Displaying posts with tag PottyTraining.Reset Filter

Jul 20, 2025 11:00 am

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 6

By Sage Ann
Mike sat at his desk thinking, uncertain about whether the magical potty training chart had truly worked. Yes, Heather had wet her pants during the day just as Mary used to, and Mary had stayed dry during the day all week. But Mary was still wetting her bed most nights. So had the chart reached its limits? Was Heather’s potty training now too weak to help Mary? Or did the potty training chart just need more time? The only way to be sure is to watch and wait, to gather more data before making any additional changes to the chart. So he decides to leave the chart alone for another week, to see what happens without his interference.

Monday morning arrives, and their mother takes Heather to the doctor. Mike spends the school day distracted, wondering what the doctor will say, whether there will be tests or treatments that might interfere with the chart's magic. When he returns home, the house is quiet except for Julie's babbling from her playpen.

"Where's Heather?" he asks their mother, who sits at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, her expression troubled.

"Resting upstairs," she says, stirring her tea absently. "It's been a long day."

"What did the doctor say?" Mike tries to keep his voice casual, though his heart hammers against his ribs.

His mother sighs, pushing her hair back from her face. "Dr. Lin thinks it might be psychological rather than physical. She used a term – 'psychogenic regression' – which basically means Heather's mind is causing her body to regress to an earlier developmental stage."

Mike frowns. "Why would that happen?"

"Stress, maybe. Or some kind of trauma." She looks at him directly. "Has Heather seemed different to you lately? Besides the accidents, I mean."

Mike thinks about his sister's thumb-sucking, her increasingly childish speech patterns, the way she's withdrawn from her usual activities. "A little," he admits. "She seems... younger."

His mother nods slowly. "That's what Dr. Lin said might happen. The doctor told me that sometimes, when the regression starts with elimination issues, other childish behaviors follow. It's like part of the mind decides that if the body is acting like a child, other aspects should match."

A chill runs down Mike's spine. The chart isn't just affecting Heather's bladder control; it's rewiring her brain, making her truly become like Mary in ways he never anticipated.

"Is there treatment?" he asks, guilt and fascination warring within him.

"Time, mostly. And understanding." Their mother looks exhausted. "We need to be patient with her, not make her feel ashamed. The doctor says that often makes the regression worse."

Throughout the week, Mike observes Heather carefully, documenting each change in his notebook. The wet diapers continue – three during the day on Tuesday, two on Wednesday. On Thursday, Heather has a messy accident in her diaper while watching cartoons, something that hasn't happened since she was a toddler.

But the physical accidents are just part of the transformation. Heather begins speaking in simpler sentences, her vocabulary shrinking. She sits on the floor to play with Mary's dolls, making up stories in a childish voice. Each night, the thumb-sucking becomes more pronounced, no longer just a nervous habit but a constant source of comfort.

"It's like she's getting younger every day," Samantha whispers to Mike on Friday, watching as Heather colors in a children's coloring book, her tongue poking out in concentration.

"The doctor said it might get worse before it gets better," Mike replies, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. He knows this isn't just going to "get better" – not as long as the chart keeps working its magic.

Meanwhile, Mary's transformation moves in the opposite direction. She stays completely dry all week, proudly announcing her success each day when she returns from kindergarten. Her thumb-sucking habit, previously as entrenched as her bathroom accidents, disappears entirely. She helps with simple chores without being asked, stands straighter, speaks more clearly.

"I can't believe how grown up you're becoming," their mother tells her on Sunday evening, as Mary carefully hangs up her church dress without assistance.

Mary beams at the praise. "I'm a big girl now. Not like Heather."

The casual cruelty of the comment makes their mother wince, but she doesn't contradict it. The evidence is too obvious – eighteen-year-old Heather sits on the living room floor, diaper clearly visible beneath her shorts, playing with plastic blocks while intermittently sucking her thumb.

That night, their mother makes an announcement at dinner. "Mary, since you've been doing so well staying dry during the day, I think you can go without pull-ups this week."

Mary's face lights up with pride. "Really? I can wear regular underwear like Samantha and Mike?"

"During the day, yes." Their mother smiles, genuinely pleased by Mary's progress. "We'll still use pull-ups at night until you've been consistently dry for another week or so."

From her booster seat, Heather makes a small sound – part whimper, part sigh. She's been having trouble using utensils lately, and there's a smear of pasta sauce on her chin. Their mother automatically wipes it away with a napkin, the gesture identical to how she cares for three-year-old Julie.

The contrast between Mary's advancement and Heather's regression couldn't be more stark. And Mike knows, with a certainty that both thrills and terrifies him, that the chart is responsible.

That night, after everyone is asleep, Mike stands before the chart once again. His experiment has confirmed his hypothesis beyond any doubt. The chart's magic is real, powerful, and far-reaching. It doesn't just transfer accidents; it transfers entire developmental stages.

What would happen, he wonders, if he pushed it even further? What if he switched Heather's name with Julie's?

Julie, at three, is still in diapers day and night. She has messy accidents regularly. She wears baby clothes, sleeps in a crib, uses a pacifier, plays with infant toys. If the pattern holds, switching their names would mean...

Mike's hand hovers over the magnets. This is wrong. He knows it's wrong. He's already reduced his teenage sister to the developmental level of a five-year-old. To push her further, to make her like Julie...

But the temptation is too strong. He needs to know what will happen, how far the chart's power extends. And a small, dark part of him enjoys seeing proud, perfect Heather brought low, made to experience the humiliation that he and Samantha endured for so long.

With quick, decisive movements, he removes Mary's name from the chart – she's graduated from daytime pull-ups now, no need to track her – and switches the positions of the magnets labeled HEATHER and JULIE.

The now-familiar sensation washes over him, stronger than ever before. The world seems to shimmer and distort, like he's viewing it through heat waves. For a moment, he fears he might pass out. Then everything stabilizes, though nothing appears visibly different except the chart itself.

Mike returns to bed, wondering what changes the next week will bring.

He doesn't have to wait long to find out. The transformation is rapid and dramatic, as if the chart's magic has gained momentum with each switch. By Tuesday, Heather has stopped speaking in sentences altogether, communicating primarily through single words and gestures. She has messy accidents in her diaper multiple times a day, showing no awareness or concern when it happens.

On Wednesday, their mother finds Heather in Julie's room, attempting to put a pacifier in her mouth.

"Sweetie, that's Julie's," she says gently, trying to take it away.

Heather responds with a full-blown tantrum, throwing herself on the floor and wailing like a toddler. Nothing their mother says can calm her until, desperate and confused, she allows Heather to keep the pacifier.

"I don't understand what's happening," she confides to Mike later, watching as Heather sits placidly on the couch, sucking on the pacifier while watching cartoons. "The doctor said regression, but this is... this is like she's becoming a baby again."

Mike nods, feigning confusion while inwardly marveling at the chart's power. "Maybe you should call the doctor again?"

Their mother does, and a follow-up appointment is scheduled. But before it can take place, things deteriorate further. Heather starts crawling instead of walking, babbling instead of talking. She refuses to use utensils, eating with her hands and making a mess. At night, she cries until their mother lets her sleep in Julie's old crib, which has been in storage since Julie graduated to a toddler bed.

By Sunday, the transformation is complete. Heather wakes up from her nap and soils her diaper during church, completely unaware or unconcerned. She plays with baby toys, fascinated by their bright colors and simple mechanics. The pacifier is now a constant companion, removed only for meals and bath time.

Watching her, Mike feels a twinge of horror beneath his curiosity. He did this. He reduced his sister – a senior in high school, college-bound, independent – to the mental and physical capabilities of a toddler.

Their mother, overwhelmed and baffled, adapts as best she can. She brings down boxes of Julie's outgrown clothes from the attic, dressing Heather in childish outfits that somehow seem to fit despite the height difference. She converts an unused guest room into a nursery, complete with the crib, a changing table hastily repurposed from an old dresser, and baby toys scattered across the floor.

"The doctor says it's a protective mechanism," she explains to Mike and Samantha one evening after Heather has been put to bed. "Her mind is retreating to a safer, simpler time."

Samantha frowns. "But why? Nothing bad happened to her."

