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female Potty Training Ashley

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Finally another sexy story about a women who wets herself and likes doing it. Nice and well written.

Thanks

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Part 2: Capitalism in Action

I knock. “Enter,” says a voice through the door. He’s not what I expected. I don’t know quite what I expected, but not a skinny nerd in a suit, tie, and oversized glasses. “You’re Jacob Metternich?” He asks.

I am.”

He extends a hand. His grip is firm, but not overpowering. “Nice to meet you. I’m John. What can I do for you, Mr. Metternich?”

I, uh...” I don’t know how to start this conversation. It feels surreal to be sitting in this office, but then again, that is the reason I’m here in the first place. “My wife wants to potty train. She wants me to potty train her. But it’s… I had kinda expected her to figure this out for herself by now,” I begin. “She’s 26.”

John chuckles. “Fifty years ago, maybe. But now? It’s on you, buddy. The Potty Training Directive only went into effect last year, but you do know it requires you to train her if she requests so, or pay for a certified trainer?”

I didn’t know that,” I say. “But I was going to do it anyway, because it’s something she wants.”

Good man,” he says. “Now, tell me about your wife. Does she try to make it to the potty? How often does she fail?”

I, uh...” Talking about this stuff isn’t easy for me. Not with a stranger. But he came highly recommended. “She tries, but she fails at least once a day,” I say. “Wet nights five times a week.”

I see. And does she also experience fecal incontinence?”

Pooping. He wants to know if she also poops her pants. I blush. “She is pretty regular every morning, as far as I know. There have been one or two, ah, incidents in the last few months.”

That’s promising,” he says. “Now, let’s talk concrete steps. There are a number of things you can do. The first step is get her into regular underwear. It will be a chore to wash for a while, but this is paramount. She must feel she has little choice but to make it, and she must experience success doing so.”

Makes sense.”

Yes. I suggest a regular schedule. Do you both work full time?”

Yeah.”

Okay, not an uncommon challenge. It would be ideal if you could be together 24/7, but that’s not gonna happen in modern society, is it?” He shrugs. “So you’ll have to take time out of your busy workday to remind her via phone. I suggest a schedule of going every 2-3 hours.”

I have to remind her every two hours?” I can’t believe this. That’s, what, at least eight times a day?

Three might be fine, but no less frequent than that,” he says.

I don’t think she pees that frequently,” I say.

Doesn’t matter. She does now. It’s important for her psychologically to experience success, and to avoid accidents. You can always make the visits to the potty less frequent over time.”

My shoulders slump. This is going to be worse than I anticipated.

Now, technology. I suggest a bedwetting alarm. It won’t prevent nighttime accidents, but it might stop them in progress. Over time, if she wets at a certain time every night, her body might learn to anticipate the little shock from the alarm and she might wake up before it happens. Like the way you often wake up five minutes before the alarm, don’t you?”

I nod. That does happen to me, and it pisses me off. I need that extra sleep.

Get me one,” I say.

Sure,” says John, a smile on his face. “That will be $129. It’s a little device you put in her diaper, runs on triple-A batteries.”

A hundred and twenty-nine?!”

Hey, anything for your baby, eh? I know what it’s like. I’m a married man myself.”

My shoulders slump further, and I sag down in my chair.

Now, I would also recommend a training potty for your living room, which is portable and can be taken with you in the car, and for the bedroom.”

I can’t quite believe this. A training potty, like for little kids? Isn’t that far too juvenile? I still remember my old wife, the one who was an ambitious career woman and wouldn’t take shit from no one. I say so.

Hey,” he says. “It’s very important for her that she experience success. Even if it’s too late, if she can quickly remove her clothes and go right there in the room, it still counts as a success. Over time, you can move the potty further away. But do you really want to clean your car seat every few days? Dry clean your sheets?

Something dawns on me. “You sell these, don’t you? You’re just trying to upsell me.”

He smiles. “I do, as a matter of fact. But they really do work.”

I nod. “You don’t offer a payment plan, do you?”

He nods back. He’s got me now. I am willing to pay anything, almost, to make this problem go away. As long as I get it on credit. Fuck capitalism.

Finally, accountability is paramount. I suggest a potty training chart where you record yellow, brown and white nights and days, displayed prominently in your home. Make her fill it in. There’s also an app you can use to update your chart on the go. I’ve got some stickers for a small surcharge...”

