A TRUE AND REAL ACCOUNT
of the first time I pissed my pants.
In public.
On purpose.
=== AN ILLUSTRATED VERSION OF THIS STORY IS AVAILABLE ON MY AO3 ACCOUNT AT THE LINK BELOW ===
https://archiveofourown.org/works/50048791
Disclaimer: This is a real autobiographical account of someone with a very particular fetish for wetting and humiliation exercising that fetish. Some details are nonspecific, so as to preserve a guise of anonymity. There is some discussion of messing and diapers, but it doesn't feature heavily. I would say it is rated PG-13-ish, but my attitudes about fetishes and horniness may be more loose than yours.
This story and the associated illustrations are offered free of charge. Take it. Save it. Share it with others. Edit it and change any details you want. Put your name on it and claim you wrote it. I don't mind.
The artwork is made by a combination of Unstable Diffusion and Novel AI, with some editing in Paint.net along the way. I begin with my own refrigerator-quality doodles, which you'll see one of below, and then gradually direct and coax the AI assistant to turn it into something closer to what it looks like in my imagination, editing and touching up in Paint when needed. I'm not an illustrator. I mention all of this up front because some people have very strong feelings about AI-produced illustrations, that such tools stifle creativity. I think you're wrong, and I'm also not hiding anything.
\t\t-Ashtar, a rat.
\t\t(Ashtarat)
\t\tashtarat@gmail.com
\t\tTelegram: https://t.me/ashtarat
\t\tDiscord: ashtarat (formerly ashtarat#6723)
\t\tTwitter: https://twitter.com/ashtarat
\t\tTwitter (AD) : https://twitter.com/AshtaratN
Cognita Fabula: Since the time of Gilgamesh, stories have helped inform how we understand and interact with the world. If you want to understand someone – read their story. And if you want the world to understand you – try writing one. Here's one from my own life.
<A ballpoint ink doodle of a rat sitting bored in a classroom.>
My fascination with bathroom accidents predates my own puberty. I used to have wet dreams about losing control or being diapered long before I ever learned how to masturbate or even knew what sex was, really.
Some people say that it's the things that stress us out a lot in our childhood that are the most likely to become fetishized later in life. I don't know if that's true for everyone, but I think it is true for me. I can even think back to an early 'trigger memory' that still comes to mind again and again.
I was an unusually late potty trainer. I was still in diapers most of the time until I had just turned 5, when there was very real worry starting to be floated about the possibility that I might not be out of them in time for kindergarten. I have to say, though, my parents never punished me or made me feel bad about my diapers, or the frequent accidents that happened as I transitioned out of them. They did tease me a little, however. Often reminding me that I was too old to be in diapers. Too big to still be having accidents. From a parent's point of view, they were gentle chiding, encouraging me to grow.
From an anxious little rat's point of view? It was mortifying. A humbling humiliation that I still struggled with control over my most basic bodily functions. I can actually remember, vaguely, what it was like to be truly accident-prone. “Pre-continent”. Busy engaged with one task or another, not even realizing I needed to 'go' until suddenly feeling a warm, wet surge running into my diaper (or pants!) when I least expected it.
I -did- eventually stop having accidents, though. A rare wet bed here and there aside. But you know who still had accidents, regularly? My older cousin, Sean.
He was a little shorter than me, but a couple years older – and more stockily built. He was into sports, competitive games, and athleticism in general. I was very much not. He was the jock, and I was the geek. But somehow, we got along and always found fun things to do together whenever one of us had been brought to the other's house.
And he used to poop his pants.
Not every time we were together, but often enough that I was always enthralled. It would always be by surprise – when caught off-guard by a sudden sneeze. When startled by an unexpected noise or fright. It used to happen even when we were well up into our teens. And the thing that always used to stick with me the most—other than the utter fascination, was how chill and relaxed everyone would be about the whole affair afterwards.
“I just shit myself,” he would mumble, with a little embarrassment, after recovering from whatever had set him off. 'Shit' was one of the 'forbidden' words. When he would find his or my parents for help, it would be that he 'pooped himself'. Or simply, 'had an accident'.
