Despite the embarrassment, I let Mrs. Watkins help me finish dressing. She held my slacks open just below knee level and I stepped into each leg which she pulled up so they cleared my feet. After pulling the waist all the way up she patted the diaper bulk and then zipped and fastened the pants. After a little more tugging and patting she stood up.

“Looks good in the front, Michael, no bulge at all. Turn around so I can check your behind.”

All very matter of fact until she adjusted the back. She spent what seemed like a very long time rubbing the back of my slacks, presumably to smooth out any bumps, but her hand frequently lingered and she actually squeezed more than once. It wasn’t unpleasant, and definitely not erotic or anything like that. Nor was it especially pleasant when I thought about someone old enough to be my mother fondling my ass. Sorting out my feelings took enough attention from the process that Mrs. Watkin’s voice brought me back to the here and now.

“There you go, Michael. No bumps or lumps or extra creases.” Her voice was bright and cheery. “Slip on your shoes and you’ll be ready to go.”

She left the changing room before me and was back behind her counter when I emerged. With a half-hearted, “thank you” and limp wave I headed for the door hoping I did not appear to be in the rush I was in.

“Mr. Lane,” the pharmacist said, but I missed it.

“Michael,” was spoken sharply, not harshly or angrily, but with authoritative emphasis.

My stomach knotted up, but I turned towards Mrs. Watkins to see what other embarrassment she might have for me. She was dangling the bag with my prescription inside.

“Forget something, Michael?” Her voice was back to bright and cheery, and her smile brought some sunshine into the waiting area.

“Oh, yeah,” I said without enthusiasm and stepped back inside. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Watkins. I don’t know where my mind was.”

I tried to laugh it off as simple absent-mindedness, but she wasn’t finished teasing me. She pulled the bag back just enough that I had to step closer until I was stopped by the counter. When my fingers closed around the small bag Mrs. Watkins did not release it.

“Have you decided which style of protection you’d like to try, Michael?” Friendly but all business, now. “I can have your choice delivered to your door this afternoon at no additional charge, and I guarantee no one will even guess what’s in the package.”

Caught off guard yet again, I started to say I’d pass on buying any today but was cut off for being so slow to answer.

“How about this, Michael? I’ll fix up a variety pack for you, a few days’ worth of each style in the size you tried on, and in about a week you can give me a call to let me know what you decide.”

“Uh, sure,” I said. She released the bag but not me. She wanted what was due.

“Just tap your card,” she said pointing to the card reader next to the register. Prescription copay and what appeared to be a reasonable fee for the promised underwear, and no apparent fee for the two used pieces. I tapped, touched the on-screen button for an emailed receipt rather than wait for a printed one.

“Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Watkins.” No more fumbling for what to say, no more waiting for something else, and I didn’t wait for a reply. I walked out of the pharmacy and then almost ran to my car.

As a freelance writer I worked from home and didn’t have to take the day off work for my doctor’s appointment, so I could take my time driving home. Even with the air conditioning blasting away, I sweated under the plastic of the protective brief, and the absorbent material seemed to cling to my skin in several areas when I pulled into my garage and slid out of my car. After taking the first capsule I put the medicine bottle beside my coffee maker where I’d see it first thing in the morning. Then I started wondering.

How long was I supposed to wear a clean diaper? How would I know when it was ready to be changed? Did I have to wear it to bed? Was I supposed to use it to urinate rather than using the toilet? It wasn’t as though I was having actual accidents, just some excessive dribbles after shaking, and the occasional unfelt dribble between bathroom visits – was I overthinking this? I felt pretty stupid.

After filling a glass with water, I carried it into my home office and turned on my computer. I worked from home whenever I needed to or wanted to. I needed to check some specs on two projects we were working on, and decided to do it so I wouldn’t have to worry about it the rest of the weekend. I leaned back in my chair and relaxed for a couple of minutes before starting.

An hour later my eyes flew open as the sweat around my groin actually flowed, warm and almost thick. Two, three, maybe five seconds passed before everything came rushing out of my memory. Although the flow had stopped I knew, then, it wasn’t perspiration I’d felt, and I jumped out of my chair cupping my crotch. Soggy, squishy, and still warm, as though my balls were cupped in a fuzzy wash cloth.

“Someone rang your doorbell,” my security display chimed.

“Someone rang your doorbell,” it reminded me just seconds later.

“Someone rang your doorbell.” And again. I touched the display to turn on the video. Mrs. Watkins was at the door, but I didn’t see a car in the driveway or parked at the curb. She pushed the button again with her free hand.

“Someone rang your doorbell,” was becoming an irritating chant.

I touched the microphone icon, “Uh, hello, Mrs.Watkins. I, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” I was almost stuttering. “Uh, I’ll be r right out.”

“Take your time, Mr. Lane,” she said setting down two large shopping bags. “But it is a warm day, so it’s a good thing this is my last delivery today.”

I didn’t think about the diaper I’d just flooded until my hand was on the doorknob. I didn’t feel anything that might be a leak, so I opened the door then pushed the storm door open a crack planning to take the bags and then clean myself up.

