MY GRANDPARENTS, PLUS SOME STRICT JULIE FANFIC!

 I'm really not sure what to write about my grandparents. They were incredibly warm and loving people and made me feel truly special. I have a very vague memory of them living in a different part of town when I was very young, but for the most part they lived a short walk of ten or fifteen minutes away, bearing in mind I was a child and my brother Jason is four years younger than me. This was a quiet rural town in the early nineties, I guess nobody thought twice about two kids walking around on their own. They probably should have; I remember a kid a couple of years older than me who was in my Scout troop for about two meetings with me, getting run over by an articulated truck. This was a good kid, before the marine took over and corrupted the whole thing! Another kid a couple of years younger than me had his nose broken by a bus. My brother and I were fine though.

Not that Gramps didn't worry! He had a police scanner that he could hardly make out, and if there were any reports of missing kids anywhere in the county we would get a call making sure we were okay! Actually, my favourite of Gramps' quirks involved the phone; he used to dial 1471 compulsively, with the phone on loudspeaker. A robotic woman's voice would tell you the last number to call you and when, something like "Telephone number oh five double five three, four seven two, eight six one called today at fifteen twenty-five hours. To return the call press 3. There is usually a charge for this service." Gramps would wait for the robot to finish speaking every time, and then thank it warmly. God knows what he'd have made of Siri or Alexa!

Nan was a proper old school housewife; she would spend hours in her tiny kitchen whilst Gramps kept us entertained playing blackjack and rummy. Never for anything more than bragging rights, though one or the other would slip me and my brother some pocket money once a week. Gramps would buy me The Beano every week as well. Nan would always have a Tupperware container full of what are undoubtedly the best fruit scones I've ever had, and she was a fantastic pasty maker, as all Cornish women should be!

My parents didn't like Gramps driving us anywhere because his eyesight was failing and his car didn't have seatbelts in the back. We'd often go around theirs with a video, usually something Mum and Dad had taped off the telly. I remember watching the Naked Gun trilogy a whole load of times and then being mortified watching them years later and understanding all the dirty jokes!

Nan fell ill when I was thirteen and I visited her in the hospital as much as I could. When she died it was terrible. I remember leaving school one day and a girl in my year said "God, Tankerton, who died?"

"My Nan," I answered reflexively. I immediately felt awful; she wasn't trying to be a dick, and she clearly immediately felt guilty! Some time later I accidentally broke her nose, and then it was my turn to feel awful!it

I went to my Nan's church service, but my brother and I didn't go to the burial. It was fascinating to hear all of her accomplishments as she made a life for herself in our little town.

Gramps died when I was studying abroad and it wrecked me coming home and him not being there. I was the first of their many grandchildren to go to University. I felt more unconditional love from him than from anyone else I've ever encountered.

The only real negative he has was a tendency to be racially insensitive. I would never call him racist, because I never heard him have ill will towards anybody, but he was a simple country lad and didn't have exposure to much of anything foreign. He would eat flan, but not quiche, for example! I remember on my fourteenth birthday my family tried Mexican food for the first time, excluding my mother's chilli con carne, travelling over an hour by car to the nearest Mexican restaurant! I remember excitedly telling Gramps that's what we did over the phone and him excitedly asking "What is that, dog?" It wasn't a judgement or a slight, just his honest best guess at what that might have been, and he seemed genuinely interested and impressed that it was essentially spicy beans and special flat bread!

Another time he was in hospital, and had been given a bottle of water. I'm old enough that I remember bottled water still being a new thing! Anyway, Gramps asked where the water was from and I told him, France. My parents immediately started pulling faces and shaking their heads and I "corrected" myself - "Oh, wait, it's a French company but the water is from Kent!" I don't think he'd really have cared. Mum has told me a few times that whenever he did "Eenie meanie miney mo" he would hesitate before saying "tiger" because he was used to saying the n-word there. I never noticed him doing it. He always seemed to do the best he could.

I'm not sure what else to say. He always wore trousers, shirt, braces and tie even though he was just sitting around his house. When his arthritis got bad Dad used to tie all his ties loosely for him so he could just slip them on and tighten the knot.

He had a glass bowl full of walnuts and would crack one open once in a while.

He had a medical encyclopedia that he would use to worry himself senseless. I just saw this behaviour lambasted excellently on an old episode of One Foot In The Grave, with the permanently agitated Victor Meldrew flipping open a random page and talking to himself: "Colon tumors... No early symptoms... Oh my God, that's what I'm experiencing!"

