PeculiarChangeling
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Cursed
🕑 Added 2022-09-14 23:03:02 +0000 UTCI'm back.
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Contains: Diapers, pants wetting, messing
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‘Juvenile’.
That’d been the word she’d used when we broke up. There’d been other words, too, of course–she was nothing if not a wordsmith, and she found many other creative nouns, verbs, and adjectives to describe what she thought of me. ‘Leering’, ‘Immature’, ‘Inattentive’, ‘Psychologically and pathologically unfaithful’.
I probably should have seen the red flags a lot sooner. A coffee meetup with my sister had turned into an argument with her, because she’d mistaken it for cheating. A compliment directed towards a cashier had led to the silent treatment for most of a day.
But, for all the jealousy and insecurity I’d put up with, she dumped me, and she called me juvenile.
That’s the bit I couldn’t get out of my head–the sheer lack of self awareness. I couldn’t so much as breathe around another woman without getting into trouble. And sure–I was known to occasionally admire female beauty, I wouldn’t deny that, but I’d done nothing to deserve what she did to me.
Because out of all that, the biggest red flag was that she claimed she knew how to curse people.
I’d brushed off the comment, at the time–I’d known some witchy girls in college, it was just a turn of the phrase, right? Like ‘manifesting’ as another word for having a positive outlook.
I didn’t expect–let me just tell you what happened.
So we’d broken up. She’d dumped me, to be precise, in public, with lots of yelling. I’d been pretty upset about it, so I moped around at my apartment for a couple days. Nothing too strange so far. But then, when I finally dragged myself out of my apartment, planning on maybe getting some groceries, just getting some air–it happened.
I was in line at the register. The cashier girl asked me how my day was, I told her it was getting better, and then–I swear to god, this has never happened to me since I was like a little kid, but I felt something hot rushing down my pants. I looked down, and then she snorted with laughter, and by the time I realized I was pissing myself I’d already started making a puddle.
I want to be clear–I hadn’t felt any need to go before this point. None at all. It’d come completely out of the blue. One moment, I was talking to a pretty cashier, the next, puddle pants.
So I did the reasonable thing–excused myself, carried my grocery bags in front of my waist on the walk home, wrote it off as a fluke.
A fluke, right?
No chance of that repeating.
So the next day. I’m riding the bus to work, I notice this girl’s reading a book I’ve read before–a book I love, really. So I step forward, and I’m about to say hi, and then–wham. I feel it again.
Now this time, I’m on a bus. I can’t just get off, I’m stuck there. And to make matters worse, I still need to get to work on time, so it’s not like I can just bail and go home. I got off a stop early, enormous wet stain down my pants, and had to run into a corner gas station and try to clean myself up in the bathroom. It half worked, but no amount of paper towels got things totally dry, and the lingering pee smell didn’t go away all day.
I don’t know if anyone in the office noticed that morning; they certainly didn’t say anything, but I don’t know how you wouldn’t notice.
But they definitely noticed at lunch. I was chatting up Sheila, the receptionist, and…
Well, come on. You’ve figured out the pattern by now, haven’t you? Like five words in, my pants are soaked, everyone in the break room could absolutely see.
I thought I was going to die. It’s one thing when it’s a bunch of strangers, but I’d just let loose in front of coworkers, people I’d known for years, and there’d been zero warning. Nada. Not a hint.
And then I remembered my ex, warning me about her little ‘curse’.
No other possibilities came to mind. I hadn’t accidentally swallowed a handful of diuretics or hit my head really hard or anything. It had to be whatever she’d done. So, while I was hiding in the work bathroom trying to figure out what to do, I texted her.
No response. Of course. Nothing when I called, either. She’d blocked me on everything. I had no way to reach her.
I took the rest of the day as a personal day, said I was making an appointment with my doctor. What was I supposed to do? Explain how I’d been cursed by a jealous ex?
I tried getting in touch with some of her friends, the ‘spookier’ ones who’d seemed to know what she was talking about when she mentioned magic, but that didn’t get me anywhere. I tried Google, but that was a complete dead end.
There really was no solution, but to deal with it, and that’s how I ended up at the pharmacy.
Magic or no, I wasn’t stupid. I made sure to pee as soon as I arrived, so my bladder was totally empty. There wouldn’t be any embarrassing accidents at the diaper store, while I was actually buying the damned things.
I circled the incontinence aisle twice, trying to be discreet, hoping nobody would see me. I had to spend a couple minutes looking over different packaging to figure out the sizing and which brand would work best for my…problem. Another consultation on the internet made it clear that most of the lighter options wouldn’t help, because they couldn’t handle a sudden flood of pee.
