The Long Weekend at Wren Farm | Pt. 2
Sadie lay back on the sofa on the towel with her knees up and her borrowed pyjama top rucked up to her ribs and her hands over her face, and Cal said, "You'll want to watch, so you can do it yourself eventually."
She moved her hands. She watched.
He peeled the tapes — bottom two first, one at a time, and the front dropped down between her legs and the cool air on her wet skin made her hiss — and then he folded the front under her so the wet padding lay beneath and said, "Wipes," and Fi passed them.
He was thorough. Long strokes, front to back, and then again, and then a fresh wipe pressed flat and held there for a second, and Sadie lay there with her hands on her own ribs and her face burning and watched the firelight on the side of his jaw and the complete absorption in his face and felt the low hard pulse between her hips get worse with every stroke.
"Nearly there," he said, to the wipes rather than to her.
"Mm."
He got the new one under her, and lifted her legs one at a time to seat it, and smoothed the pad flat with the flat of his hand, and she felt the drag of his palm through the soft padding and had to close her eyes.
Then the front up over her. Then the tapes — bottom left, bottom right, top left, top right — each one pressed and held with his thumb, and the thing coming snug and tight and thick against her.
"Too tight?"
"No." Her voice came out thin. "That's — good."
"Alright." He sat back on his heels and wiped his hands on the towel and looked at her. "You're going to want to sit up slowly, or it'll pull at the hip."
Sadie sat up slowly. The room was quiet. She had a fresh diaper on, thick and dry and crisp and enormous, and six women had watched her get it, and her face was so hot she could feel it in her ears.
Mags said, "Well done, Cal," in a tone that was doing more work than it needed to.
"Shut up, Mags," Cal said, and went to wash his hands.
Ten — Saturday
She woke at seven to a soaked diaper and the certain knowledge that she'd done it in her sleep, and lay there for a minute in the grey light with the wet pressing warm and heavy against her, feeling almost peaceful about it.
Then she remembered she was in a house with seven other people and got up.
The house was quiet. She got the bathroom — wet, sagging, cold — and cleaned up and got a fresh one out and did it standing against the door with her knees bent, bottom tapes first, and had to redo the first one because she'd done it too tight and it bit at her hip.
The crinkle when she came down the stairs was enormous in the sleeping house.
Cal was in the kitchen with a mug, alone.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
He looked at her. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
He didn't ask why. He poured her a coffee and pushed it across the counter and said, "How's the hip?"
"What?"
"Where you redid the tape. You've got a mark." He nodded at her waistband. "You're doing them too tight on that side. It's because you're twisting to do the top ones. Sit down to do the top ones and it'll stop."
Sadie looked down. There was a red line at her hip, right at the edge of the tape.
"How can you see that?"
"You've got your pyjama top tucked into it." He went back to his mug. "Do you want to be able to do it properly or not?"
"...Yeah."
"Then sit down for the top ones. Or lie down, better. You've got a bed."
She drank her coffee and looked at him over the rim. He was in a t-shirt and yesterday's jeans and he hadn't shaved and he was being very ordinary about all of it, and she thought, with a sort of resignation, oh, this is going to be a problem.
Eleven — the walk
Bex got everyone out at eleven for a walk, because Bex had read somewhere that fresh air was good for you.
It was cold and grey and the lane was muddy and there was a stile at the end of it that had to be climbed, and Sadie went in jeans and a thick diaper and the jeans were a size up from her usual and you could still see the shape of it. She could hear herself on the lane. Everyone could hear her on the lane. Fi walked beside her for the first five minutes and said, "That's quite loud, isn't it," with great interest, and Sadie said, "Yes, Fi," and Fi said, "Sorry. It's just new, isn't it."
The stile was the problem. She had to get up on it and swing her leg over and the whole thing pressed into her and the crinkle went off like a firework and she could feel the padding bunch and shift, and on the other side she landed and it settled back and she thought she'd got away with it, and then she realized.
She'd leaked a little. Just a little, a small warm bloom at the front that she could feel spreading as she stood there. The climb had forced it out of her.
"Alright?" Mags said, coming over the stile behind.
"Yeah."
But she was at a seven and a half now and the walk was another twenty minutes and there was nowhere to go, and she was going to have to do it out here, in the cold, in front of everyone, in jeans.
