***AN ILLUSTRATED VERSION OF THIS STORY IS AVAILABLE ON AO3 AT THE LINK BELOW***




Disclaimer: All characters in this story are paid, consenting performers above the ages of 21, regardless of what they claim in the story. I should know. I invented them. They are works of fiction.






WEIRD AUNT SALLY: THE ASHTAR CUT
A short asexual abdl-ish story by Ashtar The Rat
Artwork by Anonymous




It's been many years since you last saw Aunt Sally. In fact, you think the last time you saw her was on a family visit to the ancestral home when you were still a little boy. You can vaguely recall having spent the visit walking the grounds of the expansive acreage of land, resting in copses of trees, and exploring the many rooms of the manor home. You and your cousins had a lot of fun running around, playing with each other, and getting into all sorts of mischief.


Your parents are taking a hiking trip through the Appalachia wilds over Spring Break, not far from that old family estate. You didn't have any designs on going with them, but it still came a little unexpectedly when they suggested that rather than staying home and watching the house while they were away, that you might like to go visit Aunt Sally instead. You're not sure why you agreed to it. Perhaps it was just a kind of unexpected nostalgia for those childhood times gone by. Regardless of the reason, you agreed. And in spite of your slight trepidation, you do find yourself marginally excited to see Aunt Sally again on that fateful afternoon in which you are dropped off at the long driveway winding up to her manor home.

It's beautifully kept, and doesn't look disused in the slightest. Your extended family worries after Aunt Sally, occasionally -- concerned that it might not be healthy for someone to live in such a large home by herself. But she apparently enjoys her role as the ancestral home's house and groundskeeper. And she's hardly alone. Portions of your distant family occasionally vacation there throughout the year, from all over the world. And Sally is often relied upon as a go-to babysitter in times of need. None of them will be here this week, though. It will be just you and her.

It isn't too much longer on your walk up to the steps before she comes out onto the porch to greet you with a hug and an eager smile. Her short brown hair has been cropped into a short style pretty common in your family. She looks healthy, wearing a sundress that complements her voluptuous body well, her smile equally complementing the slight wrinkles in her face.



"Oh, my little nephew! It's been so long since I've seen you! Let me get a good look at you!" She laughs happily as she gives you a big kiss on one cheek, then another. "You must be hungry after your trip here? Why don't we fix you something nice to eat?" -- she asks it like a question. But you have a feeling she won't take 'no' for an answer.

"Hi, Aunt Sally!" you greet her warmly in return, "Oh, that sounds wonderful! Thank you so much for inviting me to stay. I hope I won't be too imposing!"

"Nonsense," she says as she leads you inside, guiding you down a long hallway, "Before we get you something to eat, why don't we get you set up in one of the bedrooms? There's quite a few empty ones, so you can pick whichever you like. Do you need to go potty? I can show you where there is a bathroom if you like."

"No, no, I'm fine thank you, I'm sure I can find my way around!" you assure her. You can feel yourself blushing slightly at all the attention, "I remember where most of the rooms are, I think. I'll go pick out a bedroom and then make my way to the kitchen?" You ask hopefully.

"Of course," she smiles at your modesty and shyness, "Go on then! Just holler if you need any help or have any questions!"
The manor home is a bit large, and perhaps a little lonely with only you and Aunt Sally currently residing in it. It's well kept, but there's a certain agedness to everything. The hard wooden floors. The faded hues of ornamental rugs that are older than your parents. Painted portraits of relatives you never really knew. The smell of dust. Even your vision feels like it is momentarily filtered with a sepia tone.

Your mind is drawn back in time as you enter one of the many guest rooms, filled with nostalgia at seeing some of the same rooms that you recall from your youth. There's the Parlor Room, where the men of the house would gather to play cards, smoke, sip whiskey, and engage in extended palavers intended to solve all the ills and injustices of the world. And right up the hall here is a cozy little guest room that you think you can claim for your stay. Do you recall this one? You aren't sure. But it's peaceful and welcoming.

You set your bags down within it, and then peek around some of the other neighboring rooms, looking for a bathroom. Luckily enough there happens to be one conveniently located on this floor close by, and you make a note of its location even though you don't really feel the need to relieve yourself just now.

On your way back to the entrance to look for the kitchen, you happen to pass by another room which grabs your attention. It looks like a small child's bedroom or nursery. The walls are painted in soft neutral tones. A sliding glass door leads out to a small veranda. There are several pastel bins full of stuffed animals lining the far wall, while a disused crib covered in a bedsheet sits forlornly in a corner. A blue play mat of some kind lies unfolded on top of the thin carpet, with several toys strewn about it. Stuffed animals. Cars. Dolls. A mixture of antiques and more recent things, no doubt donated or left behind by some of your "Nth Removed" baby cousins whom Aunt Sally has been tasked with looking after over the years. This room, more than the other ones you've seen thus far, looks like it's seen the most use and had the most renovations. How funny and fitting, for the woman who has no children of her own but has been responsible for so many.

You walk onward, eventually finding the kitchen, where Aunt Sally has started cooking you up a meal already! She has made you sandwiches (with tomato and lettuce on wheat), but also put together some baked beans and a salad bowl full of fresh veggies.

