Toy of fate

Toy of fate

The throbbing of my head transforms seamlessly into the sound of knuckles on my room door. “Lucas! Package for you!” I slowly force my eyes to open and take a moment to focus them. “Lucas!” Knocking again. Too loud. Feels like he’s knocking straight on my head.

“Just a second!”, I try to call, but my throat is dry and only comes out.

“I’m leaving it outside your door!”

Good. Problem solved. I let my eyes fall shut and start to drift away. Half asleep I wonder what kind of package Daniel accepted for me.

Oh!

The realization makes my eyes fly open again. In two seconds, I’m sitting up straight in bed. Two more seconds and I’m on my feet. One second later I’m sitting again, due to dark circles passing before my eyes. Ouch, my head…

On my doormat in the hallway there’s a cardboard box that’s bulging a little. I have to blink three times before I can read who the sender is.

M.Vos Webdesign. That’s the Dutch ABDL web shop.

My hangover from yesterday made me forget this was coming today. I wonder if Daniel suspects anything about the contents…
Quickly I glance back and forth in the hallway to see if any other housemates are about. Luckily there’s nobody. The box looks neutral enough.

“Yo, sleepy head!” I hear from the direction of the kitchen.

“Morning”, I croak back.

Before my parcel can draw any more curious looks, I pick it up and put in in the bottom of my wardrobe, next to another, identical box which is almost empty. Just to be sure, I cover them both with a sheet.

De scent of coffee covers the less pleasant aromas of a typical student kitchen. While pouring myself a mug, I’m trying to shut out the scraping noise of broken glass on stone tiles.

“Yeah Luke, that’s one way of doing the dishes!”

From behind the sofa in our shared living room, a headful of blonde curls emerges. Daniel grins, showing me a bucket almost full of broken glassware.

“Whoa…” Are there even any glasses left?

Last night is starting to come back to me. Especially the moment I tried to get up and managed to fall flat across the table. I examine my arms, but to my relief there are no injuries from all that glass. It’s practically a miracle.

“One or two, I think”, Daniel responds. “Here, I gathered the shards for you but you’re buying new ones today. You break it, you buy it!”

I groan once again, thinking about my less-than-flourishing cashflow situation. The caffeine is helping to gradually clear my head. I guess I have to. Can’t expect a household of six students to go all week with only two glasses.

“Think the thrift store is open?”

“Not the big one in the Marktstraat, I think”, says Daniel. “That one’s only open weekdays. But there’s a smaller one in the Donkersteeg. I saw it was open this morning”

That’s right. Daniel has a paper round, which makes him rise before dawn every day, Saturdays included. That’s why he’s up and about already.

Something crackles underneath my foot. I pick up a crumpled sheet of paper. Despite the beer stain and a tear, it’s still recognizable as my propedeuse (foundation degree), the reason for last night’s celebration.

I should probably take better care of that…

Two paracetamol, a slice of bread and one more mug of coffee later, I insert my key into a chain lock which is probably worth more than the bicycle it’s attached to.

Underneath a watery autumn sun, my bicycle squeaks and groans as I make my way through the old town center. For once I can’t feel the cracks in the saddle.

Now and then, I cast a suspicious look around, to see if anyone notices something, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Why would they? Underneath this wide pair of jeans, you’d probably only notice a diaper if you paid special attention to it. It does make me slide on my saddle from side to side a bit. A strange sensation.

Usually, I’m only comfortable wearing them at home, alone in my room. But it’s the weekend and I wanted to try on those new Abri-Forms. Besides, what are the odds that I’m going to run into anyone I know at the thrift store? It does feel kind of exciting.

Donkersteeg translates as ‘Dark Alley’. It’s not difficult to see why. It’s a narrow alley between tall houses. I must have passed it a hundred times without noticing. Looking in, I see a sign with the words: Donkersteeg Thrift store. How original.

A little bell rings when I open the door and a stuffy smell of dust and old things wafts toward me. “Afternoon”, says an unkempt old man from behind the counter.

