The first creative writing I've done in over two decades, do not expect quality. I've always liked the "real" incontinence/diaper stories, things I could imagine happening. This is my attempt, a snapshot of a young woman who has become incontinent and is struggling to accept it, but will in time.
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She danced her hips back and forth. The pull-up made a distinct papery rustling.
"It crinkles" she complained, something between embarrassment and distaste flashing across her face.
"Yes" I said. "It does."
There was no point in lying.
"I don't like it."
My heart was racing and prick stiffening at the sight of my wife in pull-up nappies. How many times had I thought about this?
"I do" I said. "I like it."
She stopped and looked at me sideways. I hurriedly qualified my statement.
"I mean, compared to the other stuff you've tried. It's... cute. I dunno. Cute."
"But these are for kids! I'm 24!"
"Yeah, you're 24, and sexy as fuck. So why should you wear inco products for old ladies? Nah, these are way closer to being age-appropriate."
"Age-appropriate? I repeat, I'm 24, and a parent. How is night nappies for tweens age-appropriate?"
"Cos you've not got a choice? You tried simple pads, period pants, old lady 'oops moments' pants, and they either didn't work or you didn't like them. It's this or, what, exactly?"
She danced up and down again and made a noise of frustration I found undeniably attractive. There was more than a hint of adorable brattishness in her pout, and I found that attractive, too.
"They look more like the normal pants a younger woman would wear then the Always or Tena ones do" I offered gently.
She made a non-committal noise of acknowledgement, critically eyeing her pull-up in the mirror. Mostly black, with designery, floral prints, they were intended to "pass" as underwear. They didn't. And they really did rustle a surprising amount.
"Fucks sake" she said quietly. "Wearing a bloody nappy at 24."
"I know. I'm sorry. But it is what it is."
I wanted her to accept this, for her to accept her incontinence and find a good way to manage it, mostly for her own mental wellbeing. But - and here was my issue - I also wanted her to accept it because it was a massive turn-on. I felt beyond shit about liking her incontinence but oh my fuck did she look good in this pull-up.
The problem I had, and I recognised that it was the lesser of the problems between us, was that my huge nappy fetish put me in a somewhat conflicted state. We had been together since our late teens, had married both aged 22, and always spoken relatively openly about kinks in our relationship. We had explored various aspects of bdsm, power-exchange and more but I had never quite found the guts to talk about nappies.
Giving birth had not been kind to Abi. No matter what shape a woman was in going into pregnancy, no matter how religiously she dedicates herself to pelvic floor exercises, what the doctors don't tell you is that for all the miracles of modern medicine, coming out incontinent is still a very real risk.
And that's exactly what had happened with Abi. Sure, she worked hard at getting back into physical condition, and now six months postpartum she was the same shape she always had been, just with slightly bigger boobs. I wasn't complaining. But she had come out of the whole thing incontinent. She hated saying it, hated anyone saying it, especially me, as though not saying it made it somehow less real. It wasn't full-on 'pissing all the time as though you're catheterised' incontinence, not that this distinction made her condition any better in her mind. But now, when she coughed, jumped, was startled, or sometimes just when she bent over, she peed a bit. Sometimes more than a bit. Sometimes a lot more. She remained aware, horribly aware, of pissing, but these days was never really in control of the when.
The doctors had said "oh well it's a known risk of pregnancy", as though that would be some kind of comfort, and to just keep going with the exercises. They'd recommended she wear what they euphemistically called "protection". The midwives and health visitors didn't care: their interest in Abi stretched only as far as her physiological ability to be a parent. Pissing herself didn't stop her doing that and so they had politely said it was out of their remit.
She had started wearing "protection". Stick on incontinence pads at first, small enough to fit in her usual underwear, but these had leaked. When it had become clear that the issue wasn't going away, she bought bigger pants - Granny pants, she called them - and bigger pads, but the wings kept sticking to her skin and errant pubes, and these too had leaked. After a few too many accidents - one was too many in her mind - a few too many times where she got out of the car after going over a speedbump to find she had leaked through her jeans, she had consented to buying disposable underwear.
This was a big deal, moving from pads, which go in normal underwear, to disposable, throwaway underwear. One was for the continent who occasionally had accidents; the other was for the incontinent, who simply had no control. In buying these products we were acknowledging her move from one community to another, acknowledging that she would have accidents, on a daily basis, that pissing herself was inevitable. Still, we bought a range of discreet pull-ups marketed at older ladies from all the big brands and struggled through for a while. They were hideous. It started to take a toll on her self image.
I hated all this for her, of course. I hated how it made her feel and how she hated being incontinent. I still saw her as incredibly sexy. I also hated that to my mind her incontinence, this thing that she struggled so much to accept, just made her more attractive to me. In her current state I simply could not conceive of her ever understanding that.
But a solution needed to be found on a practical level. We needed something she could wear and feel good in, or at least wear and forget. So a couple of months ago I had suggested pull-ups, the goodnites or drynites brands aimed at teenagers overnight, as a more attractive and more effective alternative. I showed her a picture on Amazon. I genuinely wanted her to find a solution that worked, and if that was as sexy as a pull-up, then great.