And they would calmly lead him away to a bathroom and get him a change of pants. Help clean him up if he needed it. And then he would come back and we would continue playing, as though nothing had happened at all, with nothing further said of it.
I was fascinated at how non-mortifying it seemed for him. How not-in-trouble he was afterward. As someone for whom embarrassment and teasing still felt fresh in my mind from my own difficulty potty training – I was convinced – truly convinced, that if I had ever 'lapsed' back into having accidents like my older cousin; that I would be in the severest and worst kind of trouble. I would undoubtedly be punished harshly. I would never live down the humiliation.
I wished I could be him. Wished I could still have an accident in my pants now and then without bringing the whole world crashing down around me.
<A render of an anthro rat sitting bored in a classroom.>
Into primary school – middle school, and even high school, while everyone else was probably daydreaming about the hottest boy or girl they knew; my most intimate fantasies always drifted back to that one vulnerable curiosity and interest. One that I could never really talk about or share with others, because even back then I realized it was strange and atypical as all hell.
Some people's minds are stuck in the gutter. Mine is apparently stuck in the bathroom.
* * *
Eventually, I grew up enough that I became less isolated and innocent about my interests.
The internet helped a lot, in that regard. I can still remember that awestruck feeling of searching for something like, “Peeing pants on purpose” and seeing that there were entire niche communities online fascinated with these same things. With so much infinite variation, too. Desperation, watersports, hypno, ABDLs, babyfurs, and on and on. The world had a litany of strange fetishes and paraphilias, and I was only one part of it. It was comforting, and changed my life in ways I can't even describe. The friends and people I connected with online during that period were like finding 'my people' for the first time ever.
I explored those feelings more, after I had moved out and had the freedom to do so. I would piss my pants in the safety of my own bathroom, for easy cleanup. I would wear and use diapers, even though I had no 'appropriate' medical reason for doing so. I even enjoyed messing myself, though I think that took a little longer to fully accept and appreciate the cleanup involved, after.
<A render of a rat in a wet diaper, lounging on his bed, fantasizing about pissed-wet-pants.>
As much as being able to immerse myself in those feelings and sensations delighted me, though – there was always a recurring thing that I would still think about. A kind of forbidden fruit, even among most of the paraphiles I'd started associating with online. All of my wettings and diaperings and fantasizing I'd been doing was in the safety of my private home, behind locked doors.
...But wouldn't it be so humiliating and embarrassing if I'd actually had an accident in public, where other people would potentially see? It was a common enough fantasy in fictional stories and in some of the artwork I'd seen. But in -real- life? It was one of those things often reminisced about by others, in a 'This is the time I remember having an accident on the school bus' sort of way. But very few people openly talked about exercising those fantasies publicly.
In those moments, a part of me still wanted to be my older cousin. Accident-prone in a way that was real, inexplicable--undeniable. A part of my mind still lingered on the teasing and chiding I recalled as a small child. So mortifying, so filled with terror at the thought of not being able to control my bodily functions.
It was true. The things that caused me the most stress when I was very small was charged differently now. The very idea was humiliating and embarrassing....and exciting like nothing else.
* * *
Talk of intentionally wetting in public among my in-groups was always fraught with controversial doubt. But then – a large number also had deep reservations about something even as relatively inconsequential as wearing a diaper under your clothes in public. Urban legends about babyfurs being provocatively messy in public spaces is a fairy tale that seemed to get whispered and talked about with every convention cycle, with no specific person ever named and shamed. I wonder sometimes whether a lot of these aren't just cases of bad B.O. being ascribed to something else.
Some say that intentionally wetting is a consent issue. That when done in a way that draws attention to yourself, it is making other people a witness or participant in your fetish without their informed approval. I do kinda sorta see that – and it was an issue I struggled with, even as I would fantasize about doing it. But I think eventually, this became less of a direct concern for me. I have my own rationalizations. I feel like there are much worse things that people do in the name of getting likes and subscribers. And in my mind, there's a stark and real difference between somebody shyly (and slyly) having an 'accident' without trying to get in anyone else's face about it versus a sex pest trying to cop a feel or take an upskirt photo.
