Tweet
Laura was stuck on a passage of the Brahms concerto. She could never quite get
the phrase to turn out the way she wanted to. It was lilting, dancing, but it
had to start out sweet and build to something unbearably heroic. In her last
lesson, Ilyan had pulled out an old vinyl record of Nathan Milstein playing
the piece, and dropped the needle to just the right spot. "The rest of piece,
eh, he is good as always," Ilyan had waved his hands dismissively, good as
always being not nearly good enough, "but Meelshtein, he understand this
phrase better than anyone."
As the phrase built, Laura had felt her pulse quicken, tears threatened to
come to her eyes. It made her heart ache. This was why she played, because of
the possibility of making an audience feel this way, the possibility of
building a grand house designed by the greatest composers of all time, and
then getting to live in it. The flip side of that was now, in the practice
room, trying to make that happen, and make it happen reliably.
She didn't even think about the mess resting softly beneath her. Over the last
week, she had learned to treat having to use the bathroom as a minor
annoyance, like swatting a mosquito. When she felt the urge, most of the time
she no longer even paused her playing, she just adjusted her stance and loosed
her bowels into her pants. True, every once in a while she would have such an
epic movement that she had to pause to catch her breath. It was strange, she
thought in those moments, how much shitting and having an orgasm could be
similar. Or shitting and playing this damn phrase the way Nathan Milstein had.
That morning had been a bit epic. She had already gone three times, and was
vaguely aware of a fourth building inside her that would have to come out
before she broke for lunch in an hour. It was just getting to the point of
distracting her, so she set her feet slightly apart, and pushed gently. Her
bladder opened first, piss warming her crotch and dancing deliciously around
her pussy. That actually felt pretty spectacular too, now that she thought
about it. Then her hold started to soften, and her bowels began to empty. It
was medium-soft, firm enough to push the rather huge mess that was already
there to spread out and make room, soft enough to conform to her body as it
slowly filled her seat.
Laura turned slightly and checked out her butt in the mirror. This might be
the biggest load her diapers had held so far. Four good-sized movements, and
no sign of leakage. It was pretty impressive, if she was honest with herself.
She pushed again and finished emptying her bladder, and then shook her head,
trying to ignore the tingling arousal she felt in her clit. Brahms. Time for
Brahms.
****
She finished her morning practice session maybe twenty minutes late, finally
feeling confident she could nail that phrase, but she needed to hurry home if
she was going to clean up and eat lunch in time for her first class of the
afternoon. She put on her coat and nonchalantly walked down the hall, into the
elevator.
That first day she had worn diapers, her walk from her practice room out of
the building had been terrifying. She was sure someone would see, or hear, or
smell, and that would be the end of her social life. Not that she had one
this year -- preparing for the competition was an all-consuming task -- but
she would want to have one again eventually. But no one seemed to notice. And
then, strangest of all, when people did start to find out, they didn't react
the way she expected.
It happened first in studio class. It was evening, so she wasn't wearing a
diaper. She sat down next to Antoine, probably her closest friend in Ilyan's
studio. As the class started to come to order, Antoine leaned close to her and
said, "So I hear Goresky has you on toilet suspension." Before Laura had a
chance to respond to his question, he presented his fist. "Respect," he said,
and waited for her to reciprocate. She bumped his fist and giggled, "Man,
Julliard is so hardcore. Can you imagine those punks at Manhattan School of
Music doing something like that?"
"Mos def," he said. Antoine was French, and had gotten his diploma at the
Paris Conservatory; he was in the States getting his doctorate. He claimed
never to have taken an English class, having learned the language by watching
American cartoons as a child. In any case, his English was so good, his accent
was almost imperceptible. If anything, he lay on the slang a little thick
sometimes.
And that was that. She never heard a negative word about what she was doing.
She was surrounded by people who were absolutely driven to be the greatest who
ever lived. Not all of them would be willing to do what she was doing, though,
and so she was accorded respect. Even awe.
Walking home, Laura felt the bulk of everything she had pushed out of her that
morning. The crotch of the diaper was full and stiff, since she had peed four
or five times, and it rubbed her inner thighs as she walked.
By the time she got home, she was starving and very pressed for time. She
decided to eat first, just to get her bodily needs taken care of, and then she
would clean up and go. She heated up some leftovers, sliced an apple, and
placed it on her desk beside her computer. And then she was presented with a
dilemma. Her diaper was completely full, and she had never sat down like that
before.
