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Laura pulled the violin into her slightly tender neck as she blinked the sleep
from her eyes. She turned the pegs and she pulled the instrument back up to
pitch, the strings sounding as scratchy as she felt. Morning practice was
always a little like this, a strange combination of resuming the work of the
day before as if it had never stopped, and learning to play the instrument all
over again. Some people woke up in the shower; Laura woke up in the practice
room.
She had lucked into artist housing this year, her third at Juilliard, and it
was an easy walk from the highrise on 63rd street to Lincoln Center where she
went to school. That meant the coffee she drank on the way over hadn't had
time to kick in by the time the violin was out of its case. But that had
changed by the time she was on her third scale, A major, her fingers starting
to wake up as they raced up and down the neck on autopilot, and her bowels and
bladder springing alive with sudden urgency.
She ignored them as long as she could, but as she was rounding the top of a
slow d minor scale she felt her tummy give a great push, and she nearly lost
it. She put the violin on top of the piano and sprinted down the hall to the
bathroom, jumped into a stall and yanked her jeans down to her ankles. Her
muscles gave way before her butt had reached the toilet seat, and copious
amounts of waste dumped into the bowl as she settled in.
People had always envied Laura's easy skinniness. They made comments when they
saw her scarfing down food or drinking beer: "You're so lucky you can eat like
that and not get fat! Here, take a few pounds off of me, you need some meat on
those bones!" And while it was a blessing to never worry about her weight,
that hyperactive metabolism had its downsides. Morning practice was always a
bit... interrupted. She very regularly had to go three times before noon,
sometimes more. That meant instead of getting in four hours of morning
practice, it was usually more like three. It was frustrating, and it made it
hard to meet her practice goals for the day.
As she made her way back to her practice room, from the end of the hall she
could see a portly man standing in front of her door with his arms crossed.
"Shit," she muttered. It was her violin teacher, Ilyan Goresky.
Ilyan was a hard man with an international reputation. A Russian Jew, he had
emigrated from Soviet Russia during the thaw after Stalin's death, but despite
having lived in the West for sixty years he had never lost his thick accent.
The older students passed stories of his exploits down to the freshman. It was
said he had befriended Stravinsky and Schoenberg when they had been expats
together in California. He had supposedly been the concertmaster of the first
orchestra to play Wagner in Israel, or maybe conductor – reports differed.
Approaching 80, he still played concerts around the world and made heavenly
sounds come out of his instrument. And as a teacher he was second to none;
four of the last ten winners of the Tchaikovsky Competition had been his
students, and his former students were in every major orchestra in world.
A certain kind of student did very well with Ilyan. He demanded absolute
devotion, to him and to the instrument, and most of all to the great master
composers. Some found him too harsh. Laura would never forget the sight of a
big tough Eastern European student coming out of Ilyan's studio with his face
pale and tear-streaked. When you didn't meet his expectations, he screamed,
sometimes he threw things. He never physically hurt a student, but if one note
was out place, one phrase slightly off, he made you feel as though the world
were tumbling off its axis.
And now here he was, irritated, and staring her down as she approached him in
the hallway.
"You've been here less than hour and you take 20 minutes break? Comptetition is
in three months," he jabbed three figures in the air as punctuation, "how you
will practice eight hours today without skipping class?"
This wasn't the first time Ilyan had chastised her about her frequent bathroom
breaks. He was known to prowl the halls and burst in on his students when they
practiced wrong. He had noticed early in her first year, and it had come up
more often than she was comfortable with. The pressure was on doubly this year
since she was one of two students of his entering the Tchaikovsky
International Violin Competition. It was one of the most prestigious honors a
violinist could get, and since it was a Russian competition, Ilyan took it
extra seriously.
"Bathroom again?" he shook his head at her in disgust. "Diapers. You will wear
diapers Laura."
Laura giggled at this, until she saw the deadly serious look on his face.
"I... you can't mean it"
"I mean it. You cannot win competition if you break all the time. You will
wear diapers while you practice until competition, or you will not enter."
****
She was a bit shaken, but eventually she got back to practicing and convinced
herself that he hadn't really been serious. He was just trying to get her to
take fewer breaks, and that made sense. A few breaks for a few minutes in the
morning were good, but her bathroom habits took real time out of her practice
schedule. She just needed to hold it instead of giving in every time her body
told her to go, that's all.
It wasn't long before her bowels were rumbling again. She look at the clock –
it had been 45 minutes. Good grief. But she could hold it. She kept at her
concerto for another twenty minutes before a cramp bent her over and nearly
forced her to mess herself. She sighed and sprinted back down the hall to the
bathroom.