She got to the field gate before she did. She stopped and put her hand on the gate and said, "I'm going to have to go."
"Go on then," Bex said, from behind her. "We'll wait."
"Here?"
"There's nowhere else, love. It's a field."
Sadie stood at the gate with her back to all of them and her hand on the rail and her jaw clenched, and let go.
It came in a hot flood and it was so much more than she'd expected — the coffee and the cold and the walk all arriving at once — and she felt it fill the front of the diaper and run back and up and the padding go heavy and warm and cling, and she heard herself breathe out hard through her nose and she gripped the gate and rode it out. It kept coming. She could feel the front of the jeans going damp where it had gone through at the very front, and the bulk of it swelling and hanging and dragging, and she had to put her other hand on her own thigh.
Behind her, Tommi said, "Blimey," and Mags said, "Shh."
When it stopped Sadie stood there for a second with her head down and her chest going.
"Done?" Bex said.
"Yeah."
"Right." Bex came up and, without ceremony, put her hand flat on the seat of Sadie's jeans and pressed, and Sadie's hips jumped and the wet squelched under her palm and Bex said, "You've gone through. You'll need changing when we're back."
"Bex—"
"You have. Look, there's a mark." Bex turned her round by the shoulders, and everyone looked at the front of her jeans, and there was a dark damp patch spreading at the crotch and the tops of her thighs.
Sadie put her hands over her face and Mags said, "You're alright, love, it's only us," and Fi said, "It's honestly quite impressive," and Cal, at the back, said nothing and looked at her the whole way back.
Twelve — Saturday afternoon
She was changed twice on Saturday afternoon and by four o'clock the whole thing had settled into a rhythm that was, in its way, far more humiliating than the accidents had been.
The checks came at random. Fi did it twice, Mags did it once, and Bex did it with a running commentary each time — "dry," or "getting there," or "you're wet, love, we'll do you after this" — and Sadie had to stand up each time and stand still and let it happen, and the standing up in front of a room in a diaper never got less hot in the face. She'd started going bright red the second anyone said the word check.
The wetting itself got easier. By mid-afternoon she was going almost without thinking about it, mid-sentence, and the warmth would arrive while she was still talking, and once or twice she caught herself doing it and not breaking stride at all, and that was its own small astonishment.
She was in a thick one at four, wet from twenty minutes before, sitting on the sofa with her knees up, and Bex was doing a quiz out of a magazine, and Sadie's stomach turned over in a way that had nothing to do with the quiz.
She sat up.
"Bex—"
"Question four. Which—"
"Bex, it's the other thing."
The room stopped. Bex put the magazine down.
"Now?"
"It's coming now."
"Right." Bex was already up. "Towel. Where's the— Mags, towel. Sadie, do you want to be on the floor, it's easier on the floor—"
Sadie got onto the floor because her legs were doing something unreliable, and got her knees up, and Mags got a towel under her, and the whole room arranged itself around her in a semicircle like she was a display, and Bex said, "Go on, love, whenever," and Sadie put her hands flat on the towel and pushed.
It came slow and thick and she felt every part of it — the padding at the back giving and stretching, the warm heavy arrival, the way it kept coming in stages so she had to push again, and the second push was the one that made her breath go out of her in a rush. It spread up and settled warm and full and enormous against her. The diaper, already heavy and wet at the front, went tight.
She heard Fi say, "oh," softly, and Mags say, "There she is."
"Done?" Bex said.
"Yeah." It came out wrecked.
"Right. Sit back down on it. All your weight."
"Bex—"
"All of it. Go on. It's better."
Sadie lowered herself back onto the towel and the mess squished up warm under her and spread, and she made a sound like she'd been punched. The heat of it came through the padding and up her back. She shifted her hips and it moved and the sound was wet and soft and unbelievable, and she lay there on the sitting room floor with her eyes shut and her hands over her face and the warmth of it blooming up her spine.
"God," Mags said. "Look at her face."
"Leave her a minute," Bex said. "Let her have it."
Thirteen — Cal
He got her alone at six, in the boot room, ostensibly to fetch more logs.
She was in the same loaded diaper, sitting in it for an hour and a half by then, and it had gone heavy and warm and full and she'd stopped being able to sit comfortably in it, and she was standing in the boot room with her hands on the shelf and her forehead against the coats when he came in and shut the door.