Perhaps she could eat standing? She leaned over, forked up some pasta, and
awkwardly tried to take a bite. She glanced at her phone -- she just didn't
have time for this. She pulled her desk chair out from the desk, took in a
breath, and eased down into the chair.
Inside her diaper was like an ocean, with currents and waves shifting and
swimming. As it settled down she felt the stiffness of the diaper itself, full
of her pee from all morning, pressing against her pussy, her clit throbbing
again. Without thinking about it, she rocked gently in her chair, doodling
absentmindedly at her lunch as pleasure swirled through her body. It built and
soon she was rocking hard, grinding into the diaper, her toes and fingers
unable to stay still, and then she came shiveringly.
Her orgasm seemed like it would last forever, but as the waves of pleasure
subsided she began to catch her breath. The sudden quiet in the room made her
realise she had been moaning loudly. She hadn't masturbated with such abandon
in quite a while. She hadn't realized she was so horny, but apparently she was
so desperately in need of an orgasm she hadn't even minded doing it while
covered in her own filth. She became vaguely aware of needing to pee, and
without really thinking about it she let go into her diaper, the warm bath
surrounding her still-throbbing pussy.
Glancing at her phone again, she scarfed down her food and checked her email,
but it was too late. She had five minutes to get to class. And now she was
faced with another decision. She hadn't gone to class in a diaper yet, and the
thought of doing so filled her with dread. But if she skipped class to clean
up, Ilyan would find out about it, and he did not stand for his students to
miss class.
There was nothing for it, then. She took a deep breath, threw on her coat,
grabbed her book bag and went out the door.
Going to school with a full diaper was a new sensation for her, as was
walking with the contents squashed and reshaped to her backside. Her heart
pounded as she walked through the entrance, and felt the turnstile bump
against her softly padded hips with a wet squish. She tried to keep her
distance from anyone else, and took the stairs to get to class. She was the
last person in the room, so it was easy to sit in the back away from anyone
else.
Antoine was the grad assistant running the class, so she normally sat up
front. She noticed him glancing back at her oddly a few times, but she kept
her eyes on her notebook as he slowly walked the class through dictation of a
Webern song. Ear training classes were a core class that every music student
had to take, and third year focused on atonal music. For most students, this
was incredibly difficult, but Laura had perfect pitch and could distinguish
the notes even without the context of harmony that most students needed.
Antoine had figured this out early and had started to make a game of giving
her ridiculous extra credit -- dictating orchestral works by Ligeti or
Stockhausen, pieces with tone clusters and dense orchestration. Sometimes for
fun he would play her a piece and have her transcribe them for piano on the
fly.
So he must have been aware that she was behaving strangely when she avoided
eye contact and sat in back.
Toward the end of class she felt a building need to pee, and when she started
to squirm, she finally just let go into her already full pants. As the warmth
surrounded her pussy she glanced up and saw Antoine staring at her. The class
had just been dismissed. She hurredly began to pack up her books, but Antoine
was headed over to her, and then he was there, perched on the book stand of
the chair next to her. He leaned over slowly and said, "You're a little
pressed for time today, aren't you?"
Laura felt her eyes getting hot with tears, and she looked down again. "Jesus,
you can tell?" Antoine just shrugged and stood back up. As the class cleared
out, said, "So, you know that Goresky has done this before, right? You're not
the first person to get the, uh, special toilet rules."
This hadn't even occurred to Laura, though it would explain why Ilyan had just
had that package of diapers ready for her. She had assumed he had planned in
advance to give them to her, but this would maybe make more sense. Her eyes
widened as she realized what Antoine was saying. "You?"
"No, no way, I couldn't do that. Not that-- I mean, like I said, it's crazy
hardcore, man." Laura laughed at his English, and he went on, "No, I was
talking to Sam" -- Samantha Keys, one of those perpetual grad students who
seemed to have been at Juilliard forever and was a vast repository of school
lore -- "and she was wondering if any of Goresky's current crop of competition
people was doing it, since she knew somebody had done it once before."
Antoine paused here, and Laura could see he was enjoying her rapt attention,
so finally she waved her hand, "Who?"