Their mother shakes her head, at a loss. "Sometimes these things don't have obvious triggers. The important thing is that we support her while she works through it."

"Will she get better?" Mike asks, guilt choking him.

"I hope so," their mother says, but her tone lacks conviction. "The doctor has referred us to a specialist, but there's a waiting list."

Mike updates the chart faithfully each day, documenting Heather's complete regression while Julie's row fills with smiling suns for staying dry during the day – a new development since the name switch. Just as Mary had adopted Heather's bladder control when their names were switched, Julie is now showing signs of being ready for potty training.

The implications are staggering. Mike could use the chart to help any child overcome bedwetting or daytime accidents. He could transfer the problem to someone else – someone who, like Heather, has already enjoyed years of being accident-free.

And people might pay for that service.

The thought comes to him one night as he lies in bed, contemplating the chart's power. Parents desperate to get their children out of diapers might be willing to pay for a "magical" solution. Ten dollars, maybe more.

Of course, that would mean dooming Heather to living like an infant indefinitely. But couldn't he set aside some of the money for her? A dollar or two from each client, a sort of penance for what he's done to her?

He tries to imagine explaining to his mother someday, when he's finally figured out how to reverse the chart's effects. "I turned Heather into a baby for profit, but I saved some money for her therapy."

Even in his mind, the words sound hollow, inadequate.

Yet the temptation remains. There are so many children struggling with potty training, so many parents at their wits' end. Robin gave him this power for a reason, didn't he? And Robin certainly didn't seem concerned about the consequences when he suggested moving the names around.

Mike thinks about the strange boy with his shifting eyes and too-sharp smile. He had finally found out that Robin’s last name was Goodfellow. Surely, a magical person who was evil would not be named Goodfellow. And if so, what game is he playing?

These questions circle in Mike's mind as he drifts toward sleep. In the morning, he'll need to decide on what to do. Reverse what he's done to Heather and abandon the chart's power, or embrace it fully, consequences be damned.

As consciousness fades, he finds himself leaning toward the latter. After all, he reasons, the damage to Heather is already done. And the chart's magic is too fascinating, too useful to simply walk away from.

The last thought that flickers through his mind before sleep claims him is of Robin's face, watching him move the magnets that first time, a knowing gleam in his ever-changing eyes.

You might not like the results, Robin had warned.

But that wasn't quite right, was it? Because part of Mike – a part he's still learning to recognize – likes the results very much indeed.

Abdl Regression PottyTraining Diaper

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Sage Ann

Jul 19, 2025 07:11 am

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 5

By Sage Ann

Mike pondered the pattern. First, Heather had wet her bed on the night that he had wet his bed the previous week. Then she had wet her bed on the exact same nights that Samantha had wet her bed the previous week. The correlation is too perfect to be coincidence. He sits cross-legged on his bed, notebook open in his lap, carefully recording dates and accidents. The chart is definitely magical – that much is clear now. But how powerful is it exactly? How far could its influence extend? These aren't just idle questions. If the chart can make an eighteen-year-old wet her bed like clockwork, what else might it be capable of?

He taps his pencil against the paper, considering. So far, he's only transferred nighttime accidents to Heather. But Mary, their five-year-old sister, has daytime accidents too. What would happen if he switched Heather's name with Mary's on the chart? Would Heather start having daytime accidents as well?

The thought should horrify him. Heather is eighteen, a senior in high school with friends and activities and a part-time job at the mall. Daytime accidents would be devastating for her. But Mike has always been curious about how things work, and her realy wanted to know what would happen.

It's just an experiment, he tells himself. If it's too terrible, he can always switch the names back.

He waits until everyone is asleep before creeping downstairs to the living room. The chart hangs on the wall, illuminated by the dim glow of the nightlight in the hallway. Mike studies it, finding Heather's name in what had been Samantha's position and Mary's name in its original spot.

"Sorry, Heather," he whispers, reaching for the magnets. He carefully removes Samantha's name from the chart – she's graduated now, no need to track her anymore – and then switches the positions of the magnets labeled HEATHER and MARY.

That strange, disorienting sensation washes over him again, stronger this time. The world seems to ripple, like heat waves rising from summer pavement. Mike steadies himself against the wall, waiting for the feeling to pass. When it does, he studies the chart again. Nothing appears different except the positions of the names.

He returns to bed, a mixture of guilt and anticipation churning in his stomach. Part of him hopes nothing will happen. But another part, a part he's not entirely comfortable acknowledging, is eager to see if he is right.

The next day passes normally. Heather goes to school, Mary to kindergarten, and Mike finds himself checking the clock repeatedly, wondering when – or if – anything will happen. By dinner time, with no news of any accidents, he begins to think perhaps the chart's power has limits after all.

But the following day, everything changes.

Mike is at lunch when he's called to the office. His mother is there, her face drawn with worry.

"What's going on?" he asks, immediately thinking of Julie or Mary.

"It's Heather," his mother says, her voice low. "She had an... incident at school. I need to go pick her up, and Mrs. Alvarez is going to watch you kids after school until I get back with Heather."

An incident. Mike feels a chill run down his spine. "What kind of incident?"

His mother hesitates, clearly debating how much to share. "She had an accident in class," she finally says. "A bathroom accident."

The words hang between them, heavy with implication. Mike swallows hard, guilt blooming in his chest. "Is she okay?"

"She's very upset," his mother says, gathering her purse. "The school nurse gave her some clean clothes, but... well, you can imagine how embarrassed she is."

Mike can imagine it all too well. Heather, sitting in class, suddenly losing control. The wet seat, the stares, the whispers. His stomach twists painfully.

"I have to go," his mother says, already moving toward the door. "Be good for Mrs. Alvarez, okay?"

Mike nods mechanically, watching her leave. What has he done?

The afternoon crawls by, each minute stretching impossibly long. When he finally returns home, the house is quiet. Julie naps in her playpen, Mary colors at the kitchen table, and Samantha watches TV with the volume low. There's no sign of Heather or their mother.

"Where are they?" Mike asks Mrs. Alvarez, their elderly neighbor.

"Your mom took Heather straight upstairs when they got home," Mrs. Alvarez says, glancing toward the ceiling. "Poor thing looked like she'd been crying for hours."

Mike mumbles thanks and climbs the stairs, pausing outside Heather's closed door. He can hear muffled voices inside – his mother's soothing tones and Heather's occasional hiccupping sobs.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," Heather says, her voice thick with tears. "First the bed, now this? I'm eighteen, Mom. People don't just start wetting themselves at eighteen."

"We'll figure it out," their mother promises. "I've made a doctor's appointment for next week. There must be a medical explanation."

But Mike knows there isn't. The explanation is hanging on the living room wall, innocent-looking magnets on a colorful chart. The explanation is him.

He backs away from the door, retreating to his room where he sits heavily on his bed, head in his hands. This has gone too far. He should switch the names back, tell someone about the chart, confess what he's done.

But he doesn't.

The next day, Heather stays home from school. She emerges from her room only for meals, her eyes red and swollen, her movements hesitant as if she's afraid her body might betray her again at any moment.

When Mary comes home from kindergarten, she's practically bouncing with excitement.

"Guess what?" she announces to anyone who will listen. "I stayed dry ALL day! No pull-up leaks, no accidents, nothing!"

Their mother pauses in preparing dinner, a genuine smile breaking through her worried expression. "That's wonderful, sweetie! I'm so proud of you."

Mary beams, twirling in a circle. "Ms. Jensen said I'm a big girl now!"

From the living room doorway, where she's been lurking like a shadow, Heather makes a small, pained sound. Their mother shoots her a concerned look.

"You're definitely showing great progress, Mary," she says, her voice deliberately upbeat. "If you can keep it up, maybe we can try regular underwear during the day next week."

Mary's face lights up. "Really? Like Samantha?"

"We'll see," their mother hedges. "Let's take it one day at a time."

Mike updates the chart that evening, placing a smiling rainbow and sun beside Mary's name for her dry day. When he reaches for a magnet to place beside Heather's name, he hesitates. She hadn't left the house, so technically she hadn't had a public accident.

"What are you doing?" Heather's voice startles him.

