QH Archives: One Morning at the Cafe (Patreon)

Everybody was thinking it, but nobody was saying it:  Someone needed a diaper change.  Eyes of the patrons in the cafe were wandering about, looking for the source.

The prime suspect in this caper was the small toddler scribbling on some paper furiously at a table where her stressed mother tapped away at a keyboard in between sips from her cup of coffee.  This was a completely understandable assumption, but not correct.  

The true culprit was located just one table behind the scribbling toddler, where I sat at a table by myself.  No part of my adult clothing and stern expression could give away the fact that my ripe diaper was long overdue for a change.  This brought a bit of satisfaction to me.  I couldn't have planned it any better.

In front of me, Mom must've finally gotten a whiff of me, because she was becoming suspicious herself now.  She placed her hand on her child's hands to stop the scribbling for a moment.  "Do you have to go to the potty?"  The child shook her head no.  Mom, still not quite believing this story, based on the lingering odor, pulled open the back of her little one's pants to assess the damage better herself. The look on her face when she completed her investigation was one of simultaneous confusion and relief.

"Well," Mom said to her child, though the child surely wasn't listening, "it wasn't you."  She looked around the cafe, catching a few of the other curious eyes.  Then, as if to silence any further speculation about her child, she said aloud:  "Well if it wasn't you...then who?"

Who indeed.  I sit in my filth a little longer, shifting on the garment that's quickly becoming beyond uncomfortable.  A rash is coming, this I know. But nobody else knows that.  Yet.  

I have this terrible thought, and it nags at me. I want the Mom to know it's me. I want to give her the complete satisfaction that she was right. I want to be humiliated with my own exposure.

When I leave, I'm sure I'll leave behind a telltale trail of scent behind me.  They'll ask questions and shake their heads.  Maybe it'll be a story they tell their friends later. I wonder how close I’d need to walk to Mom for her to be certain that it was me who dropped such an unholy load into my diaper.

I fantasize about sitting down at her table, just pulling out a chair and sitting down. It was me, I’d say. I pooped my diaper.

I could never. I should never.

I realize I’m daydreaming a little, and my focus comes back to reality as I see her packing up and taking the toddler out by the hand. Probably for the best.

I hear giggles and murmurs to my left, and I turn slightly, seeing two young woman sharing another table. One of them seems to be pointing in my general direction, while the other waves a hand in front of her nose.

I blush and my vision gets a little hazy. I feel a deep wave of shame throughout my body. The threat of discovery was one thing. But the reality hits a little harder than I thought it would. I leave the rest of my muffin and my cup of coffee behind and I scurry out the door to head home and clean up. I know I’ll end up touching myself over this - but I’m going to be marinating in my shame for most of the walk home.

Two blocks from the coffee shop, I see the mother and her toddler again at a crosswalk. Her eyes catch mine. For a moment, I swear there’s some sort of recognition. You’re the one who filled your pants in the coffee shop, aren’t you? Maybe not. She crosses the street and I take a separate route.

This story has been re-edited and expanded since its original publishing. The last third of the story is entirely new content - exclusive for my patrons.