Coming to Terms

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.

Abi had not been impressed.

"I don't want to wear a fucking kids nappy!" she had shouted.

But the problem had of course persisted with no sign of improvement, and reaching the end of another day with a saggy, cream-coloured old lady brief hanging limp between her thighs had become old.

Mentally putting on my own big-girl pants a few nights ago, I steeled myself and once again suggested pull-ups.

We googled them together, ostensibly to look for stories of other adults in Abi's position who used them as every-day underwear. I feigned ignorance as we of course found many, many stories and photographs of adults wearing pull-ups not just out of need but out of choice! I made a pretence at surprise, as though I had absolutely never run such a search before.

I worried in retrospect that I had given them a suspiciously hard sell that evening. They were designed more for Abi's body shape, I said. They might hold up a little better, sag less and be a little more like underwear, I said. There are are only nine in a pack, I said. What's the worst that can happen, I said. Try them, don't like them, move on? They only cost six quid, I said.

She agreed to trying them. In my excitement - for us both, I should point out - I bought a pack from the village shop later that same day.

And here we are now, getting ready for the day two mornings later, with my wife stood before me in a pull-up, and not all that pleased about it. But I felt more than ever that there was an opportunity before me - slim, but definitely there - to see us both win. My cock agreed.

"It fucking rustles!" Abi ranted, hands behind her bum, lifting and dropping the pull-up.

"Yeah, you've said. But only cos you're not wearing anything else. Put on a skirt or trousers over it and nobody will know a thing."

"I'll know" she said, crestfallen.

"Of course. And I will too. But that doesn't matter."

"It does."

"It does not. I love you whatever you wear - except that blue playsuit. Fuck that thing."

She laughed a bit, despite herself, and I smiled back.

"It feels like a nappy."

"It is a nappy."

She didn't look too happy with my reply.

"There's a... I can feel the padding between my thighs."

"Yeah, cos it's a nappy! The old lady pants had that. And the pads, which leaked. They were all nappies too, just without being brave enough to use the actual word. They didn't work and you complained about them. Let's give these a fair shake."

She twisted and turned again, still protesting, though I could see the fight leaving her.

"I can feel them under my bum cheeks. Like someone's holding my arse all the time."

"Well I would if I could", I said. She shot a brief withering stare which quickly melted into something more affectionate.

"Turn around, then, let me see" I prompted.

She turned on her heels.

"You bum looks good in them" I said. I was not lying.

She fixed me with a considering stare, head twisted over her shoulder.

"Don't you go developing another strange fetish" she said.

Too late, I thought.

"And what if I did? What's the worst that could happen?"

She thought for a moment then sighed, slumped visibly, and sat on the bed beside me. I put my arm around her shoulder and she leant in, smelling of shampoo and... god, I don't know what, but it smelled good.

"Cos if you see me as sexy in these things then I might start to feel sexy in them. Normal, wearing them. Like, I'm scared of wearing fucking nappies becoming normalised, ok? And I know somewhere inside that's not a bad place to get to, mentally, like, I probably need to get there. But a part of me still doesn't want to accept it."

My arm dropped from her shoulder to her hip, hand idly running over the tear-off side of the pull-up.

"I understand" I said, and I did. Losing what she'd lost was a big deal. I felt bad at how arousing I found her situation: for all her upset, I could not quite believe we were sat on the bed, her wearing a pull-up nappy. If only for a different context, this was the stuff of my fantasies. I hoped I'd be able to find a way to make it work to our shared advantage.

"Shit sucks. You are, and I'm sorry to say it again, incontinent."

I felt her tense beside me at that word before relaxing again, so I continued.

"Let's give these a go. See how you get on with them. We've not found a better option, have we?"

"No, we've not. I just... I'm still reluctant to actually accept that I'm, well..."

"Say it" I said. "Own it."

She took a deep breath.

"I am reluctant to accept that I am... incontinent."

She spoke quietly, head down. I kissed her hair.

"Well done. Remember what the doctors said: it's not rare, not unusual, very common postpartum -" I began, but she interrupted, standing back up, a bit of fire returning to her attitude. The very justified, very adult anger was faintly ridiculous while wearing just a nappy and a pyjama t-shirt she'd not yet taken off.

"Oh fuck that noise! Yeah yeah whatever, I know all that. I just don't feel myself. How can I feel, I dunno, grown up or sexy wearing one of these?"

Oh, there were so many things I wish I had the balls to say at this point. So I thought for a moment and smiled.

"Would it help if I did develop another strange fetish? Like those people we saw online?"

Abi visibly softened and laughed. We both laughed, finding light in the situation, at least until Abi stopped dead, hand shooting to the front of her pull-up.

"Fucks sake!" she shouted.

I could not quite see from this angle that she had peed, but knowing she had was beyond arousing.

I stood and hugged her in and after a while my hand dropped down her back to her bum. I kissed her, moving my hand to the front of her pull-up. To the front of her nappy. I pushed the slightly damp-stiffened padding into her. Again she stiffened, before kissing me back. She grabbed my dick through my trousers, raising an eyebrow at what she found.

"Well if you did develop another strange fetish I suppose it wouldn't be your strangest kink, Mr Peg. Just don't expect me to ever call you 'Daddy'".

She pushed me away - a clear 'not now' gesture - and reached for a knee-length skirt from her floordrobe. The pull-up rustled as she bent over, and as she did I was able to see the swollen padding between her legs.

"Just give me time to try to accept this before going all in on the, what, 'abdl', was it called?"

"Sure" I said, "I think it appeals just as just another aspect of the power-exchange thing, is all. And we've both enjoyed that in the past, both ways."

That wasn't entirely truthful, but there was some truth in it.

"Yeah, but this is an exchange I can't get out of."

That was true, too. A key part of power-exchange was the exchange, the giving of power to the other person. If she had none over her bladder, and that was the exchange I wanted, perhaps it wasn't something she could easily give? But I already had ideas on making it work. Normalise the pull-ups first and then in time play on her humiliation fetish with bigger nappies, perhaps? Baby steps. One thing after another.

I felt creepy just thinking like that, so I simply said "We'll find a way to make it work."

Abi pulled her skirt on, did the zip up and whirled around. I could no longer hear the pull-up unless I really thought about it, but I knew it was there.

"Hey" she said. "You were right. Can't hear it at all."