The Potty Draining Chart

Day 4

Nicole knew better than to hope that the chart would stay gone. When she woke up, her diaper–(No, it's not my diaper, it's just a diaper)–was well used and swollen. She waddled to her door, anxious about what she might find, and her heart sank.

The chart had returned, and the rainclouds now marked out both night and daytime. The doodle in the final column this time showed a stack of diapers lined up neatly inside a dresser–in her dresser.

She had to get to work, though, so she gathered up work clothes, ripped the tapes off her sodden diaper, and went to take a shower.

She washed, dressed for the workday, and put one of Vanessa's pads for protection. When she got done, she found V in the hall, inspecting the chart.

"This doesn't look good," Vanessa said, glancing up at her. "Are you sure you want to go to work like that?"

"What do you mean?" Nicole asked, frowning. "I'm using a pad."

"Sure, but...that's not meant to hold back the flood gates, if you get my meaning," Vanessa replied. "I hate to suggest this, but...do you think you should wear one of your diapers?"

Nicole glowered and shook her head. "No, no way. It hasn't gotten that bad."

V blushed, glancing away. "Um."

"What?" Nicole demanded.

"You're–" Vanessa said. "You're leaking."

Looking down, Nicole's eyes widened as she saw the truth–urine was running down her jeans, away from the overwhelmed pad. Quickly, she stepped back into the bathroom, rushing to get at least some of it into the toilet, but all she could really manage was sitting down on the toilet seat and flooding her jeans the rest of the way from there.

Humiliated, but unwilling to admit defeat, she stripped out of the wet jeans and went to get a fresh pair. "I'm not wearing a diaper to work," she told V, bending to go through her dresser to find new panties. "I'm just not."

...

Nicole didn't have any more major leak-throughs, but only due to sheer discipline and persistence. Every thirty minutes or so, she took a break to hit the bathroom, emptying what little was in her bladder–though, even with such consistent stops, she still had to replace a pad almost every time.

Deep in her heart, she knew this wasn't sustainable, but the alternative seemed worse. The diapers that'd appeared in her dresser were absurd; bulky pillowy things that'd render all her jeans unwearable for all the poof. She'd make the pads work, no matter how inconvenient the constant restroom trips were.

That is, until The Meeting. She had to hustle into the conference room late, blushing as she gave a mumbled, "Bathroom," as her excuse for missing the opening minute or so of her boss's presentation.

She didn't feel any pressure in her bladder building, which was the worst part. There was no warning, no indicator of when she might have another accident, just an apprehension of trickling liquid overwhelming the pad in her panties. She watched the clock on the wall–twenty minutes passed, then twenty five, then thirty.

(They know I just went,) she thought, anxiously weighing her options. (If I get up to use the bathroom now, they'll wonder what I 'really' needed to go for.)

More minutes slipped past, and her fear built, knowing she'd leak through any minute. She couldn't feel a thing, and stealing glances down only told her she hadn't begun to dribble through her jeans yet. How soon the dam would begin to crack, though, she couldn't say.

The meeting lasted fifty minutes. It would have been barely an inconvenience to her last week, but with her new potty control it felt like a miracle. Relieved, she waited until the conference room was almost empty–just in case–then stood.

Sag.

The sensation of her underwear weighing down inside her jeans didn't feel right, and she looked down, puzzled. She could see her jeans straining, slightly, puffed up. (Did the pad really absorb that much?) she thought, scurrying off to the bathroom.

Entering one of the two stalls in the women's room, she locked it, set her purse on the toilet tank, double checked the lock, and finally slipped down her jeans. The answer she got wasn't the one she wanted; her pad hadn't absorbed anything at all. Rather, it'd vanished along with her panties, replaced with a puffy, pink, baby-print diaper.

It was worse than if she'd worn one from home–at least the diapers at home had been plain white, medical looking. These were downright cute, or at least they would be if the teddy bears and building blocks hadn't made her blush from head to toe and send a shock of mortification through her.

She couldn't be seen in this, but she had no real way to cover it up. She had, at least, thought to bring spare panties, along with her extra stack of pads. Opening up her purse...

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no–"

Her panties were gone, and her pads. She found only a diaper and a tube of baby powder. All she found aside from those two objects was an implied message.

(I don't get to wear panties anymore.)

There was no getting around it, no fighting the magic or curse or whatever that had done this to her. She could go out and buy panties, maybe, but in her gut she doubted that would work.

Her choices were diapers, or ruined jeans, and she'd already flooded her current diaper to capacity.

Triple checking the lock, she undid the tapes on her diaper and got to work changing herself. She'd just have to hope that the one fresh diaper she'd been given would last the rest of the day...and that nobody in the office would guess that the diaper buried deep in the restroom trash can came from her.