That time already? You wouldn’t say so from looking inside this place. The combination of windows looking out on the Donkersteeg, poor lighting and high shelves makes it necessary for me to wait a moment and let my eyes adjust to the dark.

As I’m browsing the shelves, looking for glasses, I quickly use my left hand to feel my lower back, to check if the edge of my diaper isn’t sticking out of my jeans.

I pick up some dusty glasses and examine the tag. Twenty cents a piece. That, my wallet can handle. Of course there aren’t even two that look the same, but it’s for a student house. Who cares?

Behind me the bell chimes again. I look over my shoulder to see who comes in and almost drop the glass. Mariska, one of the girls from my study group. She’s a nice enough girl but also kind of a gossip. If she sees me wearing a diaper, half the university will know about my ‘hobby’ by the end of the week.

As quietly as I can manage, I shuffle back among the shelves to end up all the way in the back of the store. In a dark corner there are a few cabinets and a box of something that looks like toys. I crouch behind one of the cabinets. Just in case I’m spotted, I pretend to examine some of the items in the box while peering over the top of the cabinet.

It seems Mariska is here for the furniture, since I spot her shadow near the tables and sofas.

In my bladder I’m starting to feel those two mugs of coffee, but I’d never dare use my diaper in public, even if nobody saw me. Imagine having to go back outside in a wet diaper…

“Excuse me sir, how much is this sofa?” I hear Mariska ask.

“One moment”

The man shuffles through the store, which takes him past my hiding place. He gives me a look, but fortunately he says nothing. I feel a breath of air on my lower back and feel again with my hand. Because of my crouched position, my t-shirt got untucked and now I can definitely feel the top of my diaper poking out. I just hope he didn’t notice. Quietly I use one hand to tuck my t-shirt back in. The other hand I use to steady myself, but instead of the shelf I’m expecting to feel, I encounter something round that starts to roll away. In my mind I can hear it falling on the floor with a deafening crash. Luckily I manage to stop it.

Mariska and the shopkeeper are having a conversation I can’t quite make out. After what feels like eternity, the man shuffles back to his counter. Soon after I hear that bell again. Carefully I peek over the cabinet, but it seems Mariska has left.

By this point my left foot has fallen asleep, so it stings unpleasantly as I’m getting up. To distract myself, I look at what I just caught in my hand.
It’s a round object, made of plastic, a little smaller than a tennis ball. When I turn it over, I can see the number 8 on one side, and below that a little window. There’s a text behind it. ‘Ask again later’. I recognize this from American tv-shows I used to watch; a Magic 8-ball, a toy that supposedly answers your questions.

A cramp in my bladder tells me it’s time to start hurrying. I think about my diaper again and start to doubt. Would I dare? Sometimes I wish I had no choice. That, like in one of those stories, I would just start having accidents one day, lose my potty training and really need my diapers.

Bu, in reality I’m just an ordinary 19 year old student who has been fully potty trained from age two. It even takes an effort to wet my diaper at home, let alone out in public. Besides, I’d never have the guts. Would I?

I look at the black ball in my hands. Maybe I can let fate decide.

“Can I hold it until I’m home?” I whisper softly. I shake the ball with two hands.

‘Definitely not’, it reads.

A shiver goes down my back. Am I going to try it after all? I decide to do whatever the 8-ball tells me, whether I dare to or not. Just to be sure, I shake it again. “Can I make it until home?”

‘Definitely not’

At least it’s consistent.

I try to squeeze out a few drops, but the habits of toilet training are too deeply ingrained, and I can’t do it.

I shake my tingling foot and make my way back to the shelf with the glasses. I pick out a few and put them into my basket. Actually, I really don’t want to give up now. I shake the 8-ball again. “Can I hold it long enough to find a bathroom in the city?”

