You shuffle uncomfortably from foot to foot as you stand there, nose pressed firmly into the corner.
The pressure in your bladder, building for the last hour, is finally reaching its crescendo.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the lime green training potty, the same one that, just hours earlier, you swore that you would never use.
Now though? It calls out to you like a siren, the cheap plastic your only hope of salvation from a deeper humiliation.
The padding of the pull-up strapped around your waist brushes against the red, irritated skin of your freshly spanked ass.
It made sense at the time, but now, you can't remember why you threw such a tantrum about wearing the infantile garment.
You whimper as you feel yourself losing control.
Heat grows between your legs and you're flooded with relief at the same time your poor pull-up is flooded with your hot piss.
You feel a hand on your shoulder just before a deep, chiding chuckle feels your ear.
"Uh oh," the voice coos, "Looks like someone is not big kid they insisted they were, are they?"
You let out a low, wordless whine in response, as you feel a hand press the damp pull-up into you.
You let yourself be pulled out of the corner and led past the childish training potty. You can't help but stare at it longingly as the swollen padding between your legs forces you to waddle.
Your attention is drawn back to your captor--or was it caregiver now?--when you hear them click their tongue.
"Get a good look, sweetie," they coo as they drag you away, "That's the closest you'll be getting to that potty in a very, very long time."
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