Tamara Pooped Her Pants [Tier 3]

Need something else to read? Check out the index of stories.

You’ve probably heard the rumors–I know I’ve heard a few versions of the story circulating. I’d say they’re all mostly true–none of the incorrect details are really pertinent. The important parts seem pretty well preserved in most tellings.

See, I was there when it happened. I can confirm: Tamara did, in fact, poop her pants at Chrissy Baldoni’s party last Saturday night.

It doesn’t matter that it was an accident–because it absolutely was–this sort of thing absolutely wrecks someone’s social standing. Remember John Rutlan? The kid fudged his khaki’s in fifth grade and people still laugh at him about it now.

If there’s an upside to the incident, it might be that highschool is over. Sure, Tamara will probably become a punchline for a certain group of young locals, but it’s a story that probably doesn’t have to follow her around. When she goes back to college, she’ll be away from the story. She doesn’t have to come to another party when she visits home. She can choose to live anywhere else in the world. In the long run, she’ll be fine.

For now? Well, shit, this was probably pretty fucking devestating.

So what happened? Okay, I don’t know what stories you’ve heard, but let me tell you what actually happened.

Like I said, I was there. Standing right next to her, in fact. By design, really–we had spent most of the evening together. People often call us ‘inseparable,’ but that sometimes feels like they’re actually saying that we’re ‘codependent.’ We can function just fine without each other, thank you very much. We just happen to like hanging out together. All the time. Still, after all these years of friendship.

If I’m being honest, the party was a total wash. Other people might tell you that they had fun, but those are probably the people who had the most to drink. They probably just don’t remember how boring it was. All the music was coming from one tiny little Bluetooth speaker in the living room, connected to whoever was currently using Chrissy’s phone. Every five minutes, a song would get interrupted because someone didn’t like what was playing, so they’d swipe the phone and stream something else instead. You’d get two minutes of a dance track, then it’d stop and you’d get three minutes of some hip hop song. Then, suddenly, that would get interrupted by some jokester who wanted to blast death metal.

There was barely any food. A few bags of chips and some cookies was all I saw–and they were gone within the first hour. From there, well, it was hours of drinking, with nothing in people’s belly to soak up the booze.

I know everyone’s talking about Tamara pooping her pants, but you know what I don’t see people talking about? That there were so many people throwing up. I thank all the gods and goddesses that I didn’t have to see what that back yard looked like in the morning sun–there was a point where it sounded like there were four or five people behind the house at once, all horking into bushes and shrubbery.

So, anyway. The party sucked. Tamara and I weren’t exactly sober, but we were barely elevated beyond ‘buzzed.’ We kept talking about leaving the party sooner and grabbing some food, but everytime we started to gather ourselves to head out, someone would come and talk to us. Somehow, we ended up drifting further and further from the front door, until we were with a small group of people in the kitchen.

Now, a little context. Tamara had told me–before the party even started–that she hadn’t been feeling 100%. Nothing too serious, she didn’t think–just an upset tummy. She thought she’d be okay, so long as she didn’t eat or drink too much. Well, she didn’t eat a single thing at the party, and she had, like, two beers. And if you know Tamara, you know that it doesn’t take much to get her a little wobbly.

So she’s a little tipsy and her stomach is bothering her. We should have just left. We wanted to, but like I said, conversations just kept happening–and they felt like conversations we needed to be a part of. We were in the kitchen, listening to Adrian spill some tea about the ongoing saga of Robbie and Johanna. Tamara lifted herself up onto the counter to sit–or, at least, what she thought was the counter. It was actually the lip of the sink, and she almost tumbled backwards into it. She didn’t, though that didn’t stop all of us–herself included–from giggling at her trying to maintain her balance. For whatever reason, she chose to stay there instead of moving to another part of the counter–remaining perched on the shallow piece of countertop that supported the lip of the sink.

As Tamara herself would later tell me, her stomach had gone from sour to pained over the course of the party. She had a sense of what was needed to relieve some of that pain–but she wasn’t about to commit the party-foul of taking a big ol’ shit in Chrissy Baldoni’s bathroom. Her plan was that we’d leave, and wherever we ended up stopping for food, that’s where she’d unleash hell upon whatever public toilet there was.