These rationalizations may not be enough for you. But they were for me. When you really want something, you tend to talk yourself into things. And I fantasized for years....FOR YEARS; about having an accident where somebody else might see me. Might see how little control I had over my bladder. Might see how embarrassed and helpless I was about it. I didn't want to offend anyone or draw a perverse target on myself. It was more about the risk. The risk that someone -MIGHT- see I'd peed myself.
* * *
I began experimenting a little. I would adopt a habit of driving out a ways. I didn't want to be too close to home, to reduce the risk of bumping into someone I knew from my family or from school or from work.
There was a large department store that I would sometimes go to, about an hour away. In many ways, stores like these were attractive. They were big, filled with throngs of people I didn't know. They also stirred up childhood memories. I remembered being taken to stores like these by the adults in my life when I was very small. I would trundle behind my shopping cart, idly looking at merchandise, sometimes placing things inside. In the back of my head, I would daydream back to those difficult potty training years of my youth, remembering what it was like to be pre-continent and much more accident-prone than I was now.
<A render of a rat leaving a store with a tiny damp spot on his pants.>
Sometimes I would go with a full bladder. Ignoring the uncomfortable fullness while casually browsing from aisle to aisle. Once or twice, I would even find a quieter part of the store and deliberately push a little, feeling just a bit of wetness dribble into my underwear. But even just that tiniest feeling would often make me balk and freeze up in terror. Worried that somebody might wander by at that exact moment and somehow divine what I was doing, even if there was virtually nothing unseemly to see on the front of my pants. I would usually leave after, ashamed of myself.
Things went on like that for at least another year. Even after I'd already talked myself into the rationalization that wetting in public was something I'd wanted to try.
It was proving more difficult than I'd imagined to actually work up the nerve to follow through with it. I conferred with like-minded friends online who offered their moral support. I second-guessed myself, wondering if this was what I really wanted. What if I was confronted by someone? What if I got into real trouble? Would simply being apologetic and pretending like it was a sincere accident be enough?
These were all very responsible and grown-up worries. Maybe it was my headspace that was all wrong. I often day-dreamed about those innocent days of my late potty training, when I was still in-and-out of diapers a lot.
I had to -be- that kid, again. Innocent. Naive to his own bodily needs. I had to convince myself that I was actually capable of having an accident. All I had to do was convince myself that I couldn't feel that sense of fullness building up. Couldn't feel the dire warning signs as over 20 years of good toilet habits screamed at me that I needed to find an appropriate place to relieve myself. All I had to do was pretend my ears, mind, and ego were deaf, dumb, and innocent, like the late potty trainer I was. And eventually, my wise bladder would take care of the rest, wouldn't it? Eventually...I wouldn't be able to hold it anymore.
<A render of a rat imagining he can't feel the fullness of his bladder.>
It would all be a lie, of course. But when you tell yourself the same lie over and over again, especially when it's one you want to believe — sometimes it becomes magic.
And so—one day, when I had a lot of free time on my hands and the fantasy was particularly strong, I went back to that store. And I had rather a lot to drink along the way, so that by the time I pulled into the parking lot, my bladder was already fairly full.
...And I pretended not to feel it.
* * *
<A render of a rat shopping at a department store, a small wet spot is on his pants.>
I calmly got my cart and began browsing, blocking out the sights and sounds of the other shoppers there that day. I resisted the urge to squirm. But I also tried – really tried, to not 'hold back' so tensely, either. I was really trying to convince myself that I couldn't feel my full bladder. Didn't even realize I needed to 'go'.
I was a good little rat. I wasn't planning anything unseemly. I was just here for the usual errands and to browse. Why, no – I didn't feel that little bladder spasm. I didn't perhaps let my bladder relax just a little bit to relieve the pressure. I didn't feel that little squirt dribble into my underwear.
I was a good little rat.
I continued browsing, pushing the cart along, I'm sure blushing like a beet. But rather than leave immediately this time, I went deeper into the store, occasionally pausing to examine one shelf or another. Occasionally acting like I was checking my phone, even though I really wasn't.