"Brendan. Carrier."
Brendan Carrier. He had taken second place at the Tchaikovsky competition
twelve years earlier, as a sophomore. He had a pretty respectable career now,
and he taught at -- where was it? SUNY Stony Brook, out on Long Island. He
also had, well, a bit of a reputation.
"You want to talk to him, don't you?" Before Laura could respond, he
continued, "Don't worry, I know you do. Hang on, I'm texting you his email."
****
The cursor blinked on Laura's computer screen. What in the world would she
write to him? So, I hear you used to shit yourself?
She sat at her desk, finally scrubbed clean and fresh, one towel wrapped
around her head and another around her torso, tucked in at her lovely breast.
She tapped her finger on the desk and abruptly stood up. Going to the kitchen,
she took a half empty bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured a decent-
sized glass, downed it, poured another, and returned to her seat.
Blinking back the faint rush in her head, she realized suddenly that she had
another avenue of approach.
Dear Prof. Carrier, I'm a student of Ilyan Goresky at Juilliard, and I'm
preparing for the Tchaikovsky Competition this year. Given your own experience
with the competition, it's been suggested that I should play for you and get
your tips on how to prepare for such a big event.
And hell, even if she didn't get up the courage to talk about her little
secret, she would get input from a stellar violinist. Win-win.
****
She went about her morning as usual the following day, and when she got home
for lunch, she paused on her way to the bathroom to clean up. Not really
knowing why, she decided it would be best to check her email before showering
and all that. After all, Brendan might have written her back, and she ought
not keep him waiting if he was trying to put together his schedule.
Walking up to her desk, she pulled out the chair, and eased slowly down into
her mess. And then she knew why she was delaying. Closing her eyes as she
settled in, she released her bladder. Shame on me, but this does feel
amazing, she thought.
Rocking slowly, she brought herself to a rolling, melting orgasm and fell
back, quivering with aftershocks of pleasure, into her chair. She dozed off
for a moment, and awoke feeling strangely comforted by the warm, wet, full
diaper that surrounded her. Her eyes fluttered into focus on the computer
screen, where she had a single unread message in her inbox.
****
So she would play for Brendan the following Sunday morning, out at his home on
Long Island. Because she would be leaving home earlier than usual, and because
she had gotten used to just... going in the morning as soon as the urge arose,
she wore protection just in case. Not the usual huge diapers, but a thinner
pull-up she picked up at the medical supply store on Broadway. She would have
bathrooms all around, of course, so she wasn't planning on using it, but she
liked having it on, just in case.
The train ride was about two hours long, but it was still early in the morning
when she arrived at the station in Stony Brook and walked the few blocks to
Brendan's house. He lived on a quiet block with short, balding trees and
narrow lawns. Turning up his front walkway, Laura noted the unraked leaves
littering the grass, some half-finished woodworking project abandoned and
rotting on the porch, and the house itself, one storey, the gutters tearing
away from the roof in places, the paint cracking. For some people, this would
be a sign of the residents' poverty or decrepitude, but Laura recognized it
right away for what it was: the home of a bachelor musician, frequently on
tour, who even when he was home was engrossed in practice and teaching. It was
an artist's house.
She knocked on the door, and Brendan Carrier opened it. A tall man in his
early thirties, he had mastered the hot teacher look, with his shock of curly
black hair, streaked lightly with gray, a two day stubble on his face, thin
black rimmed glasses. He looked like the movie version of a violin teacher,
and he definitely lived up to his reputation -- he was dreamy.
Laura bumbled for a moment and Brendan smiled broadly and said "you found the
place! Come on in. You can put your case over here." He gestured to a table by
the upright piano in his living room, one of the few clear surfaces in the
house. She pulled her bow out of her case and started to tighten it while
Brendan made small talk.
"How is Ilyan these days?"
Laura shrugged, "Good. He gave a recital last month. Still sounds amazing."
"It warms my heart to know Ilyan Goresky is terrorizing yet another generation
of students." They laughed, and Laura could tell already that he was a good
teacher, putting her at ease and introducing a kind of intimacy right away.