We spend the next thirty minutes devising a protocol and discussing a product package. I end up with a three-month payment plan for $1100, which includes a bedwetting alarm, a training potty, chart, app and stickers, and two follow-up Skype consultations of thirty minutes each. I haggle it down from $1499, but I suspect the base price is far less than we end up on, and that’s before the 16% month-on-month interest and $199 down payment. I swear, this will be the end of my bank account. We shake hands. I want to strangle him, but I smile and thank him for his time. I’ve spent an hour with this man and he’s made probably a thousand dollars in pure profit. I shouldn’t have gone into law—paralegal, not making the big bucks—but into the potty training consultancy business.

 

I tape the chart to that living room wall that is empty of decoration because I vetoed her desire for an IKEA print of a red double-decker bus in Piccadilly photoshopped so that everything but the bus is in black and white. Her eyes widen until the point where I wonder if they’re about to pop. “This is your potty training chart,” I say. “For each day and each night, you will put up a white star, a yellow raindrop, or a brown poop emoji sticker. Stickers are in the second kitchen drawer from the top. That’s your responsibility. My responsibility is to help you make that pretty row of white stars.”

But Jake, everyone will see!” She says, blushing.

Yes, I rather suspect that’s the point.”

This is ridiculous,” she says, and for once I recognize my old wife in this new one.

Yes, but so’s pissing your pants,” I counter.

She sticks out her tongue.

Did you go shopping for big girl panties like I asked you?”

She nods, then bends over, giving me a peek beneath her flowery summer dress at the diaper underneath. It doesn’t look clean. She produces a large shopping bag and shows me the contents, a whole heap of panties in various colors. Mostly bikini cut, but there’s a thong in there, which she hurries to stuff beneath the other ones when she sees me take note.

Okay. And are you wet right now?”

She blushes. “J-Jake!” She says. “Must you be so crass?”

Yes,” I say. “Are you?”

Yeah,” she says, casting her eyes towards the floor.

Okay,” I say. “Go put a yellow raindrop on the chart for today, and then we’ll get you ready for the night. You will still wear diapers at night, but you’re gonna use this bedwetting alarm. It will tell you when you pee and wake you up.”

Ashley is beet red, but she goes over to the kitchen drawer and gets a yellow sticker, then attaches it to the chart. Day one: Yellow raindrop. A wet accident.

Well, at least it isn’t a poop emoji,” I say. It’s the wrong thing to say. My wife shoves my shoulder with none of her usual playfulness. It actually stings.

Don’t say that! I don’t do that in my d-diapers…”

So last week at the...”

Shut up!”

I can see this is going nowhere fast, so I pick up the bag I got from Mr. Supply-for-any-Demand-but-at-Exorbitant-Prices. “This is the bedwetting alarm. It goes in your special underwear. It will vibrate and make a sound if you wet.”

Ashley’s eyebrows rise. “Vibrate, you say?”

I sigh. “Don’t you dare do it on purpose just to get off, you naughty baby.”

But, but, how are we going to know that it works if we don’t test it?”

Fine. You can test it right now and I’ll change you right after. But I swear, if I find out you’ve been wetting the bed on purpose just to feel some special vibrations in your special underwear...”

I won’t, I swear! Thanks, daddy!”

Wait. Daddy? “What did you just say?”

I said, thank you, Jacob, dear husband,” she intones, in the manner of a principal conducting a graduation ceremony. I can see the chromatic aberration again, the shimmer of green fringing off the contours of her body.

I lead her to the bedroom, lay a changing mat on the bed, and instruct her to lay down. She complies, and I rip off the sides of her pull-up. Elsa is looking quite discolored these days. When I open the diaper, the smell of urine released from the confines of her skin hits my nostrils and I involuntarily sneeze. There’s a light yellow patch radiating out from her special area, and that part is puffier than it was this morning. But it looks like it was only a partial accident. Good. I don’t bother to clean her up, since she’s planning to pee again. I simply have her lift her bum and slide her nighttime diaper under her, then quickly stick the alarm inside—it looks like a mix between a sex toy and the kind of cube you get at certain fastfood restaurants that buzzes and blinks red when your order is ready at the counter—and tape her up.

There you go, babe,” I say, and cringe at my usage of the word babe.

She grabs hold of my hand and squeezes it, her face reddening as she tries to squeeze an almost empty bladder into the padding. I can see it puff up a little, and then she sighs, and a sound like a lowkey smoke alarm goes off. A small red light pulsates inside the diaper, and she squeezes my hand harder as her thighs and abdomen shake. But the vibration only lasts for five seconds, and she slumps onto her back, panting, face red, but with a frown on her face.