She stands in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over her chest. She looks smaller somehow, diminished by shame and confusion.

"Just updating the chart," Mike says, his voice catching.

Heather's eyes flick to the chart, then away, as if looking at it directly is painful. "Put a yellow raincloud for me," she says quietly.

Mike blinks. "But you were home all day."

"And I still had an accident," she says, the admission clearly costing her. "Right after lunch. I didn't even feel it coming. One minute I was fine, the next..." She shakes her head, unable to continue.

Mike's hand trembles as he selects the yellow raincloud magnet. He places it beside Heather's name, not meeting her eyes.

"This is crazy," Heather whispers, more to herself than to him. "I'm a senior in high school. I'm applying to colleges. I can't be... having accidents like a kindergartner."

The comparison to Mary hangs unspoken between them. Mike wants to comfort her, wants to confess, but fear holds his tongue. What would she do if she knew he was responsible? What would their mother do?

"Maybe the doctor will figure it out," he offers weakly.

Heather makes a small, disbelieving noise. "Yeah, maybe." She turns to leave, then pauses. "Don't tell Samantha about today, okay? She'd never let me live it down."

Mike nods, throat tight with unspoken guilt.

The next few days bring more of the same. Heather has another accident at home, then another the following day. Mary, meanwhile, continues her streak of dry days, growing more confident by the hour. When Saturday comes, their mother takes Mary shopping for "big girl underwear" as a reward for her progress.

The doctor's appointment is on Monday. Heather spends the weekend in her room, emerging only when necessary. Mike notices that she's started sucking her thumb when she thinks no one is watching – a nervous habit she hasn't displayed since she was a little girl. The sight sends a jolt of alarm through him. The chart isn't just affecting her physically; it's changing her behavior too.

On Sunday, disaster strikes again. The family is at church, sitting in their usual pew. Heather, despite her reluctance to be in public, has been coaxed along with promises that they'll sit near the back for an easy escape if needed. She sits rigidly, her attention clearly more on her body's signals than on the sermon.

It happens during a hymn. They're all standing, singing from the worn hymnals, when Mike notices a change in Heather's posture. She freezes, then makes a small, distressed sound. Their mother glances over, immediately understanding what's happening.

With swift efficiency, she guides Heather out of the pew and toward the exit, one arm around her shoulders. They barely make it to the vestibule before Heather's control fails completely. From his position at the end of the pew, Mike can see his sister standing in a growing puddle, face buried in her hands while their mother tries to shield her from view.

The drive home is silent, heavy with unspoken misery. Heather disappears upstairs the moment they arrive, and doesn't come down for lunch.

Later that afternoon, Mike overhears his mother on the phone, speaking in hushed tones.

"Yes, the appointment is tomorrow... No, it's getting worse... Not just at night anymore... Three times in the past week during the day... I don't know, it started so suddenly... Yes, she's obviously devastated..."

There's a long pause, then: "I've been thinking the same thing... At least until we figure out what's causing it... I know she'll hate the idea, but after today's incident... Right... Thank you for understanding..."

When she hangs up, Mike sees her rubbing her temples, eyes closed in worry. She looks up, startled to find him watching.

"That was Dr. Lin," she explains. "About Heather's appointment tomorrow."

Mike nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"Mike," his mother says carefully, "I need to ask you something important. Has Heather seemed... different to you lately? Besides the accidents, I mean."

He thinks about the thumb-sucking, the way Heather has become more withdrawn, more childlike in subtle ways. "A little," he admits. "She seems... I don't know. Younger, maybe?"

His mother nods slowly. "I've noticed that too. Dr. Lin says sometimes when older children or teenagers start having elimination issues, there can be a psychological component. Sometimes they regress in other ways too."

Mike's guilt intensifies. The chart isn't just making Heather wet herself; it's rewiring her somehow, making her more like Mary in ways beyond just bathroom habits.

"What are you going to do?" he asks.

His mother sighs heavily. "After what happened today, I think Heather needs more protection than just at night. At least until we get some answers from the doctor."

"You mean..."

"She needs to wear diapers during the day too," his mother confirms, her voice low. "I'm going to talk to her about it tonight."

Mike can't imagine how that conversation will go. Heather, who just weeks ago was a normal, confident teenager, now being told she needs diapers around the clock like a toddler.

"She's going to hate it," he says.

"I know," his mother agrees. "But what choice do we have? We can't let her keep having public accidents. It's too humiliating for her."

Later that night, Mike hovers near Heather's door again, listening to the inevitable confrontation. There are tears, protests, bargaining – but in the end, his mother's practical concerns win out. Heather will wear protection full-time until they determine what's causing her sudden regression.

Mike updates the chart with shaking hands that night, placing a green cloud beside Heather's name for her accident at church. Beside Mary's name goes a smiling rainbow and sun for yet another dry day.

He stares at the chart for a long time afterward, thinking about the power it holds. Mary had always been prone to accidents during the day, but since he switched her name with Heather's, she hasn't had a single one. Meanwhile, Heather's life has been completely upended, her dignity stripped away, her independence compromised.

All because of him. All because of the chart.

He should feel worse than he does, he knows. But mixed with the guilt is a fascination, a scientist's detached curiosity about what else the chart might be capable of. If it can reverse Mary and Heather's positions so completely, what other transformations might it effect?

The question follows him to bed, where he lies awake long into the night, plotting his next experiment.

Abdl PottyTraining Regression Diapers

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Sage Ann

Jul 17, 2025 12:32 pm

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 4

By Sage Ann
That evening, Mike bounces through the house like a rubber ball, unable to contain his excitement. No diaper. For the first time in years, he'll sleep in regular underwear, free from the crinkling, bulky reminder of his failures. He keeps touching the waistband of his pajama bottoms, marveling at the absence of plastic backing, at how normal he feels. It's freedom, pure and simple, and he's drunk on it. So intoxicated, in fact, that he almost forgets the cost of his liberation – until his mother returns from the store with a package tucked under her arm, and Heather's face goes pale as death.

"I got the protection for tonight," their mother announces, seemingly oblivious to Heather's mortification. She sets the package on the kitchen counter, and Mike edges closer to see what she's purchased.

It's not the plain, discreet adult briefs he expected. Instead, the package displays cartoonish stars and moons on a background of baby blue, with the words "NightTime Protection for Older Children" in cheerful purple letters. Through the clear plastic window on the front, Mike can see that the diapers themselves are decorated with sleeping bears and crescent moons.

"Mom," Heather's voice cracks. "Those are... those are for kids."

Their mother pulls one out to examine it. "They're the largest size they make for bedwetting. The adult ones were all those weird medical-looking things, and I thought these would be more comfortable." She holds it up, the diaper unfolding to reveal its childish pattern in full. "See? They even have tabs instead of having to pull them up and down."

Heather covers her face with her hands. "This can't be happening."

Mike stares at the diaper, a strange mix of emotions churning in his stomach. On one hand, there's a vindictive satisfaction in seeing his cool, collected older sister reduced to wearing something so babyish. On the other, guilt gnaws at him. This is his fault. His magical manipulation has caused this humiliation.

"It's just for at night," their mother says soothingly. "And only until we figure out if last night was a one-time thing."

"It was," Heather insists, dropping her hands to reveal eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know it was. This is ridiculous."

"Then you'll only have to wear them for a week," their mother points out. "Same deal as Mike and Samantha – stay dry for a week, and you're done with them."

Mike winces at the comparison. He's never heard his mother group eighteen-year-old Heather with him and Samantha before, as if they're all children in various stages of potty training.

"I'm not a child," Heather says, echoing his thoughts.

"Of course not," their mother agrees. "But even adults can have accidents, and it's sensible to be prepared." She glances at the clock. "It's getting late. Let's get everyone ready for bed."

This ordinary phrase, repeated countless times in their household, takes on new meaning tonight. For Mike, it means freedom – regular underwear, no more plastic sheet on his bed. For Heather, it means a humiliating regression.

He watches as their mother shepherds Mary and Julie upstairs first, changing Julie into a fresh nighttime diaper and helping Mary into her pull-up. When she returns for Heather, Mike pretends to be busy with a book, but he can't resist following quietly up the stairs a few minutes later.

