The Diaper Incident

I really enjoy writing some petticoating and feminization fiction, but this story is true. After a lot of introspection, I believe this is the root of my panty fetish.

 

It takes place in the 70’s, when disco was king, and fashion was outrageous, but my family wasn’t having too much of that.  They were pretty conservative for the most part, living in the Midwest, they had more of a sense of 1950 values.  Strict and religious, I had a definite sense from them of what was right and wrong.

I was the last of five kids, and needless to say, with one parent supporting the family but not always working, it was economically hard on the family.  What did I know about money and stress?  I was five years old.  I was a boisterous and strong-willed child who did not think before he spoke or acted, and that got me into a lot of trouble.  I guess part of it was because I wanted attention, and part of it was because I was a stupid kid.  Whatever the reasons, because of the stress, financial problems, and lack of time, my parents’ response was usually something where they would fly off the handle. 

Usually it was my father, and I cringe at the memories of the beatings.  I still can hear the anger in his voice, beating me unmercifully for something as simple as not eating dinner (I had a very particular palette).  All I could do was beg for him to stop, and eventually curl into a ball, and find a place inside myself until the beatings stopped.  Most often, he used the back of his open hands, but it was still hard, and some hits knocked the sense out of me for several seconds.  It went far beyond discipline and teaching a lesson, and it seemed to be a vent for his anger.

In some ways it forced my personality inward, and I often played alone and was very shy and imaginative.  For some reason – I have no idea why – I started wetting the bed around age five.  At first my mom didn’t notice – I’d pull the blankets up and let it dry – but eventually she saw the many stains in my mattress and exasperatedly asked me why I was doing it.

I had no answer, and she threatened to put me in diapers if I continued to do this.  I begged and pleaded not to be put in diapers, and she told me, “You know what to do then.”

I think I was good for a couple of days.  She’d wake me, pull back the covers, feel the bed and let me get on with my day.  One day, however, I woke with a wet feeling between my legs.  I think I secretly changed my wet underwear, but when she came and felt the bed, it was unmistakably wet.  Her frustration welled up inside of her.

“You know what I said will happen…”

I begged, god how I begged, but she had no mercy.  I think it was a Saturday, because I didn’t have to go to school.  She made me strip from my underwear and lie on the bed.  Anxiously I heard her opening closet doors in the other room.  She returned with a bath towel, talcum powder, and some old diaper pins.  She laid out my implements of shame on the bed next to me, sternly saying something like, “If you’re going to act like a baby, I’m going to treat you like a baby.” 

I distinctly remember one moment though, and that’s the point of this story.  I distinctly remember her lifting my legs, sliding the diaper beneath me, putting talcum on my privates, and fastening the diaper with pins.  The feeling was a shudder of shame and control at the hands of a female, and a strange, new feeling went through my body.  I didn’t have a word for it then, but I think I know now.

I was made to wear the diaper that entire day and all that night as I slept.  I was told that if I could go a week without wetting the bed, there would no longer be any need for the diaper.  I tried, I really tried, but for some reason, I kept having accidents at night.  My frustrated mother added plastic pants to my wardrobe and rubber sheets to my bed, adding to my shame.  I remember her pulling those crinkly plastic pants out of the package and displaying them before me.  The package had a picture of a baby on it and I cried.  I was also acutely aware of the fact that there was a box of diapers in the closet for me.

Even though my brothers and sisters probably already knew, I was obviously pretty apprehensive about my family knowing about my accidents, diapers, and plastic pants, but I guess my mother thought the humiliation would help me improve my behavior.  She openly discussed my bedwetting with my father in the kitchen, and I painfully waited on his reaction, hoping his anger wouldn’t explode like a volcano.  She also changed my diaper each day with the door open, and wouldn’t let me close it.  My brothers and sisters could see everything as they walked by.  I usually had to wear the diaper and plastic pants when I was at home.

Since there was little improvement after a few weeks, she threatened me with the humiliation of having to wear the diaper and plastic pants to school.  I was in the first grade.  At this I really pleaded, and again was told, “You know what to do then…”

I really didn’t want to wear a diaper in front of my friends, so I really tried and was doing better, but one fateful night, it happened again.  My mother woke me for school, felt my diaper, and sure enough it was wet.  She flung the covers off of me, pulled down my diaper, gave me a spanking, and put a fresh diaper and plastic pants on me.

“I told you what would happen if you wet the bed again!  You have to wear the diaper to school.  And don’t try taking it off at school because I’m going to check on you, and if you’re not wearing your diaper, you’ll have to deal with your father.”

I begged, oh how I begged and cried.  I didn’t want to wear a diaper in front of my friends, but it seemed I had little choice.  I walked to school with a puffy diaper in my pants, and the crinkling sound of the plastic pants.

Of course, some kids noticed, and thankfully I can’t remember too much of the humiliation, but I do remember denying the diapers under my clothes vehemently.

You would think that this solved the problem, but it didn’t.  My mother was at her wits end, and one day threatened to put a sign in the front yard saying that I wet the bed and wore diapers.  She threatened to invite all of my friends and kids from the neighborhood over and would parade me in my diaper in front of the sign.  Every word scared me to death because I believed she would do it.  She finally got on the telephone that day and called my best friend up, saying she was going to tell him I wet the bed and wore diapers.  I cried and pleaded with everything I could summon, and she hung up and left that as a warning.

I think that is what finally did it, traumatizing as it was, and my bedwetting days were over.  I no longer wore diapers to bed, and the plastic sheets eventually came off the bed.

That was the beginning of something, and when I discovered my sister’s panty drawer in the fifth grade, it was a continuation of this seed that was planted when I was five.

Whatever happened back then either embedded something in my mind, or made me aware of a feminine side of my personality.  I think I’ve always denied it, and thought of myself as a regular guy, but here I am thoroughly enjoying petticoating stories, and wishing my wife would force me into panties.

I’m not trying to assign blame or anything – life is what it is - but the moment that diaper was forced up my legs changed me forever.  It’s strange how childhood humiliation later turns to erotic fantasy.