by: Personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Aug 13, 2021

Chapter 3
Part 3

Chapter Description: Part 3


Margaret was awake before she opened her eyes.  A relaxed sigh of contentment puffed out of her nostrils.  What a wonderful dream.  Lazily, she shifted her weight, trying to will herself back to sleep before the alarm screamed her out of this comfortable haze.  The night before last had been filled with what could only be described as nightmares, with feelings of helplessness and entrapment.

But the dream that Margaret had just woken from?  Amazing.  Primal.  Sensual.  Possibly even sexual.  The particulars of the dream had faded by the time the brown-haired girl’s breathing had changed, yet the feelings that dream aroused lingered like a good buzz.  In the dream, Margaret was surrounded by warmth; comforting, laze-inducing warmth, like a big snuggly blanket on a winter’s night.  And she was small in the dream, just like the last time, but in a fundamentally different way; like a Lovecraftian horror character versus a Buddhist monk.  Both realized how tiny and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, yet the monk accepted his place in the cosmos and from that humility gained a kind of strength.

Indeed, during her slumber, Margaret had felt so “in tune” with her own personal universe that it was as if she were a battery, and the universe was filling her up with the sweet, comfortable, delicious warmth of bliss, a kind of bottled Nirvana given to her in infinite supply.  Soon after, the warmth began spilling out of her; she wasn’t a battery, but a conduit for the warmth and love as it passed through her.  She’d been filled to the brim with love and overflowed into the surrounding universe, making it a better place in the act.

Speaking of “overflow”, Margaret knew there was something else that she needed to take care of, especially if she was going to get back to sleep and recapture the almost transcendent experience she’d dreamt of.  Breathing in through her nose, she held her breath for a moment and tensed ever so slightly. Then, as she released her breath through her mouth, she relaxed her bladder and let loose a trickle into her Goodnites.

The strangest feeling of déjà vu passed through Margaret as her bladder relaxed and a pleasurable warmth lapped over her privates.  “Pee-peeeeeeeeee,” she whispered to herself in the midst of the act.  Only when the leak guards of the oversaturated bedwetting brief failed, and hot piss dripped onto her inner thigh, did Margaret come to her senses.

Muffling her own gasps and shrieks of surprise into the palm of her hand, shimmied out of her bed and onto the floor, naked save for her leaking padded underwear.  Instead of the floor, her feet hit the rumpled nightgown she’d pulled over herself before she went to sleep, its light pink faux-silk material feebly absorbing the urine that was pouring out of her.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the disgusting flow erupting out of her.  Once opened, her own personal floodgates could not be closed until the stream trickled itself out.  Her legs bowed out, as if they were disgusted to be attached to her and trying to leave her in her own mess.  Like a stroke victim, Margaret’s face contorted despite herself, no matter how much she willed herself to maintain some form of composure.  In total, a half minute hadn’t even passed, but it could have been hours for all that it mattered to her.

As if her good mood had been leaked out into the Goodnites and onto the floor, Margaret scowled down at herself, past her breasts and to the wretched article of clothing that threatened to rip itself off of her hips with all the weight it now held.  If not for her bow-legged stance, the soaking padding would have slid right off her hips and onto the floor.  At present the bulk of it didn’t even touch her. Margaret chewed on her tongue a moment and decided to bite the bullet, snapping her stance back to shoulder width, and sending the overloaded night pants skidding down her urine glazed legs.  The wet plopping sound it made as it collided with discarded nightgown made her suck in her breath.

Had she wet that much, just now?  Impossible.  But the sodden thing was leaking from overuse, and if she hadn’t overtaxed it in her almost sleepwalking state (yeah, that was it…sleepwalking) then that meant she had also wet in her sleep.  Like wildfire, a nagging itch started just above her rear where her new tattoo was and spread all over her bum and crotch.  Great.  Diaper rash.  The girl’s scowl deepened and she shoved the thought aside, stepping out of the wet pile of clothes.

Diaper rash?  This wasn’t a diaper!  She was a grown woman.  A little down on her luck in love, and with an admittedly strange and sudden bed wetting problem, but this wasn’t a diaper.  Gingerly, as if the bloated, dripping padding might reattach itself to her, she picked the used Goodnite up off her bedroom floor with one thumb and forefinger.

It wasn’t a diaper, it was…a diaper.  She had made a conscious effort to not look at it when she’d ripped one from the package last night and slipped it on under her nightie.  Otherwise, she knew, she might not be able to break through her own pride and take the necessary precaution.  In the dark, it had felt a little like a pad that was sewn into a pair of tight granny panties.  Looking at it now, it was a diaper.