"You alright?" he said.
"Fine."
"You're not."
"I'm fine—"
"You've been standing up for ten minutes because you can't sit down." He came and stood behind her. "Do you want a change?"
"Yes." It came out of her like a leak. "Yes. Please."
"Alright." He didn't move. "Say it properly."
Sadie turned her head against the coats. "What?"
"Say what you want. Not 'a change.' What you want."
She swallowed. Her face was against the wool of somebody's coat and it smelled of woodsmoke and she could feel the whole warm heavy load of it against her.
"I want to be changed," she said. "Out of this one. It's — full."
"Full of what?"
"Cal."
"Full of what, Sadie."
She shut her eyes. "Full of what I did in it."
"Which was?"
"Which was — I messed myself. In front of six people. On the floor. In the sitting room." Her voice had gone very small. "And then I sat in it."
"Good girl." He put his hand flat on the seat of it and pressed and the squelch was enormous and her hips bucked and she made a noise against the coats. "Where's the bag?"
"Boot room shelf."
"Lie down, then."
The floor was stone and cold. He put a towel down and she lay on it with her knees up and her jeans round her ankles and her hands over her face, and he peeled the tapes and the smell came up warm and thick and he made a low sound in his throat.
"Christ."
"Don't."
"It's good." He wiped her — a lot of wipes, front to back, thorough, and then again, and then a fresh one pressed flat and held — and she lay there and shook and listened to him breathe.
Then cream, cool, spread with the flat of his hand, hips first and then between her thighs, and the cool of it was so good she made a noise.
Then the rustle of the new one. Then it under her, and up, and the tapes — four of them, one at a time, each held down with his thumb — and this time he did them looser at the hip and said, "There. That's the mark sorted."
He didn't take his hand away. He left it flat on the front of the fresh diaper and looked at her, and Sadie lay on the stone floor with her knees up and her jeans round her ankles and a man's hand on the front of her diaper, and the whole day arrived on her at once — the floor, the semicircle, the field gate, good girl, the checks — and she was so turned on her thighs were shaking.
"Cal—"
"Not yet," he said.
"What?"
"Not yet." He sat back on his heels. "Bex'll have a timetable. She'll want a quiz." He got up and held a hand down to her. "Come on. Logs."
Fourteen — the evening
The evening was the worst of the weekend and she'd have bitten anyone who said it wasn't.
It was a dares night — Bex had refilled the tin — and Sadie's first dare was let the group pick your next three drinks, which meant she was drinking water, and her second was no sitting down for twenty minutes, which meant she stood in the corner of the room while everyone else got merry and the pressure built and the padding grew warm and heavy against her.
Her third dare, drawn by Mags with enormous satisfaction, was: Ask Cal to check you, out loud, in front of everyone, and then stand still for it.
Sadie looked at the slip of paper for a long moment.
"Go on," Mags said.
Sadie put the paper down and turned to Cal, who was in the armchair with a beer and who had, she noticed, been waiting for this.
"Cal," she said. "Will you check me, please."
"Course." He didn't get up. "Come here."
She went and stood in front of his chair, in front of six women, and he put his beer down and reached out and put his hand flat on the front of the diaper and pressed.
It was soaked. The wet squelched audibly under his palm. Sadie's hips jumped and she had to put a hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself, and his thumb moved, once, in a small circle, and she heard herself breathe in hard through her nose.
"Wet," he said. "Quite wet."
"Cal—"
"That's all." He took his hand back and picked his beer up. "Good girl."
Sadie went and sat down on the floor with her knees up and her face in her hands and Fi said, "Ohhh," in a long, knowing way, and Mags said, "Well, that's not subtle, is it."
Fifteen — the dares get worse
The dares got worse as the wine went down.
Tommi had to do an impression of Bex's fiancé proposing. Fi had to text her ex. And Sadie, at half ten, drew: Wet on command. Group counts down from ten.
"Oh, come on," she said.
"You're the only one who can do it," Bex said. "It's not fair on anyone else."
Sadie was in a diaper she'd been in since eight. She'd gone twice in it and it was heavy and warm and she'd been holding for the last twenty minutes without really noticing, and the pressure was there, low and insistent.
