Trigger Happy - Commission

Thanks to our new Gold-Tier patron Contentfromtheshadowrealm for commissioning this one!

Today. Today is the day.

Warm sunshine? Check. Spotless blue sky? Check. Carefully stocked Paw Patrol backpack? Check, check, and check.

I am unzipping it now, a slight tremble in my fingers as the red plastic teeth part, revealing the pulse-quickening contents within. Three medium diapers, each with its matching booster. A pair of plastic pants, just in case. A little container of powder and a matching bottle of lotion. A tattered pink elephant plushie. And of course, my beloved dummy, red and rubbery and perfect.

Yes, I'm ready. Or at least my bag is, though the clock says I should be, too. So on go my Velcro shoes, and closed goes the backpack, and over my shoulder it goes. Can't keep Miss Emmy waiting! Out I trot to the car, wondering nervously if anyone finds it odd to see their neighbor, a full-grown man in his early thirties, heading out to town in a curiously youthful ensemble of colorful shirt, denim shortalls, and bright yellow shoes.

It's a long drive across town, and longer in the morning rush hour. I glance over at the backpack in the passenger seat beside me, half wishing that I would have replaced the triple-thick training pants currently hidden under my shortalls with something a bit more... substantial. But Miss Emmy has told me very clearly what I may and may not wear. And I can't disobey Miss Emmy... not today, of all days.

Because today is the day I'll finally find out what she and her magical voice have been doing to me - I mean, for me - these past few months.

***

"Look at that, sweetie - there's the gate! Aren't you so very excited?"

Miss Emmy's voice is beautiful: just as I know it from my nightly ritual, as it has lulled me gently down into trance. I look over at her now, still finding it difficult to match the voice I have come to know with the plain, yet confident middle-aged woman beside me. On the street I wouldn't have known her to be anything other than your typical soccer mom or interior decorator. It's when she speaks that the tingles spread involuntarily up my spine and over my scalp, reminding me of the enormous hidden power she has over me...

I nod mutely. We're nearly at the security checkpoint, and I'm conscious now more than ever of the subtle waddle in my gait - the inevitable result of Miss Emmy's ministrations upon my arrival at her suburban home. How it is that not an hour ago I'd found myself on the floor of her makeshift nursery... allowing this woman I'd never met in real life to pull down my shortalls and training pants... to wrap me up in one of my diapers "just to make sure I didn't have to worry about big boy stuff"... well, I'm not quite sure. But here I am now, about to discover whether security really is as lenient as she says.

They are. For in a mere thirty heart-pounding seconds, the burly security officer looks us over, checks Miss Emmy's purse, and prods the crinkling contents of my backpack before waving us curtly forward. What he might think of us, we will never know. But if Miss Emmy is to be believed, that isn't worth even worrying about.

"Littles come here all the time, honey," she reassures me now. "You see? There's really nothing to it!" She smiles over at me, and I feel her hand rest briefly on my padded rear. "Honey, listen. I know all about this stuff. I do it all the time, so I think it's time you quit worrying and trust Miss Emmy, okay? I know what's best, you silly little Cuddlebug!"

I blink, feeling strangely as though someone had just flipped a switch in my brain. There's a sudden glow of warmth and peace stealing over me, and I find I'm nodding silently to her words. Of course I am. Miss Emmy is right. No one is noticing my bulgy butt. No one will, either - not as long as I obey Miss Emmy. She knows best, after all. She knows everything. Of course I'm going to obey.

It's only perhaps an hour later, after the whirl of rides and games and incredible sights has subsided a bit, that I begin to wonder if Missy Emmy hadn't already used one of her triggers on me. Something echoes vaguely in my mind: some whispers of a word that will remind me to be obedient... quiet... submissive. Perhaps. Or maybe I really am just naturally shy and complaint. Maybe someone else can say, for I certainly can't.

How else can I account for the fact that within our first hour here I have unhesitatingly gulped down not one, but two entire pink lemonades?

Triggered or not, I'm trembling with sugar and nerves as we approach our next ride: the log flume. She's chatting amiably to me as we step slowly forward in line, pointing out the super cool decorations and the big splashes of the logs as they go hurtling down with their screaming loads of passengers. I'm listening like a good boy should, of course. But I'm also feeling rising pressure in my bladder, which hasn't been emptied since I left home, seemingly a lifetime ago. Yeah, I know I'm padded. But I'm also in public, and Miss Emmy will notice, and honestly, isn't that kind of embarrassing? I'm a big boy, after all, and it's kind of scary to make an accident in my dipie...

But then we're on the ride, and I'm able to thrust my full bladder to the back of my mind as I listen obediently to Miss Emmy's words. She's showing me what a spooky dark place it is, and how silly the animated animals along the way are: the frogs and foxes and monkeys that are croaking and yipping and shrieking at us. But Miss Emmy says we're safe here in our log, and so we must be. Somewhere along the way I discover I'm holding her hand, but somehow that seems just right.