In the meantime, she needed to release something, or else she thought her abdomen would pop like a balloon. So there, perilously dangling above the kitchen sink, Tamara thought she might let out a little gas. Just a quick little release to bring the pressure down. Probably not the best idea–she’d be the first to admit that–but she also wasn’t thinking completely straight.

And so she did it. Or at least she tried to do it. You know what happened next.

“Never trust a fart,” my grandfather always told me. It always sounded like wisdom he had learned first-hand in his life.

I guess Tamara had never heard that advice.

I’m tempted to just glaze over the next part, since most of you can probably imagine what I mean when I say “Tamara pooped her pants.” But, also, if I’m going to tell the whole story, it seems only fair that I give my account of that fateful moment too.

So she farted. It wasn’t a fart, of course, but that’s what she thought it was going to be. Everyone in the kitchen heard it, and everyone heard that it was much worse than just a fart. It was loud, almost trumpet-like. And it sounded wet. I don’t even know how to explain it. Like…someone with a cold, blowing their nose into an already-damp tissue?

No, I don’t think that’s right.

It was just…wet-sounding. Obviously wet. Cameron would later use the word ‘squelchy’ to describe the sound, which sounded as good as anything that I could come up with.

So we all heard it, and we all knew what it meant.

I spoke first, a hushed whisper to my best while I was momentarily under the delusion that I was the only one who had heard it: “Tamara, did you just…”

“Shit,” she muttered–maybe to me, or maybe just to herself. “I…I think I just…uhm...”

The reaction from everyone else in the room seemed to be split between amusement and concern. Myself, Cameron, and Sophie–we were the concerned ones, leaping into her face to ask what we can do to help. But everyone else–Adrian, Max, Bernice, Olly…and probably a lot of other people whose faces are blurry in my memory now, were all laughing.

I was in crisis mode. First thing’s first–she had to get back down on the ground again. “Cameron. Can you pick her up?”

“You want me to carry her?” he asked.

“No, no. Just…get her off the counter. But, like, carefully.” I could’ve elaborated as to why he’d need to be careful, but I think he got the jist of it.

Of all the people that were there to witness Tamara’s accident, I was glad that Cameron was one of them. He was as strong as he was nice–and he was a very nice guy. He was the exception in our otherwise-female friend circle. Was he gay, or just too polite to make a move on the women he was friends with? No one could say, and it seemed best not to question it.

Cameron slid his hands underneath Tamara’s arms. I expected her to fight him off–when sober, she could be feisty and fiercely independent. Now, however, she was pretty docile. Looking at her face, as Cameron lifted her body straight up from the edge of the counter like she was a ragdoll, she looked pretty…infantile.

I hate to say it, but that’s the word I keep coming back to. This little girl with stinky pants, being hoisted around like she weighed nothing.

“Come on,” I said–I was talking to both Tamara and our allies now, “let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” Sophie said. “We should, like, see if Chrissy will let us use her bathroom.”

Of course, in the seconds that had passed since Tamara’s wet explosion into the back of her pants, word had spread across the entire party. It might have even spread beyond the party. Strangers in Minsk might have caught wind of what Tamara had done. So, at the moment that Sophie had asked that, Chrissy herself was in the kitchen’s doorway, her face bright red and her eyes narrowed.

“Absolutely fucking not,” she hissed. She extended a judgmental finger towards Tamara. “Get that out of here. She fucking stinks.”

There’s no denying that. Whatever Tamara had done in her pants was absolutely foul.

“Can we just use your shower?” I asked. I already knew what the answer was going to be–there was a good chance that Chrissy wasn’t happy that Tamara and I were here at her party in the first place. The three of us never did get along that well during high school. “It’s kind of an emergency.

“Yeah, well it’s kind of not my problem,” Chrissy shrugged. Was she smirking? “Get your smelly friend out of here and go buy her some diapers.” Everyone else in the kitchen laughed at this. Admittedly, if it wasn’t my responsibility to take care of Tamara, I’d have laughed too. Poopy pants and diaper jokes–I get it.

“Come on,” I say again.

