A Sissy's Progress - Chapter Eight

"Good sissy. You're moving along very well. I'm sure you're going to have fun telling them how much you loved your training pants, aren't you? How much you wish you could wear them again? ;-)"

Fuck. Mommy's still reading every word I type, teasing and tormenting me even here with her comments. I may be alone in the nursery, but even here Mommy can remind me of her presence—of her control, and of my lack of it.

Yes, it's true. I do wish now that I could be back in those training panties. For as thick as they felt at the time, they're laughably flimsy compared to the massive bulk that is now wrapped around my loins night and day. Everything exists in relation to something else, I've now learned. For to a waddling sissy baby like me, the very garments I eyed with such disgust less than a year ago are now something to be longed for: the symbol of something at least approaching continence...

I heave another muffled sigh behind my pacifier, which has never left my mouth for what must have been this past hour. I can't think on it all too much, or I'll get hopelessly depressed. Just keep on going, one moment after the other. Maybe someday my sorry state won't seem quite so bad.

***

What could I say? As much as I hated to admit it, Erica had been right. I had been dribbling because of that stupid cage between my legs. And I had been making my pants visibly wet, no matter how much I tried to shake and squeeze out those last drops into the toilet. So although I still died a little bit inside every time I pulled their thick cottony bulk up between my legs, I couldn't deny that the training pants were functional... and even quite comfortable.

Still, I flattered myself during those first few days that I hadn't been entirely passive about it. Erica and I had worked out a bargain, you see. After I had protested that I didn't dribble every day, she, with a tolerant smile on her lips, had agreed to give me a shot at proving it. "You've got, what? A dozen or two pairs of briefs and boxers?" A count had verified that yes, I had precisely sixteen. "So that's easy, honey! Every evening you'll let me see whether you've dribbled into those new training pants. If you have, one of those briefs or boxers goes in storage. And if you haven't, one of these new training pants goes away. See? That way you'll get to show me if you really do need them or not!"

Um, yeah. It wasn't too long before my stash of "big boy pants", as she had begun to laughingly call them, was dwindling to a few forlorn pairs. And with the last pair's disappearance one Thursday evening, it was complete. Within only a few weeks I had transitioned from my normal men's underwear to wearing these embarrassingly thick training pants full time.

Nobody noticed, of course—not even at the office. We all have a tendency to think others will notice anything and everything new about us: that new piercing, that fresh haircut, that snazzy new crocodile-leather belt. But no one ever does. As a general rule, at least, we're all far too self-absorbed to pay too much attention to others. And never has that rule applied more than to the slacks-wearing crotch and rear of a male professional in a white-collar job.

But I knew. And Erica knew. And it was that knowledge that still set my cheeks aflame whenever it crossed my mind.

I guess the event from that time that stands out most in my memory now was that horrific Halloween party. Oh, yes—how could I forget it? It didn't start out seeming all that awful, to be fair. Unlike what my readers might be thinking, she didn't suddenly force me into some skimpy skirt or baby outfit or something. No, no. Erica was far too subtle for that. Hell, even now it's still a mystery to me as to precisely when she decided I needed to be fully regressed...

"It's cute, honey! I think you look amazing, really, I do." My wife was ooh-ing and ahh-ing over my costume, inspecting every inch of it to ensure that her seamstress friend's handiwork had turned out as expected. "It's a bit tight in places, but it's nothing that you can't put up with for one evening, right?"

I glanced in the mirror through my mask, only to find a full-size Olaf staring back at me, complete with enormous eyes and carrot nose. Damn, it was pretty accurate. "Yeah, I guess so. Just sayin', though - I won't be driving there with this mask on." She giggled and shook my costume's stick hand in playful agreement. "Deal! Now, this Princess Anna needs to go get ready for the party, or we're both going to be late..."

Fortunately, we weren't. It was honestly a pretty cool Friday evening; Erica had a lot of friends who were into cosplay and outrageous costumes, and so our Frozen-themed couple ended up being one of the tamer get-ups in the room. I hate being super-visible in any crowd, so posing as a happy, unobtrusive snowman in a room full of monsters and superheroes and Japanese schoolgirls was right up my alley. As were the refreshments—particularly the craft beer...

The party went longer than expected, of course. Parties generally do. And so it was that close on eleven, with the beer still flowing freely, I took myself to the bathroom to get rid of some of it... only to find that the zipper on this stupid snowman costume was stuck. Like, seriously stuck. And what was worse, it was in the most inaccessible part of my back imaginable.

"We should be headed back home, honey," I murmured to my laughing Anna, replete with gaudy makeup and a coppery braid that was jarringly close to Julie's own auburn locks. My bladder spasmed with urgency as I resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot. "It's getting late, you know..." Just twenty minutes back home, and then I'd be free. No problem. I could wait twenty minutes... right?

But then Nina insisted on walking us out to the car, talking nonstop. And my wife was chatting and giggling companionably, enjoying every minute that ticked slowly by, while my bladder crept closer and closer to its inevitable bursting point. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Maybe I could just let a little leak out into these "training panties", I finally decided in desperation. Just a trickle. They were supposed to soak up all sorts of accidents, after all. I'd relieve just a tiny little pressure, and then I'd be able to wait until we finally got home...

It was a great plan. But unfortunately, it was all predicated on the assumption that I could actually stop the flow once it started.

Which turned out to be a flawed assumption.

God, that was the oddest and most humiliating sensation: standing there in the harsh glare of the street light, feeling the warm urine flooding steadily out from my caged cock, seeping into my pants, and trickling gently down my shaking legs. There I stood: a full-grown man, pissing myself uncontrollably not ten feet away from his lively wife and her superhero friend.

I must've emitted a squeak of embarrassment. Or maybe it was the sound of tinkling urine on the sidewalk. Whatever the case, within seconds I found myself the center of these two women's undivided attention.

"Oh my god, honey, you're- Oh, no, you're peeing-" "Eww! Well, that's unfortunate..." My wife was naturally all concern and apologies. "I'm sorry, honey, you should have told us! Are you feeling okay? Why didn't you use the bathroom, sweetheart?"

It was then that Nina slurred it out. "Hey, looks like your Olaf's melting after all, doesn't it? I mean, there's like a fucking puddle and everything..."

The sudden, uncontrollable fit of laughter that seized my wife in that moment was still ringing in my burning ears as we finally, finally drove off into the night.