She stood up. The crinkle came out and the whole room went quiet and Mags started counting.
"Ten. Nine. Eight—"
Sadie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips and her jaw tight and tried to relax into it and it wouldn't come, and the count went on and the room was looking at her and she could feel her face going redder with every number.
"Five. Four—"
She pushed. Nothing. She pushed again and it started, thin, and then it caught, and by two it was going properly and by one it was a flood, hot and sudden and much more than she'd expected, filling the front of the padding and running back and up and she made a sound and her knees bent a little and she grabbed the back of the sofa.
The room counted her down to zero and then went up in noise, and Sadie stood there with the warmth spreading through the whole front of the diaper and the weight of it settling and hanging and dragging at her, and she was laughing and she was bright red and she was so turned on she could have cried.
"Look at the state of her," Bex said.
"Check," Mags said immediately.
"Mags—"
"Check, Sadie. Rule four."
Sadie stood still and let Mags come and press the front of it and the squelch was so loud that Fi said "ugh" with real feeling, and Mags said, "Soaked through. That's a change."
Sixteen — the last change
Cal did it in the boot room again, on the stone floor, with the door shut, and this time he didn't say anything at all.
He peeled the tapes and wiped her and creamed her and got the new one under her and taped it, four tapes, one at a time, and Sadie lay there on the towel with her knees up and her hands on her own ribs and watched his face, and neither of them said a word the whole time.
When he'd done the last tape he sat back on his heels, and then he put his hand flat on the front of the fresh diaper, and left it there.
"Cal," Sadie said.
"Mm."
"Are you going to do it or not."
He looked up at her. "Do what?"
"Cal."
He moved his hand. Slow, a circle, the heel of his palm, pressing the crisp dry padding down against her, and the friction of it through the thickness was extraordinary — she had to press harder to get through it and it was all pressure and no skin and it was diffuse and enormous and everywhere.
Sadie's heels slid on the stone and she got a fistful of the towel.
"All day," he said, quietly, still moving. "All day you've been doing this. Getting wet in front of people. Getting checked. Sitting in it. And then asking for it, out loud, with everyone watching."
"Yes—"
"Say what you are."
"I—" She couldn't think. He pressed harder. "Cal—"
"Say it."
"A woman who wet herself at a hen do in front of everybody and then got put in nappies—" Her voice broke in the middle and came back shaky. "And then had to ask for checks. In front of everyone. And sit in it."
"Good girl." He rubbed faster. "And what happens when you need to go?"
"I say so."
"And then?"
"And then I go in it."
"And then?"
"I sit in it."
"That's right."
She came with her heels skidding on the stone and her back in a bow and both hands over her own mouth, and it went on in long rolling waves and he didn't stop until she was twitching and pushing at his wrist.
Then she lay there with her chest heaving and her eyes streaming and the fresh diaper crushed and creased between her legs, and Cal lay down on the stone beside her and put his hand on her stomach.
"Alright?" he said.
Sadie laughed — wrecked, cracked, wet — and put her arm over her eyes.
"You've ruined me," she said.
"Yeah." He kissed her shoulder through her jumper. "Sorry about that."
Seventeen — Sunday
She woke at half six soaked to the back of the waistband and lay in it in the grey light, in a borrowed bed in a borrowed house, with a hangover coming on and the whole of Saturday behind her.
She'd wet in her sleep again. It was the third time. She hadn't even half woken for it.
At seven she got up and showered and got a fresh one on — sitting on the edge of the bed to do the top tapes, the way Cal had told her — and came down in jeans and a jumper with the shape of it obvious under the denim and the crinkle following her down the stairs like a rumour.
Cal was in the kitchen. He looked up.
"Morning."
"Morning." She got a coffee and leaned against the counter opposite him and drank it and looked at him.
"How's the hip?"
"Fine. I did the top ones sitting down."
"Good." He drank his coffee. "There's a Boots in Cirencester. On the way back. If you wanted to get some of your own before you go home."
"I've got the rest of the packet."
"You'll want more than a packet." He put his mug down. "They're about eighty pence each, you'll use three or four a day, and the pull-ups aren't up to it, so don't let the shop talk you into them. Get the taped ones. Get the ten-pack if they've got it, it's cheaper per unit."
Sadie looked at him.
"You've really thought about this."
