I Had Messed My Pants I had messed my pants. Not a lot, but just a little bit. As I was driving home from school I could feel it becoming a little sticky right by my legs. It started to smell a little bit and I rolled down the window. Luckily, as I was at football practice, I had been wearing my whities, so nothing would get too messy. Of course, I did not mess on purpose, but as I was standing and waiting in line for the drill I refused to ask to leave practice. I waited and tried to hold it, but just a little made its way out. The situation would definitely be different, however, if this was the first time. No, I have messed my pants before. In fact, I messed my pants since the day I was taken out of diapers. Frustration and grief has caused my parents to essentially give up on the issue. Previously they would spank me, take me to psychologists, ground me, etc. However, mostly these remedies did nothing but cause me and them pain. Their latest offer, yet to be played out, was something I feared but anticipated. Hopefully they wouldn't notice that my pants were slightly messy and I can make my way up to the shower in peace. As I pulled into our driveway my sister, who had been washing her car put down the hose and came over. We were both in high school, she was a year older. Very mature for her age, she assumed many roles around the house and took great responsibility. If all continued well, she would probably be a valedictorian for her class. She leaned her elbows on the window of my car and asked how practice went. I thought I saw her nose do a weird twitch but I probably just imagined it. The smell had mostly dissipated; however, I couldn't really tell as I had been sitting in it for so long. I told her it went good, but that I was tired. I went inside and she turned off the hose. My mom had dinner practically ready as I entered the kitchen. I grabbed my mail quickly as I heard my sister come in from the front door. I turned for the stairs to hightail it up before anybody caught wind of my mess. As my foot hit the first step I heard a loud sniff from behind me. I turned to see my sister standing with her arms crossed in front of her and her eyebrow raised. Time seemed to freeze and her words echoed hardly inside my head with their cold tone: "drop 'em" The scene must have looked very odd. She, merely a senior in high school, only a year older than I, standing in a pale blue bikini damp from washing her car, caused me, a six-foot-three starter on the football team to do an about face. I looked at her pleadingly, but she returned my glance coldly with steely blue eyes. I wouldn't have taken this from my sister, except that I would much rather receive it from her than my mother. "Now," she growled. I lowered my mesh shorts exposing my white briefs to my sister. She pushed my hip so that I was forced to turn completely around. Facing the stairs, pants around my ankles, my sister had full view of my mess through the browned cotton, however, she still pulled back the waistband. I felt a hard cruel crack on my right butt-cheek. "Christ, your sevenTEEN Scott, and you still have to have your sister check your pants like you were a little toddler. When will you ever grow up!" I could feel my mother's presence as she stood in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen. "Sarah, go eat dinner. Scott, take your poopy pants off, go up and stand in your room until we finish dinner. Then you know what happens." My eyes began to water as I pulled down my briefs and stepped out of my pants. I pulled off my shirt, picked up my pants and prepared to take them to the laundry room but my mother cut me off, "just go up to your room, leave them on the ground." I walked up to my room, naked, and looked down into the kitchen at everybody sitting down to dinner. My father shook his head slowly. I stood in my room for about thirty minutes until my dad entered. He re-explained his previous statement that if I continued to mess my pants I would be returned to diapers until I was ready to potty train. I stood naked as he went to my closet and retrieved the diaper he had brought home last time. Frankly, I was fascinated by the idea of wearing it. I had taken it out and investigated it already. It made me feel funny to think how babyish it was. As I had opened it up the elastic had caused it to cup and shape itself. The leg bands, a pastel blue color, must feel so gentle and babylike as they squeeze against the inside of your thighs. I even smelt it. The diaper smelt fresh. But now, as my dad opened it up I was scared. Scared, but I was also excited. He taped to me as I stood, legs spread apart, appreciating that as babyish as it looked, it felt even more so to wear. For a moment I oddly enjoyed the sensation. Then, my dad slipped back into my mind and I was overcome by a terrible sense of shame. As he finished taping it on my head dropped so I could avoid his eyes. "Go put some pants on so your mother can take you to get some more. This is the only one; it's a sample." I turned from him towards my dresser and tried to walk like I was not wearing a diaper, but underpants. The diaper felt so much thinner between my legs than I had expected. However, as I walked, the diaper very loudly rustled. I tried to adjust my stride but nothing worked. The only clean pair of shorts I had left was a pair of a soccer shorts. When my dad left the room, and I slid them up my legs and over my diaper, the shame mixed with the babyish feeling and the mild sensuality I felt towards it all. I pulled on another shirt and went downstairs, making more noise as I moved than I could handle. My sister had already gone up to finish her homework and my mom was finishing the last dish. I heard her say to my dad, "all diapered up and ready to go?" and I heard him reply lamely, "yeah." The great shame returned at my dad's voice and the diaper felt like it was squeezing me and telling me I was a failure. As I moved into the kitchen and sat down in a chair at the table my diaper seemed to be screaming out that I was a degenerate and couldn't control myself. Each crinkle felt like a reprimand. Sitting down on the chair proved a different sensation as well and caused the diaper to tighten. My mom shut off the water and dried her hands. She turned to me and the angry look in her eyes was gone. There was no reprimand or anything, she just looked like her normal cheery self. "Everything all better?" she asked and suppose she was really asking, "is the little baby boo wearing his diapy?" so I replied sullenly, "yeah," like my father. But somehow I was already relieved. It seems that the diaper truly was a protection, and that it took away the anger and frustration that my messing instilled in my parents. It was as if they were now saying, "it's okay to mess now, in fact, its appropriate." She grabbed her keys and her purse and I followed her to the car. For a while, on the ride over, she tried to have a normal conversation. She asked about football, class, etc., but I still