Didn’t get you off, did it?” I say.

No,” she pouts.

Well, then.” I say, ripping the tapes, “let me help you with that.” She opens her eyes and looks into mine. “Would you like that?”

Yes, Jacob.”

I pull down the front and climb on top, then enter her. We go like that for a while, and at one point I grab her hands and hold them above her head, hard enough to leave a small mark but not enough to leave a bruise, the way my old wife liked it. She moans her assent. It’s been a while, I think, or try to think, as the waves of our pleasure rise in unison, and I feel her tighten around my cock as I come inside her.

I use one of the baby wipes I’d brought for the change to clean up excessive fluids, and the seat of her diaper seems shinier, stickier.

I’m not on birth control right now,” she says, as we cuddle together post coitus.

What? I thought...” No, no, no!

I was, but we haven’t been doing it much lately, so I thought...”

We haven’t, at that. I guess seeing my wife helpless in a wet diaper inspires feelings of concern and empathy, not arousal.

It’s fine, I’ll get a morning after pill tomorrow,” she says. “And if you plan on doing that more often, I’ll get back on the pill.”

No, we can use a condom,” I say, grateful I’m not the one having to mess with my hormones to avoid pregnancy.

No,” she says. “I want to. If you promise it won’t be a month until next time.”

I’ll give you a romp if you keep dry tomorrow,” I say. And regret it. She looks hurt, turns away from me.

Sorry.”

It’s fine. I guess me being a baby isn’t very arousing.”

You’re not a baby, you’re my babe,” I say. Rowing towards shore, desperately trying to outrace the storm. “I shouldn’t have said that. I love you, even if you pee where you shouldn’t. And I should let your body know that more often.”

She smiles, but it’s a sad smile.

Okay,” I say, “now run to the potty so you can put up a white star tomorrow. Oh, and brush your teeth.”

I always brush my teeth before bed,” she says, but she does as I told her. I dispose of the used diaper and ready another one. As I tape her up again, she says, “I won’t disappoint you.”

I know you won’t, sweetheart.”

She closes her eyes, rolls over facing the other direction. My old wife also slept facing away from me. I close my eyes and smile, thinking of that woman, and how this one might be her, deep down.

I can’t believe this is my life now.

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What a ride. You're handling adult potty training quite realistically as I imagine it-- both parties kind of self conscious about its trappings. But the "Lurch" sounds fascinating. Really great concept.

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Oh wonderful. Developmental biology was probably my favorite story on this whole site. I'm glad you're revisiting a similar concept.

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Thank you, @mipmixer.

This chapter contains messing and pee desperation.

Part 4: Beach Episode

“I had a meeting with the bank today,” Ashley says.

“Oh? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was just a feeling out kind of meeting. I wanted to hear what they had to offer before I got myself hyped up, and just do it before I got cold feet. We talked about what we need to do to successfully apply for a business loan.”

I nod. “You and Claire going for it?”

“We think so. Look, we need our own initial capital to get a loan, and if we’re doing this, we need to start saving now. I know you wanted to go visit your family in Germany this year, and that would have to wait...”

I nod, smile, encourage her to go on.

“Well, I’ve done some rough numbers, and I think we can get there in one year if we tighten our purses a bit, and still leave some left over to maybe eat out once a month and save a little for a rainy day.”

I smile. That doesn’t sound so bad.

“That’s if we put in everything that’s already in our joint savings account. Jake, that’s your money too. I couldn’t do that to you.”

Hmm. I fold my hands over hers. “This is your dream, right?” I ask.

She nods. “It is.”

“And do you think you can make it? If we get the money and bet everything we have on this?”

She frowns. “Look, most startups fail in the first three years. There’s no guarantees...”

I squeeze her hand. “I didn’t ask for guarantees. I asked if you think you can make it. If you believe this is realistic.”

“I do. But I’m not sure.”

“Good,” I say. “If you didn’t have doubts, I would be worried. How about this: We work out the details of your savings plan and try our best to follow it for one year. If, at the end of that year, we have the money, and you and Claire still believe in this dream, then we go for it. If not, we’ll be that much closer to owning rather than renting. Or we could go to Vegas and spend it all on hookers and blow.”

She punches me in the arm. “We’re not spending it on hookers and blow!”

“There you go.” We hug. It’s settled, for now.