"Oh! There you are, sweety. I'm just about finished setting everything out," she says happily when you step inside the kitchen. She takes a moment to wipe her hands with a rag and then calmly steps toward you, "Were you able to find one of the bathrooms? The house is a little big, so don't be afraid to let me know if you have any trouble."

"No problem at all!" You smile brightly at her concern for you -- and then you blush softly as Aunt Sally unexpectedly runs one of her hands along your inner thigh, feeling the front of your jeans, just for a moment.

You are a little aghast for a moment at the sudden, unexpected touch. But it happened so quickly, and then Aunt Sally immediately turned back to continue preparing your meal. There was nothing lewd or lingering about it, which makes it hard to tell if she intended anything inappropriate. You're not entirely sure how to react, which leaves you fumbling over your words, making something awkward out of the conversation instead.

"Aunt Sally?" You finally say, hesitantly trying again to get things moving in a different direction, "I can't thank you enough for inviting and having me over! It's really nice to see you and the house again."

"Of course dear!" She laughs as she starts pulling plates out of a cabinet next to her, "Let's eat!" She motions to where there's an actual table set up right by the window that overlooks the forest, and sits down across from you.

The two of you share a wonderful meal together, and afterwards she insists on clearing the dishes away and washing up.

"Why don't you go play? You can play with any of the toys in the playroom if you like. Or wander outside and enjoy the scenery. I don't watch much TV, but you can also go watch cartoons if you like in the living room. I can work the controls if you aren't sure how to use it."

You wonder if 'the playroom' is the small children's room you saw earlier, with the crib and play mat. And cartoons? The activities she's suggesting for you are rather childish, given your age. You don't think much of it at the time, and wind up spending a few hours outside wandering the groves, reminiscing about when you were last here as a child.  

After a while, however, the novelty of playing outdoors wears off, and besides -- the sun is starting to hang rather low in the sky. You decide it would probably be best to go inside and get ready for bed.

"Oh! There you are. I was about to come out looking for you!" Sally greets you as you re-enter the manor. "Are you done romping around outside?"

"Yeah," you reply, "I figured I'd better get back inside before it gets dark!"

"Mm-hm. Good idea. It gets very dark out there, out here in the country," Aunt Sally says, giving you a soft hug. And then -- before you can react, she does it *again*. A quick little hand, feeling up your backside this time. Before pulling away from you, she gives your ass a playful smack and chuckles softly into your ear.




"Are... Are you ok?" You ask uncertainly after that happens. Your face feels warm and flustered all of a sudden, and you aren't entirely sure why? There isn't any indication that Aunt Sally is intending to do anything lewd when she touches you like that. Which leaves you all the more confused.

"Of course, sweety! I'm just making sure you don't need any help. You get yourself ready for bed, and don't forget to brush your teeth and use the bathroom before going to sleep. It wouldn't do to have you wetting the bed on your first night away from home," She teases with a giggle, her voice almost singsongy. And then without waiting for a response she heads off down a hall to another part of the house.

She said it all so innocently--and yet you find yourself unaccountably flustered. Does she really expect that you might wet the bed? You're hardly a child! You don't need to constantly be reminded to take care of your bodily needs responsibly!

You are aghast and still boggling over the issue as you go off to your bedroom and spend the next hour or so relaxing and slowly getting ready for bed. You get into your pajamas. You brush your teeth and use the toilet, just as you always do.

And then a little later, as you're falling asleep--a couple pieces click into place for you. The 'handsy-ness' around your private areas wasn't meant to be lewd or a come-on. The way she's been talking to you is more akin to how you might imagine a parent might talk to their child.

...She was checking your pants to make sure you hadn't urinated or defecated in your underwear. You're almost certain. But a moment later, you've fallen asleep, unsure of how you feel about that, exactly.

Over the next day, your suspicion is confirmed. She suggests rather childish games or activities for you to do, like watch cartoons or play with the stuffed toys in the nursery room. She brings you a snack as you're working on your homework, which you politely accept, and then she goes about the kitchen fixing up a delicious risotto for dinner, which you can smell all the way up the hallway.

Finishing your homework, you sit on the edge of your bed, contemplating the situation, a mix of emotions swirling within you. Part of you feels a twinge of discomfort and embarrassment, realizing that Aunt Sally has mistaken you for a much younger boy. But another part of you is relieved that it's not coming from a place of maliciousness.

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that this is just a misunderstanding. But you aren't sure how to tell her exactly that you are going to be 14 this year. Far too old to be treated so small. And then around that time, your phone vibrates softly. Dad has sent you a text, checking in and letting you know that he and your mother are at their next campsite safely.

And so--because you generally get on well with both your parents, you decide to fill them in a little.




"Hey Dad glad u and mom r safe."

...

"Aunt Sally is nice but its hella weird. she keeps treating me like im a lil kid, like she does kno im a teen rite.?"

You decide not to specifically mention the pants-checking and reminders about the bathroom. That would be a little too embarrassing to just drop in there.

=DAD is typing a response...=

...

"I can see how that must be a little embarrassing for you. Don't hold it against her, though, she just wants to make sure you're enjoying your stay. Sally has always been a little bit dotty. She hasn't ever had any kids of her own, but she babysits a lot of your baby cousins throughout the year and she probably doesn't think you're that much different from them even though you're a little older. I can call and talk to her if you want."