The shade of pink was that obnoxious nursery room color that somehow managed to be “girly” without being “feminine” or attractive.  The portraits of Ariel and her guppy friend Flounder, now distorted from the swelling adorned the crotch area, were definitely not mature. The worst part was the stenciled in borders along the top and between the legs.  Along the waistband, a cutesy ribbon was drawn in an attempt to disguise something meant for a baby; to make it look like it was meant for a preschooler.  Between the legs, the outline of panty lines made the thing look even more juvenile.  Showing where the leg holes would have been, had this underwear not been padded, only made the padding more obvious.

She’d slept in a Pull-Up, a tapeless diaper designed to mimic and encourage a toddler to try out big girl panties.  Only Pull-Ups had fade-when-wet designs and other little tricks to teach a kid when they were wet and transition to regular underwear. Her older sister’s parenting blog had told her that much.  This was different; it was just a diaper disguising itself as underwear.  This thing didn’t want her to transition to big girl panties.  It wanted her to wet it.  That’s why it had been so comfortable that she’d accidentally leaked in it.

A second plop sounded in Margaret’s ears as she let the nasty thing drop to the floor again.  Margaret turned away in disgust, averting the eyes from her own juvenile mess; but out of sight was not out of mind in this case.  Sitting neatly on her dresser was the rest of the pack of Goodnites.  Its top was ripped open with a stray pink diaper poking out, but it was otherwise intact.

On the front of the package was a smiling kid, with light brown hair not unlike Margaret’s.  Margaret wasn’t sure how old the kid on the package was, but it was definitely a “kid” as opposed to a “baby” or “toddler;” old enough to be in school, old enough to be embarrassed about wearing night diapers with features like double leak guards.  Thing is, the kid in the picture wasn’t blushing or blanching at having to wear padded undies to bed; the model was giving a big toothy grin for all the world to see.

How fucked up was that?  Some poor kid, likely with an over controlling stage mother, got dragged into a photo shoot, and had to smile in front of a camera so she could have her face plastered on countless packages of diapers.  What was the message of this? Was she supposed to be smiling because she was happy to be wearing diapers? Were parents getting this thing supposed to think that their kids would be thrilled to have an embarrassing nighttime problem or just grateful that there was less laundry that would have to be done in the morning?  Because Margaret wasn’t feeling any of that.

The complete lack of discretion on the package made it even worse.  You didn’t see that kind of nonsense on Depends or whatever; no smiling grandpas with diapers advertising decorations of Betty White or whatever old people were supposed to like.  Dignity and discretion was not at the forefront of this product’s mind.  But dignity went out the door when you weren’t buying the diapers.

Margaret stared at the brown haired girl on the package, and felt like she was gazing into a kind of distorted funhouse mirror along with a certain kind of morbid comradery.   Neither of them had wanted to wear these things, she could see as much in the kid’s eyes right above the fake toothy grin.  Yet here they were, forced by circumstance and caregivers.  (Was Molly her caregiver?  She had been taking care of Margaret, but did that give one woman any actual authority over the other?)

The little voice in the back of her mind added insult to injury by reminding her that the kid on the package probably wasn’t actually wearing the girly diapers.  It was a profile pic of a kid in jammies with a blanket pulled up to her chest; there was absolutely no need for anyone to actually wear diapers.  In that way, Margaret was even more juvenile than some kid spokesman.  The kid was probably just lying by broadcasting, “I wear diapers…yaaaaay.”  Margaret had actually worn and used them.  That was no lie.

Disgusted with herself and the situation she’d allowed herself to be put in, Margaret dropped the package to the floor and kicked it under her bed.  “Screw this,” she said to herself, before grabbing a towel and walking briskly to the bathroom.


  Molly ached all over. Everything hurt and every synapse in her body was wrung by a constant dull ache.  She’d had a deep, dreamless sleep, but didn’t feel the least bit rested. She’d gone to bed not long after her new roommate had turned in, the sound of Margaret’s peaceful snoring acting as a kind of white noise that lulled the artist to sleep, but the only result of her slumber was a sense of lost time.  Her eyes closed one moment, vaguely wondering when she’d fall asleep, and a blink later, it was morning, and everything hurt.  It was her vary first hangover all over again.

The sound of the bathroom shower running from across the apartment- gentle and subtle like a tiny indoor rainstorm- should have worked to put her back to sleep.  But a tiny voice in the back of her mind jolted Molly awake.  The shower meant that Margaret was up and about, and some illogical superstitious notion told her that she should be up now.  She could sleep when Margaret slept if she needed it, but she had to be up when her roommate was up.

Margaret needed her, she felt, and to sleep the day away while her companion was in need was no good at all.  She wasn’t alone in the world anymore.  Molly had responsibilities.  With a groan, the artist sat up in her bed and threw the covers off of her, revealing a modest set of sky blue pajamas with vertical white pin stripes.

