Today it had been my turn to do the house calls, which is one of the bits of work that I quite enjoy. You drive around, listen to clients, drink tea and get paid for it. Today I managed to book an appointment in the afternoon with a client in Colgrain, so I could drive to my sons' school and pick them up there. Usually they have to walk so a ride home is a bit special.

I arrived at the school a little early. I stood and waited outside the school gate for the bell to ring. My two came out of the door separately. Timmy among the first to leave school, running, looking very dishevelled, with his hair flying, one arm through the sleeve of his maroon blazer while the other arm was flailing around and not threaded through a sleeve at all. His blazer flapped in the breeze and the plastic bag that held a couple of school books flew out behind him. Timmy was yelling to a friend who was somewhere out of sight. I waved to Timmy. He saw me and he dashed across the playground to hug me as though I'd been away from him for a year. I held him close and patted his bottom, feeling the flannel of his trousers and holding onto silky plastic of his diaper for a bit longer than necessary, exploring the yielding softness of the paper lining with my finger tips. Two or three minutes later Greg came out, looking rather tidier than his brother, walking a little more sedately and carrying his homework in a satchel, unlike Timmy's orange plastic carrier bag. Greg was holding hands his friend Dennis Foot, rather shorter than Greg and with a dark cluster of freckles, deep red cupids-bow lips, uneven front teeth, intense deep brown eyes and shining, bright red hair that stood straight up in spikes. Dennis was always known as "Footie," not so much because of his surname as because of his fondness for, and his abilities on, the soccer field. I was pleased to see Greg and Footie holding hands tightly, showing the unconscious affection shared by little boys.

"Is it all right if Footie sleeps over?" asked Greg, pointing to Dennis with his thumb in the manner of a scrapyard owner pointing out the rusted wreck of a bicycle under a heap of bricks and paving slabs.
"Sure," I said, "He's welcome."

With my arm around Timmy's waist and holding Greg's other hand, I walked the boys to the car. The boys piled into the back seat, Greg and Footie still hand in hand. They enjoyed being chauffered home from school, although the distance was barely a mile and a half. Once the car doors were closed and Footie had managed to fasten his seat belt after a dozen failures, I sat, carefully eyes front, and asked them whether they had been dry during the day, which sounded more sympathetic than asking whether they had wet themselves. I had learned not to turn and watch the boys too closely on car rides, as they were constantly fooling around, not just in a pushing and shoving sort of way but kissing, hugging, fondling each other, and they regarded me noticing their antics as an intrusion, which they resented.

"What's that, mom?" yelled Timmy, even though the need for yelling had ceased.
"Were you comfortable?" I asked. "Dry diapers?"
"Yes," said Timmy, then a pause of a few seconds while he squeezed out a small puddle, "Oh, no." He smirked.
"How about you, Greg?"

Greg was quieter and more embarrassed, because he was the older boy but he urinated into his diaper more often than Timmy. He was shortly going to change school and the thought of being the smallest among older boys and notoriously strict teachers had given him cause to worry and, with that, he had wet his diaper more. "I'm wet," he said, hoping I wouldn't say anything more about the subject.

"OK," I said, "I'll change you when we're home How about you, Dennis?"
Dennis made a noise like you make when a doctor tells you to say Ah.
"Greg," I said, taking a calculated risk, "is Footie wearing a diaper?"
"Don't know," he said. I heard rustling and an embarrassed grunt from Footie, and then Greg said loudly, "Yes, he is."

I could almost feel the warmth fromFootie's face as it flushed red with embarrassment. I thought of asking whether or not Footie was wearing a wet diaper, and I thought better of it. Without looking around to find out the reasons for the rustles, zipper openings and closings, squawks, gasps and occasional long silences, I drove the short way home.

Ten minutes later — traffic rarely flows freely in or around Glasgow — we were pulling into our driveway.

"Zip your pants up, boys," I said, "we don't want the neighbours to see your diapers."

I opened the rear door. Greg and Footie were kissing passionately. Greg's zipper was open and Footie's pants were around his knees, both boys revealing the brightly coloured diapers that kept them dry at school.

"You two had better zip up," I said, "until I get you indoors, at least."

Greg said "Yes, mum," and zipped his pants closed. Footie, his face still blush red, jumped out of the car with a yell, pulled his pants completely off and abandoned them on the ground. He ran unevenly into the house, shouting loudly and gleefully, looking cute, sweet and innocent in his school shirt and blazer, his diaper and trainers, and nothing else.

It was Footie's occasional habit of throwing himslf about uncontrollably that had led him, I thought, to his diagnosis of ADHD. His mom, Hilda Foot, whom I had met perhaps three times, always carried a box of capsules which were supposed to control him. (Actually the clinic never said that in those words. They said that the capsules helped him to control himself.) I had only ever had to care for Footie for a few hours at a time, most of them while he slept, so it was easy for me to say that Footie's habit of hurling himself around like a guided missile was part of his beauty and charm. Inside the house Footie ran around the living room in circles for fully five minutes. If you could forget that he might trip and fall at any minute, watching his wiry, strong body as he posed and ran and showed off was a great pleasure. Footy managed to remain upright. All that pent-up energy in such a lean, muscular body: I was not really surprised that his mom had resorted to capsules. Nor did it surprise me that Footie had learned to love wearing diapers. On some days Footie pissed in his diaper more or less continually. Other days he could have worn a bridal gown and left no marks on it at all. I found the thought very attractive.