The thought of your parents intervening for you makes you a little anxious, though. If it bothered you that much, you would rather just talk to her yourself. And besides--like Dad says, Aunt Sally's odd behavior, though slightly misdirected, is coming from a place of genuine care. It's hard not to feel a little appreciation for that, because she's clearly such a kind and nurturing person.

"i dunno? i dont want to hurt her feelings and its not bothering me that much it just feels a littl like im being babysat!"


=DAD is typing a response...=


"L.O.L.. Well, if you don't mind, you can just play along a little. But only as much as you feel comfortable. Your Aunt Sally I'm sure is happy to have you over, regardless."

You finish the conversation feeling a little ambivalent about the whole matter. It's hard not to feel a little sympathy for her. Maybe playing along a little would be something nice you can do for her. You decide to join her for dinner without feeling strongly one way or the other just yet, wanting to see how you feel after.

As you make your way to the dining room, the tantalizing aroma of Aunt Sally's cooking fills the air. The table is set elegantly, and she's arranged a place setting just for you, complete with a cute woodland-themed plate and utensils. You take a seat, observing Aunt Sally as she brings out the steaming dish of risotto, her eyes sparkling with joy at being able to share her cooking with you.

During dinner, Aunt Sally engages you in conversation, asking about your favorite subjects in school and animatedly sharing stories from her own childhood. In all -OTHER- aspects of her behavior, you get the sense that she understands you are nearly grown-up. That you are entering high school soon. You find yourself gradually getting lost in the nostalgic charm of her tales, the innocence of the moment overshadowing some of those initial concerns you had.

As the meal comes to an end, Aunt Sally smiles warmly at you. "Did you enjoy dinner, sweetie? I hope you enjoyed it. Oh, and I made a special dessert just for you! It's your favorite! Acorn cookies!"


You can't help but smile back at her, touched by her thoughtfulness, as she brings the small plate forward to you and uncovers it. Chocolate biscuits, baked with a hearty graham flour, in the shape of acorns. You remember these! You remember them from back then--how scrumptious and filling, shared with all of your cousins after dinner...

Smiling, feeling warm-headed, you nibble the acorn cookie, filled with a youthful nostalgia. And then, making your decision, you smile cheerfully at Aunt Sally.

"Auntie--can I please have some milk for my cookie?" you ask, knowing you could get it yourself. But little boys don't just take. They ask.

Aunt Sally smiles widely, and goes to the fridge to fetch some.


* * *


"Hey, darlin'!" Aunt Sally pokes her head into the bedroom you're staying in, "There are cartoons on, now. Do you feel like watching some? I'll get you a snack and a juice box to keep you company while you watch. That sound good to you?"

The suggestion is a little childish...and yet, you recall what Dad said about just humoring Aunt Sally as much as you felt like.

"Uhh--sure, I guess? That sounds fine!" You tell her awkwardly, giving her a quick smile back at her. You follow her into the living room. She retreats into the kitchen momentarily to get you some crackers and a box of juice, and then you spend the next couple hours relaxing in a comfy bean bag chair in front of a large-screen TV watching 'PBS Kids', a channel full of cartoons for children much younger than you.

It feels a little childish. And yet, in spite of it -- you start to feel a little like you're actually enjoying yourself. The children's cartoons are soothing, with characters that talk in calm voices, not full of tension and action like the kinds of TV shows you normally watch at home. And even though you haven't seen these particular shows before, they seem very familiar somehow. Like an old friend coming home after being away for too long.

It actually makes you feel a little content and drowsy. The next thing you realize, you're coming awake again. Not much time has passed and the TV is still showing cartoons, but you notice that Aunt Sally is sitting nearby, now. Cross-legged on the floor. When you stir, she leans over you.

"Ooh--sorry, honey. I didn't mean to wake you up. Did you have a nice nap?" She asks softly.

"Mmh? Uh-hunh," you reply. You feel her hand checking gently along inner thighs for any signs of wetness. You flinch slightly when her fingers brush against your underwear. But by now, these little checks have happened so frequently that you don't really think anything of it.

"No accidents, Aunt Sally!" You assure her brightly, humoring her just a little.

She smiles and gives you another hug. "That's good! You had so much juice while you were watching cartoons, I just wanted to make sure you didn't have an accident, darlin'."

You can only manage a chuckle in response to that comment as you continue to rest in the beanbag chair for a little longer.


* * *


And so, for the rest of the second day and most of the third, you play along amiably. You watch the public access cartoons that Aunt Sally plays for you in the living room. You rest on the mat in the playroom when you read your books, sometimes idly rolling one of the toy cars around. Aunt Sally brings you snacks. Asks if you need anything. She leads you to your bedroom at one point for a mid-afternoon nap. You don't actually fall asleep, but you do lie there for twenty minutes, just letting the pleasant miasma of oddness and childish nostalgia fill your head.

It's a little weird, but benign, being treated like a kid.

Except for the bathroom thing. By this point, you've had your pants 'checked' and been reminded to use the bathroom more times than you can recall. And it never stops being a little embarrassing and annoying. Why this, specifically, and not the other ways she treats you -- you're not sure, exactly. You suppose that some part of you finds it harder to look past. A little more patronizing. Or perhaps matronizing, in this situation. Coming from almost anyone else, you would feel a little insulted to be regularly 'checked' thusly. And yet you know that Aunt Sally means nothing insulting or demeaning by it.