Funny.  Molly didn’t remember having these, or dressing in them before bed, normally preferring to sleep in the nude. No one was going to see her fall asleep these days anyways (and if they did, they’d be naked too,) so pajamas seemed kind of pointless.  The baggy shirt and shorts made her normally adorable and petite frame look plain and sexless. It looked more like something her mom wore after Dad moved out and she’d given up trying to impress anyone.  Still…they were comfy.

Arms outstretched, Molly groaned again, feeling ten years older, but also ten years more experienced and resolute.  “Time to check on Margaret,” she mumbled to herself, taking a step towards her bedroom door.  A glimpse at her worktable, (strange having a worktable, having only set up a single designated space yesterday, when the entire floor was once her worktable) made the artist pause.

She spread out the pieces of paper, which had been arranged in a tidy little stack, and an almost orgasmic warmth flew through her body, starting at her tattooed wrist.  “Oh my god,” the words leapt out of her in a silent gasp.  They were beautiful.  They were just sketches, to be sure, but they were beautiful all the same. In each one, she saw the potential to build on.  One that could be turned into a tasteful landscape for the local art’s fair, another was the roughest beginnings for some goofy looking cartoon animal that kids would absolutely flock to, a third was a series of character sketches for what appeared to be a more fantasy setting, a fourth was filled with the beginnings of character designs for what looked like your typical superhero comic rag, and so it went.

They were all her work, too.  Even when she was changing things up for different genres, she knew her own style and technique.  Each one was unmistakably a Molly Huang original.  The strange thing was that she couldn’t remember drawing any of them.  Her wrist ached again, though this ache was pleasurable, like the good burn after a workout.  Is this why she hurt so?  Had she been sleep walking or sleep drawing or something?  Had the result of her organizing her life so precisely made her creative energy bubble up to the surface even when she was asleep and forced her into a kind of fugue state?

“Dang,” Molly whistled to herself.  “Now if only I could do backgrounds in my sleep.  I hate backgrounds.”  The young artist made a note to herself to finish these and then see if she could find a way to market them, maybe pick up a few clients while she was at it.  Versatility mattered sometimes.

The continued pitter-pattering of the distant shower caught Molly’s attention once more.  “Time to go to work,” she whispered, walking out into the living room, thankful now that she was in her “mom jammies”.  At least she was dressed enough to be able to check up on her roomie.

Hmmm…roomie.  Now that she consciously thought about it, Molly liked thinking of Margaret as her “Roomie.”  It sounded soft, and cuddly, something that needed to be loved.  That described Margaret to a T as far as Molly was concerned.  Was Molly Margaret’s “Roomie,” then?  She wrinkled her nose at the thought.


Definitely not.

Molly couldn’t put her finger on it, but the thought disturbed her more than it should have. The same designation just didn’t feel right in Molly’s mind.  Margaret was her Roomie, but she was Margaret’s Roommate.   Even though it was just the difference of a few phonemes, it just sounded right.

Traversing across the apartment, young woman took a gander at the clock on the microwave and noted the time.  Margaret was late. Again.  She’d obviously overslept.  Didn’t the girl know how to set an alarm clock?  Molly made a mental note to set an alarm on her phone early so that she could wake Margaret up tomorrow.  If she wanted something done right, it seemed, she’d have to do it herself.

Not thinking twice, Molly pushed open the unlocked door into Margaret’s room and stepped inside as naturally as if she’d lived with her roomie all her life.  Tentatively, Molly sniffed the air, trying to determine if the other woman was showering to wake up, or to rinse off her shame.  If it smelled of piss, it was either incredibly subtle, or Molly had already gone smell blind to the distinct funk.

What her nose couldn’t find, her eyes honed in on soon enough.  By the side of Margaret’s bed was a sopping wet Goodnite making a little mound on a crumpled-up nightgown.  Thought so.  Peeling back the sheets, Molly ran a hand over her roomie’s bedspread, feeling for the telltale wetness of a soiled bed.  Nothing.  It seemed the bed-wetting diaper had done its job.  A smug, self-satisfied smile- the smile of someone who’d just proven themselves right- spread across her face.  It had been a good idea to insist that the taller girl pad up just in case, and once she got out of the shower, Margaret would likely thank her.

She looked down at the discarded enuresis garment.  Then again, maybe not.  Apparently, Margaret couldn’t even be bothered to dispose of it, instead leaving it on the floor with her sleeping clothes.  Gross.  Somebody could slip and hurt themselves on that if they weren’t careful; maybe even Margaret.

With surprising swiftness indicating experience in these matters that Molly sorely lacked, she quickly skipped into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic grocery bag, doubled back into Margaret’s room, scooped up the mess that had been left behind, bagged the diaper, tied the bag, and tossed it in the kitchen garbage can.  A quick trip to the washing machine took care of the not quite dripping remains of the nightgown.  Molly opted to not run the washing machine just yet.  She’d likely have to do some laundry herself and it didn’t make sense to run a full load of laundry for one little leaked on nightie.