I lead the way, with Tamara slowly waddling behind me, with Cameron and Sophie holding up the rear. A cloud of ripe stench seems to hover around our little gang as we push our way through the party. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I'm feeling the embarrassment myself now. Everyone at the party has chosen a side, and I’m one of the few who chose the side of the girl who pooped herself.

I can hear everyone giggling and whispering as we walk past them. It almost seems silly that they’re trying to whisper–they all need to be loud enough so that they can be heard over the sound of everyone else gossiping.

“Did she really shit herself?”

“Oh. Oh yeah. Look. Look at the back of her pants.”

“Holy cow.”

“That’s so fucking gross.”

“Can you even imagine?”

“If that was me? I’d just get on a spaceship and leave the planet.”

At this point, we’re in the part of the story that you haven’t heard. The scenes that continued past where every story you’ve heard ended.

We were outside–where we had to face an entirely new debacle.

“What now?” I asked.

“We need to take her somewhere to get cleaned up,” Sophie said.

“Guys,” Tamara said. “I think I pooped my pants…”

“Yes,” I said to her, rolling my eyes. “Welcome to five minutes ago.”

“I didn’t drive tonight,” Cameron said, shrugging.

“And there’s no way she can sit in my car like that,” Sophie said, pointing to her pants.

Up to this point, I hadn’t actually seen the extent of the havoc caused to Tamara’s pants, but it seemed like something I should be aware of.

And, well, that was every bit the mess I feared it would be. Probably worse, honestly. There was a dark brown splotch that covered most of the ass of her pale-blue jeans, with brown streaks coursing down the back of her thighs. The real star of this crime scene, though, was the visible lump in the back of her pants–an honest-to-god lump of mush jutting out from ass.

“Wow,” I said to Tamara. “You really did a number on yourself.”

“I-is it bad?” Tamara asked, her eyes welling with tears.

“It’s not good.”

“Maybe I have some towels in the backseat,” Sophie said.

“I dunno,” I said. “Do you really think it's a good idea for her to sit on that?”

Cameron and Sophie both grimaced, no doubt imagining the new mess that would result.

“Wait,” I said to Cameron. “You walked here, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And how far away is that?”

“I’m like, I dunno, ten minutes down that way,” he said pointing down the road.

“Do you think we could, like, take her to your place? Clean her up there?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “My mom probably isn’t going to be home for a while yet. My sister is probably there…but she’s probably stoned.”

“Tamara? Do you think you can walk ten minutes?”

Tamara’s only response was a noncommittal shrug, which seemed as good as anything.

“Alright, how about this for a plan,” I said. “Cameron and I will escort Tamara back to his house. Sophie, how drunk are you?”

“Like, not at all.”

“So you can drive? We need new pants for Tamara to change into.”

“Where am I going to get those?”

“Her and I are practically the same size,” I said. “You can just go back to my place and get some pants. Literally any pair will do.”

“What about, uh, panties?”

“Oh…yeah. I guess we’ll need some of those too. Take some from my room too. But, like, the clean ones in the upper left-hand drawer of my dresser.”

I wasn’t entirely comfortable with Sophie rifling through my things–especially my panties–to find something to change Tamara into, but it seemed like a better solution than anything else I could come up with on the fly. Still, Sophie understood the assignment and sprinted off in the direction of her car.

“Does she know where you live?” I asked Cameron.

He shrugged.

“Well…we’ll cross that bridge when we get there, I guess.”

All that was left to do at that point was get Tamara over to Cameron’s place. While a ten minute walk didn’t seem that arduous, you probably haven’t ever had to make that walk with a tipsy girl in poopy pants before.

“How long have we been walking?” she whined.

“Like, literally a minute,” I told her.

“I need to piss,” Tamara sighed.

Cameron and I looked at each other and did our best to assess the environment. Was it feasible to let her try and pull her pants down and piss on the side of the road?

“If you get your pants off, I don’t think you’re going to want to put them back on again,” I said. “Are you sure you can’t hold it?”

“Pretty sure,” Tamara said, a little more panic in her eyes.

“Look, you’re not going to like what I have to say,” Cameron said. “But I think you just need to…let it go.”

