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Four more hours... I can do this. The thick padding between my legs feels so humiliating, crinkling with every small movement. I'm supposed to be a grown man, but here I am, locked in babyish plastic pants because I messed up. My stomach is starting to cramp, a deep pressure building inside me. The rules are clear: I have to use the diaper, no exceptions. It's going to happen eventually, it has to. The thought of letting go, of filling this padded prison because I'm not allowed a toilet... The wetness is bad enough. I've already pissed in this thing several times, and the warm, heavy squish is a constant reminder. But that's nothing compared to what's coming. My stomach is churning, gurgling ominously. I should never have had that extra-large serving of cheesy broccoli casserole and garlic bread for lunch. I know what’s coming next isn't going to be a simple wetting. This is going to be loud, messy, and utterly degrading. I have to just sit here and let it happen into these already-soaked diapers because I'm not allowed to do anything else. There’s no holding it back any longer. A deep, guttural groan escapes my lips as I finally give in and shit into the already damp diaper. The warmth instantly soaks through the padding, a heavy, solid mass settling against my skin. The smell hits me immediately, earthy and pungent from all that damn broccoli. The real horror is just beginning. I’m trapped. I can't get out of this soiled diaper. For the next three hours and fifty minutes, I have to just sit here, stewing in my own shit. The thick, mushy crap is a hot, heavy weight against my skin, and every slight movement squishes it around.