimaced and grabbed the cup, plugged his nose with one hand, and turned it back, gulping down all the brownish liquid at once. When it was gone, Matthew slammed down the cup and gagged.

Mr. Winston seemed to not notice. He just nodded at Mrs. Winston, who grabbed one of the packages of diapers.

“Come on, son,” She said softly, reaching out her hand to Matthew.

Even though I know Matthew was mad, I wished that he hadn’t brushed his mom’s hand away. But he did and glared at her.

Ever stoic, Mrs. Winston just turned and headed for the boys’ bedroom. Matthew didn’t need to be told to follow.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Thanks to those who have commented. Your time is greatly appreciated.

Chapter 9: The Simple Game

When Matthew returned to the kitchen, I felt sorry for him at first. Then, almost immediately, I felt sorry for myself. In ten or twenty more minutes, it would be me who walked into the kitchen in nothing but a t-shirt, socks, and a thick, crinkling disposable white diaper. It bulged out from between his legs and was fastened around his waist by two blue tapes on each side. If anything, it looked a little big on Matthew, but Mrs. Winston had done a great mother’s job of diapering her nine-year-old son.

Matthew’s eyes were glued to the dirty linoleum floor. He more waddled than walked back to the table under the approving leer of his father. Mr. Winston stood and pulled a chair into the middle of the kitchen.

“Sit here, son,” he said.

Matthew sat. Mrs. Winston stood by the doorway. Paul and Mr. Winston sat with me at the table. I felt like we were at a show. A spectacle. A look at the wall clock told me that it had been nearly five minutes since Matthew had drank whatever was in the cup.

I carefully watched Matthew. He didn’t seem to be in any discomfort, except for the fact that he was being put on display. A nine-year-old boy, sitting on a wooden kitchen chair, dirty socks on his feet (you could tell they were old, probably hand-me-downs, by the way they loosely clung around his ankles), a diaper, and a t-shirt.

The silence in the kitchen was deafening. The refrigerator roared, each tick of the clock sounded like the hit of a snare, the dripping sink: a waterfall. Ronney and Johnny were peering in from the window, their greasy faces pressed against the glass. Johnny’s eyes were big with wonder.

With about two minutes left, Matthew let out a groan and he crossed his legs. Taking a deep breath he looked at his father, a curious look on his face. “What was that stuff?”

“Two minutes,” was all Mr. Winston said.

The change over Matthew was dynamic. He went from sitting calmly in the chair to squirming about. With a minute left he stood, intending to walk around to help ease the pressure that was obviously growing in his bladder.

“Sit!” Mr. Winston nearly shouted.

Johnny and Ronny pulled back their heads from the window, jumping in surprise at the sternness of their father’s voice.

Matthew sat back down, now on the edge of the seat. He was rocking back and forth, the diaper pulling tighter, then looser, then tighter as Matthew rocked.

“Oh man,” Matthew breathed, his eyes were clinched tightly closed. Rocking. The diaper seemed to mock Matthew with its thirst.

“Thirty seconds. You just might make it.”

Mr. Winston sounded calm. He sat and observed Matthew’s discomfort with only mild curiosity. I thought for sure Matthew was about to pee. Any moment now the diaper would expand with Matthew’s loss of control.

But he didn’t, and then Mr. Winston said, “Ten minutes. You can go to the bathroom.”

Matthew shot up and sprinted to the bathroom in the hallway, yanking off the tapes of the diaper as he went. He didn’t bother to close the door and we could hear the loud sigh of relief and torrent of liquid splash into the toilet as Matthew experienced what must have been the greatest release of his life.

“Ok Paul, drink.”

Paul’s ten minutes were remarkably similar to Matthew’s, except Paul seemed even less uncomfortable than his younger brother. He squirmed and rocked, but he had a confidence about him that even the diaper around his middle couldn’t hide. He did look silly in the diaper and t-shirt (Paul didn’t have socks on), and it made me even more afraid. The ten minutes seemed to go by faster than any other ten minutes in my life. Before I knew it, Paul was peeing in the bathroom and Mr. Winston was sliding over a cup to me.

Mathew had returned to the table, now in gym shorts. He looked at me and nodded. A vote of confidence for me, their awesome and cool babysitter. If these two younger boys could hold their pee for ten minutes and not wet in the diaper, surely I could. Thirteen years old! In middle school! So cool! Surely I could.

I took a deep breath and gulped down the drink as quickly as I could. It was truly awful. It tasted worse than it smelled. Like black licorice dipped in vinegar. My stomach revolted and tried with all its might to send the vile liquid back the way it came. With every bit of self-control I could muster, I kept it down. My stomach seemed to know that this drink was going to do bad things to me and it was valiantly trying to save me. But I didn’t let it. After a moment, the vomitty feeling passed. I felt Mrs. Winston’s hand on my shoulder. I stood up and walked out of the kitchen. I was still in sweatpants and a shirt. Mrs. Winston kept her hand on my shoulder. Guiding me. I felt my legs shaking. I was genuinely more nervous than ever before in my life. As I was led out of the kitchen, Paul returned. He looked me in the eye and I could see the look. It was a look that said: don’t mess it up. We took care of our end of the deal. Don’t you screw it up. I won’t, I told myself, I won’t.