 

The training chart on the wall is filled with wet nights and a patchwork of wet and dry days. Ashley’s brought a change of clothes she keeps in her locker at work. Most of the wet days were little leaks on the way to the restroom—we agreed it should count if it requires a change of underwear. She’s been doing well these past two weeks. The overpriced night-time alarm seems to be approximately useless, but at least she hasn’t had another major accident in public. She has her alarms set up on her phone and I only check in with her at lunch. The way she carries the yellow bracelet makes me smile. It’s like a token of her maturity and she wears it proudly.

We’ve managed to sync up our vacations at work so that we get one week off at the same time, starting this weekend. I’m looking forward to it. We might not be able to afford to travel far, but we still get to spend that time together, and there’s a number of potential local day trips we might go for. Something that doesn’t require paying for either a room or an entrance fee, preferably.

“Hey, want to do something this weekend?” My wife asks. She’s sitting on the training potty in the living room, just off work. It’s bizarre how normal it seems now, for my wife to run in bursting and rip down down her pantyhose and panties and just tinkle right there in front of me, talking as if nothing’s going on.

“Sure, what have you got in mind?” I ask, trying not to stare at her.

“Claire and Alex wanted to drive to the beach. You remember Alex, her younger sister? She’s just finished up her bachelor’s degree in interior design.” I do not. I’m not sure we’ve met. Now that I think about it, maybe at a barbecue last summer at Pete’s house, a mutual friend of mine and Claire’s. I don’t know.

“It’s a public beach, right?”

“No entrance,” she says, wiping herself with a baby wipe. “You’re taking this saving thing more seriously than I am.”

I nod. “Why not?” She rises and hitches up her panties, but when she reaches for her pantyhose, I hold up a hand. “Come here, wife. Let me check your panties.”

“Oh, it’s ‘wife’ now?” She says, spreading her hands in mock outrage. “That’s just an excuse to feel me up, isn’t it?”

“So what if it is,” I say, smiling. “I’ve got to keep tabs on your progress.”

She waddles over to me, pantyhose stuck at her knees, doing her best impression of a chastened schoolgirl. Drives me nuts when she does that, it does. I put my hand between her legs and press her panties firmly into her sex, then remove it just as her mouth starts to open wide. “All dry,” I say. “Well done!”

“Thanks,” she says, pulling up her pantyhose and turning towards the kitchen.

“Not so fast, miss,” I say.

“What? I was thinking I’d cook us dinner.”

“First, you go empty out and clean the potty.”

“Can’t you do it? I cook, you clean?”

“You drive a hard bargain,” I say. But I really can’t be bothered to cook, and we can’t afford to order in, and she’s offering. “Okay,” I say. “But don’t forget next time. I’m just gonna leave it there stinking and then you’ll be embarrassed when we have friends over.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I totally would. It’s your piss. You clean it up if you can’t make it to the toilet.” I trudge over, put the lid on the potty, and carry it upstairs.

 

It’s Saturday morning and we’ve packed everything into the car: blankets, towels, a parasol, sunscreen, a cooler with water and soda and a bottle of sparkling wine for the girls—I’m driving—and a change of clothes for each of us, training potty, sandwiches, plastic cups, an inflatable beach ball. My wife is in a bright mood today: she woke up dry for the second day in a row. She doesn’t even complain when I remind her to hit the potty before we set out and proudly puts up her sticker for the night.

We stop by Claire’s apartment to pick up her and her sister. I’m curious whether Alex is the one I vaguely remember from Pete’s barbecue. She’s not. Claire is chubby, with straight, dark brown hair and a bubbly disposition. I don’t see the family resemblance. Her sister’s taller, slimmer, with wavy blonde hair—dyed?—and even bubblier. She’s wearing a lovely white summer dress that stops halfway down her thighs, and flip-flops on her feet. She gives me a warm handshake. “I’m Alex, I don’t know if we’ve met, but if not, now we have!” She says. I notice she’s wearing a yellow bracelet identical to my wife’s. She sees me looking.

“Hey, Ashley, can I have a moment with your hubby?” Alex asks.

“Don’t you try and seduce him,” my wife says, suppressing a giggle.

We walk around the other side of the car and for a fleeting moment, seeing those fit, tan legs of hers, I find myself wishing that’s what she’s about to do. I shake my head and put the thought away.

Alex holds up her hand and shows off her potty training bracelet. “Just got it this week!” She says. “I couldn’t help but catch you looking.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well, I never noticed them before, but then my wife got one.”

She turns and faces me. “Look,” she says, biting her lower lip. “This is a bit awkward, but I’m just getting started, and I was wondering… Could you be my potty training sponsor for the day?” She’s blushing and it’s too adorable. I feel the heat on my own cheeks.