had that pervasive shame, humiliation, and now a sense of happiness, as the diaper seemed to take away the negativity I was confronted with. However, her inquiry about football opened up an entirely new worry. How could I possibly be forced to go to football practice with a diaper on? As if my mother could read my mind she posed, "don't worry about the diaper, honey, nobody can really see it. It is not noticeable at all." She was right, mostly. But at football? We have to change, we have to shower; I cannot possible re-diaper myself after a shower in front of the guys! I can't wear a diaper under my jock and football pants for the game on Saturday!! I thought maybe that they didn't want me to wear diapers at football. But then I thought, of course they do. That is when I have most of my messes. The diaper hugged tighter as I thought of all of this. My mother talked less as she noticed my worry. After she parked the car she rubbed my thigh in a motherly way and said, "Don't fret this so much. This is really what you need, you can't keep pooing in your underwear and boxers." We got out of the car and went into the store. She brought me over to the adult diaper section and she surveyed what was available. As she looked, she told me what her and my dad had decided. Mostly, if I needed to go to the bathroom, I could ask them and they would take off my diaper and let me go. But at school, unless I want to carry around extra diapers, a diaperbag, or something else, I should just hold it or use the diapers. I thought that sounded fair. I usually didn't have to go to the bathroom during school anyway, and I usually wouldn't during football practice. I asked, "What about football practice, mom?" and, as if she didn't here me, asked, "how much do you weigh?" I looked around to survey how many people might be watching us obviously shopping for my diapers. "Just under two hundred pounds mom." She looked at me. "You boys grow up so fast," and she pinched my love handles. I pulled away and I felt the diaper grow tighter as my embarrassment grew. She finally said, "your dad and I will work out something for football practice." She stood up having chosen a pack of diapers and threw them in the cart. Then after thinking for a minute, announced, "We need a few other supplies," I told her I needed to go to the bathroom. She looked at me like I was playing a joke on the new rules and then decided that I should wait or use the diapers, because she couldn't put a new diaper on me yet. I lied and told her that I was going to be sick. Her smile turned to a concerned look and she said that I indeed should go to the bathroom. I turned from her and walked towards the rest room. I really wasn't sick, I just didn't want to be with her when she picked out powder, oil, and cream, and then purchased it all. I walked into the bathroom and shut the door and nearly squeaked in horror. The back of my shirt had caught on the elastic top of my diaper when I got out of the car, and it was evident to all that I had been wearing, and shopping for, diapers. The diaper grew tighter, and tears began to form at the sides of my eyes. I knew I couldn't take off the diaper, as I would get in bigger trouble, and I didn't feel like I could keep wearing it either. But the diaper had made everything happy between my mother and I. It was sort of a symbol of acceptance. Strange thoughts and ideas ran through my head as the tears subsided and I leaned against the sink. Without even thinking, I began to strain and push. I didn't know why I felt like I wanted to do it, maybe I wanted to test my mother's assertion that I could hold it or use the diaper. Maybe, I just wanted to see what it was like again. I didn't know as I was doing it, and I never would. However, as I bent lower and pushed and strained I pushed a good amount of solid into the back of my diaper. I even heard it crinkle as it filled. The sound and sensation seemed strangely gratifying as the results of my pushing led to a soft crinkle sound. The diaper even grew tighter and I felt my mess against my butt like I never had before. Before there were just little accidents, this was a mess. I slowly stood up, not sure what to do. The mess reconfigured itself and the first thing I did was look at my behind in the mirror to see if anybody might be able to tell. Not noticeably, anyway. But then, it hit me, that I was looking at myself in a grocery store mirror after just having pooped my diaper. The concept seemed strange and foreign, sick, intriguing, shameful, and pleasing. I could feel it, too. I felt it against my bottom. Tight in against the top of my legs, and if I put my hand down in between my legs from behind, I could feel the load through the diaper. I pushed against it with my hand and felt the mess change shape against my butt. I wriggled around a little bit but the mess held tight against my butt, just as the diaper did. I finally washed my hands, out of habit and compulsion, and left the bathroom. The thin diaper didn't feel so thin now as the mess made me want to walk differently, to try and avoid it. The crinkle of the diaper was the least of my worries now, as I tried to hide the fact from the entire world, that I had messed my diaper. When I came out, my mom was just about to get in the car. "All better?" she asked. I shook my head yes, and she asked if I had thrown up. I shook my head no. Shortly after I shook my head no, I remembered that diapers do not conceal smells. This was an element about which I had not thought. I smelt like a dirty diaper, and my mom could smell it too. She realized and the look on her face changed to understanding and she patted my leg and said that we would get home soon and get it all better. She rolled down all the windows in the car, but the smell was still putrid. I had pooped in my diaper. Anybody who came near me would know. I had pooped. Not just messed, not just had an accident, I had had a full scale, all out, poop in my diaper. It had squished up and out and over and throughout my diaper when I sat in the car. I could feel it all the way from my front side all the way up and around my butt. It made me feel like a toddler. I sank into the seat and took a strange shameful comfort in my messiness. We got home and I tried to walk normally up to the door, but I just couldn't. The mess was too sticky, too all encompassing. My mom open the door for me and I stepped into the hall. I stopped and my mom pulled down my soccer shorts and pulled off my shirt and I stood there in a messy stinky diaper. My sister had been coming down the stairs and she watched for a minute. Then I saw her nose twitch and I hung my head down. But she didn't chastise me. She didn't yell at me or belittle me. She just said, "hey guys." She was happy, and not shaming me. She couldn't, really. I was in a diaper. I was allowed to mess myself, and I was expected to mess myself. My mom told my sister to get the stuff out of the car for her. I kind of liked being diapered. But I still smelled like poop.