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The Boarder's Tale Chapter 1 Pete stood outside the terrace house. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand. The internet was amazing, he thought. No need for those rental sites. He'd found the landlady of this place on a travel chatroom, and here he was a month and 12000 miles later. He opened the nicely painted cast iron gate between the two white pillars and made his way along a short, flagstoned path and up several steps to the black front door. He lifted the polished brass doorknocker and heard the sound it made reverberate inside. A few moments later the door opened and a pleasant looking, middle aged lady stood smiling at Pete. The stereotype of the landlady, thought Pete as he introduced himself. The lady was Mrs Smith, a widow who offered room and board to what she told Pete were 'suitable lodgers'. It seemed that Pete was suitable enough to be having a cup of tea a few minutes later with Mrs Smith and being told how she ran her house. 'So,' said Mrs Smith. 'Anything else, just ask. You'll have your own key. One more thing, do you have issues with bedwetting?' The question took Pete by surprise. He blushed, because he had had a few problems in that area. He had been late toilet training, his mother had told him, and he had wet his bed off and on into his teens. Even later, he had had occasional episodes, when very tired, stressed or once or twice after drinking too much. 'Er, bedwetting?' he replied, hoping he hadn't looked guilty. 'Yes,' said Mrs Smith. 'It's not too uncommon, and creates a lot of washing. I have a plastic undersheet if there's any chance that you might have an accident.' Pete was still a little shocked. His bedwetting history was probably his most private issue. 'Oh, well...' he began. 'It's not a big deal,' said Mrs Smith. 'When was the last time you wet the bed?' Pete had never been good at lying. 'Oh,' he said, trying to sound confident. 'A while ago. A long while ago.' 'So, since childhood,' said Mrs Smith. 'How long ago? Years? Months?' Pete could have kicked himself. This was the perfect accommodation for him, and in the first five minutes he's admitting wetting the bed. ''Years,' said Pete. 'Several.' He winced inwardly. He was making this worse. 'I see,' said Mrs Smith. 'I think we'll start with the plastic undersheet and see how you get on.' Bloody hell, thought Pete. How has this become an issue? At least she's not kicking me out on the strength of it, he thought. 'OK, thanks,' he replied. Damn, he thought. I'm my own worst enemy. That sounded like I was confirming that I'm a bedwetter. 'Well. I'll show you your room.' said Mrs Smith, getting up from her chair. She was quite well built, Pete thought as he watched Mrs Smith turn towards the door. She was wearing jeans and a woollen top. She had nice hips and a large bust. Pete liked full, mature figures, not he thought, that he had any ideas towards this nice lady, even if she had sprung his big secret. At least she didn't seem horrified that anyone should occasionally have an accident at night. Mrs Smith opened a door in the upstairs hallway into a large, comfortable room. There was a big, paned window, a fireplace and a double bed. On the bedspread, resting against the pillows were three large stuffed toys. Pete looked at them in surprise. 'Oh, they're left over,' said Mrs Smith with a laugh, without saying left over from what, or who. 'You can choose one for yourself if you like. I'm sure the previous owner wouldn't mind.' 'No, it's OK,' said Pete. He wasn't sure if what Mrs Smith had just said was odd or not. 'Your bathroom is down the hall at the end,' said Mrs Smith. 'We sit down to pee in this house, by the way,' she added. 'Less chance of mess.' 'OK,' said Pete. Now that was odd, he thought. Still, it was her house, and he usually sat to pee anyway. He'd grown up in a household comprising his mother and three older sisters, where no one including him ever stood to use the toilet. It seemed natural now. Mrs Smith wrapped up her introduction to the house. 'That's about it,' she said. 'You have the run of the house, and you're most welcome to sit downstairs with me in the living room in the evenings. In fact, I'd enjoy the company. Or you can play up here in your room.' Play in my room, thought Pete. Maybe she meant play something on my laptop. 'I'll leave you to it,' she said, turning to the door. 'Dinner will be at 7.30.' 'OK, thanks,' said Pete, watching Mrs Smith's denim clad hips as she left the room. To be continued.