Which means you feel a little like there isn't anything you can do about it. Not without dispelling the illusion you're playing along with.

As pleasant as 'playing along' has been though, by early in the afternoon on the third day, a spell of teenage boredom has set in.

You are lying flat on your back on the playmat in the nursery playroom, idly rolling a nearby toy car with your hand. Thinking about how there's Literally Nothing to do right now, about how Spring Break is nearly half over. Wondering what Mom and Dad are doing right now. And then the low rumble of a vacuum motor touches your ears.

Aunt Sally is doing her daily vacuuming of the rugs in the hall. In a little while, she's going to work her way up to this doorway, where she's going to notice that you're there and look in on you. Ask you if you need anything. And then 'check' your pants, and possibly remind you to go use the bathroom if you need to.

You sit up a little -- letting your eyes focus and your vision clear. As it turns out, you _do_ need to pee. A modest but controlled feeling of near-fullness that you hadn't really been paying much mind to -- until this very second.

Teenage Boredom shakes hands with its constant companion, Morbid Curiosity.

She -just keeps- reminding you to use the bathroom, and 'checking' your pants anyway. What is she thinking she might find?

You clench your teeth softly. A mix of resentful and a little impulsive mischievousness. What if you gave her something to 'find'?

You feel the breath catch in your throat a little as soon as you even think about it. How -would- Aunt Sally react if she discovered you'd actually wet yourself? She keeps -reminding- you and -checking- you. But does she _really_ think you might wet yourself like a little boy? She's been treating you like one. Is it truly sincere? Is she really 'dotty', the way Dad put it?

You blush softly with a moment of indecision as the sound of the vacuum grows louder and closer. You're just playing along. Like Dad suggested. You're just playing along...being the boy she -thinks- you are.

Your heart is pounding suddenly, still rolling the toy car around busily with your hand as you take a deep breath and--leaning into that mischievous impulsive lapse of better judgement, born by the marriage of boredom with morbid curiosity--you begin to relax your hold on your bladder.

"...Just let it out..." You tell yourself firmly, trying to convince yourself. Pushing softly, with your muscles down there.



A few moments later, you feel a hot trickle of warm liquid begin running down along your inner thigh. You feel another twinge of fullness in your nether region. You hesitate for just a moment longer -- but then, feeling yourself give in past the point of no return--you give in and relieve your discomfort by letting loose a long, slow stream of pee right into your underwear. You freeze, both mentally and physically as your bladder slowly empties, and you feel your urine soaking and flowing through from your underwear into your pants.

It feels so strange! So *wet* and much hotter than you expected, and as you glance down, you blush deeply at the sight of your freshly soaked jeans leaking slightly onto the playmat. And the *smell*. Oh -heck-!

But somehow, even sitting up there on the playmat, thoroughly embarrassed that you've actually followed through and peed yourself... you feel your body and mind relax deeply. You can't help but sigh happily with the relief of not having to use the toilet anymore. It's such a strange feeling. Regret. Embarrassment. A little anxiety. You don't need to go to the bathroom anymore. And in that sense, you feel contentedly satisfied, and very, very incredibly childish.

A little while later, when Aunt Sally comes into the bedroom to check in on you, you blush bashfully.
"Hey, darlin'. Are you havin' fun in here?" She asks cheerfully, smiling widely at you as she kneels over you. She is about to check your pants with her hand, but she doesn't even need to. She can clearly see that you've undeniably wet yourself. Her face freezes at the sight, but only just for a moment before she smiles reassuringly.

"Oh dear, it looks like you had a bit of an accident!" She giggles softly. "But don't worry, honey, it's okay."

She places a comforting hand upon yours and gives it a gentle squeeze. You feel so awkward and embarrassed -- you can hardly believe you just allowed yourself to piddle your pants as though you were actually as small as Aunt Sally has been treating you lately. You feel a strange compulsion to say something. Perhaps apologize for the mess.

"Oops! I'm sorry," you mumble awkwardly, "I must have forgotten to go use the bathroom while I was playing."

It's a rather childish excuse. But, just like you suspected, Aunt Sally doesn't seem to think that this is very strange or anything unusual at all. In fact...she seems to think it's perfectly normal that you, a 14-year old, might still wet your pants sometimes. Like one of your baby cousins...or even smaller than them.

"...Well, accidents happen, darlin'" You hear her mutter softly. You blush harder than ever and look down as she uses some paper towels to begin cleaning the small puddle of pee you've left on the playmat, "That's why Auntie's here, to check on you from time to time and remind you to go use the potty when you need to. Okay?"

You nod meekly in response. Then she smiles at you again.

"Now why don't you go change into some dry pants, and I'll go wash up those for you," she nods toward your jeans, all wet with urine around the crotch. And yet somehow, you start to feel okay about the fact that she's seen you like this.

You go back to your room and change into some clean pants and underwear, leaving the soaked clothing in a small pile in a laundry hamper. For the rest of the day, you almost feel like you're walking on air. Once you mentally pushed past the embarrassing notion of letting yourself have an accident, there was something really soothing about relaxing and letting it all out, and then being treated like an actual little kid. It felt soothing. Perhaps a little liberating, to act in such a slightly immature way that you know you could probably never get away with at home without your mom or dad knowing that this would be very atypical for you.