“Look, I don’t think that’s appropriate… I mean, I wish you luck, and I hope you don’t ruin my car, but I’d have to, you know, it’s kind of intimate...” I stammer.

“Don’t be silly!” She says. She’s blushing furiously, but covering it well with bravado. “Of course you’d have to check my underwear! Look, I don’t know who else to ask and I don’t think I can go if I don’t have someone looking out for me. I get anxiety.”

“Can’t it be someone else? What about your sister? Surely you must have seen each other naked or in underwear plenty growing up, and it’d be far less awkward than your sister’s friend’s husband.”

“Look,” Alex says, dropping her voice to a whisper, “my sister and I don’t have that kind of relationship. You wouldn’t understand, and I don’t want to talk about it, but trust me, this is far less awkward.”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay. As long as my wife’s okay with it.”

“Gotta check in with the boss?” She winks.

“Something like that.”

“Great! Here, why don’t you check right now?” She begins to lift the back of her dress. I shake my head.

“No, no, that’s fine...”

“Just fucking with you,” she says. “If you’d been too eager I would have bailed.”

We shake on it. I walk over to the front passenger seat and whisper to my wife. “It’s fine,” she says. “I trust you won’t be making those panty checks quite as erotic with her as you do with me.”

“Of course not! Shut up.” She gives my ass a playful slap when I turn away from her. I hear someone giggle in the back.

We get on the road. I stop by the last gas station before we pull on to the highway and fill up, and everyone gets coffee. “I can’t function without one,” Claire says, and sure enough, she’s twice as chatty when we get on the highway.

It’s around three hours of driving to the beach, maybe two and a half on a good day. This is not a good day. Traffic on the highway is smooth, and the women spend their time discussing Ashley and Claire’s business plans, Alex’s newly finished degree, and—mostly Alex—whether there will be any hot guys at the beach. My wife puts a hand on my knee as she says she won’t be looking far for hot guys. I try to keep my eyes on the road. When we pull off the highway onto a smaller road that leads to the beach, we should be less than thirty minutes away. Instead, we roll into a queue and sit for over an hour in stop and go traffic.

“Must be a lot of people at the beach today,” I say. It’s a fine August day, and after a wet and chilly July, it seems like everyone’s out in force. The sun is bearing down on all of us, and a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. Wait. I instruct my wife to figure out what’s going on with the A/C, and we discover it’s broken down somewhere along the way. Well, damn. I’m not sure we can afford to fix it if we’re going to keep up with our savings plan. I sigh, roll down the window and take a look in the mirror. Claire is chatting with her sister, not a care in the world. Alex is subtly shifting her body back and forth in a way I’ve learned to recognize in my wife: She needs to pee. It’s urgent, but not quite a serious emergency yet. Thankfully, we’re almost there. There are cars parked on both sides of the road, leaving only a small single lane for cars to pass. “Not a great chance there’s any parking spots left closer to the beach,” I say. But there’s a small dirt road to the side leading to a patch of grass on the edge of a field, and a couple of cars have taken some liberties with parking regulations already. I pull off and back into a spot next to an RV. It’s gonna be a walk to the beach, but it’s a fine day and we could all use stretching our legs.

We pile out of the car and gather our supplies. Alex stretches dramatically, her dress riding dangerously high when she raises her arms over her head, but she quickly tugs it down. I note that she’s a little bouncy and keeps her legs close together. I take my wife’s free hand and we begin the trek down towards the beach.

“Ew! Who farted?” Claire says. I pick up a little sniff of something foul, but we leave it behind.

“Probably him,” my wife says. “He farts in his sleep, you know!”

I blush. “I do not!” I insist.

“How would you know?” She asks, squeezing my hand. Gotta admit, she’s got me there.

We come out onto a little plateau, and then there it is: the beach and the blue-green ocean beyond. This is one of the finest beaches I’ve ever been to, rivaling your favorite tropical island: nearly a mile long, white sand, and we can see it’s filling up nicely, but it’s large enough that there should be a free spot without immediate neighbors. We pass by a little building with a couple of changing stalls, an outside shower, and restrooms. “Anyone need to go?” I ask, eyeing Alex.

“I’m fine,” says Claire.

“Me too,” says my wife.

Alex shakes her head. I raise an eyebrow. Later, she mouths at me, then takes off at a run down towards the sand. Claire squeals and runs after my sister, and my wife drags me along, but I’m weighed down by the cooler in my hand and the parasol under my armpit, so we fall behind.