When she got back, she was faced with a large brown box in the middle of the
floor of her practice room. It was marked noncommittally, but she instantly
knew what it was, and that Ilyan had been as serious as he had said. It was a
box of perfectly fitted, high capacity adult diapers.
****
The next day Laura woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to start the coffee
maker. She slipped off her nighty and lay a diaper on her bed. She had already
pulled it out and inspected it the night before, and now she lay on top of it
and calmly fastened the tapes, making sure to get it properly tight. She was
surprised how matter of factly she was behaving. She thought she probably
should have been trembling with fear and shame, weeping and knashing her
teeth, but instead she was just doing what she had to do. Ilyan had declared
that this was what was necessary to be as good as she could be, and who was
she to question that? Besides, she wasn't actually going to use the diaper. It
was just there to remind her of her resolve to not take too many bathroom
breaks.
Her jeans felt tighter than normal, but not uncomfortably so, and she chose a
three-quarter length peacoat to cover the bulge. Steam drifted from her coffee
mug as she sipped it in the cool morning air on the way to school. She didn't
realise she was nervous until she swiped her ID card at the front entrance and
walked past the security guard, wondering if he noticed the light crinkling
sound. She waved to friends in the hallway, and sleepily stood next to
classmates in the elevator, and swished down the hallway to find a practice
room, and not once did anyone say, my Laura, you are oddly shaped in your
mid-section today. But of course, why would they? Everyone might have
noticed, and no one said a word out of politeness. She shivered slightly. She
had to assume no one had seen.
Then began the tuning ritual, the slow scales getting faster and faster, the
learning how to play again. And then, just as she was starting her daily
arpeggios, she felt her bowels turn over, and prepare to empty themselves.
At this point, she would normally have gone to the toilet right away, but
today she was resolved to hold it until lunch. How hard could this really be?
Probably she would feel urgent for a few minutes, and then things would calm
down once she had convinced herself she really wasn't going.
But that's not what happened. Instead, there was a slowly building weight in
her abdomen that just wouldn't let up. She tried to keep her mind on her
playing, but she needed the bathroom so desperately. Finally, she decided this
was stupid. She wasn't getting anything useful done, she might as well be in
the bathroom now. Putting the violin gingerly into its case, she opened the
practice room door prepared to run down the hall to the bathroom. But the
instant she stepped out, she saw Ilyan at the end of the hall. Back in she
went, slamming the door. He had been rounding the corner headed in her
direction, so he may not have seen her, but she had better be playing when he
got to her door.
Laure fought to make her body straighten up, but her stomach muscles were
contracting under their own power. She finally forced herself upright and
grabbed her violin. She started right into her concerto, and just in time to
see Ilyan walk past her window. He didn't look at her, but she thought she saw
his head incline in her direction. Her sound was off, unfocused. Normally he
would have stopped to correct her, but this time he let it go. He must know
what I'm going through right now, she thought. And knowing what he had told
her yesterday, she knew he wasn't about to leave and let her chicken out. He
would be there to make sure she didn't take a bathroom break this morning.
And with that realization, she relaxed the tiniest bit, and filled her pants.
Her hole expanded as the thickest portion came out, and then there was more,
softer, spreading. She could feel the diaper expand and the mess fill out the
space in her seat quite thoroughly, puffing it out and finding room near the
leg holes and up the back. She gasped for air as she finished.
She blinked her eyes and became aware of her surroundings again, her image
blinking back at her in the mirror. The violin was still under her chin, but
the arm holding it was dropped down so the elbow rested against her ribcage.
Her right arm dangled at her side and the tip of her bow brushed the
industrial-beige carpet. She could see her chest heaving up and down as she
caught her breath.
In junior high, as it became clear that Laura was destined to be a
competition-winning prodigy, she began to hear comments about things besides
her violin playing. Men who helped her parents make decisions, presenters and
agents and publicists, would winkingly say things like "She certainly has a
face made for a CD cover," or "That body of hers won't hurt when she's all
grown up." Her parents and teachers had always steered her to think of her
success as dependent on her artistry, but she had a grim awareness that being
a solist whose face appeared in marketing – ads, posters out front of Lincoln
Center or Carnegie Hall, luxury car endorsements that showed up next to the
names of sponsors in the Philharmonic program – there was more than artistry
involved when it came time to choose a soloist to appear with an orchestra,
and whatever that was, she had it. As one of the old leches had said when she
was sixteen, "God is an artist, too."