"I've thought about it since Friday night," he said, and then, as if that were a normal amount of information to give somebody, "and it's Sunday. So."
Bex d
She moved her hands. She watched.
He peeled the tapes — bottom two first, one at a time, and the front dropped down between her legs and the cool air on her wet skin made her hiss — and then he folded the front under her so the wet padding lay beneath and said, "Wipes," and Fi passed them.
He was thorough. Long strokes, front to back, and then again, and then a fresh wipe pressed flat and held there for a second, and Sadie lay there with her hands on her own ribs and her face burning and watched the firelight on the side of his jaw and the complete absorption in his face and felt the low hard pulse between her hips get worse with every stroke.
"Nearly there," he said, to the wipes rather than to her.
"Mm."
He got the new one under her, and lifted her legs one at a time to seat it, and smoothed the pad flat with the flat of his hand, and she felt the drag of his palm through the soft padding and had to close her eyes.
Then the front up over her. Then the tapes — bottom left, bottom right, top left, top right — each one pressed and held with his thumb, and the thing coming snug and tight and thick against her.
"Too tight?"
"No." Her voice came out thin. "That's — good."
"Alright." He sat back on his heels and wiped his hands on the towel and looked at her. "You're going to want to sit up slowly, or it'll pull at the hip."
Sadie sat up slowly. The room was quiet. She had a fresh diaper on, thick and dry and crisp and enormous, and six women had watched her get it, and her face was so hot she could feel it in her ears.
Mags said, "Well done, Cal," in a tone that was doing more work than it needed to.
"Shut up, Mags," Cal said, and went to wash his hands.
Ten — Saturday
She woke at seven to a soaked diaper and the certain knowledge that she'd done it in her sleep, and lay there for a minute in the grey light with the wet pressing warm and heavy against her, feeling almost peaceful about it.
Then she remembered she was in a house with seven other people and got up.
The house was quiet. She got the bathroom — wet, sagging, cold — and cleaned up and got a fresh one out and did it standing against the door with her knees bent, bottom tapes first, and had to redo the first one because she'd done it too tight and it bit at her hip.
The crinkle when she came down the stairs was enormous in the sleeping house.
Cal was in the kitchen with a mug, alone.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
He looked at her. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
He didn't ask why. He poured her a coffee and pushed it across the counter and said, "How's the hip?"
"What?"
"Where you redid the tape. You've got a mark." He nodded at her waistband. "You're doing them too tight on that side. It's because you're twisting to do the top ones. Sit down to do the top ones and it'll stop."
Sadie looked down. There was a red line at her hip, right at the edge of the tape.
"How can you see that?"
"You've got your pyjama top tucked into it." He went back to his mug. "Do you want to be able to do it properly or not?"
"...Yeah."
"Then sit down for the top ones. Or lie down, better. You've got a bed."
She drank her coffee and looked at him over the rim. He was in a t-shirt and yesterday's jeans and he hadn't shaved and he was being very ordinary about all of it, and she thought, with a sort of resignation, oh, this is going to be a problem.
Eleven — the walk
Bex got everyone out at eleven for a walk, because Bex had read somewhere that fresh air was good for you.
It was cold and grey and the lane was muddy and there was a stile at the end of it that had to be climbed, and Sadie went in jeans and a thick diaper and the jeans were a size up from her usual and you could still see the shape of it. She could hear herself on the lane. Everyone could hear her on the lane. Fi walked beside her for the first five minutes and said, "That's quite loud, isn't it," with great interest, and Sadie said, "Yes, Fi," and Fi said, "Sorry. It's just new, isn't it."
The stile was the problem. She had to get up on it and swing her leg over and the whole thing pressed into her and the crinkle went off like a firework and she could feel the padding bunch and shift, and on the other side she landed and it settled back and she thought she'd got away with it, and then she realized.
She'd leaked a little. Just a little, a small warm bloom at the front that she could feel spreading as she stood there. The climb had forced it out of her.
"Alright?" Mags said, coming over the stile behind.
"Yeah."
But she was at a seven and a half now and the walk was another twenty minutes and there was nowhere to go, and she was going to have to do it out here, in the cold, in front of everyone, in jeans.
She got to the field gate before she did. She stopped and put her hand on the gate and said, "I'm going to have to go."