His mother has left Heather's bedroom door partially open. From the hallway, he can hear their voices.

"This is so stupid," Heather says, her tone somewhere between anger and tears.

"Lie down, please," their mother says patiently. "It'll just take a minute."

Mike edges closer to the door, peeking through the crack. What he sees sends a jolt through him – Heather, his towering teenage sister, lying on her back on her own bed while their mother unfolds one of the childish diapers beside her. Heather wears a t-shirt that reaches to her hips, her lower half covered only in underwear that their mother is about to remove.

"I can do it myself," Heather protests, reaching for the diaper.

Their mother hesitates. "Are you sure? It's different from putting on underwear."

"I'm not letting my mother diaper me like a baby," Heather says firmly. "Just... show me how the tabs work."

Their mother demonstrates on the unfolded diaper, showing how the adhesive tabs secure from back to front. "Make sure it's snug, but not too tight. And position it higher in the back than the front."

Heather nods grimly. "Got it. Now please give me some privacy."

Mike backs away from the door as their mother turns to leave, darting down the hall to his own room before he's caught spying. He closes his door and leans against it, heart pounding with the strange thrill of what he's witnessed.

Heather – eighteen-year-old, mature, perfect Heather – is wearing a diaper to bed. Because of him. Because of the chart.

The chart. Mike suddenly remembers Robin's instruction to remove his name. He waits until the house has quieted, his mother finishing her rounds of goodnight kisses, before slipping downstairs to the living room.

The chart hangs on the wall, magnets gleaming dully in the low light. Mike studies it, considering his next move. He should just remove his name and be done with it. He's achieved what he wanted – freedom from diapers. But as he reaches for the magnet with his name, another thought occurs to him.

What if he does more than just remove his name? What if he switches someone else's name with Heather's?

The idea is both terrible and tempting. If the chart's magic works as he now believes it does, he could help Samantha get out of diapers too. Of course, that would mean Heather would continue to have accidents, following Samantha's pattern from the previous week.

Mike's fingers hover over the magnets. It's wrong, he knows it's wrong. But isn't it also wrong that he and Samantha have to suffer the embarrassment of bedwetting while Heather got to grow out of it years ago? Isn't it just balancing the scales, in a way?

Before he can talk himself out of it, Mike plucks his name from the chart. Then, with swift movements, he switches the positions of the magnets labeled SAMANTHA and HEATHER.

That strange sensation washes over him again – like time folding back on itself, like watching a movie where the frames suddenly run in reverse for a split second before continuing forward. He blinks, disoriented, but when he looks at the chart again, it appears normal. Just the names in different positions.

Satisfied with his work, Mike returns to bed, marveling again at the freedom of regular underwear against his skin. As he drifts toward sleep, he pushes away the twinge of guilt. It's just for a little while, he tells himself. Just until Samantha gets out of diapers too. Then they can put everything back to normal.

The week unfolds with a new pattern. Mike maintains his dry streak, reveling in his diaper-free nights. His mother praises his progress at every opportunity, and even Samantha's teasing has lost its edge now that he's "graduated" to regular underwear.

Samantha herself shows remarkable improvement. Night after night, she wakes up dry, her confidence growing with each successful morning. By the sixth day, she's practically vibrating with excitement.

"One more night," she tells Mike at breakfast. "Then I'm free too."

Mike nods, pretending to be surprised by her sudden progress. In truth, he's been expecting it. If his theory is correct, Samantha is now experiencing what would have been Heather's perfect record.

The real shock for the family is Heather. On the fourth morning of the week, she comes downstairs later than usual, her eyes red-rimmed and her expression closed off.

"Did something happen?" their mother asks gently.

Heather's jaw tightens. "I wet the stupid diaper," she mutters, the words barely audible.

Their mother nods, her expression carefully neutral. "That's what it's there for, honey. No harm done."

But harm has been done to Heather's pride. She moves through the day like a ghost, silent and withdrawn. That night, she doesn't protest when their mother reminds her to wear her protection to bed.

Mike updates the chart with methodical precision, placing a yellow moon beside Heather's name for the fourth day. He feels a twinge of remorse at her obvious distress, but it's overshadowed by his anticipation of Samantha's imminent freedom.

The seventh day arrives. Samantha bursts into Mike's room at dawn, her face split by a grin so wide it must hurt.

"I did it!" she crows. "Dry all night! A whole week!"

Mike feigns surprise and excitement for her. "That's awesome! No more diapers for you!"

Their celebration is interrupted by the sound of a door slamming down the hall, followed by muffled sobbing. Heather's door.

At breakfast, their mother confirms what Mike already knows; Heather has wet her diaper again, on the exact same day that Samantha would have based on her previous week's pattern.

"I don't understand," Heather says, pushing her cereal around her bowl. "This never happened before. Why is it happening now?"

Their mother pats her hand. "Bodies are mysterious things. Maybe it's stress, or a hormone change, or something in your diet. We'll figure it out."

But Mike knows they won't, because there's nothing medical to figure out. It's the chart's magic at work, transferring Samantha's bedwetting pattern to Heather.

"So I have to keep wearing those... things?" Heather asks, her voice small.

"Just for another week," their mother says. "If you can stay dry for a full week, we'll know it was just a temporary issue."

Heather nods miserably, while across the table, Samantha practically glows with her newfound maturity.

"I'm done with diapers," she announces proudly. "I'm a big girl now."

Mike watches as Heather flinches at these words, the irony of an eighteen-year-old being less of a "big girl" than her seven-year-old sister clearly not lost on her.

That night, as Mike prepares for bed in his wonderful, liberating regular underwear, he thinks about the chart and its power. Two siblings freed from diapers, one regressed to wearing them. It's a trade he never intended to make, but now that it's done, he can't bring himself to undo it.

He should feel guilty, he knows. But as he slides between his sheets, secure in the knowledge that he'll wake up dry, all he feels is a strange sense of power – and curiosity about what else the chart might be capable of.

Abdl Diaper Regression PottyTraining

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Sage Ann

Jul 16, 2025 01:04 am

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 3

By Sage Ann
The second week with the chart unfolds like an echo of the first, magnets moving in familiar patterns as the days progress. Julie's row fills predictably with yellow and green moons for her nighttime accidents and yellow rainclouds for her daytime ones, including another church incident that sends their mother rushing from the pew with a squirming, smelly toddler. Mary continues her inconsistent progress, staying dry two nights but wetting her pull-ups three times during the day. Samantha and Mike once again start strong, both waking up dry for the first three mornings. But something feels different this time – a strange undercurrent, as if the chart is watching them rather than the other way around.

On the fourth morning, Samantha's streak breaks again, right on schedule. She trudges downstairs, her pajama bottoms changed but her expression dejected.

"Wet again?" Mike asks, already knowing the answer.

She nods glumly. "I don't understand. I didn't even drink anything before bed."

Mike selects a yellow dripping moon and places it beside Samantha's name – or rather, beside the magnet labeled SAMANTHA that sits in the fourth position on the chart. After his switch with Heather, he'd carefully rearranged the other names to their original positions, leaving only his and Heather's swapped.

What's strangest of all is that no one seems to have noticed. Not his mother, not Samantha, not even Heather herself. They all act as if the chart has always been this way.

Mike continues his own dry streak, waking up each morning with clean sheets and growing confidence. Four days. Five days. Six days. Each smiling sun magnet he places beside his name (which now occupies the top position where Heather's once was) feels like another step toward victory.

But then the final day arrives. Mike wakes up dry for the seventh consecutive morning, a perfect week. His mother beams at him over breakfast.

"Look at you!" she says, squeezing his shoulder. "A whole week dry. I think someone can go without nighttime diapers starting tonight."

Pride swells in his chest, but it's tinged with confusion. Did he really stay dry because of his own progress, or because he tricked the chart? He pushes the thought away. It doesn't matter. The result is the same – freedom from the humiliating nighttime protection.

"I did it," he says, more to himself than anyone else. "I actually did it."

Samantha, who wet her bed again that morning, sticks out her tongue at him but offers grudging congratulations. "I'll be next," she warns. "Just watch."

