Name: Johnny Ever since I was of quite a young age, around 7, I have had quite severe day and night wetting problems. I was toilet trained as a child by my dedicated parents, but suddenly lost all control of my bladder one day when I was 7 years old. The story of the discovery and treatment of my wetting goes a little like this. I was walking along the street hand in hand with my father, staring longingly into expensive shop windows, wondering what it must be like to own such enthralling possessions. We had been shopping all day, and my other hand was laden with heavy bags full of gifts for my mother's birthday. I was in a very good mood as I enjoyed my father's company more than anybody else's. He was a good, kind man who knew how to have fun, respected my 5 year old views, wishes and requirements, but still understood the importance of keeping me appropriately disciplined. As we strolled along the pavement, silently enjoying each other's company, my father suggested that we stop off in a little caf� to get something to drink. I agreed, being in the thirsty condition that I was, and stepped through the wooden door which my father kindly held open for me. We sat down at the table and the waiter came over and asked what we wanted to drink. My father ordered a simple black coffee and I ordered a large glass of milk, which I drank readily and took a refill. My father was amazed at the amount of milk I consumed, and laughed about it for the rest of the trip, calling me "cow-juice guzzler" and other such nicknames. All the way through the shopping trip, since I had drunk the huge glasses of milk, I felt my bladder filling up with urine and urging me to go and release it. However, despite these terrible feelings I refused to ask my father if we could visit the lavatories for fear of spoiling our wonderful father-son shopping trip which had been going so well. I managed to hold in the large amounts of urine which were rapidly filling my tiny 5 year old bladder, right up until we arrived back home at the front gate. The urge took me over and I gasped, dropping the bags of shopping on the floor and grabbing my penis. My father, who was ahead of me, spun around at the sound of the bags hitting the floor only to find his son grasping his genitals, surrounded by a fountain of yellow liquid. I looked up at him with a face of pure guilt. My father shook his head and picked up the bags of shopping that I had been carrying and took them inside before returning to me. "Why didn't you tell me you had to pee? I would have gladly taken you to the toilets so that you could go. I am very angry at your defiance and am, as I'm sure you are well aware, going to punish you for spoiling your nice clothes and wasting my time by not telling me when you had to go," he said firmly, lifting me up and carrying me indoors, up the stairs and into the bathroom. "I'm sorry daddy!" I wailed as I was carried into the large, airy room and set down on the bathroom mat, "I wanted to tell you but I couldn't hold it in! Please forgive me!" My father assured me that he would certainly forgive me but his number one concern right at that moment was cleaning me up and getting a few things straight. He also assured me that there would be a suitable punishment for my intolerable behaviour that day. As my dad continued to run a bath, my mind began to race. What would my punishment be? No TV for a week? No playing out in the street with my friends? They all seemed so minor, and my father seemed so angry in his quiet, calm way. My thoughts were so taken up with these things that I failed to notice my father stripping off my wet clothing and plonking me in the bath for a good wash. He proceeded to rub a sweet-smelling wash all over me, paying special attention to my bottom and genital areas, which were caked in dried on urine. He rinsed me with the shower attachment and left me to lie in the soapy water for a while whilst he rinsed out my dirty clothes and hung them out to dry. When he returned and lifted me out of the bath I plucked up the courage to ask him what was going to happen to me. He replied that it wasn't going to be like all the other punishments that he had given to me in the past, as I had done something completely different to all of my other wrong-doings - something which he had been totally unprepared for. He then told me to hush and stand still while he dried me and pulled my pyjama top over my head, but no matching trousers. I opened my mouth to question this strange attire, but he simply placed his index finger on my lip before lifting me up and carrying me to his bedroom - a room which I did not often have the privilege of entering. He stood me in front of him as he seated himself on the bed. He then proceeded to explain to me that what I did was very wrong indeed and could have quite easily been avoided by simply asking him if we could visit the public toilets. He informed me that he was now going to punish me for defying my body's needs and not respecting him enough to ask for something as simple as permission to use a toilet. Finally, in a voice much quieter than the one he had been using for the lecture, he told me that he was going to give a spanking. I shuddered violently. I had heard about parents thrashing their children, and had always been thankful that my mum and dad had never put me through that torture. Tears pricked my eyes but my dad just brushed them away. He told me that he would soon be giving me something to cry about before gently lifting me over his lap, face down, and positioning me until I was what he deemed to be comfortable. I felt him lift up my pyjama top and push it high up my back, well out of the way. He patted my tender bottom before bring his hand down on it with a large CRACK. He delivered smack after stinging smack to my vulnerable and previously untouched behind, causing me to scream out in agony. My bottom-cheeks throbbed an excruciating throb that was increased with every smack that was inflicted on my poor backside, and yet my father's burly hand continued to beat against it in a steady rhythm, seemingly unaware of the virtually unbearable pain and suffering he was causing me. Finally, the harsh sound of flesh hitting flesh ceased and the blood- curdling shrieks which had been echoing through the house subsided, and were replaced with racking sobs which shook my whole body, jolting my father's lap. He pulled me, crying like a newborn baby, off his lap and laid me down on the soft white bed, face down to avoid the pain of the cotton brushing my freshly reddened bottom. He left me there, violently bawling, for around half an hour, when he returned with a bottle of sun-lotion in his hand. "There now, Johnny, I know that hurt but it is all over now and I'm here with something to make it feel better. Now hold still while I put this nice cream onto your bottom," he soothed, rubbing the cool, smooth cream into my blistered behind, causing me to wince and call out in discomfort between the pathetic snivels which I was now producing. My father, having finished applying the nurturing cream, turned me over so that I was face up and pulled me into his lap. I looked up at him with a horrified expression but was greeted only by a warm smile. "Don't worry Johnny; there won't be any of that for a long time now," He reassured me, "However, your punishment is far from over, my son. Since you wet yourself like a little baby and didn't ask me to take you to the toilet, I am going to treat you like the little baby you acted like. And we all know that little babies don't wear pants, don't we?" I was terrified at these words, and became even more terrified when my father shifted me back onto the bed, my pyjama top still up around my armpits, and began to rummage through the cupboard under the sink. When he returned to the bedside I saw he was holding a number of things: Cotton wool, a thick fabric pad, baby lotion, baby powder and, most shocking of all, a nappy. Surely this couldn't mean he was going to. My worst fears were confirmed when my father laid out the changing pad on the bed and transferred me onto it. Ignoring my weak and feeble protests, he poured a little baby lotion onto a piece of cotton wool and proceeded to lift my legs into the air, exposing my genital area for him to work on as he pleased. Firstly, he wiped the cool baby lotion over my penis and testicles, cleaning away any dirt that had been picked up following my trip over his lap. Secondly, he puffed a thin layer of baby powder over my nappy area, taking care to cover everything from the top of my waistline, right through between my legs and up over my still red bottom-cheeks. Thirdly and finally he hauled me upwards while he positioned a thick disposable diaper underneath me, prior to putting me down and pulling the diaper up over my crotch to be fastened. "There!" he said, surveying me from above as I lay on the bed in my wrinkled pyjama top and newly put on junior pampers, "My little baby is ready for bed. Now Johnny, you understand that you will not be allowed to go to the toilet as long as you are wearing the nappies, so you must do you business in the nappy - after all, that is what they are there for!" This routine has now gone on for seven years and even now, as a 14 year old, I am still in diapers, being changed regularly by my mother, father and any other relative. The thing is I am dependent on the nappies - I am literally incontinent. I don't know how long I will have to be in diapers but I know that I hope it won't be for much longer.