"Go on then," Bex said, from behind her. "We'll wait."
"Here?"
"There's nowhere else, love. It's a field."
Sadie stood at the gate with her back to all of them and her hand on the rail and her jaw clenched, and let go.
It came in a hot flood and it was so much more than she'd expected — the coffee and the cold and the walk all arriving at once — and she felt it fill the front of the diaper and run back and up and the padding go heavy and warm and cling, and she heard herself breathe out hard through her nose and she gripped the gate and rode it out. It kept coming. She could feel the front of the jeans going damp where it had gone through at the very front, and the bulk of it swelling and hanging and dragging, and she had to put her other hand on her own thigh.
Behind her, Tommi said, "Blimey," and Mags said, "Shh."
When it stopped Sadie stood there for a second with her head down and her chest going.
"Done?" Bex said.
"Yeah."
"Right." Bex came up and, without ceremony, put her hand flat on the seat of Sadie's jeans and pressed, and Sadie's hips jumped and the wet squelched under her palm and Bex said, "You've gone through. You'll need changing when we're back."
"Bex—"
"You have. Look, there's a mark." Bex turned her round by the shoulders, and everyone looked at the front of her jeans, and there was a dark damp patch spreading at the crotch and the tops of her thighs.
Sadie put her hands over her face and Mags said, "You're alright, love, it's only us," and Fi said, "It's honestly quite impressive," and Cal, at the back, said nothing and looked at her the whole way back.
Twelve — Saturday afternoon
She was changed twice on Saturday afternoon and by four o'clock the whole thing had settled into a rhythm that was, in its way, far more humiliating than the accidents had been.
The checks came at random. Fi did it twice, Mags did it once, and Bex did it with a running commentary each time — "dry," or "getting there," or "you're wet, love, we'll do you after this" — and Sadie had to stand up each time and stand still and let it happen, and the standing up in front of a room in a diaper never got less hot in the face. She'd started going bright red the second anyone said the word check.
The wetting itself got easier. By mid-afternoon she was going almost without thinking about it, mid-sentence, and the warmth would arrive while she was still talking, and once or twice she caught herself doing it and not breaking stride at all, and that was its own small astonishment.
She was in a thick one at four, wet from twenty minutes before, sitting on the sofa with her knees up, and Bex was doing a quiz out of a magazine, and Sadie's stomach turned over in a way that had nothing to do with the quiz.
She sat up.
"Bex—"
"Question four. Which—"
"Bex, it's the other thing."
The room stopped. Bex put the magazine down.
"Now?"
"It's coming now."
"Right." Bex was already up. "Towel. Where's the— Mags, towel. Sadie, do you want to be on the floor, it's easier on the floor—"
Sadie got onto the floor because her legs were doing something unreliable, and got her knees up, and Mags got a towel under her, and the whole room arranged itself around her in a semicircle like she was a display, and Bex said, "Go on, love, whenever," and Sadie put her hands flat on the towel and pushed.
It came slow and thick and she felt every part of it — the padding at the back giving and stretching, the warm heavy arrival, the way it kept coming in stages so she had to push again, and the second push was the one that made her breath go out of her in a rush. It spread up and settled warm and full and enormous against her. The diaper, already heavy and wet at the front, went tight.
She heard Fi say, "oh," softly, and Mags say, "There she is."
"Done?" Bex said.
"Yeah." It came out wrecked.
"Right. Sit back down on it. All your weight."
"Bex—"
"All of it. Go on. It's better."
Sadie lowered herself back onto the towel and the mess squished up warm under her and spread, and she made a sound like she'd been punched. The heat of it came through the padding and up her back. She shifted her hips and it moved and the sound was wet and soft and unbelievable, and she lay there on the sitting room floor with her eyes shut and her hands over her face and the warmth of it blooming up her spine.
"God," Mags said. "Look at her face."
"Leave her a minute," Bex said. "Let her have it."
Thirteen — Cal
He got her alone at six, in the boot room, ostensibly to fetch more logs.
She was in the same loaded diaper, sitting in it for an hour and a half by then, and it had gone heavy and warm and full and she'd stopped being able to sit comfortably in it, and she was standing in the boot room with her hands on the shelf and her forehead against the coats when he came in and shut the door.
"You alright?" he said.
"Fine."
"You're not."
