🕑 Added 2025-03-08 20:44:57 +0000 UTC
Story #191: No More Toilets
(Content Tags: Humiliation, messing, punishment, diapers, slice of life, first person perspective)
I could feel my bowels giving way to the python that'd been brewing within; the sweat on my brow, the painful cramps in my gut, the hot, wet rasps of gas that slipped out...
It'd been held in for such a long time, that it was really more like the dump was having me. Before it had even begun to prairie-dog, I could already tell the magnitude that it would represent; it was the kind of bowel movement that would be akin to a religious experience, the kind that would leave someone less experienced with some mild form of PTSD.
It would have destroyed any toilet it graced, iceberging out of the water like the healthy trunk of a mangrove. Luckily for any toilets in the vicinity, this load wouldn't end in any water; there would be no plumbers-turned-exorcists.
The final destination of the burbling behemoth would be somewhere far more cushioned, and it wouldn't be dropping very far; at least not until it had been contained and discarded in a smelly, white pail.
It'd been like this for a while. My buttcheeks hadn't christened a toilet seat in months, and the porcelain throne had instead become only a place that I could stand in front of to take a leak. At least that had been the case for a while, whenever I still had at least that small privilege.
Prohibited from pooping on the potty. It sounded like half of a nonsensical code phrase that one spy would whisper to another, or the activation code to a sleeper agent; something absurd enough that it wouldn't accidentally come up in any polite conversation.
It wasn't nonsense though, it was what my life had become. It didn't matter that I was far too old to be wearing diapers, or that accidents hadn't even been the impetus for my return to the crinkly turdsacks. I was a 'big kid', just like any other kid my age, but the most fundamental component of that title had been stripped away from me.
No more underwear, and after a few particularly massive loads, even Pull-Ups had been pulled from circulation in my lineup of undergarments. Now it was just diapers, and thick ones at that; diapers meant for hauling multiple pantloads without fail. In my case though, there was almost never a point where I dropped multiple loads over a stretch of time; it was almost always one big instance.
That was enough though, to justify the sheer bulk of the babypants. One instance of soiling was more than enough.
It'd started over a year ago, whenever my mother had married her jerk of a boyfriend. Thaddeus, or Thad, had become my stepfather, and we'd been whisked away from slumming it in a dingy duplex, to living the high life in a big house with nearly as many bathrooms as bedrooms.
I'd been torn at the time. Thad was what my older brother would call a 'douche', and while I wasn't sure on what exactly that meant, I could guess that it was similar to my own sentiments on the man; he was a bully, a fink, and a two-faced rat.
What I *had* liked was getting my own bedroom for once, instead of sharing a cramped quarters with my brother Paul. I thought it was even cooler that my new bedroom came with its own bathroom, and that there was more space than I knew what to do with.
Such creature comforts didn't come free though. Thad ruled his house like a king to a kingdom, and while my mother had never been the demure type while raising me and my brother, she'd swiftly acquiesced to making whatever compromises he demanded. It wasn't clear to me if she was genuinely smitten, or if our prior situation had gotten grave enough to pretend.
Most of the house rules were stuffy, and a little obnoxious, but reasonable enough to shrug our shoulders at and play along. It'd already been apparent to Paul and I, that Thad was a materialistic man who cared more for his possessions than people, but it'd taken a while for that to really be driven home.
No shoes in the house, no food or drinks on the carpet, no feet on the coffee table, everything had to stay tidy and put together...
Heck, the first few weeks that I was there, the man had the gall to put a plastic sheet on my mattress. He must have taken one look at my snot-nosed age group and decided the risk of me being a bedwetter was high enough to damage our relationship from the get go.
It'd eventually come off, once I'd proven myself reliable overnight, but it had now been back on for a while.
Thad had kids of his own, from a previous marriage, but they weren't always around. Tony, a sixth grader with a sadistic bent that was clearly learned behavior, and Amanda, a second grader with a loud mouth and an entitlement befitting of being the little princess of the house.
The pair annoyed my brother, but rarely did much more than that to him. For me on the other hand, since I was perfectly between them in age, they were nightmares that made an uncomfortable home even more chafing.
But again, they weren't always around. Thad had shared custody with his wife, who I could only imagine at the time was a woman as bad as him. She still lived in the same area, so they alternated weeks, though I constantly found myself wishing that she'd just take them for good.
To recap: I'd moved into a new house with a stepdad that I hated, rules that I struggled to abide, and a pair of stepsiblings that would undoubtedly end up being terrible people when they grew up. It was bad, but not horrible.
Until I started to have problems.