Mouth twisting to the side, Molly briefly considered the garbage pail she’d just thrown the diaper in.  The plastic barrier of the tied-up shopping bag would do for now, but if this became a habit- something which a little voice in the back of her mind was certain it would-Molly would have to consider getting a separate pail to handle Molly’s nighttime accidents.  It wouldn’t make sense to have the kitchenette and living room smell like a dirty bathroom every time the lid came off.

One thing at a time.  The shower wouldn’t last forever, and Molly still wanted to do a good deed for her new friend.  That’s when the little voice in the back of her mind, the one that didn’t quite belong to her, came up with a great idea: Wouldn’t it be nice for Margaret to walk back into her room with her clothes already laid out for her?

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than Molly all but pranced back into Margaret’s room.  Rifling through her friend’s clothes, the young artist was playing one of those flash dress-up games in her mind.  This wouldn’t go with that.  This wasn’t flattering.  That didn’t match anything.  This was too long in one area.  That was too baggy in another. No wonder Margaret was having man trouble, her taste in clothing was just awful…no sense of aesthetics at all.

Through the flotsam and jetsam that Margaret called a wardrobe, Molly picked out a simple purple top and a frilly black skirt that looked like it would suffice; long enough to keep everything covered, yet short enough to be interesting.

Molly took a quick moment to make her roomie’s bed before laying the outfit out.  Then she scampered over to the underwear drawer.  “One last thing,” she spoke, yanking the top drawer out.  A little puff of white fragrant dust gushed into the air, causing Molly to giggle a bit.  She’d really done a number on Margaret’s panties with all of that baby powder the other day.  She picked out a nice white pair (the better to discreetly hide all that powder with) and laid it out beside the skirt and top.

She was about to leave, but as she turned, her foot kicked something soft and plastic.  The artist hit the floor and reached under the bed with her right arm, pulling out the mass of cotton and perfume.  The rest of the package of Goodnites was now in her hands.

Molly turned over the package and examined it.  The kid on the package was smiling from underneath the covers. Molly nodded to herself.  This was likely how Margaret had woken up, happy and smiling, she thought.  Relieved that for the first time in three days, she’d awoken in a dry bed.

Actually, as far as Molly knew, Margaret might have always had this problem.  Every morning since they’d moved in together, Margaret had woken up with a wet mattress, except for today. How lucky it was, then, that Margaret had found her when she did. Poor thing wouldn’t have known what to do with herself, most likely.

Acting on instinct and impulse more than rational thought, Molly withdrew a fresh Goodnite, a near perfect replica of proper big girl panties, or close enough for what Margaret needed, and placed it opposite the white panties that she’d already laid out for her friend.  Choices were always better where possible.

“Just in case,” she said to herself, not realizing how patently ridiculous the thought was. Then she left the rest of the pack of Goodnites on Margaret’s dresser and went to get herself dressed, despite not having anywhere to go.


Margaret bathed in the steam more than she bathed in the water. For minutes on end, she sat on the toilet, stewing, as scalding hot water rocketed out of the showerhead and down towards the drain with nothing but air in between the two points.  Two days in a row she’d woken to find she’d wet in her sleep and sulked off to a boiling hot shower.  Now it was day three of this, and the cycle was repeating itself again.  It was quickly becoming routine, even though it shouldn’t have.  At her age, bed wetting should have been a freak accident, not a constant problem.

This wasn’t normal.  It shouldn’t be normal.  So why should Margaret act like it’s normal?  Already, in the thick clouds of evaporated water, a vision danced before Margaret’s eyes; a premonition.  She would get in the shower, scrub her skin raw, blubber a bit more to herself, and when she went back to her bedroom, Molly would have already laid out an outfit for her to wear.  But instead of panties, a Goodnite would be waiting for her “just in case.”

From there, it would just be a matter of pointing out that she was late to work- Margaret was already well aware of that; something might be malfunctioning in her alarm clock, but she knew how the sun worked- and the suggestion that she take yet another day off.

Then would come more coddling and doting.  Margaret would be encouraged to take it easy by her Roommate (she didn’t like thinking of Molly in such informal terms as “roomie”), and she’d take another day off.  She wouldn’t even have to cook or clean.  Molly was more than good enough at all that stuff.  Even her peanut butter and jelly was somehow delicious.

All Margaret would have to do is take it easy, live for herself for another day, play some video games or watch some movies, and maybe…maybe… wear something meant for children who couldn’t hold it in while they slept.

But what was wrong with that?  She even imagined herself sitting in the living room playing Overwatch while Molly popped her head in from time to time to check on her, make her something to eat…maybe ask if she had to go potty…

Potty?!  Potty?!  Where had that come from?  Margaret Masterson wasn’t some friggin’ toddler!  She was an adult! A grown-up, even!  How could she even think of playing hooky from work in such saccharine, juvenile, immature, infantile terms. And why did she kind of like the idea of Molly acting like some kind of…of…she couldn’t even mentally allow herself to think the word. Oh, god!  Was she fantasizing about this now?  What was wrong with her?