"I'm fine—"
"You've been standing up for ten minutes because you can't sit down." He came and stood behind her. "Do you want a change?"
"Yes." It came out of her like a leak. "Yes. Please."
"Alright." He didn't move. "Say it properly."
Sadie turned her head against the coats. "What?"
"Say what you want. Not 'a change.' What you want."
She swallowed. Her face was against the wool of somebody's coat and it smelled of woodsmoke and she could feel the whole warm heavy load of it against her.
"I want to be changed," she said. "Out of this one. It's — full."
"Full of what?"
"Cal."
"Full of what, Sadie."
She shut her eyes. "Full of what I did in it."
"Which was?"
"Which was — I messed myself. In front of six people. On the floor. In the sitting room." Her voice had gone very small. "And then I sat in it."
"Good girl." He put his hand flat on the seat of it and pressed and the squelch was enormous and her hips bucked and she made a noise against the coats. "Where's the bag?"
"Boot room shelf."
"Lie down, then."
The floor was stone and cold. He put a towel down and she lay on it with her knees up and her jeans round her ankles and her hands over her face, and he peeled the tapes and the smell came up warm and thick and he made a low sound in his throat.
"Christ."
"Don't."
"It's good." He wiped her — a lot of wipes, front to back, thorough, and then again, and then a fresh one pressed flat and held — and she lay there and shook and listened to him breathe.
Then cream, cool, spread with the flat of his hand, hips first and then between her thighs, and the cool of it was so good she made a noise.
Then the rustle of the new one. Then it under her, and up, and the tapes — four of them, one at a time, each held down with his thumb — and this time he did them looser at the hip and said, "There. That's the mark sorted."
He didn't take his hand away. He left it flat on the front of the fresh diaper and looked at her, and Sadie lay on the stone floor with her knees up and her jeans round her ankles and a man's hand on the front of her diaper, and the whole day arrived on her at once — the floor, the semicircle, the field gate, good girl, the checks — and she was so turned on her thighs were shaking.
"Cal—"
"Not yet," he said.
"What?"
"Not yet." He sat back on his heels. "Bex'll have a timetable. She'll want a quiz." He got up and held a hand down to her. "Come on. Logs."
Fourteen — the evening
The evening was the worst of the weekend and she'd have bitten anyone who said it wasn't.
It was a dares night — Bex had refilled the tin — and Sadie's first dare was let the group pick your next three drinks, which meant she was drinking water, and her second was no sitting down for twenty minutes, which meant she stood in the corner of the room while everyone else got merry and the pressure built and the padding grew warm and heavy against her.
Her third dare, drawn by Mags with enormous satisfaction, was: Ask Cal to check you, out loud, in front of everyone, and then stand still for it.
Sadie looked at the slip of paper for a long moment.
"Go on," Mags said.
Sadie put the paper down and turned to Cal, who was in the armchair with a beer and who had, she noticed, been waiting for this.
"Cal," she said. "Will you check me, please."
"Course." He didn't get up. "Come here."
She went and stood in front of his chair, in front of six women, and he put his beer down and reached out and put his hand flat on the front of the diaper and pressed.
It was soaked. The wet squelched audibly under his palm. Sadie's hips jumped and she had to put a hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself, and his thumb moved, once, in a small circle, and she heard herself breathe in hard through her nose.
"Wet," he said. "Quite wet."
"Cal—"
"That's all." He took his hand back and picked his beer up. "Good girl."
Sadie went and sat down on the floor with her knees up and her face in her hands and Fi said, "Ohhh," in a long, knowing way, and Mags said, "Well, that's not subtle, is it."
Fifteen — the dares get worse
The dares got worse as the wine went down.
Tommi had to do an impression of Bex's fiancé proposing. Fi had to text her ex. And Sadie, at half ten, drew: Wet on command. Group counts down from ten.
"Oh, come on," she said.
"You're the only one who can do it," Bex said. "It's not fair on anyone else."
Sadie was in a diaper she'd been in since eight. She'd gone twice in it and it was heavy and warm and she'd been holding for the last twenty minutes without really noticing, and the pressure was there, low and insistent.
She stood up. The crinkle came out and the whole room went quiet and Mags started counting.