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Believe it or not, yeah,” Ashley says and gives me a confident smile.

The sisters have found a spot and started putting down blankets on the sand. I unfurl the parasol and stick it like a flag into the sand. “I declare this to be our land,” I say, sweeping my hands across the blankets. “Our little spot in the shade.” My wife laughs in that way she has, letting me know it’s not funny but she’s amused by my pathetic humor.

I take off my shirt. My wife removes her shirt and denim skirt, revealing her figure in a bikini. Before the Lurch, it wasn’t quite warm enough for her to wear a bikini—but even so, seeing her like this, in her matching black bikini top and bottom, reminds me of the wife I lost. The world I lost. She’s not so different from that wife, this Ashley. I feel something stir in my groan and quickly turn around, instructing her to help me put sunscreen on my back. By the time I turn back around, my semi has disappeared, but Ashley flicks her eyes quickly to my crotch, letting me know she saw and she’s not displeased.

Claire keeps her shorts on, but removes her shirt, kneads sunscreen into her belly, her chest, upper arms, and face. Alex sits down, careful to drape the hem of her dress so she doesn’t flash her underwear, and resumes shifting her weight around restlessly. She definitely needs to pee. Why doesn’t she just go? Is it time for me to step in? No, I decide. I’ll get her away from her sister in due time. I don’t know what’s going on between them—they seem to be on great terms, joking and laughing together, and from what I heard, it was Claire that invited her sister along—but something tells me I might make a scene if I bring up the bathroom with Claire there. Alex is an adult, and not really my responsibility, even if I did agree to look out for her for the day.

I open the cooler, and Claire elects to pop the bubbly. I pour sparkling wine into plastic cups, and with a hint of regret, I pop open a bottle of water. Alex has brought a stack of Uno cards and we play a few rounds with the center of a blanket for table as the women sip wine and I drain my water. Even in the shade, I can tell this is going to be one of the hottest days of the summer. I tend to forget to drink, so I get started on my second bottle of water before the hour is up. I can tell Alex is getting very squirmy, and she’s attracting questioning glances from her sister and my wife. She can’t sit still now, keeping her hands in her lap and shifting back and forth. My wife has started leaning her weight subtly to one side, then onto the other, as well.

I lower my sunglasses and squint to make out a little stall in the distance. “I think it’s an ice cream stall,” I say. “Anyone fancy some ice cream?”

“You all go, I can hold down the fort,” Claire says, handing her sister some money. I remove my shoes—full of sand—and we set off. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I turn to Alex.

“You’re bursting,” I say. “As soon as we get back, I’m taking you to the restroom.”

“I could go for a pee as well,” Ashley says.

“Fine,” Alex says, not meeting my eye. When we’re almost at the start of the line to the little ice cream stand, Alex suddenly stops dead in her tracks. Her head is tilted out towards the sea, a faraway look in her eyes.

“You okay?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s just so pretty,” she says, absentmindedly. It is, at that: the sun scattering white diamonds on the gentle surf, the ocean green shading into blue. We join the end of the line and my wife starts enumerating the virtues and flaws of vanilla versus chocolate ice cream.

“Vanilla is the safe, boring choice. It always tastes good,” she says. “Chocolate is more exciting, but it’s not quite going off the deep end. It’s not pistachio with mango and kiwi, or something.”

Alex is bouncing on her heels. She quietly grabs my hand and squeezes it. “You okay?” I ask.

“Y-yes,” she stammers, and lets go of my hand. It’s our turn. I get an ice cream sandwich for myself and my wife gets some chocolate in a cup with a plastic spoon for herself. Alex buys the same, but doesn’t make a move to eat any.

“You’re not getting any for yourself?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, rubbing her belly.

As we pass by a teenage girl and a middle-aged woman sitting under a parasol, a gust of wind passes by and brings a noxious odor with it. It smells like somebody took a dump. I wrinkle my nose. The woman bends over and puts a hand on her daughter’s shorts-clad butt. “Mom!” The girl whines. “I think I’d know if I was messy!” She blushes deep red when she sees us. The mother shakes her head and gives me a look like, “What can you do?”

We continue. I eat my ice cream sandwich, and Ashley’s almost done with her chocolate ice cream. Claire’s ice cream in Alex’s hand is melting. She’s puffing out her cheeks, breathing heavier than normal. Her face is red.

The smell doesn’t leave us. In fact, it seems to intensify. By the time we arrive at our little beach kingdom, there can be no doubt: the smell is coming from one of us. I shoot Ashley a glance, and she merely shakes her head, brows furrowed.