They chatted about her repertoire and how competition prep was going, and then
jumped into the piece she was going to play for him today, a dazzlingly
difficult showpiece by Wieniawski. As she was putting the music on the stand,
Laura felt a rumble in her bowels. She thought for an instant about asking to
go use the bathroom, but he was just so good looking, and besides she didn't
want to waste the little bit of time she had with him. She was pretty sure she
could wait until the hour was up and then use the bathroom at the train
station. She tuned her violin and started playing.
Brendan was even more helpful than she was expecting. They spent the first few
minutes working on some hand position issues, things she hadn't thought about
for years but that made several of the passages considerably easier. Then they
started talking about centering the mind for performance. This was the kind of
metaphysical stuff that Ilyan would never stand for, but Laura thought it
would be extremely helpful. She was distracted, though, by her growing need to
go to the bathroom.
With fifteen minutes to go before the end of the lesson, Brendan stopped her
in the middle of playing and asked if she was all right.
"Oh yes, I'm fine, don't worry about me." A cramp hit her stomach and she
suddenly changed her mind. "nnNN Actually, do you mind if I use your
bathroom?" She bent her knees and partly doubled over, and then looked up at
Brendan. He rubbed his chin absentmindedly, paused, and said, "So, is that why
you're ``here?"
The moment of truth. Laura nodded and looked down at her feet. Brendan burst
out laughing.
"I always wondered if he would ever try that again. Oh Ilyan." He covered his
eyes, looking somewhere between embarassed and amused. Then he giggled again
and Laura couldn't help but join him. But as their laughter subsided, and
Laura felt the dull heaviness against her hole, Brendan sat with his arms
folded and tapped his hand distractedly on his elbow. "Well, it's helped you,
hasn't it? It helped me."
Laura didn't really know how to respond. She shrugged her shoulders and
quietly said, "I guess I'm practicing more now."
Brendan stood up and paced a few steps, then turned abruptly and said, "Well,
ok, go ahead and use the bathroom if you want. But we only have fifteen
minutes or so left, and you and I have both been in this situation before. You
may as well just get it over with and we'll have more time to work."
Was this really happening? Laura didn't know what to do, but she knew in a
moment her body would make the decision for her, so she just said, "Well, ok,
I guess let's just do this then," and she relaxed.
As she put her violin up to her chin, she was surprised to feel her bladder
give way first, trickling into the pull-up as her hole opened and a large mass
moved slowly into her pants. She pushed, feeling it crackle out of her,
filling all available space, and then she pushed harder, and more snaked out,
softly shifting around and expanding her seat. She felt the pool of urine at
her crotch suddenly start to overflow the diaper when a light, warm dampness
gathered at the crease of her inner thigh. She clamped off the flow of urine
and was surprised to find herself starting to cry. "I'm sorry--" she started
to say, but Brendan interrupted her.
"No, don't ever say you're sorry for that. Don't be sorry. This is your super
power. Doing this makes you stronger and more dedicated than everyone else
you're going up against. Winning this competition is about mental toughness as
much or more than it is about your fingers." And now she saw him appraising
her body. It was a look she was used to getting from any man eventually. His
eyes narrowed, and he started to speak but stopped himself.
"What?" she asked, but she thought she knew what he was thinking. He had been
watching her face.
"I was going to say, besides, it looks like you enjoy it."
Laura's face went bright red, and she put her violin in playing position
without saying a word.
****
The lesson was over, and she shook Brendan's hand and thanked him, and she was
standing out on the front porch, violin case in hand, and her pants full of
shit. She walked as naturally as she could to the train station, and boarded
the train when it arrived. She took as isolated a seat as she could, since the
pull-up didn't do nearly as a good a job containing the smell as her usual
protection. Settling into the seat and feeling the now-familiar sensation of
her load squishing and shifting underneath her, she began to slowly empty her
bladder the rest of the way, making sure not to go fast enough to overwhelm
the pull-up this time.
Halfway through the train ride, she was feeling desperate again. She lifted
off the seat and pushed another bowel movement into her pants. They were so
full, she felt her mess pushing against her urgently. As she started to slowly
rock back and forth, she heard her phone ping. It was a message from Brendan:
Laura, pleased to meet today, and excellent playing. If you're available next
weekend I would be happy to hear you again then. Let me know. -B
She rocked her pelvis more quickly, and as her pleasure mounted she thought
about the moment she had seen that Brendan was attracted to her. He had said
that it looked like she enjoyed shitting herself. Perhaps, she thought, he had
enjoyed it also.
the phrase to turn out the way she wanted to. It was lilting, dancing, but it
had to start out sweet and build to something unbearably heroic. In her last
lesson, Ilyan had pulled out an old vinyl record of Nathan Milstein playing
the piece, and dropped the needle to just the right spot. "The rest of piece,
eh, he is good as always," Ilyan had waved his hands dismissively, good as
always being not nearly good enough, "but Meelshtein, he understand this
phrase better than anyone."