Yet -- you do feel slightly guilty. You do feel a little like you've 'deceived' Aunt Sally, but only slightly. In the end, her nurturing attitude toward you was sincere, even in the face of the unexpected... 'event'. It was a wonderful feeling. She wasn't mad. She didn't tease. In her mind, was she really just seeing a little boy who had an accident and needed a change of clothes?

Not just any boy. Her nephew. Kin. Flesh of her flesh. Dad was right about her. It's exactly what she saw, and exactly how she felt. And you don't know why you doubted otherwise.

In your dry pants, things go back to 'normal' after. You watch public access cartoons in the living room. You share a delicious dinner with "Auntie" Sally, and for dessert you get more delicious acorn cookies. She continues reminding you to use the bathroom. You tolerate it. You even begin to enjoy it, in a sense. Because it feels less embarrassing now, and more genuine and caring. She just wants to make sure you're all clean and dry. You do self-consciously stay on your best behavior for the rest of the day, though -- bathroom-wise. Wetting your pants was such an impulsive and childish little act. You're not sure you care to do that again.

You are reminded later that night to brush your teeth and use the toilet before bedtime. You do so. You wouldn't want to wet the bed.

You slip into the covers drowsily. Wouldn't that be funny? Imagine you, wetting the bed...like a little kid...

You wake up a couple hours later, in the darkest part of the night. You're in a clammy sweat. You breathe deeply. You had an uneasy, fitful dream. You don't even remember what it was about. Just that when you come awake, you're happy to be here, safe in this warm, cozy bed. With Aunt Sally not far away.

This warm, cozy bed...the one you shouldn't wet. Although Aunt Sally will check in the morning, regardless.

...The one you shouldn't wet. Shouldn't wet. Shouldn't wet.

...

...You're thinking about wetting it.

A mix of emotions floods over you. Part of you recognizes that it's a little absurd to think that you should or have any need to continue 'playing along' in this way. But another part of you remembers the impulsive, curiously liberating and exciting feeling of that 'accident' in the playroom the previous day.

Curiosity and a hint of mischievousness play at the edges of your thoughts. Would it really be that wrong? You've played along this far. Had one 'accident' already. What harm would it do to 'lean' into the role again? After all, Aunt Sally seems to think that you wetting the bed remains a distinct possibility...


Impulse.


You get up. But only long enough to find a water bottle from your backpack, and take a large drink from it. Then another. And then you settle into your bed, still awake--and wait. For what feels like forever, filled with anticipation.

You lie in bed, the water sloshing in your belly. You do nothing else. And yet your skin tingles. Excitement and nervousness swirls within you. You do not keep track of the time. Only the anticipation as immeasurable minutes pass. Then an hour? Two? The feeling of water in your belly slowly dissipated. And then, slowly, inexorably--you start to feel the pressure in your bladder increasing. Barely noticeable at first. Then fuller. Fuller.

You're fully aware that this is a deliberate act, one that goes against your usual behavior. But you mitigate the feelings by letting your head swim with the indecision. Will you? Won't you? The only thing you know for sure is that you aren't going to fall back asleep. Not like this. Not until you decide, one way or the other.

You aren't sure when, exactly. Dizzy with delirium and sleepiness. But eventually, you hit a breaking point, where your bladder feels so full it's becoming physically difficult for you to keep holding on. You toss. Turn. Cross your legs. Squirm.

You're just a kid. You're asleep. Maybe you're even dreaming. Dreaming about using the toilet. Haven't you had dreams like that, before? But you can't remember the last time it actually made you have an accident.

'Except this time' -- you think to yourself. Rolling onto your back, eyelids heavy, filled with fatigue. You glance down at your pajama bottoms--and then, summoning the rest of your courage and mischief, you let go.



A warm stream, gurgling down your thigh, soaking completely into the plush bedding beneath you. You moan with relief. You do not let up. You don't think you could, even if you had second thoughts now. You simply stare, transfixed and enchanted, at the straw-yellow stain spreading down your pajama bottoms, and feel the heat sopping down along your rear, against the sheets and mattress. To your sleep-deprived mind, it feels like an eternity before the stream finally slows and stops.

You sink into the wet bedding and exhale, completely spent.

Soaked. Tinged in excitement, exhiliration, and a little nervousness.

You've really done it, now. You're going to need help with this.


* * *


You knock gently on the door to Aunt Sally's room. It isn't loud. But it's enough.

"Sweetie?" Aunt Sally's voice is groggy, as though just waking up, "Is something wrong?"

You hesitate for a moment, then speak in a soft voice, "Aunt Sally, I... I had an accident. Can you help me, please?"
You hear movements, as Aunt Sally slowly but implacably gets up out of bed and puts on her nightgown, emerging from her bedroom a few moments later.

Blushing, in the dimly lit hallway, you indicate your soaked pajama bottoms, "I wet the bed, Auntie. I'm sorry."

Aunt Sally's expression softens with understanding as she takes in the sight of your soaked pajama bottoms. She approaches you with a gentle, if exhausted smile. You aren't afraid, even for a moment.

"Oh, my little darlin', it's alright," she reassures you, placing a comforting paw on your shoulder. "You were so brave to come and tell me. Let's fix you all up together, okay?"

She leads you back to your bedroom, her large hand gentle on your shoulder, "And don't you feel bad, honey. Accidents happen."