The young Miss Masterson mentally backpedaled away from herself, relying on her natural revulsion towards her predicament, and used it as fuel to focus herself into a more appropriate mindset.  If things kept going the way they were going, Margaret would have to wear another Goodnite to bed at the very least.  Just thinking about putting another one of those glorified diapers on caused her back to tingle unpleasantly. It was like thinking about lice; thinking about the revolting things just caused her scalp to itch. She had to break the pattern before it became a cycle.

But how?  The idea came to her instantly, as if by divine providence.

For starters, she wouldn’t take a shower.  Not much of one, anyway.  If it always started with a wet bed and a shower, well she’d gone too far to stop the first…but the second?  There was still a chance.  A bit of practicality snuck into her rebellious little fantasy, though who she was rebelling against, she couldn’t quite say: Molly or herself?  The problem was she still smelled like piss and not bathing wasn’t going to help that.

She couldn’t maintain her independence if she couldn’t manage some basic hygiene.  She looked down at herself and her upper lip curled a bit.  Her hair down there wasn’t helping matters much either.  Hair absorbed odor, and she’d have to wash it…or get rid of it.

That was it!  If she did a little bit of “landscaping” so to speak- she could kill several birds with a flick of her wrist. She couldn’t have piss-soaked pubes if she didn’t have any pubes, and kids, invalids, and idiots (all of which she had been beginning to feel like) didn’t shave themselves.  It was perfect.

Instead of the body wash, Margaret grabbed for the shaving cream and began lathering herself up as she finally stepped into the shower.  A few minutes later (and no nicks, she noted with pride) and she was completely clean and smooth between her legs.  Not a single errant hair or bit of stubble remained.  It was almost as if puberty had never come to her pelvis. Damn, but she was good!

And so Margaret Masterson , inwardly and outwardly determined to prove how independent and womanly she was, exited the bathroom with skin as smooth as…well…


“What in the world?” Molly hissed as she stared, slack jawed, at her computer screen.  She’d downloaded a virus of some sort; someone had hacked into her computer. Had to have! That was the only explanation, as ludicrous as it seemed. After laying out clothes for Margaret to find, Molly had gone back to her room, gotten dressed in a relaxed jeans and t-shirt combo and gone to check her internet feed: Facebook, Instagram, e-mail and all that.

Her browser had been left open, as usual, but the websites that filled her screen were places that she’d never visited, yet alone had prior knowledge of their existence.  Sites with names like,, and dotted her internet history.  One site after the other caused her frown to deepen further into a full-fledged incredulous scowl.  Every strange site that had been visited last night seemed dedicated to one thing and one thing only: treating adults like babies.

“What the heck is a cushy pen?” the artist wondered aloud as she scrolled down her internet history without visiting the site.  So many adult baby sites.  Too many for her to get a grip on them.

A check to her personal email account had confirmed her worst suspicions.  There were at least ten different confirmation purchase emails.  She’d bought things, a lot of things, and it didn’t look good.  It must’ve been a scam from one of the skeevier bars they’d been to last Saturday: Get credit and debit card information from some drunk (in this case Molly and her roomie), and then use it to make purchases until the funds ran out.  But if that was true, why were all of those things being bought with her money being shipped here? Wouldn’t a thief use their own email account and address?  And what did anyone else have to gain from wasting her money on adult diapers and big baby junk? Would a credit card scammer really go to all that trouble for no good reason?

Molly Huang glanced over at the sketches that she’d found this morning.   Had she been doing more than sleep sketching? Had she been sleep shopping, too? The thought that she might have actually bought seven adult sized onesies, a dozen or so baby style dresses, two pairs of shortalls, and an adult baby sailor suit, along with cases and cases of something called “Super Dry Kids,” made her feel sick to her stomach.  The thought of sleep drawing didn’t bother her; art was her life.  Ordering adult-sized baby clothes was messed up on a level even a professional psychologist might not understand.

More importantly, how was she going to pay for all of this?  Did any of these sites even have a return or a cancelation policy?  She hadn’t taken long enough to find out.  The orders had piled on one right after the other, taking up a full page on her email.

How far did this bizarre little rabbit hole go?

Molly clicked over to the next page and couldn’t believe what she saw.  It wasn’t more orders, almost the exact opposite in fact.  They were bank statements, with notifications of deposits being put in her account.  Below them there was correspondence between her and several big-name companies that she’d never once approached for work: a gaming company famous for its sword and sorcery table top games, a relatively small but still very popular comic book company set to be the Wendy’s to Marvel and DC’s McDonald’s and Burger King; a candy corporation looking for a mascot for its latest line of chocolate and fruit flavored bubble gum.