Mike is placing the final smiling sun beside his name when Heather finally comes downstairs. Immediately, he can tell something is wrong. Her face is pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed as if she's been crying. She wears baggy sweatpants instead of her usual jeans, and she moves with a stiff, uncomfortable gait.

Their mother looks up from packing lunches. "Heather? Are you feeling okay, honey?"

Heather doesn't answer immediately. She pours herself a cup of coffee with trembling hands, then sits at the table, avoiding everyone's gaze.

"I..." she begins, her voice so quiet they all have to lean in to hear. "Something happened last night."

Their mother abandons the lunches, moving to sit beside her eldest daughter. "What is it? Are you sick?"

Heather's eyes fill with tears, and she shakes her head, clearly mortified. "I..." She glances at the younger children, then whispers something in their mother's ear.

Their mother's eyes widen in surprise, but she quickly composes her expression. "Oh, sweetheart, that can happen to anyone. It's nothing to be so upset about."

Mike and Samantha exchange confused looks. What could have happened to their cool, confident older sister?

"What's wrong with Heather?" Samantha asks, never one for subtlety.

Their mother gives them a warning look. "Heather had a little accident last night, that's all."

The word "accident" hangs in the air, loaded with meaning in a household where potty training progress is tracked on a chart for all to see.

Mike feels a cold wave of understanding wash over him. Heather wet her bed. Eighteen-year-old Heather, who hasn't had an accident since she was a toddler, woke up in wet sheets on the exact same morning that he would have, had the names not been switched.

"It's probably just stress from finals coming up," their mother says, rubbing Heather's back. "Or maybe you were too tired to wake up when you needed to go."

Heather stares at her coffee, her cheeks flaming red. "I haven't wet the bed since I was four," she says, her voice thick with humiliation. "I don't understand how this happened."

Mike feels a twist of guilt in his stomach. He did this. Not intentionally, but still – by switching their names on the chart, he somehow transferred his bedwetting problem to his sister.

"I already stripped the bed," Heather continues, still not meeting anyone's eyes. "And put my sheets in the wash. I'll clean the mattress later."

Their mother nods. "Don't worry about that now. These things happen, even to adults sometimes."

But Heather clearly doesn't believe this reassurance. She looks devastated, as if her body has betrayed her in the most fundamental way.

Mike moves to the chart, feeling as if he's operating on autopilot. He selects a yellow dripping moon and places it beside Heather's name – his old position on the chart.

"What are you doing?" Heather asks, finally looking up. "You don't need to record that. I'm not really part of your potty training competition."

Mike hesitates, the magnet still in his hand. "But Mom said everyone in the house has to be on the chart, remember? After the hose thing?"

"That was a joke," Heather says, an edge creeping into her voice. "This isn't funny, Mike."

"I know," he says quickly. "I just thought... for consistency..."

Their mother intervenes. "He's right, actually. We did say everyone gets tracked. And it might help us figure out if this is a one-time thing or if there's something going on we should be concerned about."

"There's nothing going on," Heather insists. "It was a fluke. It won't happen again."

Mike places the yellow moon on the chart, his guilt intensifying. He knows it's not a fluke. Somehow, the chart has transferred his bedwetting pattern to Heather.

What he doesn't expect is what their mother says next.

"Well, just to be on the safe side, I think we should take the same precautions we do with Mike and Samantha."

Heather stares at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," their mother says gently, "you should probably wear some protection to bed tonight, just in case."

The room goes absolutely silent. Even Julie, usually babbling around her pacifier, seems to sense the gravity of the moment.

"You want me to wear a diaper," Heather says flatly. It's not a question.

Their mother winces at the bluntness. "Not a diaper necessarily. Maybe just some waterproof underwear, like what Mike uses."

"I'm eighteen years old!"

"And you woke up in wet sheets this morning," their mother counters, her voice still kind but firm. "Look, I know it's embarrassing, but it's also practical. If it happens again, you won't have to deal with wet sheets and mattress cleaning."

Heather looks like she might cry or scream or both. "This isn't happening."

"It's probably just a one-time thing," their mother says, reaching for Heather's hand. "But just in case, it wouldn't hurt to wear some protection to bed. You'd just have to stay dry for a week to prove it was a fluke, which should be easy for you."

Mike watches this exchange with growing horror. He never intended for Heather to have to wear diapers. He just wanted to get out of them himself.

"I don't even have anything that would fit me," Heather protests weakly.

"I can pick something up today," their mother says. "And I promise, I'll do all the cleaning of the bed and laundry myself. You don't have to worry about that part."

Heather glances at Mike and Samantha, both watching with undisguised fascination. "This is so humiliating," she mutters.

"It's only at night, in your own room, where no one will see," their mother points out. "And like I said, it's probably just a one-time thing."

But Mike knows it's not. If the chart's magic is real – and he's now certain it is – Heather will continue to have accidents according to what would have been his pattern.

Heather finally nods, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Fine. Whatever. But only for a week, and then never again."

"Of course," their mother agrees, squeezing her hand. "Just until we're sure it was a fluke."

The rest of the day passes in a fog for Mike. He should be celebrating his freedom from diapers, but instead, he's weighed down by guilt. He keeps seeing Heather's humiliated expression, keeps thinking about how she'll feel tonight when their mother brings home diapers for her to wear.

But mixed with the guilt is a thrill of discovery. The chart is magical. Robin gave him a genuinely enchanted object. And if switching names with Heather worked, what else might be possible?

As if summoned by these thoughts, Robin appears at their front door after school. Mike isn't even surprised this time – it's as if he expected the strange boy to materialize just when he was thinking about him.

"How's the chart working out?" Robin asks, his eyes gleaming with that unsettling, shifting quality.

Mike glances around to make sure they're alone before whispering, "It's magic, isn't it? Real magic."

Robin's smile is neither a confirmation nor a denial. "Did something interesting happen?"

"Heather wet her bed," Mike says. "The same morning I would have, if we hadn't switched names on the chart."

"Did she now?" Robin raises an eyebrow, his expression one of theatrical surprise. "How strange."

"You knew this would happen," Mike accuses. "You told me to switch the names."

Robin shrugs, a fluid, almost inhuman movement. "I suggested it might help. And did it?"

Mike can't deny that it did. He's free from diapers now, a full week of dryness achieved through magical cheating rather than actual progress.

"You should remove your name from the chart now," Robin says, suddenly serious. "Since you're out of diapers."

"What?"

"The chart tracks those who have accidents or might have them," Robin explains. "You're dry now, officially. So your name shouldn't be on the chart anymore."

Mike frowns. "But what about Heather?"

"What about her?" Robin's tone is innocent, but his eyes are anything but. "She had an accident. She should be on the chart."

The implications slowly sink in. If Mike removes his name and leaves Heather's, she'll continue to have accidents according to what would have been his pattern. She'll be stuck in diapers while he enjoys his freedom.

"That doesn't seem fair," Mike says, though even to his own ears, the protest sounds weak.

Robin tilts his head. "Fair? You wanted to be dry. Now you are. Isn't that what matters?"

Before Mike can answer, Robin is moving toward the door again. "Just remember to remove your name," he calls over his shoulder. "The chart only works properly when the right names are on it."

And then he's gone, leaving Mike alone with his thoughts and a decision to make.

Regression Abdl Diaper PottyTraining

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Sage Ann

Jul 13, 2025 11:43 pm

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 2

By Sage Ann
The first week of the chart's reign in the Karlight household unfolds with all the drama of a soap opera, magnets moving in a daily dance of success and failure. Each morning, the family gathers around their new altar of potty training progress, reporting their nighttime results with either pride or sheepish confession. Each evening, they update their daytime status before dinner. Mike approaches his record-keeping duties with the solemnity of a priest, carefully selecting the appropriate magnet for each sibling's performance, his fingers lingering over the smiling sun magnets he hopes to place beside his own name.

Julie, at three, provides no surprises. Each morning, Mike places a yellow dripping moon beside her name. On Wednesday, he adds a green moon holding its nose when their mother announces that Julie had "a messy night." Julie herself shows no concern about these proclamations, happily babbling around her pacifier as she's carried to the changing table for a fresh diaper.

"You're just a baby," Mike tells her, not unkindly, as he updates her record. "You'll learn eventually."

