2011

Hypnosis cannot make you do something you subconsciously would never do anyways. And no matter how much you may want to deny or fight it, being ABDL is a permanently ingrained part of who we are. The real use of hypnosis is to help you come to terms with that.

Enjoying a day off with friends for the win. 

It's because every time they release a "larger" size diaper, they aren't actually making it any larger. Instead, the manufacturers are making the size ranges for the smaller diapers even smaller. Just so they can say they have an even larger size now. Also, baby diapers used to be contoured. So the front and back wings made the diaper a little larger. Compared to baby diapers today, they have gone back to the original rectangular shape. And have added on stretchy side wings that "technically" allow for a larger baby or kid to wear them.

Chapter 21 — North Cape The North Cape stands on Magerøya, an island at the top of Norway, a flat dark cliff rising more than three hundred metres above the Arctic Ocean. To reach it from Honningsvåg you cross a landscape with almost nothing vertical in it: no trees, few buildings, only rolling tundra, shallow lakes and patches of snow left in the folds of the hills. The road climbed and turned through country that seemed too exposed to contain a road at all, each coach in our little procession briefly visible miles ahead before vanishing behind another bare ridge. Under the midnight sun the distances lost their scale. A reindeer could be beside the road or half a kilometre away, and the light offered no useful clue. We boarded shortly after half past ten in broad daylight. Ellen took the aisle seat and gave me the window, an allocation she claimed was based on my new binoculars rather than affection, and as the coach climbed away from the quay I used them to inspect reindeer with the concentration of a man determined to justify an expensive birthday present. The guide supplied names for lakes and settlements that appeared to contain three houses, and warned us twice that reindeer considered the road a suggestion rather than infrastructure. One animal raised its head and looked directly toward the coach. Through the glass I could see the dark line of its nose and the loose velvet on one antler, details that made the empty island feel briefly close enough to touch. Nearly an hour into the journey I realized I had not thought once about the diaper beneath my clothes, including the wetting that had happened somewhere behind us without interrupting the reindeer. I told Ellen. She put her hand over mine on my knee and said, "Good. Leave it with me." Then she turned back to the window. That was all the realization needed. We rode on holding hands, the low sun moving beside us without setting and the road carrying us toward the cliff. The Cape stopped every thought in my head when we came through the visitor building and stepped onto the plateau. The famous steel globe stood black against a silver-gold sky, its open rings holding nothing but light, and beyond it the rock ended. The ocean spread from the foot of the cliff to a horizon so clean it seemed drawn with a ruler, with the sun hanging just above it in the north, neither rising nor falling enough for the eye to measure. I had seen the globe in brochures for months and thought I understood the proportions. In person it was the cliff that supplied the scale, and the globe, the visitor building and all of us moving between them looked temporary. It was properly cold. The wind came off the water with three hundred metres of cliff to gather itself against, and the passengers emerged in coats and hats, speaking more quietly than they had on the coach. People took the required photographs at the globe, then drifted toward the rail and became still. Even the phones lowered after a while. Ellen and I found a place a little apart from the main group. We stood without speaking until the cold reached through my gloves, looking north across the water. Then she turned her back on the greatest view in Europe, took both my hands and said, "I have something to ask you." She had been carrying it since the motorway in spring, she told me, and had chosen this place because a cabin or kitchen would have made it sound like another practical decision. "It isn't one," she said. "Or it is, but not one I get to make alone. I decide what goes in the suitcase. I don't decide the rest of your life without asking." The wind pulled strands of grey hair across her face. She ignored them and continued in the organised way she speaks when feeling threatens to make speech impossible. "I want this to be the shape of our marriage from now on. Not until the cruise ends, not until your bladder improves or worsens, and not as something we pretend is only treatment. I want to look after you. I want the deciding and the routines and the private words, all of it, because it is how we have learned to love each other and because I am happier in this marriage than I have been in years. I want it permanently." Then she told me why, and although I had seen pieces of the answer, I had not seen its size. When the children were small, she said, being needed had filled every part of her life. It exhausted her and often drove her mad, but it also gave the days a shape that belonged completely to her. There was always a shoe to find, a fever to judge, a lunch to pack, a quarrel to settle, and scarcely enough time to notice that the years in which she mattered to every hour were passing. The work of raising children is, if it goes well, the work of making yourself less necessary. All three grew, as they were supposed to, and left, as they were supposed to, and she was proud of them. None of that prevented the empty space they left. "You aren't one of the children," she said. "This isn't me trying to have them back. I don't want them back. I want them to call, visit, eat our food and go home again. You are my husband, and you chose to let me do this. When you began needing me every day, the empty space filled. Then you started wanting me to do it, and that