While I wasn’t happy about having to pick one of the thickest options on sale, I felt glad that I hadn’t learned about the leakage problem through personal experience.
Feeling a bolt of anxiety in the checkout line, I played a little deception to cover my tracks. Taking out my phone, I pretended to receive a phonecall, nodding along. “Hello, hi grandpa, yes I’m picking up your diapers now–I’ll bring them over in a minute!”
There, that’d do it. Now everyone would know that these weren’t for me, I didn’t need diapers, and nobody around me would think I did.
The cashier smirked as she got to my package, though she hid the expression quickly. She was cute–a couple years younger than me, and I could definitely see me and her together. I said hi, started to ask a question, and, well…
It turned out, the curse didn’t care how recently I’d used the bathroom. My bladder spilled out into my pants anyways, a torrential flood that came from nowhere.
What could I do? I turned pink, but I was actively in the middle of buying diapers–diapers that I’d just pretended weren’t for me. I paid, sheepishly apologized, and hurried to the single stall bathroom to try and clean myself up for the millionth time.
After washing my jeans in the sink and drying them as best I could with paper towels, I turned my attention to the diapers.
Clearly there was no putting this off. Sooner or later, I’d need to put them on.
Ripping open the container, I turned one of the diapers over in my hands, examining it. I paused to peer at the instructions on the plastic package, then followed them as best I could while leaning against the wall.
The diaper rustled poofily between my legs. I had to adjust the velcro-ish tapes a few times to get it where it felt snug without restricting motion, but that was barely a concern next to the bulk pressing my thighs apart.
My jeans only sort-of fit over them. The wet denim stretched, but the bulge around the crotch was pronounced and plainly visible.
Crud.
I’d need to buy new clothes, too.
It was a solution. Not a great one, but a solution.
I dealt with the problem. New, looser jeans. I started bringing a backpack with me, so I could carry diaper changes. And pretty much every time I talked to a pretty girl, I’d flood my diaper and need to excuse myself to a bathroom.
In the meantime, my quest for someone who could undo the curse continued, but to no avail. Nothing worked. I tried getting incense and some fancy candles, I tried ‘manifesting’ a reality where I wasn’t cursed, it all failed. Nobody I talked to could help. One, who seemed to know what was going on, simply refused.
I hated it, but there wasn’t much I could do to solve the issue. I got used to it. Diaper changes were a part of my routine, something I just learned to handle. Occasionally, when I had to go and a bathroom would be inconvenient, I just used the diaper on purpose.
A couple months passed. I’d learned to keep things discreet, and staying cooped up didn’t work for me–I needed socialization. My favorite club, a few blocks down from my apartment, felt like a comfortable place to go. I hadn’t been since the breakup, but my return had me hailed by friends who I knew from there.
It was a good time. I had a couple drinks. I even started chatting up this girl, Ally, who I’d met a few years back.
And sure, I soaked my diaper about as soon as the conversation started, but who cared? She didn’t notice. I was used to it.
We got to talking. We’d made out a bunch a few months ago, back before the curse, and she still seemed interested–heck, I got the sense that she might be interested in more than just making out this time.
I sent a complement her way. She replied in kind, suggesting she thought I looked good, and–
And I learned that the curse was much, much worse than I thought.
My body betrayed me. The slightly splorchy frrrr– that escaped me wasn’t too loud, but my expression couldn’t have been more of a betrayal.
I mean, fuck me. I was paralyzed–what could I do? There I was, sitting at the bar, loading up my diaper like a dump truck. It swelled so much it made my pants sag, my face was so red it could have directed traffic, and though the diaper contained all the mush, it did ass all to hold in the smell.
I stammered. I found a reason to excuse myself, and just ran out of the bar, waddling and squelching the whole way. Staying put and explaining myself wasn’t an option.
The waddle home was humiliating. I was sure every stranger I passed could smell me, could see my pants sag from the overfull diaper I’d trapped myself in.
And then my phone rang.
It was her.
I answered. “Why?” I demanded, stepping to the side of the sidewalk to speak to her.
“I just know,” she explained. “Do you want it to end?”
I nodded. Then I realized she couldn’t see me, and started to respond.
But apparently she could see me, because she replied before I could say anything. “How many?”
I knew the answer she wanted. I knew the consequences if I lied. “Three,” I conceded. Defeated. I’d lost. “Three times. Different girls.”
“Three it is,” she said. “Once the time is up, you’ll get your control back.”
“Just three days?” I asked, hope rising.
No response. My stomach sank.
“Weeks?”
Nothing.
“Years?”
“Try not to forget your potty training,” she said.
And then she hung up.