As the phrase built, Laura had felt her pulse quicken, tears threatened to
come to her eyes. It made her heart ache. This was why she played, because of
the possibility of making an audience feel this way, the possibility of
building a grand house designed by the greatest composers of all time, and
then getting to live in it. The flip side of that was now, in the practice
room, trying to make that happen, and make it happen reliably.
She didn't even think about the mess resting softly beneath her. Over the last
week, she had learned to treat having to use the bathroom as a minor
annoyance, like swatting a mosquito. When she felt the urge, most of the time
she no longer even paused her playing, she just adjusted her stance and loosed
her bowels into her pants. True, every once in a while she would have such an
epic movement that she had to pause to catch her breath. It was strange, she
thought in those moments, how much shitting and having an orgasm could be
similar. Or shitting and playing this damn phrase the way Nathan Milstein had.
That morning had been a bit epic. She had already gone three times, and was
vaguely aware of a fourth building inside her that would have to come out
before she broke for lunch in an hour. It was just getting to the point of
distracting her, so she set her feet slightly apart, and pushed gently. Her
bladder opened first, piss warming her crotch and dancing deliciously around
her pussy. That actually felt pretty spectacular too, now that she thought
about it. Then her hold started to soften, and her bowels began to empty. It
was medium-soft, firm enough to push the rather huge mess that was already
there to spread out and make room, soft enough to conform to her body as it
slowly filled her seat.
Laura turned slightly and checked out her butt in the mirror. This might be
the biggest load her diapers had held so far. Four good-sized movements, and
no sign of leakage. It was pretty impressive, if she was honest with herself.
She pushed again and finished emptying her bladder, and then shook her head,
trying to ignore the tingling arousal she felt in her clit. Brahms. Time for
Brahms.
****
She finished her morning practice session maybe twenty minutes late, finally
feeling confident she could nail that phrase, but she needed to hurry home if
she was going to clean up and eat lunch in time for her first class of the
afternoon. She put on her coat and nonchalantly walked down the hall, into the
elevator.
That first day she had worn diapers, her walk from her practice room out of
the building had been terrifying. She was sure someone would see, or hear, or
smell, and that would be the end of her social life. Not that she had one
this year -- preparing for the competition was an all-consuming task -- but
she would want to have one again eventually. But no one seemed to notice. And
then, strangest of all, when people did start to find out, they didn't react
the way she expected.
It happened first in studio class. It was evening, so she wasn't wearing a
diaper. She sat down next to Antoine, probably her closest friend in Ilyan's
studio. As the class started to come to order, Antoine leaned close to her and
said, "So I hear Goresky has you on toilet suspension." Before Laura had a
chance to respond to his question, he presented his fist. "Respect," he said,
and waited for her to reciprocate. She bumped his fist and giggled, "Man,
Julliard is so hardcore. Can you imagine those punks at Manhattan School of
Music doing something like that?"
"Mos def," he said. Antoine was French, and had gotten his diploma at the
Paris Conservatory; he was in the States getting his doctorate. He claimed
never to have taken an English class, having learned the language by watching
American cartoons as a child. In any case, his English was so good, his accent
was almost imperceptible. If anything, he lay on the slang a little thick
sometimes.
And that was that. She never heard a negative word about what she was doing.
She was surrounded by people who were absolutely driven to be the greatest who
ever lived. Not all of them would be willing to do what she was doing, though,
and so she was accorded respect. Even awe.
Walking home, Laura felt the bulk of everything she had pushed out of her that
morning. The crotch of the diaper was full and stiff, since she had peed four
or five times, and it rubbed her inner thighs as she walked.
By the time she got home, she was starving and very pressed for time. She
decided to eat first, just to get her bodily needs taken care of, and then she
would clean up and go. She heated up some leftovers, sliced an apple, and
placed it on her desk beside her computer. And then she was presented with a
dilemma. Her diaper was completely full, and she had never sat down like that
before.
