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.