Tamara grimaced immediately, though I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Yes, that’s the point. She needs to let it go. We need to find a place where she can piss and…”

“No,” Cameron said. “I meant, like, she should just go in her pants.”

“Oh,” I said, looking over to Tamara’s bashful face.

“I’m just saying,” he continued. “She already made a mess out of them. What harm is there in just wetting in them too? Those pants need to be burned later anyway.”

“I hate to admit, but I think he’s right,” I said to her. “Do you think you can do that? Can you just…piss?”

She didn’t respond, and the expression on her face hadn’t even changed. I was just about to question whether or not she heard me at all when I saw the dark shape blooming on the front of her pants, between her thighs and spread outwards.

She was pissing herself.

“I, uh, guess that wasn’t a problem,” Cameron shrugged.

Maybe time works differently when you’re watching someone pee their pants, because I couldn’t remember any piss that took as long as the one she was taking. The crotch of her pants were saturated, and soon after, dark streaks ran down the thighs and ankles of her pants until a pool of liquid began to form around her feet on the sidewalk.  I could hear her pissing herself.

“I think that’s it,” Tamara shrugged. The life seemed drained from her. Had she pissed and shit it all out of herself? Or was the humiliation she suffered at the party sinking in and she had become overwhelmingly depressed as a result?

“We’re going to get you cleaned up,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.

“You’re a good friend,” she said, looking up at me with a tiny smile on her face. “You didn’t laugh at me once.”

“N-no,” I said. “That wasn’t funny.”

I’ll tell you what I never told her: It was a little funny. I mean, come on. She pooped her pants. At a party. She was, quite literally, a party pooper. There’s humor there, I think. Humor that gets a little more obvious the further we get from the incident itself.

“I didn’t laugh either,” Cameron shrugged.

“I know,” Tamara said. “Thank you, Cam.”

“Come on,” I said, trying to usher her along. “We’re almost to Cam’s house.”

“I…I need to tell you somethin’,” Tamara said to me in what she probably thought was a whisper.

“Okay?”

“N-no,” she said, looking over at Cameron. “Nevermind. Forget that I said that.”

I looked over to Cameron myself and he just shrugged. I could usually read Tamara pretty well–one of the perks of being lifelong besties–but I wasn’t entirely sure I was picking up what she was trying to put down now.

“Maybe…tell me later?” I asked, keeping my voice low enough that she might think I was being as secretive as she thought she was.

“Good idea,” she nodded.

Cameron and I both looked at each other and shrugged again.

By the time we got to Cameron’s house, Tamara was smelling pretty bad. You could practically see the stink lines emanating from that big lump of poop in the back of her pants, and I was starting to catch faint whiffs of her pee when I breathed near her.

“Hey-o,” Cameron announced loudly when opened the front door. “Jeanie, you around?”

“Yeah, what?” came a voice from somewhere else. It sounded subdued and half-asleep. I had only met Jeanie once or twice. She seemed nice enough, but if I had to pick two words to describe her, I’d probably use subdued and half-asleep. As Cameron would describe her: a professional slacker.

“I’ve got some friends with me, okay? They need to use the bathroom upstairs.”

“Uh, okay? Have fun with that, I guess.”

“Look, could you just, uh, not come upstairs for a while?” he hollered to whatever room Jeanie was in.

“Sure, sure.”

Cameron looked to us and nodded. “Well, there you go. It’s all yours. Y’all don’t need any more help from me, do you?”

I laughed. “Do you want to help hose her down in the backyard?”

“You’re not really gonna do that, are you?”

“It’s not the worst idea,” I shrugged. “But we’ll probably just stick to the shower.”

“Towels are in the linen closet on the other side of the hall from the bathroom,” he said. “I’ll be down here. Lemme know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Cameron,” I said. “I guess just…send Sophie upstairs when she gets here with the new pants.”

“Roger that.”

“And do you have some candles?” I asked, thinking of one last thing.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Maybe start lighting some. She’s gonna stink up the house until we get her cleaned up.”

I escorted Tamara up the steps and down the hallway to the bathroom. Tamara seemed to be sobering up some, but the dreadful condition of her pants seemed to be weighing on her emotionally. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now–reminding me of how piss had streamed down the legs of her pants earlier.