I picked up the phone and discovered, to my surprise, that I knew his mom's phone number by heart.

"Hilda?" I said, and when Hilda said yes she was, I said, "It's Jennie. I've got Dennis here. He came home with Greg. Is it all right if he stays the night? I'll take him to school tomorrow."
"Does Mom say I can stay?" asked Footie in a yell.
"Yes, just for tonight …," I told Hilda and nodded to Footie. "I can't keep him longer, sorry! I'd love to, of course… Thanks!"
"It's fine with your mom," I said, "so you can stay."
"Goody," said Footie, really meaning it, "goody, goody, goody." He went over to Greg, who was sitting on the sofa as though trying to settle down out of the noise, and kissed him full on the lips.

We had tea, and I noticed how Footie snuggled closely against Greg. I could see that Footie was quietly in love with Greg, more perhaps than Greg loved him back, but their affection for each other wouldn't do them any harm. I warmed up some fried chicken pieces and we shared them out, and then I suggested to the boys that if they put their diapers in the bin, had a shower and put their swimming gear on, we could go to the bay for a while. Maybe that would tire Footie enough to settle him for a night's sleep. I ordered the boys to strip off and shower, and briefly I had the treat of seeing the three completely naked boys rushing upstairs to the shower, where they crammed themselves into the one cubicle and shrieked with laughter as they drenched themselves in warm water and foam bath.

'The bay' is a dull, down at heel stretch of chilly curved grey beach from which on a warm day you can swim in Gare Loch. I wrapped the boys in beach towels and gave them their speedos. Greg handed Footie one of Timmy's old speedos, which was at least one size too small for him. The stretchy swimming pants moulded themselves tightly over Footie's boy parts, and Greg's bulge enlarged noticeably as he stared at the tops of Footie's thighs, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish.

An asphalt path runs the length of the bay, beside the narrow strip of beach. It was evening and the sun was setting, and it was cold enough for us to wrap ourselves in the towels as we took our short walk. Greg walked between Footie and Timmy, holding hands with both. The tight speedos attracted the attention of two young women who were walking on the same path. I heard one of the women say, "He's a big boy," but I wasn't sure which of the boys she meant.

On the path there is a shelter with a bench, so that you can sit and watch the loch when it rains.

Footie asked, "Can I stay here with Greg for a while?"
I said, "Yes, but keep the speedos on, no excuses."

I walked along the path with my arm around Timmy's waist, looking for dead crabs, interesting stones, and the occasional wind surfer. We left Greg and Footie to make out for a quarter of an hour or so and then we went back for them. They were lying on the bench with their arms around each other, kissing, talking quiet nonsense, and with the speedos lowered but not actually off, so I couldn't tell them off.

We drove back home, dried off, and I went into the boys' bedroom carrying new diapers.

"Now," I asked, when I'd taped all three of them into a clean overnight diaper, "who's sleeping in this bed?"
"Can we?" called Footie, "Can Greg and me?"
"Sure," I said, "Timmy can sleep with me in my bed and you and Greg sleep in here. Do you want to wear pajamas?"
"No," they told me.
"You can sleep without pajamas then, but those diapers better stay on all night, you got that?"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," said Footie, and Greg smiled. They clambered onto the bed and lay down with their arms around each other as I pulled their quilt up over them.

Timmy and I left the boys' bedroom and shut the door, and we went into my room. I wore a blue babydoll, short, revealing and definitely seductive.

"Do you like this nightdress?" I asked him as I lay on the bed and pulled him in beside me.
"Does Greg love Dennis?" Timmy asked.
"I think he does," I said. "I can see Dennis loves Greg." I held Timmy and instinctively I stroked his curvy, diapered bottom.
"Has he stopped loving me?"
"Oh, no. Greg loves you. He will always love you. He just wants to spend time with Dennis, that's all. He'll be back with you after Dennis leaves."

I lay on my side facing Timmy and he lay very close, with his back to me. His bottom touched the top of my legs and I pulled him closer, stroking his diapered tummy and running my middle finger along the ridge at his crotch. Timmy's penis was pointing towards his navel and held against his tummy by the tight diaper. I felt it harden. I reached a little lower and cupped his balls.

"Are you going to wet your diaper?" I murmured to Timmy.
"Mm. Yeah," he said. I felt the penis move slightly and release some golden rain.
I pressed the back of his ball bag gently. "Do you like when I do this?" I asked.
"Mm. Yeah," he said again, "let's sleep like this."
"Sure," I said, and I leaned over him and kissed him. I let my hand stray onto the forbidden territory and I felt it stiffen further. The diaper formed into a little tent pole and Timmy gasped quietly with the pleasure that I was giving him.

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