He was one of the best people I've ever met.

Well, enough about that! In my last post I divulged that only once have I ever looked at a picture online and tried to write a story for it. I had just started talking with my friend Julie, and it happened to be Valentine's Day, so I sent her the following cheeky image and wrote a cute little story to go with it:

I originally sent this without the story, can't believe how bold I was!

Julie said it "sounds like a lovely way to spend Valentine's Day." I think she was toying with the idea of being diapered a lot more then; now her thing seems to be making sure any pseudo authority figure that writes to her gets to see a photo of her bottom and an invitation to strap it until she weeps. Honestly, if you live in Ontario and fancy having her over your lap than just drop her an e-mail telling her she's a silly little slut; odds are she'll present herself to you and start humping your leg.

Unfortunately I wrote this story back when I thought she had a lot more self respect, and before she encouraged me to call her things like bitch, slut, whore or dick-infested man-mattress. Early on I hypothesized about how I would treat Julie if she were a sub that I cared for. Now I realise she's best treated like a horny little sponge that'll soak up all your frank derision until she fills up and your cruelty towards her gushes forth from her quim. So with that in mind, here we go!

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Every Sunday morning I would wake you up early and change you into your schoolgirl outfit. If you were not already wearing a clean diaper you would lie down and allow me to change you into one, wiping you clean if necessary and thoroughly powdering your tight little pussy and raising your legs to apply more powder your cute rear end.

Once you were ready to face the day you would prepare us breakfast, and we would dine together before you headed to the old-fashioned school desk, kept in the corner of your office that had been decorated with a colourful wall chart depicting the letters of the alphabet.

Every Sunday you would have the same assignment: handwrite a special story for your blog about a spirited little sub who does something naughty and the fitting punishment she is given by her charming master. The story could be a complete work of fiction or a detailed first-hand account of your own experiences. You would keep a large box of Crayola crayons inside your desk, which you would use to illustrate your work. Once you had started your assignment you would be subject to exam conditions, meaning you would remain sitting in your desk, working in silence with no bathroom breaks permitted. If you had a question for me you would raise your hand high above your head and wait for me to call on you. When we first started this creative writing program you would beg for permission to use the lavatory; a request that would inevitably be denied. On several occasions you had disgraced yourself by pissing straight into the plain, full-backed cotton underwear that had been part of your uniform at the time. Hot urine would flood your seat and trickle down your legs, staining your knee high socks and gathering inside your cute pink sneakers; earning you a punishment once class was over. One such Sunday after class I came to you whilst you were mopping the hard wooden floor of your office and suggested we make a diaper part of your uniform, to which you hastily agreed.

Once you had written and illustrated your story you would hand it to me for grading and I would read it silently in front of you, correcting any mistakes with a red pen. I would consider the originality of your story, the neatness of your handwriting, any mistakes you had made with your spelling or syntax, and the overall eroticism of the piece. At the bottom of your story I would write comments letting you know what I liked about the story and where I felt you had fallen short, offering some constructive criticism. I would hand your work back to you before letting you know whether you had passed or failed.

If you pass then we scan your essay and upload it to your blog for your readers to enjoy. If I do not feel your writing is worthy of your blog then I will bend you over your desk and lower your diaper in order to administer a lengthy spanking to your bare backside, before delivering six hard strokes with an old-school bamboo cane and escorting you to the corner of your office for a brief time-out. Your regular followers know that if you do not post a story on a Sunday then you have been punished in this manner.

This Sunday is Valentine's Day and I surprise you with a brand new pair of vivid red plastic panties that I let you wear over your diaper. During breakfast you notice how noisy these panties are, and how they add a layer of warmth to your intimate diapered area. You find your hand pressing itself against the front of your new underwear more than once!

When you arrive at your office after breakfast you find your desk has been decorated with a red Mylar balloon and that I have bought you a cute little teddy bear! When you reach inside your desk for a pen and some lined paper you find I have also written you a card! You open it, and are moved to find a message saying what a special young lady I think you are, and how much I cherish our relationship. You perch on top of your desk and decide to write a story about a sexy submissive who was planning to spoil her doting Master on Valentine's Day, only to find herself being punished when her plans fall through due to improper preparation. Smiling to yourself you sit down properly in your chair and begin to work on your assignment, determined to do your Daddy proud.

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Short but sweet, I think! I should definitely come up with another diapered Julie story soon; it's been a while since I've touched on that general area. 

Peace!

✌