“You okay?” I asked, reaching into the bathroom and turning on the light for her.

“No,” Tamara pouted. “I pooped my pants.”

“You pissed yourself too,” I reminded her. “Uh…not to rub it in. I’m just saying. You really did it all tonight. Kind of impressive.”

She tried to laugh, but it seemed to have gotten caught in her throat while she cried. It caused a strange snorting sound to come from her open mouth.

“I…don’t know what to do,” she said to me.

“You’re going to have to take your pants off and get in the shower and wash up. Sophie should be back soon enough with a new pair of pants for you. Then we can get you home. Or, at the very least, to my place and you can stay the night there.”

“I…I can’t, like, take my pants off,” she said. “They’re messy and gross. I feel like it’s going to make everything worse if I take them off.”

“Well, you’re never going to get clean if you leave them on. And…well, you kind of stink right now.”

“What if…uhm…”

“Hmm?”

“What if you helped me?” she asked.

“You want me to help you take your poopy pants off?”

She nodded. “Uh huh. But also…”

“What else?”

“Can you help me, uhm, wash up?”

I wasn’t expecting her to ask me that, and never in my wildest dreams had I expected there to be a situation where my best friend asked me to help clean their dirty bottom. But, then again, she had had a pretty rough night, and I was her best friend. If you couldn’t ask your best friend to wash your ass, who could you ask?

“Fine,” I said. “But if I ever poop my pants, I’m expecting you to clean up after me. Got it?”

“I guess,” she shrugged.

“Good enough. That’s a binding agreement. Now, come here. Let’s see if we can get these pants off of you without ruining Cameron’s family’s bathroom.”

I squatted down in front of her crotch, the stained and stinking fabric extremely close to my face, and I unbuttoned her pants.

This, I suppose I should disclose, would not be the first time I had ever done this for her. No, she had never pooped her pants before–that I know of, at least. But…there had been some late nights, both on and off the influence of other substances, where we got a little handsy with each other. A little exploratory. One might think that a caboose full of brown sludge would turn all of my hormones off, but no–the second my hands were on her pants, I felt my panties getting damp. Well, fuck.

“I have to pull your pants down your legs,” I said.

“Wh-what about my panties?”

“One thing at a time, Tamara. I…I think they need to stay where they are for the moment. To hold the, uh, mess in place.”

“Oh. Is there…a lot?”

“There’s enough,” I shrugged.

“They said I needed diapers,” Tamara pouted, likely recalling some of the comments from the party.

“Well, crying about it while wearing poopy pants isn’t a great argument that you don’t need diapers,” I teased.

“That was mean,” she said. “I’m not a baby.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Huh?”

“Who poops their pants, huh? Big girls? Or baby girls?”

She didn’t say anything, but her sneer said enough. But I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t think I could get away with. I know Tamara, and I have a pretty good sense for what makes her tick. She likes feeling small. Powerless. She likes someone else being in control. And what was more powerless than a baby?

I really thought I was onto something here, so I didn’t relent. “Look at you, with your yucky panties. You really should be in diapers. Maybe I ought to call Sophie, hmm? I’ll tell her not to bother with picking up pants–she needs to get you diapers instead.”

“N-no…” Tamara said, her voice meek. But I could hear it in her quiet tone–she was warming to the idea. Just a little.

“I mean, look, I already have to clean up after you. Like a baby.”

“I…I’m not a…” But she couldn’t finish that thought.

“Go on,” I cooed up to her as I slowly peeled her pants off of her, “tell me what you are.”

“A…baby?”

“I dunno, Tamara. You tell me.”

Tamara didn’t respond, her cheeks just turned red as she clammed up. She stepped out of her soiled pants and I balled them up, shoving them into the trash can under the sink. When we were done here, we’d need to take the whole damn trash bag with us. This left her in just her panties–absolutely ruined, of course. Once, they were a cute light-pink color. Now, they were soaking wet in the front, and mucky in the back. Beads of moisture were still trickling down her legs from the panties, while some of her mess seemed to be creeping close to the leg bands. As much as I wanted to take in this scene a little longer, this didn’t seem like the time or the place.

