This is the continued story of Simon’s Journal.
Before you begin this third volume in this series,
I would highly recommend that you read the first and second volumes
as each picks up were the previous left off.

ADMONITION:

The following narrative is nearly a complete work of fiction. Some events and characters were pulled from real life but have been changed, enhanced and twisted to comply with my will. Any other similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely unintentional, but it would be incredible!

WARNING:

The following story contains diaper use, violence, adult language and strong sexual content. If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring their awakening sexuality doesn’t tickle your pickle, or if pickle tickling is illegal in your area, then I suggest you select something else to read.

Chapter - 7

How’d you find me?

I had no sooner lifted my aching body to an erected state than I was snatched by my neck and hauled like the morning's garbage bag all the way to the back washroom where I was sprayed down with icy water from the hose. Actually, I knew the water was cold, but I didn’t much notice it given that my body was already about the same frosty temperature.

Once the fat frog was satisfied that all the filth had been blasted off my body he just dropped the hose and never bothered to offer me a towel to dry myself or even clothes to cover my nudity. I would have even settled of one of the dingy gray/white cloth diapers. He did however take a moment to remove his robe, toss it into the deep basin before washing his hands and arms three times. I remember thinking how out of place his bright green satin pajamas seemed in this grey dingy place.

For no apparent reason I was given a brain-jarring slap across my face before being ordered to, “March your worthless hide to your bed!”

I must not have been moving fast enough because after taking maybe four steps I found myself once again dangling by my neck from Mr. Wriggle’s fat fingers.

In the room the flashlights had already been lit, and the six yawning and eye-rubbing boys, Lowell was one of them, were rising from their beds and were pulling off their night diapers. Amazingly enough, I didn’t pick up on the diapers for several more minutes.

When I was hurtled into the room and Mr. Wriggle had stormed off expelling curses as he did so, every boy stopped what he was doing to give me a wide, friendly, sleepy grin.

"Mornin', Ron!"

"Hiya', Ron!"

"Whoa it’s Ron!"

"Glad y’r back Ron!"

"G’mornin', Ron!"

They each said sort of talking over one another but I got the gist of it.

And lastly there was Lowell who walked up to me, gently petted the red mark left on my face by the beast who’d just delivered me, “You alright?” and rapped a blanket around me.

I felt like breaking down and crying at seeing him warm, rested and smiling.

“There ya go Simon!” he said and then caught himself, “Uh, sorry I mean Ron!” and giggled with that award winning laugh of his.

I nodded and noticed all the boys still looking right at me so I said, “G-g-good m-morning!”

The words came out feeling strangely shy and I crossed the room to my bunk, which Lowell seemed to have been sleeping in. Having no clothes to put on, I had nothing to do now except sit perched on the edge of the bed to wait until time to leave the room.

‘Odd’ would be the word I would use to describe the feeling of being completely nude, nearly froze and yet unashamed while a warmth begin to fill me. Then again, maybe it was just my body beginning to thaw out.

Lowell came over, sat beside me and proceeded to pull on his shoes, which didn’t match in both color and size.

“What happened before? Where did that guy go? Why was he screaming about ghosts?” I asked softly.

Lowell put a finger to his lips and whispered, “I’ll tell you later but for now just know that we got a friend here now.”

While I had been curled up on the floor of the pit, I had almost begun to think I had dreamed the boys' visits; I was still finding it almost impossible to believe. What could have happened to make them treat me so differently? Was it only that I spoke up when I hadn’t done anything? That did not seem like much of a reason, but I could think of nothing else. All I hoped was that they were not just setting me up for a fall.

“Ron! Ron! Come on! We'll be late!" Micky called out.

Lowell, with a flashlight in his hand, helped me to stand up. I began to pull the blanket around myself but Micky interjected, “Nah, ya best leave it.”

I looked toward the doorway and saw Micky, Peter, Timmy, Tyler and Jonathan all motioning for me. Lost in my thoughts, I had not noticed that they were all ready and gathered at the door, clearly waiting for me ... For me!

I wasn’t up for arguing or asking why so I just let the blanket drop to the floor completely unashamed of my near nudity, for I still had the oversized shoes.

When I tried to stand I discovered that sitting down on the bed turned out to be the wrong thing to do. Even having Lowell to lean on didn’t much help me as I tried to walk on my own. My legs were still so cramped from my ordeal in the pit that I tottered as I started toward the door. It was all Lowell could do to keep me from falling flat on my face. Micky instantly ran up to me.

"Ya all right, Ron? Sure an' bein' in that flippin' place ain't no picnic. We know!” Micky said placing my right arm around his neck to support some of my weight.

Lowell did the same with my other arm and asked, “Can you make it?"

