As the time dragged on, Doug became more uncomfortable than he could ever remember being. His arms burned, his hands were numb, his back was stiff, and his bottom and legs were cold, wet, and squishy. This isn't at all the way he thought things would turn out. He watched as his clock crept toward the three hour mark, indicating that his test was over, and at the exact instant it read three hours, he heard a key turn a lock in his front door downstairs. Damn, he thought, she's good.

He listened to the sounds of Mrs. Warren climbing the stairs, whistling to herself. He saw her enter the bathroom with her clipboard in her hand.

"Whew!" she commented. "Smells like there's a little boy who has some stinky pants that need changing."

He lowered his eyes in silence. Words couldn't describe how humiliated he felt as he sat tied up in his bathtup with very messy and wet pants. She made it worse by laughing when she looked closer at him.

"Well, I hope you don't mind my pronouncing judgment BEFORE we look at your underpants, but I think it's quite safe to say you didn't exactly pass this test." She chuckled again. "I mean, I've seen other little boys fail, but not with so much enthusiasm." She leaned over to inspect him. "You certainly did quite a number on those pants, and it's porbably a blessing that you won't be needing to wear those underpants again at any time in the near future. I don't even WANT to know what color they are now. Deal?" she asked cheerfully as she packed her timer and monitor into her little black bag.

He couldn't speak. He was simply mortified. That this could happen at all, that anyone would see him, that she would make fun of him. It was all so terrible.

She sat on the toilet lid to talk to him, then saw his expression and knew his feelings. "Oh, don't worry, little boy," she said, reaching over to stroke his hair maternally. "As I said, I've had lots of boys fail my test. You weren't the first. And likewise, you won't be the first to wear diapers for me, either. It doesn't have to be a big deal at all, if you just accept it. Life goes on, even if you have an accident, and even if you're wearing diapers."

"But..." Doug tried to speak for the first time. "But I really don't NEED to wear diapers," he insisted, nearly in tears. "I'm NOT incontinent."

"Uh, huh, of course you aren't," Mrs. Warren said with a patronizing lilt. "But your pants might want to argue with you. Maybe we don't understand what incontinent means," she suggested gently.

"No," he said acidly. "I know exactly what it means. I'm just saying that I had horrible luck today. I'm sick, I think, and I had a lot of beer last night. I...I never have accidents normally," he sputtered with exasperation.

"No, you're not sick," she replied. "Part of it was the diaper juice."

"What?"

"The diaper juice," she repeated. This was always tricky. "It wasn't Gatorade you drank, though it is very similar. It had a touch of a mild laxative in it," she lied. Giving a hint of the truth often helped her credibility. But she found it best to keep him doubting his ability to stay clean and dry. He'll be easier in the short run if he wonders whether he actually needs the diapers.

"I like to call it diaper juice because it helps me decide who needs diapers. You see, it doesn't make everyone soil their pants, just those with some underlying incontinence. If your sphincters are a little weak anyway, this stuff will tip you over the edge, and you'll have an accident. Or two," she added, noting the wetness in his pants as well.

"My company has spent a lot of time testing this drink, and we've found that the vast majority of people are a little `challenged' by the test, but that they stay clean and dry with no real problems. Only those we know by other tests to be incontinent had a soiling problem. It turns out to be quite a valid test," she concluded. She had phrased that well. He ought to believe that story. "Of course, that doesn't reeally explain why you wet your pants as well. The diaper juice doesn't have anything in it to cause that. You did that on your own," she lied.

As Doug heard this, Mrs. Warren's words made his head spin. So, it had been a laxative, but he should have been able to hold it. But he didn't, so was he really incontinent? And he had peed in his pants, too, so that juice wasn't entirely to blame. He didn't know what to think. He had to admit, it sounded like he had legitimately failed this test. But...but he simply wasn't incontinent. He mumbled this again, since it was his only line of defense.

"That's simply denial," she responded easily. "And I don't blame you for using denial as a defense mechanism. Bladder and bowel control are some of our most elemental skills. It's embarrassing and a little scary when we discover somehow that we have lost it to some degree, even if it's just temporary. I know that you are scared and embarrassed. Now, I can't tell you why you are incontinent, only a doctor can. And Mrs. Sheffield says you've been to see a doctor already about it, so I'll take your word for it, and we don't need to address the reasons WHY you're incontinent. Our job is to deal with it."

Doug cursed himself for having mentioned a doctor in his made-up story about needing diapers last Saturday. But he never thought it would be used against him.

She went on. "But whether you choose to accept it or not, or whether you were aware of it or not, today we have proven that you have a problem with incontinence."

He still felt dizzy. She sounded so reasonable. "But if I AM incontinent, I should have known about it. Right?"

"And I'm sure you did, on some level, but you chose to ignore it, or not to believe it. Perhaps we can find some other earlier clues. Think back. I bet you can remember wetting your bed, or having daytime accidents when you were very little. Right?"

He nodded. He could. But couldn't everyone?

"Studies we have done have shown that our incontinent clients have specific memories like that more often than people with good control. And this makes sense. If you can remember such incidents, you were probably older than most people by the time you gained control, and late bloomers often have trouble throughout life with bladder and bowel control." This was a fabrication she had practiced many times, and it usually had the desired effect. It did here. She could see that it had made him think. Time to hit him with more lies.