And then -- a little later, when you are being tucked back into bed, with dry bedding, and a fresh change of pajamas, a gentle kiss on your forehead, "Rest well, my little one. Don't be afraid to come get me if you need anything."

You fall asleep so quickly, after that. Your head feels like it's filled with warm, fuzzy clouds. Feeling an indescribable solace that you are always cared for. And your behavior might have been a little immature. A little bit naughty. Even that lingering notion that it was a little bit deceptive, although you quiet those notions with the reassurance that you are merely 'playing along'. But the feelings after are so starkly real, that none of those doubts feel like they matter much anymore.


* * *


It's the fourth day. The day before Mom and Dad will return to pick you up.

You didn't have any more 'accidents' on the third day. Your whole 'bedwetting' escapade was exciting and terrifying enough that you didn't want to cause any further 'trouble' for you or Aunt Sally. You didn't want to make a nuisance of yourself. But the motherly, expectant behavior from Aunt Sally continues without pause. The checking continues unabated, though no comment or discussion is made of either of you two accidents in the days preceding.

You are relaxing in the living room that afternoon. Watching cartoons from the public access channel while she reads from a book of pulp fiction taken from the manor's library. You feel relaxed but also a little bittersweet. This has been an interesting vacation, and although you are looking forward to going back home and getting ready for school again next week; there is a certain feeling of longing in your gut. You will miss this place. You will miss Aunt Sally.

There's something else in your gut, besides a sensation of longing.

A feeling of heaviness building in your rear. You need to go to the bathroom. But not a 'number one' this time.

Realizing that you need to use the bathroom for more than just a quick visit, you nibble your lip a little tensely. After your experiences with 'accidents' the last couple days, you can't help but imagine briefly if Aunt Sally would be mad if you pooped your pants.

You blush a little, feeling a little embarrassed that you're even thinking about it. When wetting your pants felt like an impossible line to cross. And then wetting your bed was the line to cross. Now this? Your previous 'accidents' on this vacation has told you that she thinks you're every bit just the small boy that she believes you to be. Of course she wouldn't be mad if you messed your pants.

You don't need to actually -do- it to know that.

And yet--you don't get up right away to excuse yourself, either. There's a part of the wistful childishness of being here that you don't quite want to let go of, yet.

So instead, you rock a little from your place on the carpet and squirm. You are perhaps exaggerating things a little. Because you do not want this body language to go unnoticed. You very much want Aunt Sally to notice that you need to 'go'. You aren't actually thinking that you're going to poop in your pants. But you do want to lean more into the 'role' you've let yourself fall into these last few days. Just a little more, before it all ends.

So you squirm and fidget on the carpet, working up to what you think are a subtle urgency in your movements, you dare not look back for fear of making eye contact. Part of you is still worried that she will react negatively. You know she probably won't. But the worry is still there, regardless.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you get the sense that Aunt Sally has noticed your restlessness. There's movement. A book being laid down. Leaning forward in her seat.

"Darlin', do you need to use the potty? I can take you," she asks gently, her voice filled with concern and care.

Relief. Anticipation. A little embarrassment that she -did- notice, even though that was your intention. Glee. Satisfaction that you've been acknowledged and cared after.

"Uh-hunh," you reply, slowly getting to your feet, "Thank you for reminding me, Auntie. It's okay, I can take myself. I'll be right back."

She nods and smiles, watching as you scamper off down the closer hall.

As you begin the slow walk down the hall to the bathroom, though--those feelings start coming back again. The desire for that feeling of serene comfort you felt after telling Aunt Sally that you'd wet your bed. The impulsive, childish naughtiness of being in the nursery playroom, the first time you'd wet your pants.

Spring Break will be over soon. You'll be back at home with Mom and Dad. And with that will come the usual day-to-day doldrums. You'll go back to school. You'll be expected to get good grades. And you'll be expected to act like an adult. The childish little 'accidents' like you've allowed yourself to have here at Aunt Sally's won't be acceptable once you return home...or so you tell yourself.

But here at Aunt Sally's, you've let that inner child out not just once, but twice....and this might be one of your last 'chances' to try something like this.

...Surely you could be forgiven for wanting to take that chance while you still can?

You blush hotly, feeling the path you are talking yourself into. You enter the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you for privacy. And then you look over at the toilet. So close, and yet so far. And instead of going over to use it just like usual, you stand just inside the doorway there...and spread your legs a little. Fully clothed, you begin to push firmly, intent on having just 'one more accident'.

The warm sensation building in your rear feels tense and amazing as your buttocks reflexively clench together. A sense of naughty pleasure washes through your body as you feel more and more pressure build up in your rear hole, which begins to flex slightly as you feel the end of a large log of poo beginning to come out into your underwear. You're pooping your pants! You shudder, with a moment of instinctual resistance.

It takes a lot of effort to get over that mental block. Pooping your pants isn't like wetting your pants. There's no puddle or wetness you'll need to worry about, but as you feel the lump of poo starting to brush softly against the seat of your underwear, you are a little nervous about the horrible mess that will surely ruin your underwear. Not to mention the terrible stink and smell. It feels like perhaps the -most- immature kind of 'accident' one could have.

And so you hesitate for a second.