“Alex,” I say, turning to her, “did you maybe, uh, have an accident?” Her cheeks turn scarlet.

“N-no,” she stammers. I don’t take her word for it. The smell is fairly intense now. I grab the hem of her dress before she can protest and lift the back half. Her white bikini panties emerge, and there’s a distinct bulge, tinged yellow-brown. Alex lets out an undignified yelp.

“Oh my god, Alex,” Claire says. Her entire face, normally so cheery, scrunches up into a mask of pure disgust. She grabs the ice cream out of her sister’s hand and points up towards the restrooms. Alex suppresses a sob. I grab her hand and lead her firmly, but slowly up the path towards the restrooms. My wife tags along, quite squirmy herself, now.

“I’m so sorry,” Alex says.

“Don’t cry,” I say. “Please don’t cry.”

“I won’t.” Ashley and I walk, she waddles up the hill. We don’t speak. What do you say to something like that?

There’s only a couple of people in front of us at the line to the family restroom. An older man and a young woman who looks to be around nineteen or twenty. The girl is bent over, legs crossed, holding herself. The man takes a look at me, and at the yellow bracelets on Ashley and Alex. “You go on ahead,” he says. “She’s protected.”

“Dad! I can’t hold it!” The young woman whines, but I’m grateful and frankly don’t care about strangers. My wife is pee-dancing and her friend’s sister just pooped her pants. I’ve got my hands and my head too full to give a crap. The door opens and two women emerge, one of them wearing a yellow bracelet, the other, slightly older, holding a hand protectively on her shoulder. I usher the women in.

We’re met with a sight I should have come to expect these past few months, but it’s always jarring. There’s a sink and a handicap toilet on one wall. In a corner is a small changing table for babies. And along the third wall, facing the door, is a tall padded bench, the sort you find in a doctor’s examination room, complete with paper cover. There’s a dispenser for wet wipes and another for paper covers on the wall and a big lidded can marked DIAPERS next to the bench. Ashley immediately runs over to the toilet, pushes down her panties and starts tinkling into the bowl with a little moan.

“I need you to remove that dress,” I say to Alex. “So it doesn’t get dirty.” I try to project a command over the situation I don’t feel. The room smells of poop hidden under a thin layer of antiseptics and flower-scented perfume. She puts her hands over her head, and I help her remove the dress. She’s just standing there like a doll, and the old me from before the Lurch thinks this is something she ought to deal with on her own, but the new me, the one who’s been living in bizarro land for the past two and a half months, knows it’s all on me. It’s on you, buddy, the potty training consultant had said.

I hang the dress on a knob by the door. She’s standing there in a white bra and white bikini bottoms tied on each side with string, a small wet spot on the front and, seen from the side, the bottom sagging dangerously low. I walk over to her, hands unsteady. “I’m going to lift you up on this table, I say, grabbing of her lower back and under the back of her knees. “Try not to put any weight on your butt when I put you down.” She wraps her arms around my neck. I lift her up and set her down, careful so that as little of her butt as possible touches the paper cover. Keep your butt and legs up, I say, like I’m changing a toddler.

Her legs, up in the air, are shaking. Once I start untying one side of her bottoms, a jet of pee shoots out through the fabric between her legs. It hits me square on the nose. “What the fuck!” I say, taking a step backwards.

“I can’t...” Alex whimpers. She bursts all over the bench. Legs still in the air, a faucet of faintly yellow piss arc out through her underwear, spattering onto the paper cover, then dripping down the sides. She puts her hands over her eyes as if not seeing it makes in unreal, and continues to pee all over the bench. There’s a small puddle on top of the bench, more on the sides, when she’s done. “’M sorry,” she mumbles beneath her hands.

“Well, fuck me,” I say. I go over to the sink and splash some water on my face. The cold water reminds me that my own bladder needs emptying. I walk over with a stack of paper towels and put them between her legs, soaking up the pee. “Okay, lay still, very very still, feet up,” I say. I finish untying both sides of her bikini bottoms, then tie them up again. They’re wet, warm and squishy and remind me of a poop bag you use for picking up dog leavings. I deposit them in the diaper pail, confident they’re beyond saving, and then I grab a stack of wet wipes from the dispenser and set to work. Somehow, my nose has acclimatized to the smell, and if I just mechanically wipe and clean and don’t look too closely, I can prevent myself from gagging.