Her daytime record fills with yellow rainclouds, punctuated by a single green cloud on Sunday when she soils herself during the church service, prompting a hasty exit by their mother and quiet snickering from Mike and Samantha in the pew.

Mary's record shows more variation. At five, she wakes up dry two mornings out of seven, beaming with pride when Mike places the smiling sun magnets beside her name. The other five days earn her yellow moons, but she accepts these with a shrug.

"I didn't mean to," she says on Friday morning, her thumb creeping toward her mouth as she watches Mike update the chart.

"I know," he says, because he does know. The waking up wet is never intentional – that's what makes it so frustrating.

Mary's daytime record includes three yellow rainclouds for the times she doesn't make it to the bathroom in time, her pull-ups saving her from complete embarrassment but not from having to be recorded on the chart.

The real drama, as Mike knew it would be, centers around his and Samantha's records. The first morning, they both wake up dry, a small victory that Mike celebrates by placing the first smiling sun magnets with exaggerated ceremony.

"See?" Samantha says, hands on her hips. "Easy."

The second morning repeats this success. Two days, two smiling suns. Mike lies in bed each night, forcing himself to stay awake an extra hour, afraid to drift too deeply into sleep. He limits his evening drinks to tiny sips, ignoring his thirst. The strategy seems to be working.

By the third morning, when both he and Samantha again place smiling suns beside their names, a cautious hope begins to bloom in Mike's chest. Maybe this time. Maybe the chart really is helping.

"Three down, four to go," he whispers to himself that night, lying rigid in his bed, trying to stay aware of his body's signals even as exhaustion tugs at him.

The fourth morning breaks this fragile pattern. Mike wakes dry, but Samantha's sheets are wet. He tries not to show his satisfaction as he places the yellow dripping moon beside her name.

"It doesn't matter," Samantha says, though her eyes betray her disappointment. "I'll just start over. I still have time to beat you."

"You wish," Mike says, but there's no real bite to his words. Four days dry. He's never made it this far before.

The fifth morning sees them both dry again, and Mike can feel victory approaching. Just two more nights. Then freedom from the crinkly, humiliating underwear that makes him feel like a toddler instead of an eight-year-old.

"You're doing great," his mother tells him that evening, pulling him into a quick hug. "I'm proud of you for sticking with it."

The sixth night, Mike hardly sleeps at all. He lies awake, checking the glowing numbers on his bedside clock every fifteen minutes, terrified of falling too deeply asleep. When he does drift off, his dreams are filled with toilets and oceans and endless flowing water. He wakes twice to use the bathroom, tiptoeing through the dark house, careful not to wake anyone.

Morning arrives, and Mike's sheets are dry. Six days. One more night, and he'll be free.

"You look terrible," Samantha observes at breakfast. She's been dry for two nights now since her setback.

"Just tired," Mike mumbles through a yawn. His eyes feel gritty, his body heavy with exhaustion.

That night, his fatigue overwhelms his anxiety. He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, the stress of staying awake finally catching up with him. He sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, his body surrendering to the rest it desperately needs.

And then he's waking, consciousness seeping back slowly, a smile already forming on his lips at the thought of his victory – until he feels it. The cold, unmistakable wetness beneath him. The failure that has become so familiar.

"No," he whispers, the word breaking in his throat. "No, no, no."

Six nights. So close. And now, on the very last morning, he's failed again.

Downstairs, the chart awaits, a mocking reminder of his shame. When Samantha appears in the kitchen, he can tell from her downcast eyes and hunched shoulders that she, too, has woken to wet sheets.

"Guess we both lost," she says, kicking at the floor with her slipper.

It's small consolation that she's also failed. Mike places the two yellow moons on the chart with leaden fingers. So close, and yet so far. The smiling sun that would have marked his freedom remains in the bag, unused.

Heather's record, of course, is a perfect row of smiling suns, both day and night. She's eighteen and dry, just as she should be. Mike tries not to resent her for it.

"You'll get there," she tells him later, ruffling his hair as she passes. "Everyone does eventually."

But "eventually" feels like a distant, unreachable horizon.

Saturday afternoon brings an unexpected visitor. Robin appears at their front door, materializing as if from nowhere, the same strange, shifting quality to his eyes that Mike noticed at school.

"I was in the neighborhood," Robin says with a smile that suggests he's sharing a private joke. "Thought I'd check on my chart."

Mike's mother, distracted by Julie's demands for a snack, merely waves Robin in without much questioning. "Any friend of Mike's is welcome," she says, whisking Julie toward the kitchen.

Robin moves immediately to the chart, examining it with the critical eye of an art appraiser. His finger traces the rows of magnets, lingering on Mike's nearly-perfect record marred by the final yellow moon.

"So close," he says, clicking his tongue. "Just one more night would have done it."

Mike slumps onto the couch. "Yeah. I tried really hard too."

"I can see that." Robin's voice holds no mockery, just simple acknowledgment. "And Samantha failed on the same day. That's rough."

"She failed earlier in the week too," Mike points out. "At least I made it six nights."

Robin nods, still studying the chart. His eyes drift to Heather's perfect record of smiling suns. "Your sister does well."

"Heather? Well, yeah. She's eighteen. She doesn't even need to be on the chart." Mike explains about the hose incident and his mother's joke.

A slow smile spreads across Robin's face, sharp and bright as a new penny. "Everyone who might have an accident needs to be on the chart," he says, echoing his earlier instruction. "I didn't specify what kind of accident."

Mike shrugs. "It doesn't matter anyway. The chart didn't help. I still failed."

"Did you?" Robin tilts his head, his gaze unsettlingly direct. "Or did you just need to approach it differently?"

"What do you mean?"

Robin leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, then why don't you just move the names?"

Mike stares at him, not comprehending. "Move the names?"

"Sure." Robin gestures to the white magnets with their carefully printed names. "They're magnets. They move. What if, say, your name was where Heather's is now?"

The suggestion hovers between them, outrageous and tempting. Mike frowns, trying to understand what Robin is proposing.

"But that would be cheating," he says finally. "The chart is supposed to track who actually stayed dry."

Robin's eyes glitter with something that might be amusement or might be something older, wilder. "Is it cheating if it's just a game? A chart is just a record of what happened. What if what happened... changed?"

"Changed?" Mike repeats, feeling slow and stupid.

"Try it," Robin urges, his voice silky with suggestion. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Mike glances toward the kitchen, where he can hear his mother talking to Julie and Mary. Samantha is upstairs, sulking about her failed attempt at dryness. No one is watching.

"It's just a chart," Robin says, reading his hesitation. "Just paper and magnets. Nothing magical about moving names around."

But there is something about the way Robin says "magical" that makes Mike wonder if that's exactly what this is about. Still, what harm could it do? It's not like moving the magnets will change reality. He'll still have to wear his nighttime diaper tonight, regardless of what the chart says.

"Fine," Mike mutters, reaching for the magnets. He slides his name to where Heather's has been and moves Heather's to his former position.

The moment his fingers release the magnets, a strange sensation washes over him. It's like the world tilts slightly, or like he's watching a movie that suddenly skips ahead a few frames. There's a feeling of something rolling back, reversing, though nothing visibly changes.

Mike blinks, disoriented. "What was that?"

Robin watches him with an unreadable expression. "What was what?"

"I felt... something." Mike looks around the room, but everything appears normal. The chart, the magnets, the house – all exactly as they were, except for the switched names.

Robin shrugs, the picture of innocence. "I didn't feel anything. Maybe you're just tired from not sleeping well."

That must be it, Mike decides. Just exhaustion playing tricks on his mind. He stares at the chart, at his name now aligned with a perfect row of smiling suns.

"It doesn't really change anything," he says, half to himself. "It's just pretend."

"Of course," Robin agrees, though his smile suggests otherwise. "Just a game. No one will know the difference."

Mike has the distinct impression that he's missed something important, but before he can pursue the thought, Robin is moving toward the door.

"I should go," he says. "Things to do, people to see. Let me know how the chart works out for you."

And then he's gone, slipping out the door with the same mysterious quality with which he arrived. Mike stands before the chart, looking at the altered names, feeling both foolish and strangely anxious.