She admired herself then, her piercing blue eyes, her lovely chin, statuesque
neck, modest but perfectly shaped breasts, slim down to her waist, and then
what seemed to her a huge bulk at her hips and under her crotch. She was aware
of her mess pushing up against her. She must have expelled at least a small
cantaloupe worth of shit, but it felt much larger against her skin than it
looked it the mirror.
She had to pee, and it took very little to overcome her impulse to head to the
bathroom. She relaxed again, pushed gently, and voided her bladder slowly into
her pants. There was a soft hiss, and she watched in the mirror as her crotch
grew almost imperceptibly bigger and more taught. She felt hot liquid engulf
her privates and wash under her and around the tops of her legs before being
absorbed. She bent her legs slightly and felt a warm, damp squish.
She tried to remember the last few times she had done something like this. Her
freshman year in college, she had had way too much to drink one Saturday
night, and ended up wetting all over herself and the boy she had hooked up
with as they slept. When she had gotten her wisdom teeth removed in high
school, she had been high as a kite on vicodin. She tried to get up out of bed
to go to the bathroom, somehow got wrapped up in the sheet, and ended up lying
on the floor, messing into her pajamas and making a huge puddle in the
sheets.
But the last time she had just gone in her pants undrugged and fully aware of
what she was doing, she was maybe seven or eight, sitting in class. For some
reason she hadn't asked to go to the bathroom, she couldn't remember why, and
had ended up filling her red cordouroy pants as she sat there. She had been
horrified that it was happening, but had said nothing, remaining in her seat
until they were asked to move to a different part of the room – maybe it was
story time? – and the teacher had noticed.
And now, this time, was she horrified? She felt the warm mush in her pants
against her skin. No, she was fine. She had done what she had to do. Time to
practice.
She resumed her arpeggios where she left off, and paused only for a moment
when her second bowel movement of the morning came. She spread her legs, gave
a good push, and felt everything in her pants move around, adjusting to the
new mass. She pissed herself more as she pushed, and then again half an hour
later, when she didn't even interrupt her concerto to let go.
It turned out that, like with the violin, when it came to wetting and messing
her pants, she was a natural.
****
Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this. I have at least one, maybe two episodes more up my sleeve, so let me know if you are interested in reading them!
from her eyes. She turned the pegs and she pulled the instrument back up to
pitch, the strings sounding as scratchy as she felt. Morning practice was
always a little like this, a strange combination of resuming the work of the
day before as if it had never stopped, and learning to play the instrument all
over again. Some people woke up in the shower; Laura woke up in the practice
room.
She had lucked into artist housing this year, her third at Juilliard, and it
was an easy walk from the highrise on 63rd street to Lincoln Center where she
went to school. That meant the coffee she drank on the way over hadn't had
time to kick in by the time the violin was out of its case. But that had
changed by the time she was on her third scale, A major, her fingers starting
to wake up as they raced up and down the neck on autopilot, and her bowels and
bladder springing alive with sudden urgency.
She ignored them as long as she could, but as she was rounding the top of a
slow d minor scale she felt her tummy give a great push, and she nearly lost
it. She put the violin on top of the piano and sprinted down the hall to the
bathroom, jumped into a stall and yanked her jeans down to her ankles. Her
muscles gave way before her butt had reached the toilet seat, and copious
amounts of waste dumped into the bowl as she settled in.
People had always envied Laura's easy skinniness. They made comments when they
saw her scarfing down food or drinking beer: "You're so lucky you can eat like
that and not get fat! Here, take a few pounds off of me, you need some meat on
those bones!" And while it was a blessing to never worry about her weight,
that hyperactive metabolism had its downsides. Morning practice was always a
bit... interrupted. She very regularly had to go three times before noon,
sometimes more. That meant instead of getting in four hours of morning
practice, it was usually more like three. It was frustrating, and it made it
hard to meet her practice goals for the day.
As she made her way back to her practice room, from the end of the hall she
could see a portly man standing in front of her door with his arms crossed.
"Shit," she muttered. It was her violin teacher, Ilyan Goresky.
Ilyan was a hard man with an international reputation. A Russian Jew, he had
emigrated from Soviet Russia during the thaw after Stalin's death, but despite
having lived in the West for sixty years he had never lost his thick accent.
The older students passed stories of his exploits down to the freshman. It was
said he had befriended Stravinsky and Schoenberg when they had been expats
together in California. He had supposedly been the concertmaster of the first
orchestra to play Wagner in Israel, or maybe conductor – reports differed.