Perhaps she could eat standing? She leaned over, forked up some pasta, and
awkwardly tried to take a bite. She glanced at her phone -- she just didn't
have time for this. She pulled her desk chair out from the desk, took in a
breath, and eased down into the chair.
Inside her diaper was like an ocean, with currents and waves shifting and
swimming. As it settled down she felt the stiffness of the diaper itself, full
of her pee from all morning, pressing against her pussy, her clit throbbing
again. Without thinking about it, she rocked gently in her chair, doodling
absentmindedly at her lunch as pleasure swirled through her body. It built and
soon she was rocking hard, grinding into the diaper, her toes and fingers
unable to stay still, and then she came shiveringly.
Her orgasm seemed like it would last forever, but as the waves of pleasure
subsided she began to catch her breath. The sudden quiet in the room made her
realise she had been moaning loudly. She hadn't masturbated with such abandon
in quite a while. She hadn't realized she was so horny, but apparently she was
so desperately in need of an orgasm she hadn't even minded doing it while
covered in her own filth. She became vaguely aware of needing to pee, and
without really thinking about it she let go into her diaper, the warm bath
surrounding her still-throbbing pussy.
Glancing at her phone again, she scarfed down her food and checked her email,
but it was too late. She had five minutes to get to class. And now she was
faced with another decision. She hadn't gone to class in a diaper yet, and the
thought of doing so filled her with dread. But if she skipped class to clean
up, Ilyan would find out about it, and he did not stand for his students to
miss class.
There was nothing for it, then. She took a deep breath, threw on her coat,
grabbed her book bag and went out the door.
Going to school with a full diaper was a new sensation for her, as was
walking with the contents squashed and reshaped to her backside. Her heart
pounded as she walked through the entrance, and felt the turnstile bump
against her softly padded hips with a wet squish. She tried to keep her
distance from anyone else, and took the stairs to get to class. She was the
last person in the room, so it was easy to sit in the back away from anyone
else.
Antoine was the grad assistant running the class, so she normally sat up
front. She noticed him glancing back at her oddly a few times, but she kept
her eyes on her notebook as he slowly walked the class through dictation of a
Webern song. Ear training classes were a core class that every music student
had to take, and third year focused on atonal music. For most students, this
was incredibly difficult, but Laura had perfect pitch and could distinguish
the notes even without the context of harmony that most students needed.
Antoine had figured this out early and had started to make a game of giving
her ridiculous extra credit -- dictating orchestral works by Ligeti or
Stockhausen, pieces with tone clusters and dense orchestration. Sometimes for
fun he would play her a piece and have her transcribe them for piano on the
fly.
So he must have been aware that she was behaving strangely when she avoided
eye contact and sat in back.
Toward the end of class she felt a building need to pee, and when she started
to squirm, she finally just let go into her already full pants. As the warmth
surrounded her pussy she glanced up and saw Antoine staring at her. The class
had just been dismissed. She hurredly began to pack up her books, but Antoine
was headed over to her, and then he was there, perched on the book stand of
the chair next to her. He leaned over slowly and said, "You're a little
pressed for time today, aren't you?"
Laura felt her eyes getting hot with tears, and she looked down again. "Jesus,
you can tell?" Antoine just shrugged and stood back up. As the class cleared
out, said, "So, you know that Goresky has done this before, right? You're not
the first person to get the, uh, special toilet rules."
This hadn't even occurred to Laura, though it would explain why Ilyan had just
had that package of diapers ready for her. She had assumed he had planned in
advance to give them to her, but this would maybe make more sense. Her eyes
widened as she realized what Antoine was saying. "You?"
"No, no way, I couldn't do that. Not that-- I mean, like I said, it's crazy
hardcore, man." Laura laughed at his English, and he went on, "No, I was
talking to Sam" -- Samantha Keys, one of those perpetual grad students who
seemed to have been at Juilliard forever and was a vast repository of school
lore -- "and she was wondering if any of Goresky's current crop of competition
people was doing it, since she knew somebody had done it once before."
Antoine paused here, and Laura could see he was enjoying her rapt attention,
so finally she waved her hand, "Who?"
"Brendan. Carrier."