It was getting harder to maintain the illusion to myself that I couldn't feel my bladder. I could. And it was getting -really- uncomfortable. I second-guessed myself again. Considered finding the store restroom, or perhaps just leaving to come back to my apartment.
Instead though, I forced myself to slowly browse deeper and deeper into the store, further away from the entrance. I found myself by the 'pet supplies' section. With all the potty pads and 'pet stain' cleanup supplies. My bladder was aching for release by this point, and – perhaps amused by the association with the items I saw on the shelf, I deliberately let my bladder relax a little. I didn't intentionally push – but I didn't need to. Within moments, I felt a slow trickle running into my underwear, the beginning of a soft, sweet kiss of relief...
As soon as I saw the glistening wet patch blossoming across my crotch, I seized up, stopped the flow, and cringed in terror. This was a -lot- bigger than a tiny, easily-missed coin-sized wet spot. This was a full-on pissy handprint-sized blotch splayed across my fly.
I was horrified. It was much more obvious than I was expecting. My shirt wasn't even long enough to feasibly pull down the hem to cover it up. And the way it glistened under the fluorescent lights made it seem that much more blatant to me.
I wasn't prepared for this. I needed to leave. I didn't even feel like I'd needed to pee anymore, I was so nervous.
<A render of a rat shopping at a department store. He has a larger wet blotch on his pants.>
--But then, a curious thing happened.
Not wanting to rush straight for the entrance because I didn't want to seem like I was panicking, I calmly meandered toward that direction, browsing down a couple more aisles. There were other shoppers there. I blushed deeply, trying not to look at them, and yet I couldn't help but steal furtive glances.
They hadn't noticed me. They were browsing items on the shelves. Talking amongst themselves in their groups. Stocking. Cleaning. Checking their phones. I was hiding behind my cart, but even the cart wasn't enough to fully cover myself up. Nobody noticed. Nobody said anything. Nobody was looking at me. It was as though I'd been invisible.
By now, the glistening wetness had faded. The wet blotch on my fly was a dull, darker blue imprinted on the denim around it. Maybe it wasn't as obvious as I'd thought....maybe, I didn't need to leave right away.
I turned from the entrance and meandered deeper into the store.
* * *
Past the busier throngs of people near the seasonal sales aisles. Past the sparser groups near the pet supplies, where I had been. Past a furniture section—deep into one of the farthest corners from the main entrance.
The illusion in my own mind was getting impossible to maintain. It had been struck and turned on it's head from all the panic, horror, and excitement. I couldn't pretend that I couldn't feel my bladder anymore. It was still rather heavy – and although the immediate urgency had passed, I knew that a responsible potty-trained rat would look for a bathroom right away. Instead – I was going to a far corner of the store. One filled with office supplies and stationery. It was relatively quiet over here. I could still hear other shoppers, but they seemed to be an aisle or two away. My heart fluttered in anticipation.
'You look like you need to go pee, little rat. Can you hold it until we find a bathroom?' I asked myself.
'Uh-huh. I can hold it,' I replied. And it was true. I could have. The only problem was – I wasn't an innocent, naive, good little pre-continent rat anymore who couldn't feel his bladder.
There was nothing 'accidental' about this. I was a naughty little rat. I was a rat who needed to use the toilet and didn't want to. I had deliberately avoided it since arriving. I had even leaked a little. And in another moment...
Flushed with anxiety and excitement, I got down on my knees in front of that shelf, to pretend like I was examining the items on the lower shelf. Leaning to leer over a box. Moving it aside to read the details on the side.
My bladder welled up, ready to release. I pushed a little, feeling a fresh dribble re-warm my damp underwear.
Harder. I had to push through the anxiety. Harder. I felt a slow trickle beginning to run into my underwear and down one thigh.
HARDER.
Floodgates opening. A hot, wet surge spraying into my jeans with a loud hissing whizz. The beginning of relief. A birth of terror.
My vision swims. I feel warm all over.
HARDER. I see a puddle beginning to form out of the corner of my eye, on the tile below me. I pretend not to see it.