In Matthew and Paul’s room, the package of youth diapers lay open on the dirty floor right next to a half built lego car and my orange sleeping bag, wrinkled and slept in from the night just passed. What a day it had been, and I’d only been awake nearly an hour.

“Go ahead and take off your sweats and underpants, sweetie,” Mrs. Winston said in a soft voice. She sounded kind, almost apologetic. But not too much. There was also a firmness that told me there was no way I was getting out of this.

As I slipped off the sweats, legs shaking so bad it was a tough maneuver, I realized that I hadn’t taken a morning pee. And just thinking about that made me have to pee. And the drink, whatever it was, hadn’t even kicked in yet. I looked pleadingly up at Mrs. Winston. “Please, can I use the toilet first?”

She smiled. “No, sweetie, not yet. You’ll be able to relax as soon as I diaper you.”

I shuddered. What did she mean by that? Didn’t she mean to say I could relax when my ten minutes were up?

“Now go ahead and lay down on your sleeping bag.”

I sat on the synthetic fabric of the sleeping bag. It felt cool on my shaking legs. I realized that I hadn’t taken off my underpants, the too-tight briefs Mrs. Winston had given me the night before. Before I could slide them off myself, Mrs. Winston had gently pushed me to the floor and had a finger under the elastic of the briefs.

I lay there on the orange sleeping bag and felt every bit a helpless child as Mrs. Winston removed my underpants for me. I had never, ever felt so naked before in my life. I felt like the whole world was watching, my friends from school just outside the window, my older brother (laughing his head completely off), my parents (approving of this humiliation of their peculiar and naughty son). And me. Laying there with no pants on. I had never felt smaller in my life and I blushed, my cheeks burning fire, as Mrs. Winston patted the inside of my thigh and whispered softly, “It is ok, sweetie.”

Like the final declaration of a judge, the diaper was unfolded, the crinkling as loud as the cracks of lightning during a summer electric storm.

“Lift your bottom so I can slide your diaper under you.”

I complied, shaking so badly that as I lifted, I could feel my abdominal muscles quaking. As I settled, the soft padding of the diaper welcomed my frightened little body. It seemed to say, it’s ok, little buddy, you don’t have to be cool anymore, you don’t have to be in control, just relax. And I fought it with every ounce of my being. I gritted my teeth as Mrs. Winston pulled the front of the diaper up between my legs. I began a mantra of I Will Win This Simple Little Game in my head as my boyhood was covered and pressed in tight by the thick confines of the infantile garment meant for those with no control. I was in control. I clinched my hands as the tapes were pulled snugly around my waist. I Will Win. I Will Win. I Will Win This Stupid Simple Little Game.

Walking proved nearly as difficult a maneuver as taking off the sweats, what with the shaking legs and the thickness holding tight between my legs and around my waist. I waddled into the kitchen in just the diaper, socks, and t-shirt. Mr. Winston, Paul, and Matthew were sitting at the table. The faces of Ronney and Johnny were pressed against the window, greasy prints from their noses shone in the morning sun. The chair sat waiting for me. Mrs. Winston took her place by the fridge, arms crossed and face blank. Mr. Winston leered. Paul and Matthew warned me with their eyes. Pee and you die, their eyes said.

I sat and felt the cushioning of the diaper on my bottom, softening the hardness of the kitchen chair.

“Five minutes,” Mr. Winston said.

And just like that, like he flipped a switch, I felt a momentous and sudden pressure in my bladder. Despite my promise, my grit, my control, my goal to be cooler than Paul had been, I gasped. The pressure was great, like I had been holding it in for an hour.