Mrs. Watkins pried the storm door all the way open, picked up the bags and pushed her way past me into my living room.

“Where would you like your diapers, Michael?” she asked in her non-nonsense voice. “Kitchen? Bedroom?”

“If you put them right there on the floor next to the stairs, Mrs. Watkins, that will be fine.” She didn’t move. “Then you can get back to your shop?”

Mrs. Watkins finally put both bags on the floor and then stared at my crotch as she straightened up. She seemed to smirk before asking, “Do you think you might spare a glass water, Michael? It’s such a hot day and I’ve spend quite a bit of time waiting at front doors for clients to accept their deliveries.”

I gladly accepted the chance to make sure I didn’t have any wet spots on my slacks or other indications I’d leaked. “Of course, I’ll be right back,” I said then rushed into the kitchen.

First thing I did was rub my hand on the front of my slacks looking for evidence of leaking liquid. I still couldn’t bring myself to even think of what happened during that cat nap as pissing in the brief, but I had to check. Feeling no wetness, I looked down, as well as possible, looking for any dark or wet spots. But the bulky wetness inside the brief was still there and cooling at the edges.

Feeling relatively safe I grabbed a bottle of water from the ‘fridge and returned to the living room to find Mrs. Watkins comfortably ensconced in my recliner, further from the door than the sofa or matching armchair which was even closer to the door than the sofa. Without a word I broke the cap seal and held the bottle out for her.

“I’m sorry, dear, I thought I asked for a glass of water,” she said. After a meaningful pause, “Would you mind, Michael, getting a glass for me?”

Unsure whether to be offended, embarrassed, or just flustered by the thinly veiled demand I rushed back into the kitchen and quickly grabbed a glass from the cupboard over the sink counter. Not crystal, but a sturdy glass glass. I studied it for a minute, somehow concerned that there were no fingerprints, water spots, or any other marks that Mrs. Watkins might find as a reason to admonish me again. Satisfied with cleanliness and appearance, I carried it gingerly back to the living room and handed it to Mrs. Watkins.

Instead of accepting the glass, she held out the bottled water.

Unsure what the game was, I silently grasped the glass, poured water into it, and handed the now full glass back to her. I really couldn’t recall being this nervous and unsure of myself since kindergarten.

Please, Michael, sit down and calm yourself,” Mrs. Watkins said, “relax for a minute. And, for heaven’s sake, dear, stop with the “Mrs. I’ve already seen everything you have to offer, so, maybe Debbie, or even Miss Debbie, if you prefer, is in order.” I sat on the sofa

“I don’t bite,” she said, “not too hard, anyway.” She laughed quietly, tipped her glass towards me, and then tasted her water.

I tipped the plastic bottle in her direction then took a small sip of the remaining ounces of water. A moment of silence sat between us like the proverbial elephant in the room. Chasing the critter away, I asked, “Are you this friendly with all your customers? Mrs. Watkins.” I emphasized friendly for want of a better word.

“Oh, definitely not, dear,” she said. “Only for the few attractive and delightful clients who pique my interests. I mean, I try to be friendly and cheerful with all my customers, but occasionally someone as cute and delicious as you are stir the mother in me. We should face it, Michael, you need help. And I can give you what you need.”

What I needed was for Mrs. Watkins to leave, and I mean right now.

“Um, what do you think I need, Miss…Mrs. Watkins.” I kept my voice level and matter-of-fact despite the flock of butterflies in my stomach. I downed the remainder of the water.

More silence as we considered each other. I had to admit, she was easy on the eyes, maybe even beautiful, but a bit too old for me. I figured I wanted to be with someone I could grow old with, not someone who would be gone before I reach ‘old’. But Debbie Watkins was definitely beautiful.

“You need someone to guide you, Michael, someone to take care of you in those quiet intimate moments, someone to care for you even when you can’t see them.” Mrs. Watkins stared at me over the rim of her glass as she drank.

Bewildered, I had to ask, “Guide me? Take care of me? Really, Mrs. Deb…Mrs. Watkins, I am an adult, I operate a successful business, I have been taking care of myself for years.” No response so I continued. “I’ve tried to be hospitable, but you keep implying I’m something I’m not. What kind of game are you playing?”

“No game, Michael,” she said matter-of-factly. “Didn’t you tell me you’re a writer? Perhaps I could offer you a side job writing for me?”

I could not recall telling her what I did for a living, but maybe I had. But the whipsaw effect was almost scary. First she wanted to take care of me, and now wants to hire me?

Mrs. Watkins stood up, “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable in your own home, Michael, so I think it best if I leave for now.

I walked her the few steps to the front door and held it open for her. The wet diaper hung on my hips like a lead weight and she couldn’t leave fast enough.

“Let me make it up to you, Michael. Will you have dinner with me tonight, say around seven-ish? Very informal.”

I was thinking burgers and fries, and I could easily beg off, but I had to pee again and I didn’t think the diaper would hold it. I had to get her out of here. “Uh, sure, Mrs. Watkins. Where?” I was close to dancing.

“Why, at my home, silly boy.”

“Where do you live?”

Same place as the day you moved in here six weeks ago, Michael, right next door.”