Brendan Carrier. He had taken second place at the Tchaikovsky competition
twelve years earlier, as a sophomore. He had a pretty respectable career now,
and he taught at -- where was it? SUNY Stony Brook, out on Long Island. He
also had, well, a bit of a reputation.
"You want to talk to him, don't you?" Before Laura could respond, he
continued, "Don't worry, I know you do. Hang on, I'm texting you his email."
****
The cursor blinked on Laura's computer screen. What in the world would she
write to him? So, I hear you used to shit yourself?
She sat at her desk, finally scrubbed clean and fresh, one towel wrapped
around her head and another around her torso, tucked in at her lovely breast.
She tapped her finger on the desk and abruptly stood up. Going to the kitchen,
she took a half empty bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured a decent-
sized glass, downed it, poured another, and returned to her seat.
Blinking back the faint rush in her head, she realized suddenly that she had
another avenue of approach.
Dear Prof. Carrier, I'm a student of Ilyan Goresky at Juilliard, and I'm
preparing for the Tchaikovsky Competition this year. Given your own experience
with the competition, it's been suggested that I should play for you and get
your tips on how to prepare for such a big event.
And hell, even if she didn't get up the courage to talk about her little
secret, she would get input from a stellar violinist. Win-win.
****
She went about her morning as usual the following day, and when she got home
for lunch, she paused on her way to the bathroom to clean up. Not really
knowing why, she decided it would be best to check her email before showering
and all that. After all, Brendan might have written her back, and she ought
not keep him waiting if he was trying to put together his schedule.
Walking up to her desk, she pulled out the chair, and eased slowly down into
her mess. And then she knew why she was delaying. Closing her eyes as she
settled in, she released her bladder. Shame on me, but this does feel
amazing, she thought.
Rocking slowly, she brought herself to a rolling, melting orgasm and fell
back, quivering with aftershocks of pleasure, into her chair. She dozed off
for a moment, and awoke feeling strangely comforted by the warm, wet, full
diaper that surrounded her. Her eyes fluttered into focus on the computer
screen, where she had a single unread message in her inbox.
****
So she would play for Brendan the following Sunday morning, out at his home on
Long Island. Because she would be leaving home earlier than usual, and because
she had gotten used to just... going in the morning as soon as the urge arose,
she wore protection just in case. Not the usual huge diapers, but a thinner
pull-up she picked up at the medical supply store on Broadway. She would have
bathrooms all around, of course, so she wasn't planning on using it, but she
liked having it on, just in case.
The train ride was about two hours long, but it was still early in the morning
when she arrived at the station in Stony Brook and walked the few blocks to
Brendan's house. He lived on a quiet block with short, balding trees and
narrow lawns. Turning up his front walkway, Laura noted the unraked leaves
littering the grass, some half-finished woodworking project abandoned and
rotting on the porch, and the house itself, one storey, the gutters tearing
away from the roof in places, the paint cracking. For some people, this would
be a sign of the residents' poverty or decrepitude, but Laura recognized it
right away for what it was: the home of a bachelor musician, frequently on
tour, who even when he was home was engrossed in practice and teaching. It was
an artist's house.
She knocked on the door, and Brendan Carrier opened it. A tall man in his
early thirties, he had mastered the hot teacher look, with his shock of curly
black hair, streaked lightly with gray, a two day stubble on his face, thin
black rimmed glasses. He looked like the movie version of a violin teacher,
and he definitely lived up to his reputation -- he was dreamy.
Laura bumbled for a moment and Brendan smiled broadly and said "you found the
place! Come on in. You can put your case over here." He gestured to a table by
the upright piano in his living room, one of the few clear surfaces in the
house. She pulled her bow out of her case and started to tighten it while
Brendan made small talk.
"How is Ilyan these days?"
Laura shrugged, "Good. He gave a recital last month. Still sounds amazing."
"It warms my heart to know Ilyan Goresky is terrorizing yet another generation
of students." They laughed, and Laura could tell already that he was a good
teacher, putting her at ease and introducing a kind of intimacy right away.
They chatted about her repertoire and how competition prep was going, and then
jumped into the piece she was going to play for him today, a dazzlingly
difficult showpiece by Wieniawski. As she was putting the music on the stand,
Laura felt a rumble in her bowels. She thought for an instant about asking to
go use the bathroom, but he was just so good looking, and besides she didn't
want to waste the little bit of time she had with him. She was pretty sure she
could wait until the hour was up and then use the bathroom at the train
station. She tuned her violin and started playing.
