Regressive Ad Campaign:Part 10


By Sage Ann

This story is set in the incredible world created by AlteredStates14. Her universe is brought to life not through traditional written narratives, but through a powerful collection of images—advertisements, media articles, and other visual artifacts—that vividly capture everyday life in her setting.
All images associated with this story are her original work. Please consider supporting her so we can continue to explore and enjoy more of this fascinating world.
You can find her work here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/alteredstates14
Another author has also written a story based in this universe from a different perspective. You can find it here:
 https://www.deviantart.com/fatherfish/art/Pampers-and-Propaganda-1028729633


The smell hit Kalie first—that unmistakable ammonia tang that signaled another night of failure. She opened her eyes to find her mother already in the room, gently shaking Mary awake. "Oh dear," her mother was saying, her voice a practiced mixture of concern and reassurance. "Looks like we had a big leak." Mary's sheets were soaked, a dark stain spreading from her hips to her knees, the overnight diaper clearly overwhelmed by the volume of urine. Kalie pressed a hand to her own pull-up, feeling the familiar weight of saturation. Two nights in a row. This couldn't be coincidence.
"I'm sorry," Mary mumbled, her voice thick with sleep, green eyes blinking against the morning light. She didn't seem particularly distressed—just inconvenienced, as if finding herself in a soaked bed at fifteen was a minor disruption rather than a mortifying regression.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart," their mother soothed, already stripping the wet sheets with efficient movements. "These things happen. That's why we have protection."
Kalie watched from her own bed, a strange detachment settling over her. Their mother's calm acceptance felt rehearsed, as if she'd been waiting for this moment. As if it were all part of some plan.
"Kalie, can you help your sister get cleaned up while I take care of the mattress?" her mother asked, bunching the wet sheets into a tight ball.
With reluctant movements, Kalie slid from her bed, conscious of the sodden pull-up between her legs. "Come on," she said to Mary, extending a hand to pull her sister up.
In the bathroom, Mary chattered as if nothing unusual had happened, as if they weren't two teenage girls who had both wet themselves in their sleep. She stepped out of her soaked pajama bottoms without a hint of embarrassment, the overnight diaper—thicker and more babyish than the pull-ups—sagging heavily between her thighs.
"Mom says I might need the thicker ones now," Mary said, reaching for a washcloth. "These ones with the tapes, you know? Since I leaked through the pull-up."
Kalie stared at her sister, searching for signs of distress or shame. Finding none, she turned away, peeling off her own wet pull-up with mechanical movements. "Doesn't it bother you?" she asked finally, her voice low.
Mary shrugged, wringing out the washcloth. "Not really. I mean, it's just pee. And nobody knows except us and Mom."
There was a simple logic to it that Kalie couldn't quite refute. Still, as she showered and then slipped on a fresh pull-up—the daytime version, slightly less bulky than the overnight ones—she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being manipulated somehow, guided toward some predetermined outcome.
The pull-up nestled against her skin, the material soft and absorbent. She pulled on her jeans, checking her reflection critically. No telltale bulge, no visible lines. Just as the advertisements promised, no one would know.
---
At school, Kalie found herself watching the other girls with a new, almost obsessive attention. The thirty she knew about were easy to spot now that she knew the signs—the careful way they sat down, the slight adjustment of clothing after standing, the frequent glances toward the clock during long classes. But how many others were hiding the same secret beneath their clothing?
During lunch, she counted again. Thirty visible signs. But what if there were more? What if the number was closer to forty, or even higher? Over half the girls in her grade could be wearing diapers, and no one was talking about it. The counter-protest had dwindled to just a few stubborn holdouts, their signs less emphatic, their voices less certain.
She thought about the advertisements that had begun appearing three months ago. The billboards, the magazine spreads, the commercials during shows aimed at mothers of teenagers. All of them normalizing the idea that teenage girls might need "extra protection" during this "challenging transition."
Was her mother somehow causing this? The thought had seemed paranoid yesterday, but now, sitting in a classroom full of potentially diapered girls, it felt less far-fetched. Could there really be subliminal messaging in those ads, something that triggered bedwetting in teenagers? Was something being added to their food or water?
The conspiracy theory blossomed in her mind, taking root despite its outlandishness. What if this was all some sort of social experiment? What if—