I pushed hard, and did not stop. It was about twelve full seconds, until my bladder was completely empty. But it felt like an eternity.
I just pissed my pants.
<a render of a rat at a department store, wetting his pants.>
* * *
-FUCK-
It's a marvelous word. With a whole gamut of different meanings, depending on context. And in that moment, there were a lot of them.
FUCK. Relief. I had been so anxious and holding my bladder for so long that there was the simple relief of just getting it out.
FUCK. Surprise. It was so, so much more than I'd been expecting. It was -HOT- and -WET- and -EVERYWHERE-, and I was kneeling right in the middle of it.
FUCK. Excitement. I can't believe I just did that. Is this real? Am I dreaming?
FUCK. Paranoia. Is anyone else in the aisle? Did anyone see me? It felt like I was kneeling there for so long. How long was I kneeling there? What do I do if someone enters the aisle right now?
FUCK. Panic. What do I do now? I don't have anything to clean this up with. Should I tell someone? What should I do? I don't know what to do.
Cautiously, I got to my feet and gazed at the puddle I'd left, flushed with embarrassment. I felt lightheaded. I'm honestly surprised I didn't faint.
My pants were utterly drenched. Glistening like before under the harsh fluorescent light. There was -no- mistaking this. I had undeniably and unmistakably just flooded myself. I was dumbstruck. I could still hear other shoppers in aisles nearby. I didn't know what else to do, but I didn't want anyone to slip on the puddle I'd created, so I rolled my cart over it...and left it there, wandering to another aisle, away from the direction of the shoppers I could hear. Whenever I saw somebody heading in my direction, I turned and 'browsed' down another way.
I probably looked like somebody having a mental breakdown. Blushing beet red. Wandering anxiously up an aisle, unsure of what to do with my hands – with my soggy jeans on full display. I think I was thinking that if I waited long enough, the wetness would fade to a dull color like before – the lack of glistening making what I'd done less obvious.
But at some point I realized this was a foolish idea. I was too wet. This was not something that could be overlooked. And while I hadn't bumped into anyone yet—I probably should just get out and go home, right away.
So I began meandering towards the entrance. I froze in terror.
<A render of a rat frightened of the crowd around a store's entrance.>
There were a lot of people entering and exiting the store. I had tried not to get too close to anyone thus far, but there was no other way to leave. If I wanted to get out, I had to push past them. I had to be seen. I had to deal with the consequences.
Fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, I sauntered past. I walked past at least thirty people between the store and my car. Store employees. Families clustered around shopping carts. Singlets and pairs. Groups of friends talking to each other. I walked RIGHT past them, in some cases mere inches away, looking at the floor right in front of me as I passed through the entrance to the parking lot, no eye contact, ears pricked on high alert, waiting for somebody to say something.
...No one did.
Undoubtedly, someone had seen me. I refuse to believe they hadn't. And yet – there was no confrontation. No comment that I could hear. I got, completely undisturbed, into my car and drove back to my apartment.
Either people had seen and just didn't know what to say, so they said nothing...
...Or people had seen and just decided to ignore it.
...Or people had -seen- the wet pants but hadn't really parsed it. They were too wrapped up in their own worlds and needs.
It was an impossibility. On the verge of paradox. They had seen me. They had not seen me.
I got back to my apartment. I crawled into my bed. And once the immediate horror and humiliation and panic had passed—I thought back on my little adventure. Taking in the sight of my own soggy pants, face filled with the scent of my cooling piss. I reached down...
-FUCK-. Intense orgasm. Within moments. Harder and faster than I could scarcely recall doing.
There was shame, after. But it was a warm and pleasant kind of shame. Fuzzy, like a soft fluffy blanket.
I talked to myself.
A ratty, all grown up but still sometimes peeing his pants. Even out in public. We can't take you out anywhere, can we? You realize you've just earned yourself a rather extended stay in diapers.
I know. And I'm very sorry, and I've learned my lesson and it will never happen again.
I was lying.
<a render of a rat enjoying his wet pants>
--Good End--
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