Somehow, she’d contacted them all…and they’d accepted.  She’d sent her portfolio out, given pitches…and even scanned rough drafts that she didn’t remember…and they’d all thought she was good enough…and she didn’t remember any of it.  Skimming, she saw that the writing style and word choice was typical of hers, but it all still felt wrong. Molly knew she wasn’t nearly this good in an interview, not even a digital one where she could edit her responses and let her art do the majority of the talking.  This was the Molly Huang that she’d wanted to be, the true and talented professional, not the whimsical slacker that came so easily to her.

The dates that the various correspondences and sales pitches had started weren’t as early as last night, either.  They all started in what would technically have been Sunday morning, but what felt like a late Saturday night to a petite little lady drunk off her ass.   Molly stared down at her wrist, tattooed with the strange markings that she couldn’t hope to read.  She felt it tingle, with a mixture of pins and needles and tickling pleasure, like a hand that hadn’t quite fallen asleep.  What had she done?  At least she could afford all the garbage she’d just bought.

Seriously though, what kind of sick human being would think to degrade someone and treat them like a baby?

A slam from the front door, broke Molly out of her contemplation.  Like a prairie dog, Molly poked her head out of her room and looked at the front door.  Margaret had slammed the door so hard it was still vibrating on its hinges.  “What’s her problem?” Molly asked herself.

At least it looked like her roomie was going to work.  That was a start.  Molly gave an almost longing glance at the door as it finally stopped shaking.  Her roomie…walking to the bus stop to go to work all by herself. Maybe Margaret didn’t need Molly so much after all.  A sad but grateful tear snuck its way out of the corner of Molly’s eye before she wiped it away.

“I wonder if she liked the outfit I picked out for her.”  Molly said aloud to herself, as she crossed the apartment to Margaret’s bedroom.  Not for the first time since she woke up today, Molly Huang gasped in shock.

The place was what her mother would have called a “warzone”.  The sheets were stripped off the bed and thrown angrily aside, slumping against the wall.  The pillows were punched to the point that they were caving inward on themselves.  Lastly, crumpled up and scattered around the room were the clean Goodnites that Molly had left out.

Molly said nothing, even to herself, instead surveying the damage with a kind of solemn silence.  Something had clearly upset Margaret, but Molly couldn’t for the life of her figure out what.  Her hands began to itch the longer she looked at the absolutely trashed bedroom, and since idle hands were the Devil’s plaything, she might as well get to work.

The bed was relatively easy to fix and re-make, Molly found, and the pillows only took a half-minute to fluff.  As she smoothed out the comforter, Molly made a mental note to propose getting a mattress protector if Margaret’s bed wetting problem persisted.  With only the Goodnites left to clean up, she noted that the clothes she’d laid out were nowhere to be seen. At least Margaret had gotten dressed properly.

With a tired sigh, Molly bent over and started throwing crumpled up bedwetting undies onto the bed.  Carefully, she un-balled them and smoothed them out on the comforter.  They were resistant little buggers, all right; not as pretty as they had been, but still perfectly serviceable for their intended purpose. It was a sure sign of a good product.

Had Margaret taken the time, she could have ripped open the relatively flimsy sides, Molly supposed, but there didn’t seem to be anything calculated about this little outburst…this temper tantrum.  A temper tantrum was the perfect way to describe this episode.

For all her initial impressions of maturity, Molly decided, Margaret really did have more in common with a toddler than an adult woman.  As she gathered the Goodnites up into a neat little stack, not as pristine as they’d been, but still good enough, Molly wondered if Margaret had been the one to order all of that baby stuff off the internet.

Maybe Margaret had snuck into Molly’s room and ordered that junk off the computer with Molly’s credit card.  Maybe she was trying to put ideas into Molly’s head.  Maybe this was a cry for help or something.  So many “maybes”, but the big question remained: What kind of person would want to treat another full-grown adult like they were a baby?

The smell of baby powder filled Molly’s nostrils as she opened up her roomie’s underwear drawer.  She sighed contentedly at the smell, smiling dopily all the while.  Then, in a moment of, she felt a blush rush to her cheeks.

“Oh…” she said, answering her own question.


Margaret sat on the bus, guzzling down a bottled water.  It was all she had managed to grab before storming out of her own apartment and slamming the door behind her.  Never before had she been so absolutely furious to be right about something. Just as she had predicted, her Roommate had come along, and laid out something decidedly juvenile for her as if Margaret didn’t know how to dress herself.  Okay, she had to admit to herself, the top and skirt themselves weren’t particularly immature, but leaving the panties right next to those glorified diapers was a real slap in the face.