"Kalie? The answer to number twelve?" Her teacher's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Um, sorry," she stammered, looking down at her empty worksheet. "I don't have it yet."
The teacher frowned but moved on to another student. Kalie tried to focus, but the pressure in her bladder was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until the bell. She could hold it.
But ten minutes later, the pressure had intensified to an urgent demand. She raised her hand, asked for the bathroom pass, and hurried down the hallway to the nearest girls' room.
A yellow sign blocked the entrance: "CLOSED FOR CLEANING."
Kalie stood frozen, her bladder pulsing with need. The next nearest bathroom was downstairs and across the building—at least a three-minute walk. She clenched her muscles, considering her options.
And then, with a clarity that startled her, she remembered what she was wearing. A pull-up. Designed for exactly this situation.
The realization washed over her like cold water. She could just... go. Right here. No one would know. No wet pants, no humiliation, no desperate sprint across the school.
She took a halting step back toward her classroom, her body screaming in protest. Could she really do this? Deliberately wet herself, like a toddler who couldn't be bothered to find a toilet?
But it wasn't like a toddler, she reasoned, her steps growing more confident. It was practical. Logical, even. The pull-up was there to be used. That was its purpose.
She reached a quiet stretch of hallway and paused, leaning against the wall as if checking her phone. Then, with a deep breath, she relaxed her pelvic muscles.
For a moment, nothing happened—years of training held her body in check. Then, with a sensation that was almost electric, she felt warmth spreading between her legs. Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. That's what this felt like—a jolt, a transgression, a barrier broken.
The pull-up grew warm and heavy, expanding slightly to accommodate the liquid. There was no sound, no visible evidence, just a private, secret relief that made her knees weak.
When it was over, she straightened, adjusting her stance to the new weight between her legs. The pull-up had absorbed everything, just as promised. She felt oddly powerful—she had taken control of the situation, had made a choice that the old Kalie would have found unthinkable.
Walking back to class, she was hyper-aware of the wetness against her skin, but not unpleasantly so. It was... fine. Different, but manageable. By the time she slid back into her seat, the initial warmth had faded to a neutral temperature, and the sensation had become almost unremarkable.
She finished her worksheet with a new focus, the physical discomfort that had distracted her now absent. When the bell rang, she gathered her things and walked to her next class, the wet pull-up shifting softly between her thighs, a secret known only to her.
---
After school, Kalie went straight to her room, intending to change out of the used pull-up. She had just removed her jeans when her mother knocked and, without waiting for a response, opened the door.
"Oh!" her mother exclaimed, her eyes dropping to the visibly swollen pull-up. "You had an accident."
Kalie froze, one leg in her clean pajama pants. "I—" she began, but couldn't find the words to explain that it hadn't been an accident at all.
Her mother stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "This is exactly why I wanted you to wear them to school," she said, her voice warm with vindication. "Better safe than sorry."
"Mom, I—"
"You don't have to be embarrassed, sweetie. This just confirms that you need them right now. Maybe it's stress, or maybe it's just a phase your body is going through, but clearly, the pull-ups are necessary."
Kalie stood still, the lie solidifying between them. To admit she'd deliberately used the pull-up felt somehow more shameful than allowing her mother to believe she'd had an accident. And yet, the deception gnawed at her.
"I think you should continue wearing them full-time," her mother continued, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a fresh pull-up. "At least until we figure out what's causing these accidents."
Kalie took the offered pull-up, her fingers closing around the soft material. "Okay," she said quietly, decision made in that moment. "I will."
Her mother smiled, a flash of something like triumph in her eyes, so quick Kalie might have imagined it. "That's my sensible girl. Now get changed for dinner."
After her mother left, Kalie stood holding the clean pull-up, a strange calm settling over her. She was now in pull-ups full-time. The thought should have horrified her, but instead, she felt an odd relief. No more worrying about finding bathrooms, no more close calls. Just the soft, ever-present embrace of the pull-up, ready whenever she needed it.
She stepped into the fresh pull-up, adjusting it around her hips. Maybe this was easier, after all. Maybe giving in wasn't such a terrible thing.
But as she pulled on her pajama pants, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that something still wasn't right—that this surrender had been orchestrated from the beginning. She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the simple comfort of not having to worry anymore.