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  1. An autobiographical story in which a girl recounts her unexpected regression. Thats a one shot story Part 1: Hi! im Silvia If someone asked me how all this started, I wouldn’t know how to answer. I only know that one morning I woke up, and the bed was wet. Obviously, my mother was not happy at all; she spent the morning yelling at me. She couldn’t understand how an 18-year-old girl could wake up in a wet bed and have no idea why. I don’t really remember the feeling of a wet bed; I just know that by the fourth night of lying in my own urine, my mother brought home a pack of pull-ups. The pull-ups were pink and covered in heart-shaped patterns. They weren’t like regular underwear; they were padded but more discreet compared to what I wear now. I cried and yelled at my mom, refusing to wear them, but in the end, she was right: I had become a stupid girl who wet the bed. The first time I wore them, I was surprised by how comfortable they were and how they didn’t show under my pajama pants. The next morning, I woke up dry. I was happy, moving my legs under the sheets, but then my hand reached the new underwear. Pressing it, I felt the imprint of a cold liquid still soaking the cover. I got up with my heart in my throat. My pull-up was soaked. I didn’t even tell my mother; she already expected it. I simply took it off, threw it away, and got dressed for class. And so I quickly went through the first two packs of 10 pull-ups: it had become a routine. In the evening, I brushed my teeth, put on the pull-up, and wore my pajamas. I even stopped changing it immediately; sometimes I went straight to breakfast. The worst part was when I lost control during the day. At first, it was just a more urgent need to pee, then a few drops would come out, and eventually, I ended up wetting myself freely. My mother took me to all the doctors in the world, but none could give me an answer. In the end, she gave up and made me wear pull-ups during the day. Then came the summer holidays, between wet pull-ups and often failed bathroom runs. Summer arrived, and it was time for diapers. I still remember the first time I pooped in my pull-up: I was at lunch and felt a strange sensation in my butt. It was like an itch that disappeared as soon as I pushed. I spread my legs and without realizing it, I pushed everything into my pull-up. The most embarrassing part was that I was in front of my mother, who looked at me in shock. That was the last time I wore pull-ups. I still remember the first diaper I wore. Of course, my mother spanked me heavily to make me wear it. The diaper was childish, white with a parade of bears carrying crayons on the front. The diaper came up over my navel, tightened at the level of my pubis, and then widened at my butt. It was incredibly comfortable, I felt like I was hugged by a cushion. At first, when my mother wasn’t looking, I played by patting my butt, marveling at the fact that I didn’t feel anything. Over time, my continence worsened: I wet myself freely, often without noticing, finding the diaper soaked. For pooping, it was different: I knew when I was doing it but didn’t have much warning. Eventually, I gave up trying to run to the bathroom and simply stopped wherever I was, spread my legs, and filled my diaper. The only thing that consoled me was that I was home for the summer holidays. What changed was my relationship with my mother: at first, I changed myself, not too happily when I smelled, and she commented that I didn’t put the diaper on correctly. Then she started automatically fixing the diaper tabs, ignoring my annoyed face. Then she started coming into my room while I was changing to see if I was doing everything right. Finally, she made me lie down, and she changed me. To be honest, I wasn’t too opposed, after all, it was one less dirty job. The only problem was that she started checking if I needed a change. Eventually, I became dependent on her; I no longer monitored the state of my diaper, and if my mother didn’t change me, I would stay in a dirty one for hours. It must have been the summer heat, but eventually, I started going around the house with just a t-shirt and the diaper in view, my mother cleaning my dirty butt, so who cared. I giggled when I saw myself in the mirror. I liked how my butt would sag and wobble after wetting. I even stopped noticing the smell of a dirty diaper. Then came the changing table. My mom bought it and put it in my bathroom: it was like a cabinet, painted pink, with drawers to keep my supplies. There was a purple ladder I used to climb up, and on top, there was a white mattress. It was very comfortable; I climbed up, lay down, and my mother did everything. I soon learned the difference between day and night diapers: the night ones were thicker, and I could sleep without fear of leaking. I realized I actually needed diapers one day, during a change, when I peed without noticing. My legs were still open, and the clean diaper had just been placed under my butt. Luckily, my mother was quick enough to close the front part, waiting for me to finish. Then I started sucking my thumb; I don’t remember how it happened the first time, I just know it ended up in my mouth automatically when I