‘I wouldn’t count on it’

In my head I formulate a plan to go into a café somewhere to use the bathroom. In my imagination I just fail to make it, wetting myself before I can get my diaper off. An exciting idea. Maybe I’ll be able to wet my diaper if I’m standing in front of a toilet…

I get to the register with my glasses and the 8-ball, still hoping the man didn’t just spot the edge of my diaper. At least a shows no sign of it. While he’s counting out my change, I shake the 8-ball again on a whim. In my thoughts I ask: “will my bladder give out right now?” I open my hands and read:

‘Yes’

At that moment, I feel a small quirt of urine escaping my bladder and ending up in my diaper. It startles me. Did I just do that on purpose? Out of habit I clench my muscles and stop the flow immediately.

In a reflex, I glance down, but since I’m wearing a diaper, there is of course no sign of any wetness. The man behind the counter hands me my change with an uninterested look. I take it and try to put it in my wallet, but then I feel myself starting to pee again. And this time I can’t stop it.

Two Euros and a handful of change clatters to the floor because my hand is shaking. My knees are also getting wobbly and I quickly crouch to pick op the money. Meanwhile a constant stream of warm urine continues to spread in my diaper.

“Are you ok?” the man asks above me.

“Ehr… Yeah, yeah I’m fine”, I lie, not daring to look him in the eye. I can’t get out of the shop fast enough. Even half running through the Donkersteeg I can’t manage to get my bladder back under control. Only when I reach my bicycle does the flow stop. My bladder is completely empty.

Heart pounding in my throat, I hold on to my bicycle, steadying myself until my legs stop trembling. I look at my crotch. Miraculously, there’s no leakage at all. However, the diaper has now swollen so much that my jeans are tight around it. Good diapers, those Abri-Forms.

Now that the nerves are starting to subside, I begin to kind of enjoy the excitement of what’s happening. I’m standing here outside, in the middle of town, wearing a soaking wet diaper. I just wet myself in public, inside a shop. It even felt like I didn’t have any control. Or am I just imagining that?
I cast a suspicious look at the magic 8-ball, while I wait a few moments to let my diaper absorb everything.

Then, I awkwardly get on my bicycle and hurry back home.

I really like how this story started! It’s a premise that intrigues me a lot and it’s written in a way that grabs me. Please keep it going! :slight_smile:

Part 2

The front door falls shut behind me with a bang that echoes in the empty stairwell. I don’t hear anything else. No voices, no foot steps.

Still, I take off my back pack so I can hold it in front of me, just in case. One glance downward confirms what I already knew: my jeans are stretched tight around a visible bulge in my crotch.

Should have worn a wider pair of jeans, I think while walking up the stairs to the second floor.

Then again, how could I have foreseen that I’d be wet when I came home? That wasn’t part of the plan… I insert my key into the lock on our floor and enter the hallway.

Before I can reach the safety of my room, another door opens further down the hall. Daniel saunters toward me, probably on his way to the bathroom.

“Hey, you manage to get those glasses?”
“Yup”, I answer, grateful for the backpack in my hands.
I feign nonchalance as I hold it up without revealing my crotch.
“Ok, cool”

Daniel walks on without saying anything else. Thank God.
At the door to my room I have a split second of doubt: should I go put these glasses away in the kitchen first? No, better not take any more chances.

Once I can safely lock my door behind me, I let out a sigh of relief. Finally I no longer have to be afraid of someone catching me.

I hang up my jacket and put my backpack aside. Then I look down. Now that I can take my time to examine it, I’m noticing that, while the shape of my diaper is visible, it’s not as thick as I thought. Underneath a different pair of jeans you probably couldn’t even see it.

I take off my shoes and jeans. Then I look at myself from top to bottom in the mirror. There I am: 19 years old, long-ish dark hair all messed up by the wind. My black t-shirt is showing some small sweat stains from cycling so hard. From the waist up I look like an ordinary college student. But below my t-shirt there’s a wet diaper and a naked pair of legs. The indicators on my diaper show that it’s about half saturated. Not too bad, actually.

It’s not the first time I’m standing in this room wearing a diaper. Not the first time I’ve wet it either. But I’ve never done that outside the house and always on purpose. Never by accident.