Chris the Clever Boarder Chapter 1 Chris downed his lager in the quaint corner pub and went outside. He stood on the grimy footpath and watched the motley collection of citizens moving around him. Chris was alone in London. That gave him a great feeling of achievement and excitement. At 23, his unexpected business success back home and his lack of real ties had allowed him, Chris, the slightly built, undersized orphaned boy who was never expected to amount to much, to be standing in this vast metropolis, reliant on his own considerable cash resources but anonymous, and responsible to no one. Anonymity, thought Chris. That was the key. Chris had felt somewhat anonymous for most of his short life. He'd never known his father, and had been brought up by his working but loving mother and his two much older sisters. Then, just after his 11th birthday, a tragic fire had deprived him of his family. He had been at a sleepover with a friend and since that awful day had been passed from one foster carer to another. He'd dealt with many issues arising from the trauma, including bedwetting, extreme loneliness and general emotional fragility. That he'd succeeded in life despite all that was his proudest achievement, but inwardly he still felt that his childhood until his preteens was the best period of his life, and despite the impossibility, he often longed Ro return to the security and human warmth of that time. He consulted his hand drawn map, found the local tube station and was soon in a train, beginning his much planned private journey. The journey was private because Chris intended to contact some people who could help him indulge his secret fetish - wearing a diaper. More specifically, being told by a dominant woman that he had to wear a diaper. Even being diapered by her, if it worked out that way. He had concocted a perfect plan. He'd found on the internet a woman - he was pretty sure it was woman - who seemed very interested in the idea of treating people like toddlers or babies. The woman didn't actually advertise who she was, but with some clever detective work and cross referencing, Chris had found an email address, and that led to a business address in Ruislip in London: 'North West Maternity Specialists'. Abigail French was the proprietor, according to the online British company records. He hoped that was 'AF' who posted in the adult baby forum he'd read online. AF was 44 years old, according to her online profile. Just right for his purposes, thought Chris. On another AB forum, 'Abi' of Ruislip had said that she would love to go braless but had DD cup boobs. Though not generally so interested in womens' breasts, Chris had been fantasising about those particular big, soft breasts for the several weeks since he'd 'found' AF. What's more, Abi said she had a 'highly developed maternal instinct'. Even better, if this Abigail French really is 'AF', Chris had thought. Chris had decided that AF was ideal for his needs, and that he was ideal for hers. All he had to do was meet this motherly goddess. So Chris found himself standing, on a cold, gloomy London afternoon, outside the pink-coloured premises of North West Maternity Specialists. It had been raining, and Chris stood looking through the still wet glass at the full-figured mannequins in the shop's window display. He stared at the stretchy granny panties and the nursing bras, wondering which of his carefully worked out scenarios he'd try on the unsuspecting Abigail French in order to place himself - as far as she believed, anyway - in her motherly care. He had carefully put his ID and travel documents in long term safekeeping back at his hotel. He didn't even have his phone, just a bill fold of cash and a small bag with a change of clothes. He wasn't wearing the pullup he often wore, and had no 'supplies' in his bag. Then he saw a neatly printed card in the corner of the window. His heart leapt and his plans changed instantly. 'Boarder wanted - comfortable local situation with friendly landlady for clean, quiet young man or woman. Full board, reasonable rates. Apply A French within or phone.' Chris memorised the mobile number - he was good at that sort of thing - and opened the door of the shop. As he stepped inside, he saw a tall, well-built woman standing behind the counter, folding garments and putting them into a cardboard box. She had neatly styled blonde hair, pink framed glasses and was wearing a pastel crocheted top over a blouse and what Chris assumed were the bra-requiring DD breasts. 'Paydirt!' thought Chris. 'Excuse me, young man,' said the woman crossly. 'Would you mind wiping your wet feet? There's a mat behind you.' 'Sorry,' said Chris, retreating a step and wiping his shoes on the mat. 'I didn't mean..' 'Never mind,' said the woman. 