It's just a chart, he tells himself again. Just magnets on paper. Moving them doesn't change what actually happened.

Yet as he turns away, he can't shake the feeling that something has shifted, some invisible balance tipped. It's probably nothing – just his imagination, fueled by disappointment and Robin's odd manner.

Still, that night as he puts on his nighttime diaper, Mike finds himself wondering what exactly Robin meant by asking if what happened could change. It's a silly thought, childish and magical, like believing in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

But as he drifts toward sleep, the memory of that strange rolling sensation when he moved the magnets follows him into his dreams.

Abdl Pottytraining Diapers Regression

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Sage Ann

Jul 10, 2025 09:18 pm

Public post

The Magical Potty Trading Chart: Pt 1

By Sage Ann
Mike Karlight sits on the edge of his bed, the plastic-backed underwear crinkling beneath him as he shifts his weight. He's eight years old – far too old, he thinks, to still be wearing what amounts to a diaper to bed. The morning light slants through his bedroom window, illuminating the damp sheets he'll have to strip before school. Another night, another failure. If only Samantha weren't getting so close to staying dry for a full week. The thought of his seven-year-old sister graduating to regular underwear at night before him makes his stomach twist into knots.

"Mike! Breakfast!" His mother's voice drifts up the stairs.

He sighs and peels off the soggy garment, shoving it deep into his hamper where no one will notice. The promise hovers in his mind like a distant star – stay dry for a week, and the nighttime diapers can go away forever. So simple, yet so impossible.

Downstairs, the kitchen thrums with the chaotic energy of the Karlight household. His eighteen-year-old sister Heather leans against the counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand while absently stirring her coffee with the other. She's practically an adult, impossibly mature in Mike's eyes – someone who hasn't had to think about bathroom accidents in over a decade.

Samantha sits at the table, her legs swinging beneath her chair, not quite reaching the floor. Her dark hair is pulled into messy pigtails, and she smiles at Mike with a knowing look that makes him want to disappear.

"Did you stay dry last night?" she whispers when he sits next to her.

Mike shakes his head, his cheeks burning. "Did you?"

"Yep." Her smile grows wider, smugger. "That's three nights in a row now."

The knot in Mike's stomach tightens. Three nights. She only needs four more. He's never made it past two.

At the other end of the table, Mary, their five-year-old sister, chews on a piece of toast while absently sucking her thumb between bites. She's still in pull-ups during the day, though she insists she's ready for "big girl underwear." A dark stain on her pajama bottoms suggests otherwise.

Their mother appears with three-year-old Julie balanced on her hip. The youngest Karlight is still fully in the diaper phase, her pajamas printed with cartoonish puppies, a pacifier bobbing in her mouth as she sleepily surveys the breakfast scene.

"Mike, did you change your sheets?" His mother asks, setting Julie in her booster seat.

He stares at his cereal. "I'll do it after breakfast."

She sighs, a sound he's come to recognize as disappointed but understanding. "Okay, but don't forget. I'll put fresh ones on your bed tonight."

"I won't need them," Mike says with more confidence than he feels. "I'm going to stay dry tonight."

Samantha snorts. "That's what you said yesterday."

"And the day before," Heather adds without looking up from her phone. She isn't trying to be mean – it's just a fact, delivered with the casual indifference of a sibling who's outgrown such concerns.

"Heather, don't tease," their mother says, though there's no real reprimand in her tone. She turns to Julie, who's starting to fuss. "Looks like someone needs a change before I drop her at daycare."

Mike watches as his mother lifts Julie from her seat, the little girl's diaper visibly sagging. Julie doesn't care – she has no concept of the embarrassment Mike feels every morning. She'll grow out of diapers eventually, everyone does. Everyone except him, it seems.

"I bet I'll be out of nighttime diapers before you," Samantha whispers, a competitive glint in her eye.

"Will not," Mike hisses back.

"Will too. Mom said three more dry nights and I'm done with them forever."

Mike pushes away from the table, his appetite gone. It isn't fair. They're practically the same age – he's only a year older – yet somehow Samantha is winning this unspoken race.

School that day drags like a wet cloth across rough pavement. Mike sits at his desk, half-listening to his teacher explain fractions, his mind occupied with strategies to stay dry. Maybe if he doesn't drink anything after dinner? Or if he wakes himself up in the middle of the night? He's tried both before, with no success.

At recess, he sits alone on a bench near the fence, watching other kids play. None of them, he's certain, still wet the bed. None of them still wear diapers at night.

"You look like someone stole your dessert."

Mike startles at the voice. A boy he's never seen before stands in front of him, head tilted to one side. He has hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes that seem to shift between green and gold when he moves. There's something strange about him – not strange in a bad way, but strange like finding a four-leaf clover or seeing a double rainbow.

"I'm Robin," the boy says, sitting next to Mike without invitation. His movements are fluid, almost dancing, even when he's just sitting down. "You're Mike."

It isn't a question. Mike frowns. "How do you know my name?"

Robin shrugs, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I know lots of things. Like how you're worried about something."

"I'm not worried," Mike says too quickly.

"Sure you are. Your eyebrows scrunch up like this" Robin demonstrates, pulling his own eyebrows together in an exaggerated frown, "when you're thinking about it."

Mike shifts on the bench, uncomfortable with how easily this strange boy seems to read him. "Are you new? I haven't seen you before."

"New enough," Robin says, which isn't really an answer. He leans in conspiratorially. "So what's the worry? Failed a test? Sister being annoying? Monster under the bed?"

"No monster," Mike mumbles, then immediately regrets his choice of words.

Robin's eyes light up. "Ah, but there is a bed problem, isn't there?"

Mike freezes. How could he possibly know? He glances around to make sure no one else is listening. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do." Robin reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks like a folded piece of paper. "It's about the nighttime diapers, right?"

The words hit Mike like a punch to the stomach. He feels his face flame red, panic rising in his chest. "How"

"I told you, I know things." Robin unfolds the paper, revealing a colorful chart. "And I know how to help."

Mike should be mortified, should be running away from this weird kid who somehow knows his deepest secret. Instead, he finds himself leaning forward, curiosity overriding his embarrassment.

"What is that?"

"A potty training chart." Robin says it like he's offering treasure. "Not just any chart, though. A special one."

The chart is divided into seven columns, one for each day of the week. Each day is split down the middle – one side labeled "DAY" with a bright sun, the other "NIGHT" with a crescent moon. At the top is a space for names.

"It comes with these," Robin continues, producing a small cloth bag from his other pocket. He tips its contents into his palm – tiny magnets, each no bigger than a quarter, shaped like various symbols.

"This one," Robin holds up a magnet of a green moon holding its nose, "is for when you poop at night. This yellow dripping moon is for wetting. And this" he shows a smiling sun with a thumbs up, "is for staying dry and clean."

He displays the rest: a green cloud holding its nose for daytime accidents, a sad raincloud for daytime wetting, and a cheerful rainbow with sun for staying dry during the day.

"How is a chart supposed to help?" Mike asks, though he can't deny he's intrigued.

Robin's smile widens, showing teeth that seem just a bit too sharp. "Magic," he whispers.

Mike rolls his eyes. "There's no such thing as magic."

"Isn't there?" Robin raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you just haven't seen it yet."

Before Mike can argue, Robin presses the chart and magnets into his hands. "Try it. What have you got to lose?"

The paper feels strangely warm against Mike's skin, almost humming with energy. He tells himself it's just his imagination.

"There's one very important rule," Robin says, his voice suddenly serious. "Everyone in your household who might have an accident needs to have their name on the chart. Everyone. Otherwise, it won't work properly."

"That's stupid," Mike says, but he tucks the chart into his backpack anyway. "But thanks, I guess."

Robin stands, stretching like a cat in the sun. "Don't thank me yet," he says, and there's a glint in his eye that makes Mike wonder if he's missed something important. "You might not like the results."

Before Mike can ask what he means, the recess bell rings. When he looks back, Robin is gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

Mike spends the rest of the school day thinking about the chart. It's ridiculous, of course. A piece of paper can't keep him dry at night. But as he walks home with Samantha, the chart seems to grow heavier in his backpack, calling to him.