Brendan was even more helpful than she was expecting. They spent the first few
minutes working on some hand position issues, things she hadn't thought about
for years but that made several of the passages considerably easier. Then they
started talking about centering the mind for performance. This was the kind of
metaphysical stuff that Ilyan would never stand for, but Laura thought it
would be extremely helpful. She was distracted, though, by her growing need to
go to the bathroom.
With fifteen minutes to go before the end of the lesson, Brendan stopped her
in the middle of playing and asked if she was all right.
"Oh yes, I'm fine, don't worry about me." A cramp hit her stomach and she
suddenly changed her mind. "nnNN Actually, do you mind if I use your
bathroom?" She bent her knees and partly doubled over, and then looked up at
Brendan. He rubbed his chin absentmindedly, paused, and said, "So, is that why
you're ``here?"
The moment of truth. Laura nodded and looked down at her feet. Brendan burst
out laughing.
"I always wondered if he would ever try that again. Oh Ilyan." He covered his
eyes, looking somewhere between embarassed and amused. Then he giggled again
and Laura couldn't help but join him. But as their laughter subsided, and
Laura felt the dull heaviness against her hole, Brendan sat with his arms
folded and tapped his hand distractedly on his elbow. "Well, it's helped you,
hasn't it? It helped me."
Laura didn't really know how to respond. She shrugged her shoulders and
quietly said, "I guess I'm practicing more now."
Brendan stood up and paced a few steps, then turned abruptly and said, "Well,
ok, go ahead and use the bathroom if you want. But we only have fifteen
minutes or so left, and you and I have both been in this situation before. You
may as well just get it over with and we'll have more time to work."
Was this really happening? Laura didn't know what to do, but she knew in a
moment her body would make the decision for her, so she just said, "Well, ok,
I guess let's just do this then," and she relaxed.
As she put her violin up to her chin, she was surprised to feel her bladder
give way first, trickling into the pull-up as her hole opened and a large mass
moved slowly into her pants. She pushed, feeling it crackle out of her,
filling all available space, and then she pushed harder, and more snaked out,
softly shifting around and expanding her seat. She felt the pool of urine at
her crotch suddenly start to overflow the diaper when a light, warm dampness
gathered at the crease of her inner thigh. She clamped off the flow of urine
and was surprised to find herself starting to cry. "I'm sorry--" she started
to say, but Brendan interrupted her.
"No, don't ever say you're sorry for that. Don't be sorry. This is your super
power. Doing this makes you stronger and more dedicated than everyone else
you're going up against. Winning this competition is about mental toughness as
much or more than it is about your fingers." And now she saw him appraising
her body. It was a look she was used to getting from any man eventually. His
eyes narrowed, and he started to speak but stopped himself.
"What?" she asked, but she thought she knew what he was thinking. He had been
watching her face.
"I was going to say, besides, it looks like you enjoy it."
Laura's face went bright red, and she put her violin in playing position
without saying a word.
****
The lesson was over, and she shook Brendan's hand and thanked him, and she was
standing out on the front porch, violin case in hand, and her pants full of
shit. She walked as naturally as she could to the train station, and boarded
the train when it arrived. She took as isolated a seat as she could, since the
pull-up didn't do nearly as a good a job containing the smell as her usual
protection. Settling into the seat and feeling the now-familiar sensation of
her load squishing and shifting underneath her, she began to slowly empty her
bladder the rest of the way, making sure not to go fast enough to overwhelm
the pull-up this time.
Halfway through the train ride, she was feeling desperate again. She lifted
off the seat and pushed another bowel movement into her pants. They were so
full, she felt her mess pushing against her urgently. As she started to slowly
rock back and forth, she heard her phone ping. It was a message from Brendan:
Laura, pleased to meet today, and excellent playing. If you're available next
weekend I would be happy to hear you again then. Let me know. -B
She rocked her pelvis more quickly, and as her pleasure mounted she thought
about the moment she had seen that Brendan was attracted to her. He had said
that it looked like she enjoyed shitting herself. Perhaps, she thought, he had
enjoyed it also.
Well done!
Comment