Some New Disaster

Chapter 3
Lesson II: Accidents

Chapter Description: M/F pantswetting, cleaning, training pants

With senior prom just days away, Kevin was chagrined and horrified to have taken Derek’s place at the front of Miss Berdette’s classroom. His girlfriend and date, Tara, was by no means thrilled, either. The two shared a sneaking suspicion that their status as shoe-ins for King and Queen were suddenly in grave jeopardy on account of the final-final exam from Hell.

Already they wished they had studied as hard as they’d fucked.

“A lot of you are going to end up with children,” Miss Berdette announced to her class. She whirled to her left and shot the F-students lined up against the wall a condescending scowl. “Even some of you. So, it’s important to understand the less savory implications of raising them when at last you decide that continually doing to yourself what Derek just did to himself is no longer fulfilling.”

Kevin, who was tall, with slick, rich-boy-like hair, contrasted against the shorter stature of Tara, whose flowing blonde mane characterized the stereotypical prom queen. Nevertheless, they held hands, standing stiff as boards as they faced a room full of their peers... the very ones who would be voting for or against them when the moment of truth finally arrived. The couple’s immobility seemed to be at the almost supernatural behest of Miss Berdette. The 18-year-olds knew, somewhere deep inside, that they really didn’t want the A-grade they were about to earn.

“One of the things you’re going to have to deal with as a parent of a little boy is cleaning up after him when he has an accident in his pants. Even after they’re toilet trained, little boys have an awfully difficult time controlling what comes out of their penises-- don’t they, Kevin?”

Kevin’s eyes widened at the sound of his name. Already he could feel something very basic, something very simple, pop from his brain and out of existence like sparks into oblivion.

Then he could feel something else. Release. The sensation of fullness leaving his insides, rocketing through his urethra, and spilling out of his penis.

Kevin was pissing his pants. At first, it was slow, tentative, accompanied by the acknowledgement of a few droplets of warmth saturating the fabric of the boxer-briefs nestled tightly up against the head of the boy’s cock. For a moment, the home economics class looked on in bewilderment, curious as to the source of Kevin’s sudden expression of terror.

The teenager knew how to stop it. He knew how to contain the flow. He could beat this.

Subconsciously, Kevin recalled all those times he’d had eight beers without relieving himself, and the almost orgasm-like sensation when he finally let go. And that was the feeling that greeted him at that moment. Only it wasn’t over a urinal-- it was into a pair of designer blue jeans, in front of his class, and the hiss of the flooding was audible.

The dark circle spread concentrically around his crotch. The once and future prom king started to sniffle as his bladder gave no quarter. His boxer-briefs were soaked clear through, and then the top half of Kevin’s jeans sported a much darker shade of blue than that of their legs.

But not for long. Vicious dark streaks colored the insides of Kevin’s pant legs, widening by the second, the feeling of almost inhuman heat soaking the young man’s actual legs like ghoulish tentacles. The rush soaked his socks, pooled in his sneakers, and contributed to an ever-growing yellow puddle on the tile floor between his feet. Much of the puddle was comprised of droplets that had fallen directly from the boy’s fly, that particular patch of denim simply not able to contend with the uninhibited onslaught.

When he gave off his last few squirts, Kevin looked down and saw that they simply dripped straight down from between his legs and splattered to the floor. His dreams of being prom king, of capitalizing on all the popularity he’d amassed over the course of four years, were dissolving in a pool of hot urine.

The laughter made Kevin start to cry. He hadn’t cried in 10 years, when he was eight years old and had broken his arm riding his bike. But he just felt so little. So, so little.

“So, when something like this happens,” Miss Berdette continued, as if Kevin had merely made a slight spelling error with a marker on a whiteboard, “what we need is to have the little boy’s babysitter clean him up and return him to training pants.” She tossed a pair of teenager-sized training pants -- inexplicably adorned with little blue motorcycles, as if they had been a commissioned construction -- to Tara, who caught the garment out of reflex. Then the girl was handed a box of baby wipes.

“The caretaker will guide the little boy out of his mess, strip him down, and dispose of all the urine-soaked clothing. Shoes and socks, too, obviously. Then -- and this is important, because it’s not as if there’s a shower in every public restroom -- use the baby wipes you keep on hand to clean aaalllll the urine off the boy’s skin. Baby wipes are inexpensive, so the caretaker would do well to be generous with them, starting at the bottom, and working his or her way up.”

All of Miss Berdette’s instructions were being concomitantly illustrated as they were announced. Kevin was sobbing now, dripping tears onto the back of his girlfriend’s head as she dragged the cold baby wipes up his legs, covering his naked form in cleanliness for the simple reason that he no longer had any idea how to hold in his pee. He stood frozen as she worked, as the glee of their audience caused both of their hearts to sear.

“And,” Miss Berdette continued, “this is very important: You must pay close attention to the genitals and nether regions. They’re prone to rash. It can sneak up on a boy very quickly.”

Kevin sobbed openly as his girlfriend used a fresh wipe to clean his crotch, between his legs, along his butt, and especially around the cock that had set free such an infantile tidal wave. The boy’s semi-hard dick bobbed up and down as Tara toyed with it, cleaning up every last inch. Kevin merely kept his hands behind his back. What else could he do?

As Miss Berdette explained to Tara how to slide her boyfriend into his new pair of training pants, the girl guided Kevin’s feet into the leg holes one by one. He sniffled. The class struggled and failed to regain its composure as the thick, toddler-like fabric slid up Kevin’s legs, finally covering up his modesty and preventing any future humiliations.

Almost.

Miss Berdette met Tara’s gaze with her own. The teacher unfolded a pair of slightly-smaller pink training pants. They were adorned with hearts.

“Now for you.”

Though the cute couple still attended the senior prom at the express direction of Miss Berdette, Kevin and Tara didn’t end up as King and Queen that year. Instead, two new categories were created... Prince and Princess. The couple had been the first in Willowbook High’s history to attend wearing only dress-shirts and training pants in which, for most of the night, they spent sloshing and waddling around.

A preposterous idea, of course... if Miss Berdette hadn’t been able to exert such power of suggestion over the school administration.