“Come on,” I said. “You need to step into the tub so I can turn the shower on.”

“But…my panties…”

“We have a better chance of containing any further messes if you take those off in the bathtub.”

She shrugged, seeming to agree with me by waddling forward and stepping into the bathtub. “What now?”

I bit my tongue, but what I wanted to say was: “Are you so pathetic that you don’t know how to clean yourself?” Maybe I could’ve even gotten away with it, but I wasn’t sure enough.

Instead, I grabbed her shirt and pulled it up and off of her body. Next came her bra. Again, it wouldn’t be the first time I had unlatched Tamara’s bra for her, nor the first time I had seen her cute little B-cups, but it was hitting a little differently tonight. It felt naughtier, for sure.

I ran the hot water, letting the water run from the faucet for a few moments to heat up before I’d turn the shower on. There was a washcloth hanging from a hook on the wall. I wasn’t sure who it belonged to, and maybe later someone would wonder why their washcloth was gone. But I had to do what I had to do.

“I’m sorry,” Tamara whined.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For…pooping my pants.”

“Stop,” I said. “It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

“But you shouldn’t have to spend your night cleaning up after me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to be here. I’m happy to help.”

“I’m…kinda helpless, huh?”

We were both smirking now. I offered a playful shrug.

She continued: “Kind of like a…baby?”

I didn’t answer her, instead, turning the showerhead on. Steamy water quickly cascaded over Tamara, running down her body and then towards the drain. As the water ran through her ruined panties, it turned brown.

“I’m going to pull your panties down,” I said. “Just step out of them.”

She nodded and I did what I said I would. Between the water from the shower and the weight of Tamara’s mess, I only had to pull them down a little before gravity did the rest of the work and they fell to the base of the tub with a thick SPLAT sound. Tamara didn’t dare look down at the state of her panties, but the sound had been enough to add another layer of crimson to her cheeks.

I grabbed some body soap and lathered up the washcloth and immediately went to work, running it up her thighs and between her legs. Tamara moaned. Not just a little moan, a deep moan that seemed to surprise even her.

“Oh my god…” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the shower. “I’m so sorry. I…I didn’t mean to…”

“Do you like that?” I asked. “Do you like being cleaned?”

“Y-yes.”

“Is it because you’re just a baby?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m…a baby.” She said it again: “I’m a baby.”

“Just a little baby who pooped her pants,” I said, the soapy washcloth sliding up her bottom now. “A little baby who needs help getting cleaned up.”

“Fuck,” Tamara muttered before a short burst of giggles. “I cannot believe this happened.”

I shrugged. “It all seems to have worked out pretty well.”

“Can you, uhm, put the washcloth between my legs again?” Tamara asked. “And…call me a baby again?”

I smiled, slowly sliding the washcloth between her thighs. My mouth opened, but as I was about to speak, there was a knocking at the door.

“Hey.” It was Sophie. “I grabbed some pants and underwear.”

I took the washcloth and pressed it into Tamara’s hands and backed away from the shower. “You’re going to have to do the rest.”

Tamara looked disappointed–I could certainly understand that–but she nodded. I dried my hands off on the towel and left the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the folded pair of sweatpants and some panties from Sophie. The sweatpants were a good call, but I had to laugh at the fact that Sophie grabbed three or four pairs of panties from my drawer. “Did you think we’d need all of these?”

Sophie shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, I guess. How’s she doing?”

“She’s in the shower cleaning up now,” I said. “She’ll be okay.”

“Was it bad?”

No, it was fucking amazing. But I couldn’t say that. “It was pretty bad, yeah.”

Cameron provided a garbage bag, which I left in the bathroom door for Tamara. As much as I wanted to pick up from where we left off, it just didn’t feel right now–not while both Sophie and Cameron were waiting to wrap up this little adventure.

And that was that. Tamara finished her shower, deposited her soiled clothes–and the washcloth, she’d later tell me–in the trash bag, and dried herself off. She slipped into the new panties and sweatpants Sophie brought and put her bra and shirt back on.

Soon, she was amongst us again, and we were all doing our best to avoid talking about what a strange turn the evening had taken. We all just sat around Cameron’s living room, in a mostly dark room, tuning in to whatever cartoon series that Jeanie was watching. She was even nice enough to pass around a joint, giving us all the opportunity to numb ourselves to recent absurdities.