I nodded as I answered, "Y-yes, I-I th-think so. Th-thank you!"

"All right then," Micky said, "But see here Ron, ya gotta ge’ down y’r oatmeal. If’n ya don't ya ain't never goin' to last a day. Dat little we done gived ya ain't goin' to do it for ya in da factory, nor any place they put ya to work 'round chere. But 'specially the plastic factory!"

“Factory?” Lowell gulped.

"Dem’s da truest words ever spoke!" Tyler blurted.

"But they won't give me anything more," I groaned as we walked quickly, "I still have something left in my bowl."

Micky snorted, "I know, I seen. One flippin' lump hard as a murderin' stone by now's my guess. But y'll be findin' ‘ore in y’r bowl t’day. I...” he paused long either to consider his next words, “I been makin' 'rangements."

Lowell whispered into my ear, “What did he say?” but I couldn’t answer him just then.

"An' he done it if’n he says so," Peter said, bouncing his head in rhythm with his footsteps, “Ya can b’sure on dat!"

Micky gave no sign of even having heard this, "Just see ya eats any dang thin’ whatcha get, Ron!" he said.

Lowell joined in, "Shove it down no matter what!”

Micky stopped and had Peter take his place but he continued speaking, “And don'go runnin' nowhere once we been to the facilities. Don'go for y’r oatmeal ‘til ya seen me first. Ya got dat?”

“Got it!” I replied.

“Right,” Micky said poking a finger into the air, “now I gotta have a chat with some’n. Al’ya watch out for ‘im!"

With that, Micky raced up the stairs, disappearing through the door that led to the hall. I hurried along with Lowell and the other boys, or at least tried to hurry. My legs were stiff, and I was barely able to control them. It was like being tethered to two toddlers both wanting to wander off on their own.

As I climbed the first step, I stumbled and started to catapult forward, taking my two human crutches with me. Like whips, hands darted out from either side of me wrapping my body in many small wiry fingers.

Until we reached the top of the stairs and started through the door, all of the boys' fingers remained tightly gripped against my nude body.

In the hall we joined up with a line of boys all yawning and shivering, with arms wrapped around themselves and dancing about to protect themselves against the early morning chills as they waited their turns. Not a one of them seemed to take notice of the fact that I was naked.

I saw at once that Micky was not in the same line, but he had joined up with another. He was holding a whispered conference with Paul, my washing partner in the kitchen. They appeared to be casting secret glances in my direction, which gave me a sinking feeling in my stomach. After all, it hadn’t been very long since I had been an outcast.

What could Micky be saying about me, if indeed I were the subject of the conversation, except to poke fun at me? Besides, I was used to being teased and turned upon. It had happened so often that I almost expected it. So when Micky joined us back in the line, I could only look at him warily.

Then the first thing Micky said was, "Hold out da hand ya eat with, Ron."

To do what with? Grab it and twist it off? Or put a spider in it, a trick the Peter back home might find humorous? I did not put out my hand, or even move for that matter.

"Come on," said Micky impatiently, "Sure an' I ain't goin' to bite ya."

I looked around and saw all the boys grinning, including Lowell. Resolving myself to playing their little game I said to myself, “Well, let them make a fool of me then!” I decided to take whatever was handed me, and no matter what it was, I would laugh at it. There would be no more name calling!

Boldly, or so I hoped it appeared, I stuck out my hand. Micky then immediately pulled from his pants pocket a small, brown-paper packet, opened it, and poured the contents into my outstretched hand.

It looked like ... it felt like ... could it be? "S-s-sugar?" I stammered quietly, "Is it sugar?"

Micky grinned, "Ain't nothin' else."

"Bet ya thought it’d be a bug ‘r sup’n!" Peter giggled and widdled his fingers like a spider, while those around us just grinned knowingly.

"But ya ain't to go eatin' it, not now anyways," Micky said getting serious again, "Wot ya got t’do is curl y’r fingers 'round it like such." He demonstrated by making his hand into a fist

I did as told, "Like that?"

Micky nodded. "Now ya keep y’r fingers like that ‘til Cho gives ya y’r oatmeal. Then, 'fore ya pick up y’r cup, ya pass y’r hand over the oatmeal, open up y’r fingers just 'nough to let go’a da sugar. It ain't much, but 'nough to help ya get started on gettin' the stuff down."

"Oh, thank you!" I said nodding my head in an understanding fashion, "But won't they see what I'm doing? What if they catch me?"

"Ya'll do it," Micky said matter-of-factly, "We all done it one time or 'nother. They didn't catch none o' us!'

"Nope! No’a one!" said Peter proudly.

"But what if Cho doesn't give me any fresh oatmeal?" I continued questioning.