When I was in eighth grade, I had nearly peed my pants in class. Eighth grade. Really. It was fifth period and I had been drinking water all day to get ready for my cross country race in the afternoon. Psyching myself out way too much, of course. It was only a mile and a half. But I was nervous, and I wanted to be cool, and I wanted to do well, so I had been drinking water all day. And peeing like every hour. Well, fifth period, with about ten minutes left in class, I had to pee so bad I was shifting around in my desk and glaring at the wall clock, and it mocked me by ticking off the seconds as slow as ever. My English teacher, a nice little lady, was talking at the front of class about some book I’ve since forgotten. Well, I shifted and squirmed for eight more minutes before I just couldn’t take it anymore. There were only two minutes left in class, but my nice little lady of an eighth grade English teacher was still talking. And I had that moment of clarity that I knew I had to pee right then. Like within the next thirty seconds, or I might be the only eighth grader in history to pee his pants in class at school. Surely a death sentence. So I raised my hand, reaching impossibly high in the air to let the teacher know I was desperately serious. Yes? She had said, pausing in her lecture. Can I use the bathroom, please? She glanced at the wall clock. There is only two minutes left, she said. Though I knew how much time was left, I looked at the clock too. I know, I replied. You can hold it, right? She asked. Not trying to be mean. But the whole class was watching me. Squirming there in my seat. Small little kid, smallest kid the class, about to pee his pants. No, I nearly whispered. Ok, fine, the teacher said sighing loudly. Go. And up I went, sprinting out of the class, the snickers of my classmates following me down the hall. I made it and avoided the certain death that awaited me had I wet my pants. But boy, that was close. And that feeling of clarity. That pressure that you know you cannot hold it much longer. Everyone knows that feeling. Like you are about to explode and you just aren’t strong enough to hold it in anymore.

That was what I felt all the sudden.

“Four minutes, fifty seconds,” Mr. Winston said. Mocking me.

It was so much, I couldn’t handle it. Remember one of my five weaknesses? Crying? Well, I felt it coming and I knew I couldn’t stop it. Tears started to well up in my eyes as the pressure made me reach down and grab my boyhood and squeeze as hard as I could through the diaper, trying to make it stop. Trying to make the pressure go away.

I heard Paul groan loudly. “He’s never going to make it.”

“Jeez, what a baby. He’s like five years older than me.”

That was Matthew.

But the tears were really flowing and I couldn’t see a thing. A few squirts escaped and I stood up trying desperately to stop it.

I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down. “Sit!” It was Mr. Winston. “Four minutes, fifteen seconds.”

And then that was it and I felt my bladder release. I just couldn’t hold it any more. I had no control. I was peeing whether I wanted to or not. And it rushed out into the diaper. See, there you go, the diaper seemed to say. It’s ok. The pee was rushing out so fast the diaper couldn’t absorb it all and I could feel it rushing up between my legs. Up, then back down again, dripping down my bottom. But the diaper held it all in. And you could hear it. Man you could hear it. A hissing. Loud. Like an angry snake. One long continuous hiss. The warmth was overwhelming, as were the groans of Paul and Matthew.

And when I was done, I was still sitting on the chair. On display. Now sitting in a soaked diaper in the middle of a kitchen in a house that was not my own. And I felt so little. So small. I just let my hands hang by my side and I cried.

“Well, it looks like we will have punishment after all,” I heard Mr. Winston say.

Re: Sitting the Winstons

Chapter 10: It Ends…

Laying in my bed Sunday evening, I was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. I knew I should be angry or embarrassed, but all I felt was relief and the fact that I knew my life had changed. Inextricably changed.

Everything seemed the same. My bed was still there. In the bedside headboard: my collection of sports cards, my medal for winning regionals of a motivational speech contest (I sure could use one now), kleenex, water glass, alarm clock. On the wall, taped up certificates of school achievement (my brother called it my “ego wall.” He was right. I would take them all down in the morning). And me. Still just me. Everything seemed the same. I was back in regular clothes. I could feel my heart beating. Slow and steady. Relaxed. I could see the glow-in-the-dark stars I had pasted to my ceiling. They were glowing, same as ever. I had tried to replicate constellations, the big dipper right above my bed. It was nice. I gripped in my hands my blanket, which I had gripped in the same way since the day I was born. It was a secret, or course, to everyone outside of my family: that I still slept with my baby blanket. I relished its softness, the coolness of the fabric that told me my blanket had been waiting vigilantly, loyally, for my return and was now ready to help me descend into a wonderful, wonderful sleep. Like it did every night.

It was all the same.

But it was all different.

I didn’t see how I could ever look at life the same way again. The rest of Saturday and Sunday morning had changed my life.

Because while I was angry, and while I was embarrassed, I didn’t really care. I had, perhaps for the first time in my life, a true realization of self. My whole fight to be older, to be cooler, to be bigger than I was, was actually keeping me small. It was nothing but immaturity that made me want to be better than anybody else. Nothing but silliness that made me think winning an electric car race made me cool. That having the best bike would make me feel good. That controlling the Winston boys would make them like me. Foolish. Young. Silly. Naïve.

Not caring was exhilarating. I felt so free. I felt like I could finally grow up. God it felt good not to care.

The punishment was, of course, severe by any standard of modern society; relegated to a weekend of diapers and peeing and humiliating changes (and, god it was awful, pooping once: Ewww). But when that final diaper was taken off, this time by my mother when I had been returned home, I felt free.

I hope you learned your lesson, my mother had said as she disposed of the diaper in the bathroom trash. I nodded. Hopefully this is the end of this, she said as she closed the cupboard door. I nodded. Take a shower, she said. Ok.

The water felt so nice.

-austin