was different again. The children needed me because children have no choice. You gave me back something I thought that part of life had taken with it, and I don't want to lose it." Ellen does not cry easily, and she was not crying then, but her grip on my hands had tightened. Behind her the midnight sun put gold along one side of her face, and I thought of all the small practical acts through which she had been saying this before either of us possessed the sentence: spreadsheets, folded supplies, coffee at ten, a hand at my back. I had accepted those things as proof that she was capable, which was true but incomplete. Capability explained how she cared for me. It did not explain the happiness she took from being allowed to. She had not merely found work to do, she had found a wanted place in the life we still had. "So I'm asking," she said. "Will you let me keep looking after you this way, for the rest of our lives?" I knew my answer. I had known it before Tromsø and probably before the motorway, but there was another question inside it, one the year had not required us to ask. Thirty years earlier we had promised each other sickness and health with the confidence of people for whom both were mainly words in a ceremony. We were old enough now to know that need would not remain neatly assigned. "What happens when you need me?" Ellen frowned, not because the question troubled her but because she thought the answer obvious. "Then you look after me." I asked whether she was certain the arrangement left room for that. She had spent a year becoming the competent one while I had become the person on the mat, the person whose supplies she counted and whose day she could reorganise. One day she might be ill, or frightened, or simply older and less able to carry what she carried now. I did not want being in her charge to become an excuse for leaving every adult burden in her hands. "It won't," she said. "I wouldn't allow that either." She glanced toward the globe, gathering the rest into order. "This is not us dividing into strong and weak. I can choose your Pampers and still need you to bring me medicine. I can put you to bed and still expect you to answer when Sophie calls because she needs her father. If I break a leg, you do not sit beside me waiting for permission to make soup. You still work, solve problems, make coffee badly and deal with anything electronic after I have pressed the correct button twice. You are not resigning from the marriage, Mark. This is one part of it." There was a fairness in that which steadied me more than any promise that she would remain invulnerable. I promised that being kept would not become another way of hiding, and that when she needed me I would step forward rather than retreat into the convenient belief that competence was permanently her department. I wanted one thing in return: when her turn came, she had to say so. She could not make a principle of being the only one allowed to notice need. She considered this with the seriousness she had given every clause in the library. "Agreed." "Then yes," I said. The wind took the word. I saw from her face that she had not heard it, so I stepped closer and said it again, loudly enough to carry across the two feet between us. "Yes. Keep me. For the rest of my life." This time it reached her. The composed face broke into the rare unguarded happiness I had seen only a handful of times in thirty years, and she pulled me against her. We held each other at the edge of Europe while the cold wind came off the Arctic Ocean and the midnight sun laid a gold road across the water. We left the plateau after one and rode back across Magerøya in the same unspent light. Ellen fell asleep with her head against my shoulder before the first reindeer, the day finally having exceeded even her capacity for attention. Her face in sleep looked younger and less defended, the lines of decision briefly gone from it. I held the binoculars between my knees so they would not knock against the window, drew the loose side of her coat over her hands and stayed awake through the turns of the road. Being kept, it turned out, did not prevent me from keeping watch. It was after two when we walked up the gangway and stopped on the promenade instead of going straight to the cabin. The Cape was already a dark shape behind us, receding into the gold as the ship turned south, and passengers lined the rail in the strange early-morning daylight. Ellen stood beside me and gave the seat of my trousers one brief, discreet pat, then left her hand at the small of my back. To everyone around us we were only a grey-haired couple watching a headland disappear. I thought of the man behind the fitting-room curtain, burning with shame because his wife and a stranger knew what he wore. He would not have recognised me. I let the thought pass with the cliff, and Ellen's hand remained where it was. When the Cape had become indistinguishable from the coast, she steered me inside. In the cabin she changed me, dressed me for bed and drew the covers up, the familiar work performed quietly because both of us were nearly asleep. Then she crossed to the balcony doors and pulled the heavy curtains together against the endless day. "Sleep," Ellen said from the dark. So I did.

Hello, it’s me. Back again!   Anyway, I’m hoping to find caretakers to rp with. I’m pretty flexible in terms of rp plots so if you have ideas, feel free to let me know! Though I will say, I do have my hard boundaries but we can discuss those as we create rp’s together! I like rp partners who can give relatively detailed responses, that way there is more for me to work off of when constructing a reply. And of course, I’ll try my hardest to do the same in turn! If you are interested, please reply to this post or better yet, private message me and we can discuss more. One more thing, and I am sorry to say this, but I want to make it clear that am not comfortable rping as a caretaker. Like under any circumstance. So I apologize to those who wish to do some sort of trade or exchange but I will have to humbly decline.