"Look, I think we're near the big waterfall!" she exclaims, sidling closer and slipping her other arm around me maternally. "Now hold on and it will all be okay, sweetie. And remember, it's okay if you get a little wet too." As the blinding daylight approaches and the rushing water reaches a crescendo, she leans into my ear and whispers the rest. "After all, I know my little Puddleduck doesn't mind being wet!"

And then we're falling, people are shrieking, the world is flashing past, and then there's a gigantic splash that completely drenches the people in front of us. As for the two of us... well, there's something else getting absolutely drenched.

For it seems as if I've suddenly lost all control over my bladder. I'm staring ahead blankly, frozen in place, my hand gripping Miss Emmy's as the floodgates open. Yes: I'm helplessly flooding my pampers at last. I'm wet, I'm peeing, I'm having a big accident right in front of Miss Emmy and God and everyone...

"Good boy," she whispers in my ear as our log jerkily approaches the exit. "Wow, that sure was fun, wasn't it?" Her hand strokes my padded crotch momentarily, and I know full well, with a sudden rush of frightening certainty, that my accident was no mere fluke. Miss Emmy has made me do it - with just one little word. And yes, it's precisely what I've been fantasizing about for some many years. But it's so incredibly scary, too, certainly here in public...

As involuntary panic begins to set in, Miss Emmy sidles close once more and breathes once more into my ear. "Shh, don't worry! Remember, little Cuddlebug, Miss Emmy's in charge, and she knows that good boys need their diapers."

And snap! goes the switch in my brain again, thrusting me full-tilt back into dreamily innocent acceptance. Of course. Miss Emmy's in charge. She says it's okay to go pee-pee, so I do. That's what good boys do. They obey Miss Emmy...

***

It's late afternoon when I gradually wake from my second submissive trance. As I come back to reality, my adult brain is astonished to note that I seem to be not just wet, but soaked - almost as if I've been dribbling repeatedly all afternoon without even realizing it. Crikey, have I really- Has she- I want to beg her for answers, to tell her maybe I should go find a bathroom to change before I leak. But there are too many people around, and the parade's about to start, and I'm hoping that maybe I'll be able to make it until we're ready to go home. Sure. I can hold it. I can surreptitiously waddle just a bit longer through this crowd. It's just until we head home, after all. Just so long as she doesn't say that word again...

To my surprise, she doesn't. The parade is noisy and bright and amazing and everything a parade should be, and Miss Emmy seems to enjoy it as much as I do. So as the music dies away in the distance, she turns to me with a bright smile. "Well, I think it's about time we start heading home, don't you?" Half of me wants to stay, of course - but the adult part of me, thinking of traffic and fearful of leaks, is what nods and agrees. "Sure, why not?"

It finally happens when I least expect it. Miss Emmy, bubbly as ever, is laughing over some lame pun I've just made as we approach the car. "Aww, that's so funny! You really are such a funny Little Stinker, aren't you?"

The world grinds to a halt before my eyes. I feel myself stiffening, standing frozen beside the car, my legs squatting downward instinctively... Oh, no, no, no- But yes, it's happening despite the shrieks of my rational brain. Muscles tense. My belly, full from the big lunch and snacks we've been downing all day, feels suddenly ready to explode. And impelled by my months of posthypnotic suggestions, explode it does.

I'm messing myself I'm making a stinky oh god oh no I'm- uuuuhhhh! Eww, so full, can't stop I'm gonna leak and make a mess all over-

Then a hand is stroking my hair, and I am dragged, trembling, back to reality. Miss Emmy is smiling softly as she tousles my curly hair, and I see her lips part to speak. Oh no, oh yes- Please, Miss Emmy, make it stop, I want to beg. And yet, I say nothing.

"Aww, did someone have a little messy-mess in their pants? Hmm? I told you those silly training pants would never do," she chuckles, patting my now visibly-sagging rear. "Now, then, my little Cuddlebug. Why don't you just sit down in your seat and let Miss Emmy strap you in?" I mechanically move to obey, even as the comforting, numbing fog of hypnotic programming descends once again...

"Oh, and listen: to make you feel better, I'll tell you a story on the way back! It's about someone called Jemima Puddleduck! Now doesn't that sound like a fun little story?"

Seated in my warm, freshly soiled diaper, and feeling my bladder helplessly dribbling once more into the thick bulge of shame beneath me, I am well and truly an infantile mess. Some distant adult part of my brain is screaming that I should open my mouth to protest, but all that emerges is a meek nod and a submissive little whimper.

I'm truly Miss Emmy's now. I'm her Cuddlebug, her Puddleduck, her Little Stinker. Now if only I could remember if I actually mind...