"Here's another clue. Another subtle sign of an underlying incontinence problem is if after you pee (and I mean intentionally, in the toilet) you ever have a little problem dribbling into your underpants once you're finished. Normal people don't have this problem, but all of my other little boys do, and it's another pretty sensitive sign." Of course, Mrs. Warren chuckled to herself, how could this boy know that was a lie? Most men didn't examine other men in public restrooms. And indeed, Doug looked shocked. He had thought that a little dribbling was normal. Mrs. Warren smiled. Time to hit him with the big one.

"Finally, psychologists tell us that we sometimes deeply desire things we know we need but which we can't admit we need, out of embarrassment or fear. These desires appear in different ways, but one way incontinent people manifest the desire for additional bladder protection is a sexual attraction to diapers. You mentioned something earlier about this, so I'll bet that's the case with you, and I bet that from an early age you've had a fetish for diapers. It may seem perverted to you, or embarrassing, so you probably haven't told a lot of people. But the fact is that this is your unconscious telling you that you have a serious problem, and that if you aren't going to fix it consciously, your unconscious will help you fix it automatically. It's true, isn't it? You've secretly worn diapers before, haven't you?"

She was looking at him with such a knowing expression. Doug nodded slowly as she nodded with him. Yes, of course he'd worn diapers. Was this why he liked them?

Mrs. Warren smiled. That was one thing she could count on. All of these poor boys wanted to know why they liked diapers, and they tended to believe any credible reason you gave them.

"You see, you've always had this problem, and you've always wanted help, but have been too afraid or embarrassed to get it. Not anymore. From now on, you'll get the help you need, Doug. And to make it easier on your ego, I'm not going to give you a choice. Sometimes we can't admit what we need, but we still need it. You may not be able to tell me you need to wear diapers, but you have all the symptoms of incontinence, and we proved today that you have a problem.

"Now, it would be nice if you could admit you have a problem, so that we can work together to fix it. Working together is so much nicer than struggling with each other, and my experience is that it helps you more to admit your problem and cooperate with me. But I must tell you that it is hardly necessary for you to help me. It's far more pleasant for you if you cooperate, but one way or another you'll be wearing your diapers like a good little boy."

She reached into her black bag, drew out a camera, and before Doug could object, she took several pictures of him as he sat in his obviously wet and messy pants in the tub.

"What are you doing?" he cried. Evidence of his experience today was the last thing he wanted. He thought of his job, his grad program application.

"Now just relax," she cooed, replacing her camera. "These pictures won't find their way anywhere important if you behave yourself. They are more as an insurance policy for me. As I said, I'm not going to give you the option of not participating in this program. I know your tendency is to avoid the issue of your incontinence, but I'm very serious about forcing you to confront it, or at the very least, to control it. The pictures will just help me make sure you'll stay in my program."

That was bad news indeed. This woman was arming herself with more and more weapons, Doug saw. How could he avoid this catastrophe?

"Okay," Mrs. Warren said, noting that the pictures had the desired effect. She would take more pictures later, and they would be her trump card for this fellow. "The next order of business is signing a contract for your personal incontinence control program, or ICP. After we do that, we can get you a little more comfortable." With that, she showed him her clipboard, which had on it an official-looking document with a space to sign his name. Doug got a sudden feeling of panic. He couldn't sign. This was it, the last nail in his coffin. If he signed this, he'd never be able to get out of this program thing.

So he shook his head. "I'm not signing," he said defiantly.

Mrs. Warren took the clipboard back and shook her head. "Your choice," she clucked. "You don't have to sign now." Doug was relieved. Maybe there was some way out of this. "But I will tell you that you don't move from that tub until I have your John Hancock on this page. As long as you're comfortable, you don't have to sign. You want to sit for a while?"

Doug grimaced. He couldn't bear sitting here any more. But...

When he didn't answer immediately, Mrs. Warren stood. "Fine," she said. "I'll check back in a little while, after I've prepared your apartment. If you're not ready to sign by then, I can leave you until tomorrow morning. I've certainly got plenty of time, you won't starve before then, and you don't exactly need special bathroom facilities. And if you get thirsty, I've always got some Gatorade you could have." He heard her chuckling as she went downstairs.

When he was alone he lifted himself up a little and relieved himself once more into his pants. He had had cramps throughout that conversation but had held on until she left. That would have been way too embarrassing.

Now what could he do? She had him by the balls, he knew. She had blackmail material, and he couldn't sit here forever. He was so stiff and sore and generally uncomfortable that even a dry diaper sounded like a dream to him. This lady was too good, and right now she had him right where she wanted him. He had to sign the paper. There was no way around it. He dejectedly accepted this over the next few moments.

More disturbing was the thought she had planted in his head about actually being incontinent. It didn't sound possible, but she made it sound obvious. And if it was true, did he have any business objecting to this ICP thing?

But his bladder and bowel control was fine, he thought. He never had an accident. He'd never needed diapers before. And yet, why did he always want them? His head spun with the implications, and he was far too hungry and uncomfortable to sort it all out. He'd be best off if he signed the damn paper, got out of this tub, and got her out of his house. Then he could think about it all he needed to, and devise some way to get out of this whole mess. He couldn't think of any ways now, but there had to be some escape.

He listened to the sounds of the house while he waited for her to return. He heard the front door open and close several times, and Mrs. Warren made several trips up and down the stairs as well. He heard bags ripping, and the downstairs toilet flush. He had no idea what was going on. And honestly, he didn't care. His mind was set on getting out of here. So when Mrs. Warren finally reappeared in the bathroom and asked if he was interested in joined her ICP, Doug nodded vigorously.

"Good," she said, and held out her clipboard.