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Maybe I do like it
So many times I've said it: "I don't want to wear diapers." "I want to use the potty." "I'm a big girl." I've screamed it until my throat was raw, until my voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. I've cried it all, every tear a testament to my defiance.
But no matter how loud I screamed, no matter how hard I fought, it didn't change anything. They still took away my big girl panties, replacing them with diapers. They still made me fill every diaper they strapped onto me to the brim, ignoring my protests and pleas.
I screamed at them, at my captors, the ones who held me prisoner in this childish state. But my screams fell on deaf ears, drowned out by their laughter and mocking whispers. In their eyes, I was nothing but a helpless little.
But as time passes and I obediently fill diaper after diaper, I find myself facing a troubling realization: maybe I like it. Maybe I like the way my diaper feels all warm and snug when I pee myself, the comforting embrace of its soft padding. Maybe I like the convenience of never having to search for a bathroom again, of being free to go whenever and wherever I please.
And as I squat down to mess my diaper, hours away from the next change, I can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, I do like being a poopy pampers princess. The thought sends a shiver of guilt and excitement down my spine.
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