"Ten. Nine. Eight—"
Sadie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips and her jaw tight and tried to relax into it and it wouldn't come, and the count went on and the room was looking at her and she could feel her face going redder with every number.
"Five. Four—"
She pushed. Nothing. She pushed again and it started, thin, and then it caught, and by two it was going properly and by one it was a flood, hot and sudden and much more than she'd expected, filling the front of the padding and running back and up and she made a sound and her knees bent a little and she grabbed the back of the sofa.
The room counted her down to zero and then went up in noise, and Sadie stood there with the warmth spreading through the whole front of the diaper and the weight of it settling and hanging and dragging at her, and she was laughing and she was bright red and she was so turned on she could have cried.
"Look at the state of her," Bex said.
"Check," Mags said immediately.
"Mags—"
"Check, Sadie. Rule four."
Sadie stood still and let Mags come and press the front of it and the squelch was so loud that Fi said "ugh" with real feeling, and Mags said, "Soaked through. That's a change."
Sixteen — the last change
Cal did it in the boot room again, on the stone floor, with the door shut, and this time he didn't say anything at all.
He peeled the tapes and wiped her and creamed her and got the new one under her and taped it, four tapes, one at a time, and Sadie lay there on the towel with her knees up and her hands on her own ribs and watched his face, and neither of them said a word the whole time.
When he'd done the last tape he sat back on his heels, and then he put his hand flat on the front of the fresh diaper, and left it there.
"Cal," Sadie said.
"Mm."
"Are you going to do it or not."
He looked up at her. "Do what?"
"Cal."
He moved his hand. Slow, a circle, the heel of his palm, pressing the crisp dry padding down against her, and the friction of it through the thickness was extraordinary — she had to press harder to get through it and it was all pressure and no skin and it was diffuse and enormous and everywhere.
Sadie's heels slid on the stone and she got a fistful of the towel.
"All day," he said, quietly, still moving. "All day you've been doing this. Getting wet in front of people. Getting checked. Sitting in it. And then asking for it, out loud, with everyone watching."
"Yes—"
"Say what you are."
"I—" She couldn't think. He pressed harder. "Cal—"
"Say it."
"A woman who wet herself at a hen do in front of everybody and then got put in nappies—" Her voice broke in the middle and came back shaky. "And then had to ask for checks. In front of everyone. And sit in it."
"Good girl." He rubbed faster. "And what happens when you need to go?"
"I say so."
"And then?"
"And then I go in it."
"And then?"
"I sit in it."
"That's right."
She came with her heels skidding on the stone and her back in a bow and both hands over her own mouth, and it went on in long rolling waves and he didn't stop until she was twitching and pushing at his wrist.
Then she lay there with her chest heaving and her eyes streaming and the fresh diaper crushed and creased between her legs, and Cal lay down on the stone beside her and put his hand on her stomach.
"Alright?" he said.
Sadie laughed — wrecked, cracked, wet — and put her arm over her eyes.
"You've ruined me," she said.
"Yeah." He kissed her shoulder through her jumper. "Sorry about that."
Seventeen — Sunday
She woke at half six soaked to the back of the waistband and lay in it in the grey light, in a borrowed bed in a borrowed house, with a hangover coming on and the whole of Saturday behind her.
She'd wet in her sleep again. It was the third time. She hadn't even half woken for it.
At seven she got up and showered and got a fresh one on — sitting on the edge of the bed to do the top tapes, the way Cal had told her — and came down in jeans and a jumper with the shape of it obvious under the denim and the crinkle following her down the stairs like a rumour.
Cal was in the kitchen. He looked up.
"Morning."
"Morning." She got a coffee and leaned against the counter opposite him and drank it and looked at him.
"How's the hip?"
"Fine. I did the top ones sitting down."
"Good." He drank his coffee. "There's a Boots in Cirencester. On the way back. If you wanted to get some of your own before you go home."
"I've got the rest of the packet."
"You'll want more than a packet." He put his mug down. "They're about eighty pence each, you'll use three or four a day, and the pull-ups aren't up to it, so don't let the shop talk you into them. Get the taped ones. Get the ten-pack if they've got it, it's cheaper per unit."
Sadie looked at him.
"You've really thought about this."
"I've thought about it since Friday night," he said, and then, as if that were a normal amount of information to give somebody, "and it's Sunday. So."
Bex d
26-30, M