“There,” I say, and help her off the bench. She’s now standing there nude from the waist down, face still buried in her hands. My wife gets to work removing the soaking paper cover and trying to save the bench beneath it. It looks like only pee got on it, thankfully. I wash my hands thoroughly, then turn around to Alex. “You got spare undies with you?”

“T-they’re in my purse, back at the beach,” she says. Ashley points towards her own purse. I open it and find a pair of panties and a white pull-up with red hearts and strawberries printed on the front. My wife appears to have made it okay, and I don’t want her to suffer for another’s mishap, so I pull out the diaper and have Alex step into it. As I pull it up her legs, she remarks, “These aren’t panties.”

“No, they aren’t,” I say, a little annoyed. She lets it go.

I pee in the toilet while Alex puts her dress back on. My wife comes over and puts her arms around me as I wash my hands for the third time in ten minutes. “Don’t be too hard on her,” she whispers. “It could’ve been me.”

“She didn’t have to make me clean her up,” I whisper back.

“She didn’t,” Ashley says. “You just knew she couldn’t deal with it right now so you took responsibility. I’m proud of you.” I splash some water in my face, grab hold of her hand, and we exit.

By some unspoken accord, everyone’s agreed to pretend like nothing happened when we get back to the beach. Claire and Ashley decide to dip their feet in the water, leaving me alone with Alex.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. She’s been the chattiest of the women all day, and now she’s more subdued, but at least she’s talking. “That was terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Why didn’t you go earlier?”

“Thought the restrooms might be dirty. I don’t like to do that in public. But it’s better than doing that in my pants, isn’t it. Look, can we just forget about it?”

“Sure.” I’m happy not to think about it anymore.

We linger on the beach for a couple more hours. Some dark clouds are rolling in from the sea, and it looks like it might rain. We decide to break up and head on home. Alex, Ashley and I all use the restrooms before we head out. Claire’s the only one who hasn’t been all day, and she does seem to be a little squirmy, but she insists she’s fine. It’s not my place to question her.

We pile into the car and get on the road.

It’s slow going. First we have to contend with everyone else who’s had the bright idea that it’s going to rain so they better head home. Then, once we get on the highway, it’s still slow going because it takes a good half hour for the traffic to untangle itself. It’s like people haven’t figured out you can go twice as fast on the highway as on the smaller access road to the beach. I catch myself looking in the mirror at Claire. She’s very squirmy now, and I even see her squeeze between her legs when she thinks nobody’s looking. “Everything okay back there?” I ask.

“We’re fine,” Claire says.

About two hours on the road, another one to go, traffic slows to a crawl again. “Must be an accident up ahead,” I say. As if on cue, perhaps triggered by that word—accident—Claire speaks up.

“Hey, Jacob, could you maybe try and find a place to stop?”

“You see the traffic as well as I do,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

“I really need to pee,” she admits.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to hold on a while longer.” We glide forwards like we’re stuck in syrup.

“I can’t,” Claire says. “I can’t make it. It’s going to come out!” She’s holding herself openly now, blushing, breathing heavy.

A bright idea strikes me. “The potty!” I say, as if I’ve just solved the little issue of cancer and world peace in one fell swoop.

“You brought it?” Ashley asks.

“Of course. In the back, behind you, Alex.”

I take a peek in the rear-view mirror. Alex is rummaging through the back, then she fishes out the oversized potty. “Oh my god,” she says, giggling, “it’s like a potty for toddlers, but it’s adult sized!”

“Shut up and give it to me,” Claire grumbles.

A few seconds later, there’s a rustle of clothes being pulled down and then a moan and the pitter-patter of liquid pouring into the side of the potty.

“You’ve gotta stop, you’ll overflow it!” Alex says. I catch her eyes in the rear-view mirror and they’re wide with a mixture of excitement and concern.

“I’m trying,” Claire says. “It keeps coming… There.”

“Just in the nick of time,” Alex says.

“There’s a lid and a lock on it,” I say. “But I think you’ll have to hold onto it for the rest of the ride, just so we don’t hit a bump and it spills all over the place.”

Claire doesn’t speak much for the rest of the ride, sitting there, holding on to a training potty full of her own piss.

We drop off the sisters at Claire’s house and swing home. It’s getting dark out now.

Ashley bounces in and runs upstairs. She comes back looking relieved. I have her unzip her skirt and give her bikini panties a squeeze. Dry.

She puts a white star on her chart next to the one from this morning. Then she favors me with a long, sensual kiss, and drags me up the stairs.

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Great writing! I have to confess Alex’s little accident and her clean up got me very excited....

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