Approaching 80, he still played concerts around the world and made heavenly
sounds come out of his instrument. And as a teacher he was second to none;
four of the last ten winners of the Tchaikovsky Competition had been his
students, and his former students were in every major orchestra in world.
A certain kind of student did very well with Ilyan. He demanded absolute
devotion, to him and to the instrument, and most of all to the great master
composers. Some found him too harsh. Laura would never forget the sight of a
big tough Eastern European student coming out of Ilyan's studio with his face
pale and tear-streaked. When you didn't meet his expectations, he screamed,
sometimes he threw things. He never physically hurt a student, but if one note
was out place, one phrase slightly off, he made you feel as though the world
were tumbling off its axis.
And now here he was, irritated, and staring her down as she approached him in
the hallway.
"You've been here less than hour and you take 20 minutes break? Comptetition is
in three months," he jabbed three figures in the air as punctuation, "how you
will practice eight hours today without skipping class?"
This wasn't the first time Ilyan had chastised her about her frequent bathroom
breaks. He was known to prowl the halls and burst in on his students when they
practiced wrong. He had noticed early in her first year, and it had come up
more often than she was comfortable with. The pressure was on doubly this year
since she was one of two students of his entering the Tchaikovsky
International Violin Competition. It was one of the most prestigious honors a
violinist could get, and since it was a Russian competition, Ilyan took it
extra seriously.
"Bathroom again?" he shook his head at her in disgust. "Diapers. You will wear
diapers Laura."
Laura giggled at this, until she saw the deadly serious look on his face.
"I... you can't mean it"
"I mean it. You cannot win competition if you break all the time. You will
wear diapers while you practice until competition, or you will not enter."
****
She was a bit shaken, but eventually she got back to practicing and convinced
herself that he hadn't really been serious. He was just trying to get her to
take fewer breaks, and that made sense. A few breaks for a few minutes in the
morning were good, but her bathroom habits took real time out of her practice
schedule. She just needed to hold it instead of giving in every time her body
told her to go, that's all.
It wasn't long before her bowels were rumbling again. She look at the clock –
it had been 45 minutes. Good grief. But she could hold it. She kept at her
concerto for another twenty minutes before a cramp bent her over and nearly
forced her to mess herself. She sighed and sprinted back down the hall to the
bathroom.
When she got back, she was faced with a large brown box in the middle of the
floor of her practice room. It was marked noncommittally, but she instantly
knew what it was, and that Ilyan had been as serious as he had said. It was a
box of perfectly fitted, high capacity adult diapers.
****
The next day Laura woke up and stumbled into the kitchen to start the coffee
maker. She slipped off her nighty and lay a diaper on her bed. She had already
pulled it out and inspected it the night before, and now she lay on top of it
and calmly fastened the tapes, making sure to get it properly tight. She was
surprised how matter of factly she was behaving. She thought she probably
should have been trembling with fear and shame, weeping and knashing her
teeth, but instead she was just doing what she had to do. Ilyan had declared
that this was what was necessary to be as good as she could be, and who was
she to question that? Besides, she wasn't actually going to use the diaper. It
was just there to remind her of her resolve to not take too many bathroom
breaks.
Her jeans felt tighter than normal, but not uncomfortably so, and she chose a
three-quarter length peacoat to cover the bulge. Steam drifted from her coffee
mug as she sipped it in the cool morning air on the way to school. She didn't
realise she was nervous until she swiped her ID card at the front entrance and
walked past the security guard, wondering if he noticed the light crinkling
sound. She waved to friends in the hallway, and sleepily stood next to
classmates in the elevator, and swished down the hallway to find a practice
room, and not once did anyone say, my Laura, you are oddly shaped in your
mid-section today. But of course, why would they? Everyone might have
noticed, and no one said a word out of politeness. She shivered slightly. She
had to assume no one had seen.
Then began the tuning ritual, the slow scales getting faster and faster, the
learning how to play again. And then, just as she was starting her daily
arpeggios, she felt her bowels turn over, and prepare to empty themselves.
At this point, she would normally have gone to the toilet right away, but
today she was resolved to hold it until lunch. How hard could this really be?
Probably she would feel urgent for a few minutes, and then things would calm
down once she had convinced herself she really wasn't going.