"What's that?" Samantha asks when he finally pulls it out in their shared bedroom after dinner.

Mike hesitates, then decides there's no harm in showing her. "A potty training chart. A kid at school gave it to me."

Samantha examines it, her initial skepticism giving way to interest when she sees the colorful magnets. "Cool! Can I be on it too?"

"I guess," Mike says, surprised by her enthusiasm. "I think we're supposed to put everyone on it who... you know."

Samantha nods solemnly. They both know who in the house still has accidents.

"Do you really think it'll work?" she asks.

Mike thinks of Robin's strange, shifting eyes and the way he seemed to appear and disappear like a trick of the light. He remembers the boy's parting words: You might not like the results.

"I don't know," he admits. "But it can't hurt to try, right?"

As he writes out the names on small white magnets – his own, Samantha's, Mary's, Julie's – Mike feels a flutter of something between hope and trepidation. The chart seems to almost glow in the evening light, the magnets clinking together with a sound like distant laughter.

Whatever happens, Mike thinks, at least he's trying something new. And maybe, just maybe, it will help him win the race against Samantha to ditch the nighttime diapers once and for all.

That evening, Mike hangs the potty training chart on the living room wall with careful reverence. He stands back, admiring how official it looks with its neat columns and bright colors. The white magnets with their carefully printed names – MIKE, SAMANTHA, MARY, JULIE – line up along the left side, waiting for tomorrow's first entries. The small bag of moon and sun magnets sits on the side table below, ready to mark their successes and failures for all to see. It feels important somehow, like setting up an altar to the gods of dry nights and clean sheets.

"What's this?" His mother appears behind him, drying her hands on a dish towel. She peers at the chart, her head tilted in curiosity.

Mike shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "It's a potty training chart. A kid at school gave it to me."

"A potty training chart," she repeats, examining the colorful magnets. "That's actually a good idea. Where did you get all these cute little magnets?"

"Robin gave them to me," Mike says, then realizes he doesn't know Robin's last name or even which class he's in. "He's... new, I think."

His mother nods absently, more interested in the chart than the mysterious benefactor. "I like how you've included everyone. Even Julie, though I think she's a ways off from full training."

Mike explains his plan, his words tumbling out faster as his enthusiasm grows. "See, if we track it every day, we can see how close everyone is. And maybe it'll help me and Samantha stay dry at night. Robin said everyone has to have their name on it for it to work right."

"Did he now?" His mother's lips quirk into a small smile. "Well, it certainly can't hurt. And it might help you visualize your progress."

From the doorway, Samantha snorts. "It'll help me see how I'm beating Mike, you mean."

"You are not beating me," Mike says, his earlier excitement souring.

"Am too. Three nights dry already." Samantha saunters into the room, her confidence radiating from her small frame. "By this time next week, I'll be diaper-free and you'll still be waking up wet."

"Will not!"

"Will too!"

Their mother sighs the sigh of a woman who's heard this exchange in various forms a thousand times. "No one is beating anyone. This isn't a race."

But it is, and all three of them know it. In the economy of childhood dignity, being the older sibling still stuck in nighttime diapers when your younger sister has graduated to regular underwear is a bankruptcy from which there is no recovery.

"I'm going to win," Samantha says, flicking one of the magnets. "And then you'll have to call me 'Dry Queen Samantha' while you're still in your baby diapers."

Mike's face burns. "Mom! Tell her to stop!"

"Samantha, enough teasing," their mother says, but the warning lacks force. "This chart is supposed to help, not create more fighting."

"I'm just stating facts," Samantha says with a shrug that's far too adult for her seven years. "I'm winning, and Mike knows it."

Mike opens his mouth for a heated retort when the front door swings open with a bang, followed by a trail of water droplets on the hardwood floor. Heather stands in the entryway, her jeans and t-shirt soaked through, hair plastered to her forehead.

"What happened to you?" their mother asks, already moving to grab a towel from the laundry room.

Heather pushes wet hair from her face, leaving streaks of what might be car soap on her cheek. "The stupid hose went crazy when I turned it on. It backfired or something and got me right in the face, then the nozzle broke off and sprayed everywhere before I could shut it off."

She accepts the towel her mother offers, dabbing at her face before gesturing helplessly at her soaked clothing. "I was just trying to wash my car."

Mike and Samantha exchange a look before breaking into giggles. Heather, usually so composed and mature, looks ridiculous with her soggy clothes clinging to her lanky teenage frame.

"It's not funny," Heather says, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I'm literally standing in a puddle of my own making."

Their mother glances from Heather's wet pants to the potty chart and back again, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Mike, I think you need to add Heather to your chart."

The room goes silent. Mike blinks, uncertain if he's heard correctly.

"What?" Heather and Mike say in unison.

"Well, look at her," their mother gestures at Heather's dripping form. "She's currently in wet pants, isn't she? By the rules of the chart, she should be tracked too."

Mike's initial confusion gives way to horror as understanding arrives. "She doesn't count! She doesn't wear diapers!"

"That's not fair," Mike says, half-indignant. "The chart is for people who have accidents, not people who get splashed with a hose."

Heather folds her arms across her chest, the towel now as wet as her clothes. "Yeah, I'm eighteen, not eight. I don't need to be on a potty training chart."

Their mother's smile widens. "Now, now, let's be consistent. If we're tracking everyone in the house who might have an accident, we should include everyone."

"But she doesn't have accidents," Mike protests. "She got wet from a hose. That's different."

"Is it?" their mother asks, her tone light but her eyes dancing with amusement. "Water is water, wet is wet. And the rules of your chart say everyone gets tracked."

Samantha, catching on to her mothers joke, nods solemnly. "It's only fair, Mike. If I have to be on the chart, Heather does too."

Heather rolls her eyes, water still dripping from her clothes onto the floor. "This is ridiculous. I don't need potty training. I've been using the toilet successfully for fifteen years or so."

"True," their mother says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "But the chart isn't just for who needs training, it's for tracking accidents. And while it's true that you don't wear diapers now, if you were to start wetting your pants regularly, well..." She lets the sentence hang, her implication clear.

"Mom!" Heather's voice rises an octave. "You wouldn't!"

"Well, what's good for the gosling is good for the goose," their mother says with a wink. "If the little ones have to wear protection when they wet, so would you."

Mike can't help but laugh at the mental image of his towering teenage sister in a diaper like Julie's. The absurdity of it breaks through his earlier irritation.

Heather's mouth opens and closes several times before she breaks into laughter too. "Fine, put me on the stupid chart. But I'm not wearing diapers, no matter what the hose does to me."

The tension in the room dissolves as quickly as it formed. Mike, still grumbling, adds Heather's name to the last white magnet and places it on the chart. It feels silly, but also right somehow – Robin did say everyone in the household needed to be on it.

"There," he says, stepping back. "Now everyone's accounted for."

"Great," Heather says, squelching toward the stairs. "I'm going to change into dry pants before Mom decides I need plastic backing on my underwear."

Their mother chuckles. "Good idea. And hang those wet things in the bathtub, please."

As Heather disappears upstairs, Mike studies the chart with renewed interest. Five names now, five people to track. It seems more complete this way, more balanced.

"You know this is still just a game, right?" his mother says, ruffling his hair. "No one's going to think less of you if Samantha gets out of nighttime diapers first."

But Mike knows that's not true. He will think less of himself. And now, with the chart hanging prominently in the living room, everyone will see his failures displayed in yellow dripping moons and his successes (should they ever come) in smiling suns.

"I know," he lies. "It's just for fun."

Samantha smirks at him from across the room, clearly unconvinced. The unspoken competition between them remains, chart or no chart.

Later that night, as Mike lies in bed with the plastic-backed underwear crinkling beneath him, he thinks about Robin and the strange, warm feeling of the chart in his hands. He thinks about Heather's name, added almost as an afterthought, a joke.

Everyone in your household who might have an accident needs to have their name on the chart, Robin had said. Everyone.

Mike isn't sure why, but as he drifts toward sleep, he can't shake the feeling that something important has been set in motion – something beyond a simple contest between siblings.

In the quiet darkness of his room, he could almost swear he hears distant, impish laughter.

Regression PottyTraining Abdl Diaper

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