But a second is a very short period of time. And a second later, you are pushing down again, and following through. And before you can even think to hesitate again, that large mound of poo has slid the rest of the way past your cheeks and fills out the seat of your shorts. Your underwear becomes heavy with the hot feces fresh from your rear. You groan quietly at the feeling of humiliation and filthiness, half-expected because of your hesitant consideration, but no less impactful once the consequences of your actions begin to sink in as you stand there, grunting softly and pushing while it continues piling and oozing out, filling the space between your cheeks and your underwear.



You gasp softly once you are 'finished'. And cringe at the feeling as you reach down carefully with a hand and feel the warm, dodgy mound now bulging slightly from your seat. It's so warm and a little bit sticky-feeling, all up between the cheeks of your rear, nestled against your bottom. And the stench! Uff!

You wordlessly just stand there, breathing a little. Your heart is racing. You've just intentionally shit your pants. There are so many mixed feelings. Guilt for doing something that you think would probably make Mom or Dad upset. The excitement of being so 'naughty'. The oddly freeing, liberating feeling of allowing yourself to do something so childish.

The slightly nervousness of knowing you need to go back out to the living room and let Aunt Sally know what happened.

You take a deep breath. It will be fine. Remember, Aunt Sally has already seen you have a couple of accidents during your stay already. This one is just a little more embarrassing.

So--steeling yourself, you unlock and step back outside the bathroom, shuffling, walking slowly back to the living room, feeling the mess shifting slightly with each step. Back to the living room, where Aunt Sally is still resting on the sofa, having waited for you to return. You step into the room a little shyly, gingerly keeping your hands cupped behind you, over your rear, as though afraid that if you don't hold your messy underwear in place that it might make things worse. You can see her smiling as she looks at you and sees the look of guilt and embarrassment that is plainly evident on your face right away. You don't even need to say anything. The mortification is plain on your face.

"Ut-oh...," she says, in a sing-songy voice, "I know what that face looks like." she chides. And it is the closest thing to 'teasing' that Aunt Sally has given you since your arrival.

You are too shy to respond right away, and a moment later, Aunt Sally is walking toward you, and as soon as she gets close enough, she cups her hand up along the rear of your jeans, checking to see if you're clean back there. Not that she -needs- to, to tell.

You feel her hand immediately find and softly cup the warm mound of poo nestled between your buttocks through the denim of your pants. She can feel that your underwear are full and warm with its load. She brushes her fingers lightly across the warm, moist bulge, and before you can think of anything to say to explain yourself she just coos softly.

"Uh-oh. You didn't make it in time. It seems we have a little poopy-pants on our hands!" she says calmly and matter-of-factly, just patting the warm bulgy mess in your briefs.

You feel utterly childish, standing there in your messy pants like that. You lean into it. This is what you wanted. This is why you did it.

"I'm sorry, Auntie Sally," you apologize with a soft blush, "I hurried, but I just couldn't make it...,"

She smiles gently at you, stroking the top of your head a little as she looks down at you. "It's all right, sweetie. I know you tried your best," she says--and she says it like she really means it. She really does think it's perfectly normal for you to still be wetting your pants occasionally. To have wet your bed recently. And now to have gone so far as to mess yourself. From her perspective, it doesn't matter if you're 14 or only 4. Your 'accidents' are perfectly understandable from her skewed, atypical point of view.

In fact, she isn't even deterred or hesitant to give the small of your back a small pat and say considerately:

"You look like you might need some help. Let's get you into the bathroom and cleaned up."

You bite your lip and glance over your shoulder shyly before turning back around. It wasn't a question. And you find yourself being led up the hallway gently by the hand. And even though you're shy about the awful mess and smell you've made in your underwear, the way she is insistently walking you along makes you relax obediently. You're just her baby nephew now, aren't you? Why shouldn't you just let her clean you up? It's what she obviously expects anyway!

As Aunt Sally leads you down the hall toward the bathroom, she's whispering to you: "Don't be embarrassed about it honey. It's all right. You were trying really hard and I know you tried your best. And this is all part of growing up, right?"

You nod, feeling that warm, happy glow welling up inside you. The same feeling you had when you had wet your pants and bed those earlier times. That feeling that you're giving in and acting rather childishly, and that it's not just to humor Aunt Sally, but because you truly enjoy it, "I know. I'm still sorry, anyways!"

You step into the bathroom and turn around to face her while she stands in front of you, just a couple of feet away from you, looking at you with such a loving and gentle expression on her face--you shiver with anticipation as she calmly turns you around in front of the toilet and begins to undress your jeans, pulling them down around your ankles, exposing your filthy, soiled underwear. Full and warm and pungent with the stink of your own waste. Without even hesitating, she then immediately hooks her fingers into the waistband of your underwear to pull them down as well, leaving you naked in front of her. Your poop-smeared ass cheeks are completely exposed.

"Tch. You were so close. You almost made it," Aunt Sally coos reassuringly as she leans past you and turns the shower on, adjusting the temperature, waiting until it is comfortably warm.

"Step in, honey. There you go," she coos, gently patting a cleaner part of your rear as you bend over to step into the shower.

The warm water feels pleasant over the top of your head and cascading down your shoulders. But you barely have a moment to relax. Aunt Sally finds an old wash rag from the nearby cabinet. It's a brittle, over-bleached thing. A rag that has obviously been used and disinfected many times, washing rears that are much smaller than yours, though probably just as messy. And just like that--she begins cleaning you down there. Soft hands running the rag all over your rear, wiping the mess from your buttocks and up between the crack of your cheeks as you gasp softly under vaguely alien touch. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember being washed and cleaned up by someone else like this. But it's been so long. So very, very long.