slept or did homework. After the thumb came the pacifier, “better for your teeth,” my mother said. The first pacifier was white and pink with a bunny drawn on it. I sucked on it often, not because it was really necessary, but because it was a habit, like I needed it to feel good or calm down. Then came the bottle: I started spilling the contents of glasses on myself, and soon my mother placed a bottle in front of me at dinner. I didn’t object; I was too thirsty. Drinking from a bottle was completely different: I could carry it around, drink lying down, drink while playing and studying. But what was strangest was my relationship with the outside world and my friends. Nobody cared that I was in diapers, nobody cared if I messed up in the middle of a store while shopping. The same went for my friends; they treated me like it was all normal, like the pacifier and diapers were my normal. It was different from how a child is treated, no, mine was normal, as if I were a regular 18-year-old girl. None of my friends said anything if my diaper was soaked, none seemed to notice my words distorted by the pacifier in my mouth. When we went out for drinks, I was sure my friends got a glass while I got a bottle. Eventually, I stopped worrying that people would see my diaper, nobody cared anyway, sometimes I even went out with just a t-shirt and the diaper in view. Part 2: Smelly diapers and highchair I forgot almost immediately that diapers were not my classic garment until a few weeks ago, simply as my friend clara wore pink panties, I had a nice padded diaper, white with pink hearts. After the pacifier, after the bottle, came the baby clothes. I discovered that I liked dungarees, especially with shorts; I also liked the bulge that could be glimpsed between my pubes and my bottom: it had become my outfit for evenings. To stay at home I often wore rompers: I had all kinds, one more childish than the other, and then according to my mother it was easier to change if there were buttons on my bottom. Another fact to recount is the sleepover at Clara's house. I showed up about 7 p.m.: I was wearing my favorite dungarees, pacifier in my mouth and hair pulled back in pigtails. I had my diaper bag with the essentials with me. Clara opened the door and let me in, we stood in the living room watching TV series, eating popcorn and drinking lots of coke of course from my bottle Toward the end of the first season my diaper was heavily in danger of leaking. It was at that moment that Clara surprised me by saying: " do you want me to change your diaper?" I turned and looked at her surprised; I had always thought that only my mother knew. " yes, if possible," I said somewhere between a flicker of shame and insecurity. He took me by the hand and walked me to the bathroom where he made me lie down. I didn't know what to say, I was embarrassed at first but then I realized it wasn't that different from when my mother did it so I let go. We finished changing and went to the bedroom where we chatted for a while as if it was normal for my best friend to change my diaper. Then Clara asked a question that amazed me: "How does it feel to poop in a diaper?" I looked at her a little stunned. "Well, I first feel a sensation on my bottom, as if my diaper wanted me to do it, then I feel that I have to push I spread my knees and do. I feel when my body starts to empty. When the poop comes out of me I can feel it flowing inside the diaper, like it's very hot and then it settles there until they change me," I replied with a splash of honesty. "It sounds extra gross," said clara. Eventually the strange questions ended and we went to bed. And so it was that July came between messy diapers and drunk bottles. It was on my birthday that my mother let me find the high chair: it was white, with two wooden dumbbells, one on the right, one on the left, and on one side, the seat was padded, white, like the small table that lowered over my legs. I didn't know what to say, the only thing I did was wet my diaper, strangely enough.... But my mother seemed so enthusiastic, so I indulged her. The feeling of being in a high chair is strange but I will try to describe it : the high chair is a taller chair and my legs are dangling, the padding is great, always to be on a cloud. The coffee table is lowered under my chest is comfortable because it is close and I don't get dirty with food What I learned after settling down is that diapers and high chairs are connected, if I wasn't padded and had to run to the potty I wouldn't get there in time. The only downside is that I have to depend on my mother to pass me the dishes and the baby bottle --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The last part is already out in my ream account, if u like my story pls subscribe to get priority access to my new parts e to others story that i dont publish here. https://reamstories.com/scrittoreanon
  2. Hi. I know it's been a while but I NEED HELP. Are there ABDLS In Las Vegas? If so, where can I find an ABDL porn director/producer? I need to make money so I can help me and my family through this challenging times. I still look Young and have some baby fat. My phone number is 702-613-3151 Thanks for reading
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