There in the dark room, Tamara and I sat next to each other on the couch. From time to time, when we were both sure that nobody else was looking, our fingers would interlock.

In the days that followed, no reference was made to it. Not amongst anyone in our friend group, not even between Tamara and I. The rumors were out there, of course. Other people were still talking about what Tamara had done, we all knew it. Two days after the party, Jacky Waters sent me a DM on Twitter to ask if I had heard about what Tamara did at the party. I humored her, saying that I hadn’t heard–curious to see what version of the story she had heard. Her truncated story got most of the beats right–Tamara had been perched on the counter, her ass hanging in Chrissy Baldoni’s sink, when she suddenly shit her pants. But that was all she knew. Neither she–nor anyone else–knew what came after that.

Which was fine. The rest of the story, especially what happened when Tamara and I were in Cameron’s bathroom, was private.

Things between Tamara and I continued to be good. We avoided the subject of that night, though–and I hoped it wasn’t just me that had noticed it–we seemed to have grown a little closer. There was this energy in the air around us when we hung out, that neither of us seemed willing to acknowledge. But it was there–and it felt a lot like…potential.

See, there’s one more story connected to the one you might already know. I’ll tell you how it starts, but the rest of it belongs to me and her.

Tamara called me up on Sunday afternoon–the Sunday before she was ready to go back to school–asking if I wouldn’t mind coming over and helping her pack a few things up. I, of course, gave her a little bit of hell for not already having her things packed up, but she already knew that I’d come over in a heartbeat.

The first few minutes, admittedly, felt a little off. She was friendly and mostly seemed like herself, but it also felt like there was something she wasn’t saying–something she was being coy about. I tried, once or twice, to just be straight-forward and ask if something was up, but she danced around my questions while insisting everything was fine.

But then I heard something as she shuffled past me with a pile of books in her hand–a subtle rustling sound coming from her pants. I felt a jolt in my chest as I wondered if it was what I hoped it was. Could I just…ask? “Hey. Are you wearing a diaper? Because it sounds like you’re wearing a diaper.”

I decided not to say anything. She’s the one who asked me to come over, and she was the one wearing the diaper under her pants. When she was ready to say something to me about it–and I felt confident that she would–I’d be ready for it.

It took a while to get to that moment, but it would eventually come. We had just collapsed on her couch under the guise of taking a break–though we both knew that we probably weren’t going to do anything productive for the rest of the day–when she said: “Can I show you something?”

I had a feeling–a hope–that I knew what it was already, but I played along: “Of course.”

She stood up and stepped in front of me. “So…I know we haven’t really talked about the party the other night.”

“And we don’t have to, if you still don’t want to,” I said.

“I…do,” she said. “Actually, I wanted to tell you that I've been thinking about it a lot.”

I had been too, but I didn’t want to say too much yet. I wanted to see where she was going with this first. “Oh yeah? What have you been thinking about?”

“Y-you called me a baby, remember? You said that I should be in, uhm, diapers.”

I felt myself smirking, though I tried not to give myself away just yet. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

Her face reddened. “I mean…I was just thinking about how, like, you were washing me. And saying those things about me and…”

“Did you like it?” I asked. “Did you like being called a baby? Being told you should wear a diaper?”

She took a deep breath as she considered how to answer that question. The poor girl was squirming, while I just grinned like a little devil.

As much as I wanted to see how long I could keep this going, I thought it’d be best to ease her mind. “I think about it a lot, Tamara. If I’m being honest, I’d love to see you in a diaper.”

“Well, uhm, I have something to show you,” she said, her cheeks blushing on either side of a big smile. She fooled with the waistband of her pants until she could pull them down, revealing a thick white disposable diaper. “Ta-da!”

“Oh wow,” I said. It looked even better than I could’ve imagined. It was big. Enormous. Almost too big for her. I wanted to know everything about it–where she got it, how many she had, and how long she had them for.

“But…that’s not actually what I wanted to show you.”

“No?”

And that’s when Tamara pooped her pants. Again. But this time, it was for me.