My heartbeat increases a little as I’m thinking back. For the first time since I was a toddler, I completely failed to hold my pee, no matter how hard I was trying. Now that the danger’s gone, I feel the arousal all the more. Yeah kiddo, I tell myself. Looks like you really still need to be in diapers. Time to get you changed.

In the bottom of my wardrobe there’s a bag filled with diapers. I take a fresh one out and walk towards the bed while loosening the tapes of my wet diaper with one hand. Using a wet wipe, I clean my pubic area and my bottom. Then I unfold the dry diaper on the bed, lie down on top of it and carefully tape it up around me.

Dressed in only a clean diaper and a t-shirt, I let myself fall into the chair behind my desk. The wet diaper is in the garbage, wrapped in an extra bin bag.

Curiously, I roll the 8-ball from the thrift store around in my hands. I don’t believe in magic, but what happened this afternoon can hardly be denied. Did this thing really cause my accident?
Thoughtlessly, I shake the ball back and forth a little. ‘Ask again later’, it reads.
I shake it again. ‘Definitely so’. Again. ‘I wouldn’t count on it’.

It looks like it just gives random answers like any 8-ball. But do the predictions actually come true? An idea enters my mind, and I rumble around in one of my drawers until I find a die.

“Am I going to throw a 6 next?” I ask the 8-ball while shaking it. Immediately I roll the die across my desk. “Answer unclear”, the ball reads. Meanwhile the die has landed on a 4. That’s not helping…

Will I throw a 5 now? I ask. With one hand I shake the ball, while tossing the die with the other. ‘definitely not’, it reads. Sure enough, the die landed on a 2. Okay, so that checks out. But I’m not exactly convinced yet.

“Now do I throw a five?” ‘definitely’. I roll the die and it lands on a 5. Still, it could be coincidence…

Ten minutes later I’m still not sure. The 8-ball keeps alternating randomly between positive, negative and vague answers without any apparent pattern. So far it hasn’t contradicted my die but…

A new idea crosses my mind. “Will I throw a 6 now?” I ask the 8-ball. ‘Definitely’, it reads. Before rolling the die I ask again: “will I roll a 6?”. ‘Without any doubt’. “Really?” 'definitely.

Apparently the 8-ball isn’t going to contradict itself, even after I give it a few more shakes. When I ask it it’s going to be a 3 or a 4, the answers are ‘Ask again later’ and ‘I wouldn’t count on it’

Now for the ultimate test. I shake the die in both hands hand toss it onto my desk. In my excitement, I throw too hard and it rolls off the edge, landing between my desk and my book case. Kneeling down I peer into the narrow space to see what number it landed on. Sure enough, it’s a 6. Could it really be true?

I’m startled when I hear a knock on my door. “Lucas! Dinner’s ready and we still don’t have any glasses! Are you bringing them?” It’s Boudewijn, the head of the household. There was a house meeting coming up and he promised to cook for everybody. Totally forgot.

“Yeah, be right there!” I call back.
“Okay, see you in five!”
I look around the room to find my jeans. I’m about to put them on when I realize I’m still wearing my diaper. Going anonymously into town is one thing, but I’m sure not going to wear a diaper to dinner with all of my housemates.
Quickly I take it of and put it into the trash. Kind of a waste, throwing it away unused, but I still have plenty more.

Shortly after, I’m dressed normally. Before leaving my room, I pick up the 8-ball and the die to put them in the drawer. After a whole afternoon it almost feels strange not to be wearing a diaper. But, with everybody right there, I’m just not taking any chances.

For a split second, the incident from before crosses my mind. What if I have another accident later and I’m not wearing a diaper? But at the same time I know better. I’ve been potty trained for over fifteen years, and this time I haven’t asked the 8-ball anything. What are the odds of me wetting my pants just out of the blue this evening?

Not thinking much about it, I toss the die and the 8-ball into the drawer.

This is off to a promising start. I’m looking forward to more.