"She will!" said Micky, his face expressionless. "I made 'rangements." And Micky had indeed, for when I held out my hand for the bowl, it was filled with hot, fresh oatmeal. How Micky had managed the "'rangement" with Cho, I had no idea. However, now was not the time to think about it.

I could hear mumbles coming from the direction of the Wriggles table and though I was nearly certain it was due to the lack of clothing on my personage but my imagination was having a field day and was scaring the life out of me.

My heart was lodged in my throat and I knew that I had to give every bit of attention to keeping myself from trembling dangerously as I took the bowl with just one hand, while I passed my other hand over it, letting the sugar fall into the oatmeal.

"Did he finish the other?" the sharp voice of Mrs. Wriggle cut through the room.

The bowl shook violently in my hand. Bowl, oatmeal, and sugar almost went crashing to the floor. From behind me could be heard the collective sucking in of six breathes.

"A-a-appeared that he did, Mrs. Wriggle," said Cho, who mercifully stood just far enough away from them so they could not witness her face turning as pale as the oatmeal.

"Hmmmmph!" sniffed Mrs. Wriggle, narrowing her eyes and turning to Mr. Wriggle with tightened lips to obtain a second opinion.

"Get to your seat then!" snarled Mr. Wriggle after a few moments spent in deciding, no doubt, if it was worth his trouble to go digging into a bowl of sticky oatmeal to see if a hard lump still remained from a previous meal. Thankfully he decided to content himself with merely glaring at me as I shakily made my way to my place at the table.

There was no doubt that the sugar helped me get the oatmeal down, and even though not three days earlier it was something I would have turned my nose up to in disgust. Something else, however, helped get down the oatmeal as well. That was an under-the-table dig in the ribs made by Micky's elbow. Though the expression on Micky's face never changed as he spooned into his own oatmeal, I knew what the dig in my ribs meant. It was Micky saying, "There, told ya so. Sure an' didn't I know ya could do it?" And this all happened right before Nihau and Rubella Wriggle watchful eyes!

There was no question about the benefits of a stomach full of hot oatmeal, no matter what the quality, over one so empty that, excepting the earlier presence of a few trifle bits of smuggled food, it was shrunk almost to my backbone. Now, if only the oatmeal proved enough to help keep me going at the plastic factory.

Any hopes I had in that direction, however, soon evaporated when I walked through the factory door and was struck by the noise, the fumes, and murdering heat pouring out from the furnaces. Even with food now in my stomach, and knowing I had friends at the Bancheli Home for Boys, how many days could I survive in such a hellish place? By early afternoon, I was sure that I wouldn’t last even that one-day.

As I made my way to the cooling oven, my throat parched and my eyes burning, precariously balancing a shovel full of hot plastic that had spilled to the floor, I felt my legs wobbling frighteningly under me. I knew I was not keeping up the pace expected of us boys and felt certain that as I passed Harpo, that I was being narrowly watched. Then suddenly, without warning, I felt myself lurching forward. There was no way to stop myself, and I knew I was going to fall into one of the cooling ovens or perhaps worse, up against one of the searing hot furnaces.

As it turned out, neither of those things happened. For just as had happened earlier that day, a set of wiry fingers clamped themselves like manacles around me, pulling me back upright again. The fingers belonged to Paul, the boy from the kitchen.

"Hey, what do you think you're doin'?" Harpo snarled as he caught Paul straightening my shirt. Thankfully, Cho had been ordered to find me some clothes just before the lot of us were marched off to the factory this morning.

"He was 'bout ta fallin' an...' Paul began quickly but was cut short.

"Well, never you mind!" snapped Harpo. "Anyone 'round this place makes mistakes, they got to pay for 'em. Only way lessons get learned. What he does ain't none o' your business.” He poked Paul hard, “You got that, boy?"

Paul bit his lip so hard it turned white. "Yes sir, Mr. Harpo!" he whimpered with his eyes fastened tightly on Harpo's boots.

"All right then, don't you go forgittin' it. Now both o' you git back to work!" With a last ugly look over his shoulder, Harpo stomped off.

"Th-th-anks," I said under my breath to Paul.

"Weren't nothin'," Paul muttered, adding in an self-conscious manner, "Micky said I should look out for ya." He turned on his heels to leave, but hesitated before turning back again.

Looking nervously over his shoulder in Harpo's direction he said, "But keep ya eye out for y’r own back.” He made a rude gesture toward Harpo then broke into a trot and dash off without looking back again.

"Keep ya eye out for y’r own back?” I mumbled to myself, “For what? Or who?”

I gave my pants a heave upward for they were about three sizes too large and then got back to work.

Chapter 8

** As always, your thoughts matter to me very, very much, so please send any comments, questions, suggestions, or criticism to me at: [email protected] **