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Mommies and Daddies
For the grown-ups to discuss ABDL topics. No babies unless you're looking for a 'pankin!
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Oh, will the judgement become available after the sentencing hearing? I had assumed the judgement would simply remain unpublished. -
There's no doubt that DD try very hard to keep this place free of anything like that and have policies to support that but in some jurisdictions, the definitional net is very, very wide. You can have a look at the relevant legislation (it's actually quite readable) for ONE of the Australian states (the others are likely to have similar law) and draw your own conclusion here (use the link that's in the explanatory article I linked to previously - I won't directly re-post that link here). -
PROLOGUE Snap… snap… snap… Petra lay bound on the hotel bed as the snap buttons of her bodysuit came undone one by one, agonizingly slow. A stranger's hand purposefully touched the front of her diaper. The cutting words already stung her ears in advance. "You're completely soaked," a voice dripping with dominance and contempt stated. "If you ask really nicely, I might change you into a dry diaper for the night." Petra couldn't utter a word, trembling in terror. "My little one can't even speak, can she? Pathetic." A moist wipe smelling of the cleaning closet flew onto Petra's face, and the woman writhing in her thick diaper had no idea what would happen next. She only knew she was completely at the mercy of the figure standing before her. CHAPTER 1 The train had just left the station. Petra had arrived early and calmly arranged her three full sports bags in the luggage compartments. Her pale grey college hoodie was unzipped, revealing the national team training shirt she hadn't been able to pack away. The small lion emblem's blue shade matched her tanned skin and summer-bright eyes, which observed people carefully but shyly. Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her navy tights already looked a bit dusty, even this early in the trip. In the morning rush, she'd forgotten her mascara—it didn't matter. She caught her reflection in the window and looked away quickly. She never knew what to do with her own face. "Could you help a little, dear?" came a voice from behind. Petra turned to face an older woman in a light cardigan, red-rimmed glasses having slid partway down her nose. The woman had a small but evidently heavy bag she was trying to lift to the overhead rack. "Of course, I'll help," Petra replied warmly, swinging the bag into place with one fluid motion. Her physical presence clearly impressed the woman, whose seat was next to Petra's. "Thank you so much, you're so strong. Where's an Adonis like you headed?" "Paris," Petra beamed. There would be a few stops along the way, but this determined woman's tracks would inevitably lead to the City of Love. "Oh my goodness. In that case, you've made a mistake—this train goes to Turku." "Oh no, I'm on the wrong train again. And to Turku, of all places." The two women from different generations laughed together, almost crudely. They found common ground immediately. The woman told Petra her name was Auli, that she'd worked forty years at the post office. Petra had originally planned to listen to the playlist she'd made the night before, but she couldn't possibly tune out these stories. "I've been to Paris too. Back when I was younger, with Jack. Oh, there was a man who knew how to keep a woman satisfied." "Brought you breakfast in bed, you mean?" "Well, you could call it that too. Heh heh, excuse me. Age removes all inhibitions. Let's talk about you instead. Who are you going to France for?" Petra laughed nervously, then began telling about herself with a sweet smile. She was headed to a youth national team camp, aiming for a spot on the team that would compete for medals at the European Championships in Paris that autumn. She was nineteen. She had two years left to prove herself before the senior team started looking elsewhere. Petra had played an incredible season with her club—she'd only gone scoreless in two matches and had captained her team to both the league title and the Finnish Cup. The young striker's hairs still stood on end when she remembered the final moments of the decisive match. The scoreboard showed 2-2; the third minute of extra time was underway. Coaches were already selecting penalty takers as the club championship final kept spectators on edge until the very last seconds. That October Saturday was chilly; harsh floodlights made the grass look frosted. Petra's cheeks were flushed from both exertion and cold. The slender young woman had always gotten cold easily, and play had just stopped momentarily due to an opposing striker's muscle cramp. Petra hopped in place to keep her legs warm. She was completely focused when the referee blew his whistle. The ball came unexpectedly—a clever through ball between two defenders. Known for her speed, Petra reached it first, but a defender who'd fought tenaciously until the end managed to unbalance her with a sliding tackle. Petra stumbled, one hand touching the