Maybe it was the stress of starting a new life, or the bougie cuisine that I was now forced to eat, but regardless of the cause, my regularity became a serious issue. Up until that point, I'd always pooped multiple times a day: once in the morning, once after school, and once before bed. It was clockwork.
But something messed that clock up. It started slowly, but would eventually get to a point where it was days between each BM. For someone who had been exceptionally regular beforehand, this became an uncomfortable nightmare for me. I would feel bloated and my tummy would churn, but nothing but gas would come to greet the big, white bowl.
I'd be constipated for days, which had some other unexpected effects, but would ultimately culminate in titanic turds.
To my embarrassment, especially the first time it happened, they would be sizable enough to take the toilet out of commission. It would have taken a nuclear plunger, dipped in holy water, to exorcise the foul demons that my body decided to birth.
And those other side effects? Of being hopelessly, chronically constipated? Leakage in the back of my briefs during the day, just enough to stain, and leakage in the front at night, from what I would later be informed was my bladder being pressed upon.
The plastic sheet obviously made a return, but that wasn't the only embarrassing thing that I'd have to endure. In fact, I would come to miss the simple days of only feeling the burning shame of crinkly sheets while I slept.
I'd step through the front door one day to find my stepfather waiting for me; he let me put down my backpack and take off my shoes, but he then went on to direct me toward his study for a little chat. He'd been making snippy comments and getting visibly upset over the last week, but he'd yet to really lay into me about my sudden shift in physical behavior.
He sat me down at an armchair in front of his desk and folded his arms. His lips were pursed, his tone was terse, and he asked if I knew why he'd brought me in there.
"...I dunno." Was my quiet, reserved reply to the simple question.
It was a fib, at least on some level, but there was also some truth to it. I obviously knew the reasons he might be upset with me, but I didn't know for sure if that was what he was referring to, and if it was, then why he had brought me into the study to discuss those reasons.
Additionally, I was clever enough to see that the question was a trap; it was like a criminal talking to a police man, or a student to the principal, where the cold call could lead to self-incrimination. It was such an open query that it made for excellent bait to fish with, to catch something that they may not have even known existed.
It wasn't a suitable answer for Thad, which I had already anticipated, and the corners of his mouth curled downward in ire.
"Exhibit A, your pajamas from this morning." The man curtly commented, as he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a plastic grocery bag with my pajama bottoms in them. They had been damp when I woke up, but thankfully not wet enough to soak them or my sheets.
He placed the bag on the desk, "You've been wetting the bed lately. Do you not recall the conversation we had when you moved in? Do you not remember telling me that you didn't need the rubber sheets? That you were too old?"
I could feel my face getting hot as he laid the questions on me, each one like a strike to my nerves. Without much of a verbal response, I instead found myself giving a lame nod, while my eyes burned a hole into the floor.
"Well?" Without even seeing him, I could tell he had narrowed his eyes at me. His voice was commanding, authoritative, from the years he'd spent in the court.
"Y-yes sir..."
"Now, exhibit 'B'. Would you mind telling me why your underwear looks like *this*?" Again from under the desk, he pulled a pair of my briefs, with his fingers pinching the bright red waistband.
I looked up and cringed at the sight. It was one of my new pairs, which Thad so graciously paid for whenever I'd moved in, but it no longer had that new-undies smell to it. It was covered in fun prints of Spiderman, but there was also a sickly brown stain on the center of the cotton seat. I felt thankful that I'd at least given them a slight cleaning in the boy's room at school, so that there wasn't any semi-solid surprises left over.
"...I...umm...I thought..." My fingers tapped against one another, my nerves totally shot. "I...I had to fart and, umm, a little came out..."
That was a decent approximation of the truth. I'd been playing on the monkey bars at recess, my gut churning from being stopped up, and I'd felt an increasing pressure that cried out for release. Confident that it was only a fart, due to my constipation, I'd let it rip.
It had been like hot pudding in my pants. It'd spurted out at the ending notes of the gassy eruption, and it'd shot right into the center of my seat; it made my briefs adhere to my butt like an icky, sticky glue, and I'd had to cautiously toddle out of the area to go take care of it.
When I'd come home later that day, I'd really not thought much about throwing the stained undies into my dirty laundry basket; even before all of this, my briefs had never been immaculate, so I'd just figured that my mom would take care of things.
"Do you have any idea, whatsoever, how humiliating it is to be presented this by the help? Maria, bless her heart, had to ask me if I wanted her to wash these or pitch them."
"W-who?"
"Maria. She's the maid. She usually comes during the day, while you're at school, so I guess you wouldn't have met her yet. She's been working for me since I bought this house, since before you were out of diapers! Though, looking at these..." He trailed off, grimacing in disgust as he stretched them out by the elastic.