But that's not what happened. Instead, there was a slowly building weight in
her abdomen that just wouldn't let up. She tried to keep her mind on her
playing, but she needed the bathroom so desperately. Finally, she decided this
was stupid. She wasn't getting anything useful done, she might as well be in
the bathroom now. Putting the violin gingerly into its case, she opened the
practice room door prepared to run down the hall to the bathroom. But the
instant she stepped out, she saw Ilyan at the end of the hall. Back in she
went, slamming the door. He had been rounding the corner headed in her
direction, so he may not have seen her, but she had better be playing when he
got to her door.
Laure fought to make her body straighten up, but her stomach muscles were
contracting under their own power. She finally forced herself upright and
grabbed her violin. She started right into her concerto, and just in time to
see Ilyan walk past her window. He didn't look at her, but she thought she saw
his head incline in her direction. Her sound was off, unfocused. Normally he
would have stopped to correct her, but this time he let it go. He must know
what I'm going through right now, she thought. And knowing what he had told
her yesterday, she knew he wasn't about to leave and let her chicken out. He
would be there to make sure she didn't take a bathroom break this morning.
And with that realization, she relaxed the tiniest bit, and filled her pants.
Her hole expanded as the thickest portion came out, and then there was more,
softer, spreading. She could feel the diaper expand and the mess fill out the
space in her seat quite thoroughly, puffing it out and finding room near the
leg holes and up the back. She gasped for air as she finished.
She blinked her eyes and became aware of her surroundings again, her image
blinking back at her in the mirror. The violin was still under her chin, but
the arm holding it was dropped down so the elbow rested against her ribcage.
Her right arm dangled at her side and the tip of her bow brushed the
industrial-beige carpet. She could see her chest heaving up and down as she
caught her breath.
In junior high, as it became clear that Laura was destined to be a
competition-winning prodigy, she began to hear comments about things besides
her violin playing. Men who helped her parents make decisions, presenters and
agents and publicists, would winkingly say things like "She certainly has a
face made for a CD cover," or "That body of hers won't hurt when she's all
grown up." Her parents and teachers had always steered her to think of her
success as dependent on her artistry, but she had a grim awareness that being
a solist whose face appeared in marketing – ads, posters out front of Lincoln
Center or Carnegie Hall, luxury car endorsements that showed up next to the
names of sponsors in the Philharmonic program – there was more than artistry
involved when it came time to choose a soloist to appear with an orchestra,
and whatever that was, she had it. As one of the old leches had said when she
was sixteen, "God is an artist, too."
She admired herself then, her piercing blue eyes, her lovely chin, statuesque
neck, modest but perfectly shaped breasts, slim down to her waist, and then
what seemed to her a huge bulk at her hips and under her crotch. She was aware
of her mess pushing up against her. She must have expelled at least a small
cantaloupe worth of shit, but it felt much larger against her skin than it
looked it the mirror.
She had to pee, and it took very little to overcome her impulse to head to the
bathroom. She relaxed again, pushed gently, and voided her bladder slowly into
her pants. There was a soft hiss, and she watched in the mirror as her crotch
grew almost imperceptibly bigger and more taught. She felt hot liquid engulf
her privates and wash under her and around the tops of her legs before being
absorbed. She bent her legs slightly and felt a warm, damp squish.
She tried to remember the last few times she had done something like this. Her
freshman year in college, she had had way too much to drink one Saturday
night, and ended up wetting all over herself and the boy she had hooked up
with as they slept. When she had gotten her wisdom teeth removed in high
school, she had been high as a kite on vicodin. She tried to get up out of bed
to go to the bathroom, somehow got wrapped up in the sheet, and ended up lying
on the floor, messing into her pajamas and making a huge puddle in the
sheets.
But the last time she had just gone in her pants undrugged and fully aware of
what she was doing, she was maybe seven or eight, sitting in class. For some
reason she hadn't asked to go to the bathroom, she couldn't remember why, and
had ended up filling her red cordouroy pants as she sat there. She had been
horrified that it was happening, but had said nothing, remaining in her seat
until they were asked to move to a different part of the room – maybe it was
story time? – and the teacher had noticed.
And now, this time, was she horrified? She felt the warm mush in her pants
against her skin. No, she was fine. She had done what she had to do. Time to
practice.
She resumed her arpeggios where she left off, and paused only for a moment
when her second bowel movement of the morning came. She spread her legs, gave
a good push, and felt everything in her pants move around, adjusting to the
new mass. She pissed herself more as she pushed, and then again half an hour
later, when she didn't even interrupt her concerto to let go.
It turned out that, like with the violin, when it came to wetting and messing
her pants, she was a natural.
****
Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this. I have at least one, maybe two episodes more up my sleeve, so let me know if you are interested in reading them!
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