Despite herself, Margaret looked at the clock, knew she wouldn’t have much time to catch the bus, pulled on the panties, shirt and skirt, and went to work; but not before ripping the sheets off of her perfectly made bed and crumpling up every fucking diaper in the bag left on her dresser.  Who the hell did Molly think she was, Margaret’s mother?!

Margaret stormed out of her room, grabbed her purse and a bottle of water from the fridge, and stormed out.  Molly was in her room, and Margaret had no time for a fight just then, so the young woman made her displeasure known by almost shattering the front door off its hinges as she ran for the bus.   There would be a fight, alright, and a big one.  Margaret decided that she would internalize every bitchy customer that she had to deal and bottle up that anger deep down inside her.  Then, when she got home, she’d unleash it full force on Molly.

No games or crying or alcohol to dull the pain or distract herself from her outrage and stress…she’d be completely brutal and verbally tear the short little Asian girl a new asshole.  She’d let all the pain she felt from being dumped, and being put in a financial bind, and having to deal with terrible people whining about their tablets not working, and suddenly being a bedwetter (not to mention waking up with a previously unasked for tattoo) just flow out of her and into Molly’s chipper little brain.  It wasn’t fair, Margaret knew, but neither was the way Molly was treating her.

A gurgle from her stomach stoked Margaret’s resentment; she’d missed breakfast after all.  She girl took another few heavy glugs from her water bottle so that her belly would at least have something in it.  Jesus, if Molly was going to treat her like a little kid, she could have at least packed her a lunch.  Now she was going to have to stretch the few dollars she had in her purse and raid the vending machines at work; not exactly nutritious, filling, or cost effective, but it felt like her only option.  She sniffed and her nose twitched as the scent of baby powder wafted into her nose and tickled her nostrils.

Where the hell was that smell coming from?!

Margaret looked around the near empty bus and saw no likely suspects; just a couple old ladies, and some greasy punk with more than a dozen piercings.  Was that smell coming from her?  No.  Couldn’t be.

A landmark that she and Molly had marked out last night in planning Margaret’s bus route whizzed by, and Margaret crossed her ankles.  Nine more stops to go, and she’d be at work; late, but still there.  At least she was getting out of the apartment.

Something  gnawed at Margaret from the inside, and it just wasn’t her hunger.  If Molly was doing some weird kind of mind games thingy and wanting to be her mother, why was she helping Margaret get out of the house and get to work?   The tall and skinny woman uncrossed her ankles as another landmark passed by.  Eight more.

If Molly wanted to gaslight her into utter dependence, then wouldn’t she have said something along the lines of “You need to stay home until this bedwetting thing is under control”?  Instead, right from the beginning, Molly had been unusually supportive and helpful in navigating around the whole no more car situation, as any reasonable person would.

Seven more stops.  Margaret crossed her ankles again. It was only when it came to what she wore to bed and what happened first thing in the morning that things had gotten weird.  Maybe Molly was doing some kind of reverse psychology to get Margaret fired up and out the door- treat her as helpless so that she’d get pissed off enough to do something about it.  If that was the plan, it’d worked like a charm.  Margaret couldn’t get out of her apartment and out to work fast enough, not even fast enough to grab more than a bottle of water.  Her ankles uncrossed when another stop flew past.

She wriggled a bit and shivered in discomfort.  Goddamn, they kept this bus cold.  Even from under her bra she could feel her nipples poking out a bit.  A very loud cough and an audible “ahem,” drew her attention outward.  Two of the old ladies on the bus were crossing their arms over their chest, looking distinctly judgmental.  One of the crones was looking at the greasy punk sitting across from Margaret.  The other one was glaring at Margaret herself.

The customer service rep looked down at herself and discovered the reason for the disapproving looks: she wasn’t wearing a bra.  Her nipples were fully erect, and the slime ball across from her was staring a little too hard.  The simplest eye contact sent the little perv shuffling off towards the back after his little show.  She crossed her arms in front of her chest and did her best to pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened.  Five stops left and Margaret was crossing her ankles again.

The bus didn’t seem quite so cold as blood rushed to her face.  How stupid could she be?  Had she really been so dense as to forget to put on a bra?  Molly hadn’t left one out for her so…no! No!  This wasn’t Molly’s fault.  Margaret was a grown woman and was responsible for her own state of dress…still, it would have been helpful if Molly had laid out a bra for her.

Uneasily, she shifted her weight and heard a distinct, but muted crinkle.  Margaret froze. Experimentally, she squeezed her legs together and heard the crinkle again along with a thick padding not unlike a sanitary pad. Oh, God!  In her haste to get dressed and get to the bus, she’d actually slipped on the bed wetting diaper that Molly had left right next to her panties.  What had she done to herself?!