"No matter. That brings us to the last piece of evidence in the case." This time, he reached into the desk drawer and got out a couple of slips of paper. He placed them in front of me, turning them the right way, and asked if I could read what they said.
"Umm...Invoice...umm..." I squinted down at the paper, starting to read the words, without really understanding what they meant as one cohesive document.
"They're bills. They're bills for the plumbers that I had to get out here, for the mess that you keep making. How many months of allowance do you think it would take to pay for these?"
The zeros were staggering to a kid who thought a buck for a soda was a steep investment.
"A...lot? Like...a really long time?" I squeaked, knowing that while my allowance had greatly increased since the move, that it still wasn't remotely capable of paying off a debt like this.
"That's right. In a civil case, where such a matter would be rectified, you would be looking at a pretty lengthy payment plan. In some such cases, where the defendant cannot realistically ever pay what they owe, then the plaintiff might just be out of luck, unless there are other assets that they can seize."
Nearly all of it was going over my head, not that it stopped him from continuing this pseudo-judicial theme with his lecture.
"But, maybe we should be looking at this like a *criminal* case too. Perjury, vandalism, and plain indecency. You lied to me about not needing those rubber sheets, you've vandalized the toilet twice now, and those underpants are clear evidence of a disregard for common decency. Not to mention the blatant lack of disrespect..."
What came next would define my life going forward, at least while I lived under this tyrant's roof.
He again reached under his desk, but this time he didn't bring up another piece of evidence to use against me; this time, he brought forth something unfamiliar, at least at first. It was a blue package, and on the front was the visage of my despair: a little boy, around my age, proudly displaying a pair of plain white pull-ups.
"You'll be wearing these for the foreseeable future. To bed, to help with your wetting, and during the day for when you need to go number two. No more clogged toilets."
I tried at that point to convince him to reconsider; I whined and fussed, getting red-faced and teary-eyed, but he was firm in his decision. He didn't care how humiliating it would be for me, or how degrading it was to be informed I'd be wearing a crinkly port-a-potty around my waist. My dignity was worthless to him, at least when compared to his possessions or ego.
It'd only gotten worse from there, though my reminiscing would have to wait, as I had more pressing matters in the present. Standing, or rather squatting in my bedroom, I still had a lengthy leviathan of a log that needed departure. The sweat on my brow, born from the strain of my pushing, threatened to fall into my eyes, and I had to wipe it away with my shirt.
Nearing a sweet release, I began to push harder, until I could feel the titanic turd touching the cloth of the diaper. It was so strenuous that I began to involuntarily grunt, while toots slipped out from between my cheeks. It'd never stopped being a humiliation, even though I'd been defecating on myself for nearly a year now.
I could hear the turd crackling as it squeezed out, the broad tip of the log pushing powerfully against the bulky bulwark of the diaper, and undoubtedly creating a tenting bulge in my padded seat. It would easily be a three-log load, with each one being a pound of sticky, hot shame; the diaper was equipped to handle it, but I'd still have to waddle off to inform someone of my need for a change, and that part was hard to handle on a personal level.
"Nnnghh...HMMMPH!" I grunted, eyes squeezed shut and rump jutted out.
The first python slithered out and plopped heavily in the back of the diaper, immediately causing the garment to sag with the immense heft of my smelly stool. Not waiting for the relief to wash over me, I continued to push, and a second torpedo launched itself on a crash course with the first, which caused the crinkly babypants to sag even further.
"J-just a bit more..." I groaned through gritted teeth.
Needing more room to work with, my hands reached behind myself and grabbed a hold of the bulging seat. It was warm to the touch, and the lumps were like a humiliating handle to hold onto. I groped the knobby bulge and pulled it outward, so that the final log had more room to make its descent into the smoldering turdsack that it would call home.
Another gassy eruption sputtered against the putrid pile, and relief began to wash over me as I felt the third turd begin to push out freely. The diaper rustled, as if groaning and buckling under the weight of my misdeeds, and then it was finally over. Exhausted, my knees wobbled and I let myself fall onto my butt with a nasty squish. The cargo beneath me was too firm to totally smoosh, but I could feel the warm load flattening out across my buttocks.
Just as my stepfather had been so indignant about at the beginning, each diaper I wore was filled in such a way that I would have easily clogged the toilet. I couldn't exactly make a case for stopping this humiliation, not whenever I proved him right every time.
Still, my memories clamored for something to point at, to prove him wrong. I wanted to find myself worthy of a retrial, but here I was, sitting on a mound of my own poop, and with a serious record of gargantuan pantloads. As the earthy fumes wafted up into my nostrils, I started to remember how the diaper demotion had started, and how my descent had been unavoidable.