grass, but her momentum barely slowed. The goalkeeper rushed out and dove, but Petra was too quick for her. A stretch, a gentle lift, and a dramatic crash to the ground. Petra gasped for air as she watched the ball roll agonizingly slowly toward the goal line. The crowd held its breath along with the players until the silence erupted into a deafening roar. The referee blew three quick whistles and kick-started the celebration. Girls in yellow and green jerseys swarmed around Petra and lifted their hero into the air. Petra felt she could almost touch the colossal floodlights with her fingertips as she floated on that happy sea of hands. She was rightfully named Player of the Match, but she never enjoyed being the center of attention. Instead of lifting the trophy, Petra stored in her heart those few seconds sitting on the grass, gasping for breath as the ball rolled slowly but inexorably into the net. Nothing else mattered. "Oh my," Auli said admiringly, taking a sip from her freshly opened pear juice box. "I enjoy various sports myself, but running just isn't possible." "Oh, that's too bad. Is it pain?" "No, it's not that—it's the wind. Keeps putting out my cigarette." "Cigarette…" "Well, everyone's allowed a few vices. And to be honest, my knees aren't what they used to be either. One's been operated on twice, but it only gets worse. Damn doctors and their promises." The doctor's office smelled of plastic and hand sanitizer. Petra would rather have been anywhere else, but once again she sat in that white metal-legged chair, her backpack clutched in her lap. She knew no good news would come from here—probably the same it'll be fine platitudes as always. She was fifteen. She had just come from practice. Her mother had made the appointment without telling her where they were going. Her mother occasionally looked at her gently, as if to say: nothing to worry about. The wall clock had stopped; no wonder these appointments were always at least fifteen minutes late. The doctor smiled like a teacher on school picture day. "This is very common," he said, as if that made it any less embarrassing. "Bedwetting can last a bit longer, especially if your parents experienced it too. We have many athletic patients with similar challenges. It's often related to deep sleep and physical exertion." Petra said nothing. She didn't know whether to nod, smile, or cry. The word common rang in her ears like a taunting mockery. If this was common, what was rare? UFO sightings? Appointments starting on time? "So there's no need to worry. Nothing appears to be wrong based on the tests." Nothing wrong? How the hell could a doctor say that when the patient wet her bed almost every night? Unbelievable—surely even a doctor could state things honestly in this world full of lies. Petra tried to hide her frustration, letting her gaze wander around the room. Blood pressure monitor, a poster of some lung or kidney, a white stuffed animal on the windowsill. Petra hated this place with every fiber of her being but swallowed her discomfort in silence. "We can try antidiuretic medication, and if needed, we can consider nighttime protection," the doctor continued. Protection? That sounded prettier than saying diapers. Petra didn't respond. On the way home, her mother said: "It's not your fault." Petra stared out the car window and thought: Then whose fault is it? She didn't speak again until that evening, when she dropped her hot chocolate mug on her toes. "…and now they're all dead," Auli concluded her own story dramatically, making Petra's palms sweat. She'd been so deeply absorbed in her memory that her brain had only registered scattered words here and there. "Your friends?" "What? Of course not. The petunias in the flower bed. Were you listening at all?" "Sorry… I got lost in thought. I'm a bit nervous." "That's all right. I'm prattling on too much anyway. My grandson says I don't know when to stop. He's sixteen, plays football too. Defender. Mean as a snake, he is. I don't really have any friends to talk to." "Neither do I…" "What? A lovely, funny girl like you. How is that even possible?" Petra looked down at her shoes and didn't answer. She wanted to say: I don't know how to let people in. Instead she just pressed her fingernails into her palm. Auli seemed to sense she'd touched something raw. She was quiet for a moment, then offered Petra a buttered cinnamon bun. Petra politely declined. She was carb-loading before camp, but she didn't say that either. A silence settled between them. Petra waited for it to stretch long enough, then lifted her headphones to her ears and finally started her playlist. Auli glanced at her and noticed that she had managed to build an invisible wall between them with astonishing speed. She didn't take offense; she knew herself that few would have listened to her stories for as long as Petra had. There was something exceptional about Petra—she seemed capable of overcoming anything, yet at the same time, one wanted to scoop her into one's arms and protect her. Auli was neither the first nor the last to make such an assessment. She began working on her crossword puzzle, and whenever she got stuck, Petra silently took