Carefully, the girl reached back with one hand and probed the waistband of her skirt, searching for something, anything that resembled her actual adult underwear.    Her hand went numb for a second as it brushed the bottom of her tramp stamp tattoo and for the briefest of moments, it felt as if someone else were discreetly pulling back her skirt, like a toddler getting a diaper check.  Her fingers came alive again when they brushed up against the relatively smooth and thin fabric of her big girl panties.
At least she was wearing layers, it seemed.  In her rush to leave, she’d put on both undergarments; first the Goodnites, then her panties.  Thinking about how thick the Goodnites were compared to her actual panties, it’d be fairly obvious that she had underwear pulled up over a diaper to anyone who looked…but one would look…right?  Right?  Right.  Though maybe that little perv had been looking at more than just her nipples.

Her ankles uncrossed again, but not as a way to keep track of how many stops were left, and Margaret couldn’t help but hear the papery rustling of the diaper beneath her.  It was like the hidden words in a subliminal message; once you knew what to listen for, you could never not hear them.

Something didn’t feel quite right.  Margaret Masterson couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it wasn’t just the padding in all the wrong places.  Something was definitely wrong, but she didn’t know how to explain it.

She crossed her ankles.  Then uncrossed them.  Then shifted.  Then crossed them again. Then shifted the other way.  She was all but rocking in her seat.  Each time, a distinct crinkle filled her ears over the humming of the bus.  Margaret just couldn’t get comfortable.

The bus rolled to a stop and Margaret looked up, an arm covering her breast and another one between her legs, her feet jittery and doing a little jig.  Still three more stops to go, but as a long line of passengers shuffled aboard, those three stops suddenly seemed a lot longer than the few miles left to her.  New to this whole public transportation thing, Margaret just did her best to avoid eye contact with the strangers (especially with those old crones who’d been throwing shade at her).

A little voice inside of her whispered that strangers were dangerous and not to be talked to, even for a moment.  The vibration from the moving vehicle subsided for the moment, her body was sending its own message loud and clear:


She glanced down at the empty water bottle by her side.  Had she really drank the entire thing already?  When had that happened?

The bus was filling up and Margaret caught a glimpse of the last passenger stepping through the doors.  She only had three stops before she could make the mad dash to her workplace bathroom, but something inside her made her think that she didn’t have that kind of time. “WAIT!” Margaret cried out, the look of panic evident in her eyes.  “I gotta go po-!” She stopped herself shook the babyish word right from her mouth. “I gotta go pee-pee!”

There was an awkward, stifled chuckle from the mas of strangers lining the seats around her.  “I mean this is my stop.” Margaret stammered, correcting herself a second time. The bus doors opened again, and Margaret stood up.

That had been a mistake.  She felt like her entire bladder had not only filled up even more in those few precious seconds- the slight discomfort bypassing the tingling sensation and skipping straight to a hot burning ache between her legs- but now it felt like the bottom was about to drop out and the only thing holding her potential flood in was the hard plastic backed seats of the city bus.

Timidly, slowly, and very, very carefully, Margaret shuffled in tortoise like half-steps.  Each step out was a bit of bottled agony.  Each follow up step brought her thighs together, along with a bit of strength. “Come on, lady!” some faceless stranger jeered from the assembled mass.  “Off or on!  Move it!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Margaret whined.  She was only going for the back doors, but even those seemed so far away where her panties were concerned. “I’m…I’m having a difficult day.”  Slowly, she descended the steps towards the street, past chuckling, grinning, mocking strangers.




When one sneakered foot was finally planted on terra firma, the bus shuddered to a start, and a strangers’ hand pushed her the rest of the way out.  Margaret stumbled a few steps, but did not fall, managing to catch herself on nearby bench.  Unfortunately, that was still enough.

That was when the last of her willpower and resistance left her.  The palms of her hands scraping the bus stop bench, Margaret Masterson’s bladder gave way and emptied itself into her waiting Little Mermaid pull-up diaper.  Her newly slickened and shaved pubic area felt the raw heat and wetness as urine poured out of her, being absorbed by the thirsty padding of her new undergarments quickly, but not quickly enough for her to not know what she was in the midst of doing to herself.

Within seconds, she felt her underwear gain weight and the diaper drooped down a bit away from her body as she continued flooding it.  When would it stop?  The wetness spread out from the center and creeped up her backside and front in equal measure as the core of the diaper became over saturated.  Ironically, her adult underwear acted as a kind of brace that kept the wretched sodden padding from sliding off of her as it had this morning.

Finally…after much too long, Margaret Masterson stopped pissing herself.  Panting, and too overwhelmed to care, she lifted up the hem of her skirt and inspected the damage she’d done. At least she didn’t leak this time…so her panties were technically dry.

The customer service rep dug through her purse and pulled out her cell phone as tears and snot built up and dripped onto her face. “Molly,” Margaret cried into the receiver, “can you…can you come pick me up?”



End Chapter 3


by: Personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Aug 13, 2021


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