You relax, leaning your head under the warm spray of water and exhaling. She hums softly. There is no further cooing. No shaming. No untoward comment, even as she takes a moment to soap and wipe down your groin, as well. She's just being kind and considerate. From her point of view, you're not a 14 year old young adult, but simply a larger version of a helpless kid akin to your baby cousins. A little boy who has to be cleaned up when he makes a mess of his pants.

And then--a few tender moments like that later, it's over. You're all clean again and the water turns off, and Aunt Sally has bundled your soiled clothing and the dirty washrag up to go to the laundry. She fetches you a soft, warm towel to dry yourself up with.

"Good boy. Now you get dressed and run along and play while Aunt Sally takes care of these. And don't be ashamed of your little accident now, okay? You'll try harder and make it to the potty next time," she says, taking the dirty laundry with her and shutting the door, leaving you with a change of fresh clothes to get dressed in.

You stand in the bathroom a moment after she leaves, drying yourself up and thinking about the strange little adventure you just went through. How strange it is that Aunt Sally seems to find nothing wrong with your behavior. How stranger still, and oddly relaxing to just go along with it all--to act like a little kid and let yourself be cleaned up and comforted like one as well. It's been so long since you've felt so childishly helpless, so silly and foolish. It's wonderful.

You are glad you came here. And you are very happy.



* * *




But all good things must come to an end.

And the very next day, early in the afternoon--Mom and Dad return to the manor, stopping in to visit with Aunt Sally briefly before your drive back home. Spring Break is at an end. It will be back to normal life again--schoolwork and homework and chores and study and studying and more homework. And then driver's ed this summer, probably. And then Dad will probably want you to start looking for a job.

But for the moment, while you blissfully watch PBS Kids in the living room while listening to the three of them getting caught up with each other -- you cringe bashfully when you hear the exchange between them.

"So how was my son this week? I hope he didn't make too much of a nuisance of himself!" Mom asks.

"Oh, he was perfectly behaved!" Aunt Sally says, and then adds matter-of-factly, "He had a few potty accidents, but he didn't cause any trouble."

...You cringe, in abject horror.

"Oh?" Mom says. Dad is silent. You hold your breath anxiously. You are almost certain that this line of inquiry won't end well for you. Mom and Dad know without a doubt that you are well beyond the age where such 'accidents' could be expected from you.

But before you can even dwell on it right that moment, the conversation just moves past, seemingly of its own accord.

"Oh--well, we're certainly glad he didn't cause any trouble," Mom says, and then the two continue their small-talk as you quietly sigh with relief.



* * *



A little later, long after everyone has said their 'goodbyes', their final 'goodbyes', and then their most-certainly-final 'goodbyes', the three of you are in the car driving back in the direction of your home. The large ancestral manor recedes on the horizon behind you -- until at last it is gone entirely.

Without any warning, Mom turns her head slightly from the front passenger seat, smirking playfully back at you.

"So..., 'a few potty accidents', hmm?" is all she asks.

You swallow and glance away. There are a lot of ways you could play this. You could deny it entirely. You could try to fake like you couldn't help it.

You get along well with your parents for the most part, though. And even though you know you could _possibly_ get in trouble for it in the end, you don't deny anything.

"Uh....y..yeah." you mumble softly, through a heavy blush.

You thought her or Dad might get angry. You were ready for some scolding. And hoping they wouldn't ask too many questions.


Instead--after a moment, she just snickers lightly. Clearly amused. If anything, a little incredulous.

Looking up in the rear view mirror, you can see Dad glance in your direction and just grin a little at you, suppressing a chuckle of his own.

"Well--what's that about, then?" Mom asks.

The anxious fear that they would be angry is dithered away. Sheepishly, you eventually get out through your blushing face, "Well...uh...it was like I said on that first night. S-She..uhh...kept treating me like I was a little kid, you know? I thought I would just play along and after a couple days I just..uhh...got a little carried away, I guess...you know?"

Mom just stares at you with that incredulous stare, clearly amused more than upset. Dad, who is trying not to lose his focus on the road, just chokes up a little, as though trying to hold in the urge to laugh.

Defensively, you stammer, "Hey! Dad was the one who told me to play along as much as I felt comfortable with!"

That's enough to make both Mom and Dad burst out with mirthful laughter, while you look away, embarrassed--shy, but happy.

After the laughter and sharp intakes of air subside, Mom reaches over and pats you on your knee reassuringly. Dad just shakes his head softly and turns his head slightly toward Mom without taking his focus off the road, "Oh, Sally's always been like that. Even when we were kids. Bless her heart."

Mom smiles and says back to him, as casually as can be, "Yeah, that sounds like your sister all right."

It's not an explanation. Nor an excuse. It simply is what it is, and it is all that needs to be said about it, apparently. Because no other comment or discussion is made about it. "Weird" Aunt Sally is exactly as they know, remember, and treasure her. As much as they know and treasure each other -- and you.

You. 14. Nearly an adult, but maybe not quite. Next year? Next Spring Break? Maybe you'll get to be a little kid for a while longer again at Aunt Sally's house.


You're looking forward to it already.






---


About the author:

Ashtar is a rat, squeak-squeak.
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