the pen and wrote in a few helping letters. Auli was certain that Petra subscribed to the same magazine, had memorized all the answers, and was simply playing the genius. In reality, Petra had earned top marks in both Finnish and math that spring, so filling in a challenging crossword was easy during commercial breaks between songs. After each helping letter, Petra retreated behind her invisible wall and back into her own bubble, as effortlessly as if she'd never left. Her focus was frighteningly sharp. She was twelve the first time she stayed on the field after everyone else left. The hall smelled like sweat and rubber. Her mother was waiting in the parking lot. Petra knew she should go. Instead she kicked the ball against the concrete wall once, twice, until her right foot ached and the echo became the only voice she needed to hear. The clock's hour hand had just passed eight when the hall's lights began extinguishing one by one, as if someone had blown them out. Years later, she was still there. After an intensive practice, Petra was working on ball control against the indoor hall's concrete wall. As the space emptied, the echo grew harder and lonelier—a soundscape that fascinated Petra greatly. Her training ignored clock times; even now, she would practice until her legs simply gave out. "Stop already, Petra! Nobody improves after three hours of practice. Sometimes less is more," her coach would try to get the stubborn girl to quit, but knew the attempt was doomed. Petra would nod, thank him politely, and continue without any change whatsoever. The coach would sigh, throw up his hands, and leave shaking his head. Impossible girl. "Right inside, left outside—not enough," Petra psyched herself up during her ongoing soccer-tennis match against the concrete wall, which had the same winner every time. Once again, lactic acid eventually brought Petra down onto the artificial turf that smelled of rubber and Easter grass. She had been brilliant. "In three years, I'll be the best in Finland," Petra promised herself. Then it happened—the camera flying through her brain deviated from its intended path and slipped through her neural network in milliseconds, landing on a memory Petra had until now managed to keep locked in the forbidden thoughts compartment. Three years since the promise. She was fifteen. Thunderstorm. Petra, still deathly afraid of lightning strikes. Thin pale blue comforter and mint green fitted sheet. The irrational plan to sleep in two-hour shifts. Waking from a hazy dream. Pants and sheets stuck to her skin. The ceiling light attacking her eyes and dozens of curious onlookers. People gathering around Petra. On each face, a hungry expression and a burning desire to peek into someone else's hell. Petra's eyes flew open as the train plunged into a tunnel. Her heart pounded furiously; the painful memory threw her entire body into distress. She had fallen asleep on a moving vehicle—hadn't happened once since childhood. Her pants were dry. Of course they were. She pressed her hand against her thigh and repeated it silently: "Dry. You're fine". The train's air conditioning had Petra shivering; hopefully it wasn't signaling an approaching cold. Falling ill before the most important two weeks of her life would be a harsh blow, but if necessary, Petra would play wearing a fur parka, borrowing the words of her skier idol. A threatening mass of grey-violet clouds had appeared before the sun; hopefully thunderstorms would stay far from the camp area. Auli had vanished from beside her. She'd been sitting by the window. Her suitcase was down too. She'd probably gone to the dining car. Or the toilet. People did those things. Petra told herself this firmly, then believed it. Or had the woman even existed at all? Of course she had. "This is going fine," Petra whispered to herself, clenching her bony hands into fists. It was the same thing she whispered at twelve, alone in an empty hall. It was the same thing she whispered at fifteen, in a car driving away from the doctor's office. It was still true. In a few months in Paris, she'd be the most talked-about young female player in Europe. For now, she could still be an ordinary young woman for a little while longer—one who read Donald Duck comics, loved instant noodles, and sometimes secretly imagined being a superhero. Maybe she was one. A bit unusual, but incredibly tenacious. -
I haven't seen that report but I agree that would be a huge issue if it is correct as it steps outside of role-play and straight into depicting child abuse. It's odd that I didn't see anything about the magistrate referring to that though. It would seem far more pertinent. We might learn more after sentencing on April 28th and we can read the judgement.
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“No, Rei,” Konyo shook his head, “we can drink from a sippy cup, but I’m happy when I drink from it. The warm milk is sweet and delicious. Try it out and see,” he sat down on his diapered behind. “We always get a baba before going to bed,” Aiko added. “Don’t worry, Rei,” Azumi walked over to her and put her hand on Rei’s shoulder.
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