She's not allowed to have one

As the relentless tickling continues unabated, I feel a new sense of urgency building within me. The need to urinate becomes impossible to ignore, a pressing discomfort that only adds to my misery. They can't possibly do this to me.

"Please," I beg, my voice strained with desperation. "I need to use the restroom."

But there's no mercy in his response, no sign of relenting. "Is it getting un-BEAR-able for you? Oh, dear Felicia, didn't you know? Care Bears don't use restrooms!" he chimes, his laughter echoing inside the suffocating confines of the costume.

I try to hold on, try to push through the discomfort, but it's no use. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I struggle to hold back the inevitable. The humiliation of wetting myself in this ridiculous costume would be unbearable, but I can't hold on much longer. Every fiber of my being was screaming for relief, both from the physical discomfort and the mental anguish of my predicament. Physically, I was overwhelmed by a sense of urgency, my bladder protesting painfully with each passing second. The pressure builds relentlessly, threatening to consume me if she doesn't find a solution soon.

The tickling won't stop. They're really going to make me do this.

I'm tense and trembling, my muscles clenched in a last futile attempt to hold back the tide. My abdomen feels tight and bloated, a constant reminder of the discomfort gnawing at my insides. Every movement sends waves of discomfort radiating through me, exacerbating my sense of helplessness. I've lost. Slowly, I lower myself to the ground, the fabric of the costume rustling loudly with each movement. The tickling finally relents as I close my eyes and try to block out the humiliation as I piss myself, the warmth spreading uncomfortably against my skin.

It's not just the physical sensations that assail me. The smell, too, adds to the overwhelming **** on my senses. The stale, musty odor of sweat and fear mingles with the sharp tang of urine, filling the confined space of the costume with an oppressive stench that seems to cling to my skin. It's a scent that fills me with shame and disgust, a constant reminder of my degradation. And as I sit there, soaked in my own humiliation, I can't help but feel a sense of despair wash over me. Mr. Jingles laughed merrily, seemingly unfazed by my predicament. The realization sinks in that I am at the mercy of this bizarre entity. My husband was going to get what he wanted.

As I sat there, soaked in my own mess, Mr. Jingles' mocking laughter echoed in the confines of the costume. His voice cut through the darkness, dripping with malicious glee.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he taunts, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "Looks like someone couldn't hold it in. A little bed wetter, aren't we, Felicia? Do you need a diaper?"

The words land like a gut punch, amplifying my sense of humiliation and shame. The realization that I'd been reduced to this, mocked and ridiculed by a figment of my husband's imagination, only adds to my despair. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as I struggled to compose myself, to find some semblance of dignity amidst the chaos.