'I'm without a shopgirl at present and there's enough to do here without cleaning the floor every time someone walks in. Now how can I help you? I doubt you're here to buy maternity clothes.' 'Oh, well,' said Chris, now flustered and trying to vary the way he'd scripted their meeting, 'I saw the notice in the window, and I thought, well..' 'You thought you might be the clean, quiet young man we are looking for,' said the woman. 'We?' thought Chris. He imagined a husband. That didn't sound too good. Or a middle aged lesbian lover. There were other possibilities, perhaps. Two spinsters into AB... 'You're certainly quiet,' said the woman. 'Or don't you answer when an adult asks you a question?' 'I'm 23,' Chris said defensively. 'I'm just short.' This wasn't going so well, he decided. 'I see,' said the woman. 'You saw my notice while you looking in the window of a maternity shop. The ladies in their underclothing in the window aren't real, you know.' Chris felt himself becoming upset. He looked back at the woman and wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to start this again, but he knew that was out of the question. He wasn't even sure why he was feeling so emotional. Then he realised that this woman was destroying his dream plan. It wasn't fair. He glared at her and turned to leave. Maybe the while thing was a bad idea in the first place he thought. 'Come here,' the woman commanded, and Chris stopped in his tracks. 'Instead of getting upset, come here, sit down, and explain yourself,' said the woman, moving around the counter and motioning to a settee at one side of the shop. Chris saw that the woman was wearing tight blue jeans that emphasised her generous hips. The broad vee of her crotch bulged under the tight, flyless denim. The seam of the jeans pulled upwards and divided her whole lower tummy with a wide, shallow cameltoe. Chris could sense his heart rate increasing. 'Sit here,' ordered the woman. Chris, for all his early business success and cunning planning for this meeting, felt intimidated. Very occasionally, when highly stressed, he leaked a little urine. Uppermost in his mind at the moment was avoiding doing just that. He sat where he was told, and placed his small, loose bag over his crotch. 'Good boy,' said the woman. She stood in front of him. At his eye level were the woman's hips and crotch. He had rapid thoughts of his own meagre secondary sex characteristics, his thin beard, flat chest and modest genitals compared with this woman's obvious femininity. He had to look up to see her face. After a few seconds, the woman smiled. 'You look like a frightened little rabbit,' the woman said, sitting next to Chris. 'I'll take that,' she added, putting one hand on the bag Chris was clutching. 'Unless you have something to hide,' she added with a quick laugh. Chris felt himself blushing. Both his eyes and the woman's went momentarily to his groin. Which, Chris was pleased to see was dry, if without any sort of manly bulge. 'Well?' asked the woman. 'There's no need to be so nervous. If you were a little younger, I'd pick you up and give you a cuddle, but since you're 23,' the woman said with emphasis, 'I'll just assume you're shy. Now, let's have a chat.' Chris tried to organise his thoughts. 'Erm, well, I was going past your shop, and I saw the notice, and, well, I need a place to stay, and...' said Chris. 'So, do you work locally?' asked the woman. 'No,' said Chris, 'I'm on vacation.' 'In Ruislip?' asked the woman with surprise. 'Well, not exactly,' said Chris. 'Where were you going when you walked past my shop?' asked the woman. 'Er, the tube station,' said Chris. 'I saw you through the window, heading in the other direction,' said the woman. 'I'm sort of lost,' said Chris weakly. 'Perhaps you are,' said the woman with a smile. 'Well, my name's Abigail French. Would you like to have a look at the room I have for rent?' 'Yes please,' said Chris with relief. 'I'm Chris Johnson.' 'OK, Chris,' said the woman. 'Perhaps you can help me here until closing time then we'll go to my house. It's only around the corner.' 'OK,' replied Chris. 'That would be good.' Abigail smiled and opened a cupboard. She took out a folded garment and handed it to Chris. 'It's an apron, to identify you as a helper in the shop,' said Abigail as Chris looked at the folded pink cotton. 'It's not too girly, and its only for an hour or two. If anyone asks you anything, be polite to them, and refer them to me.' Abigail unfolded the apron and held it up. Chris noticed that at least it was fairly plain. Hr looked at a namebadge attached to the chest area. 'Oh,' Abigail laughed. 'That's Chris's badge. She was my last shopgirl. That's handy. Customers will know what to call you.' Abigail helped Chris into the apron. 'You and Chris are about the same size,' she said. 'Perfect.' Chris was glad of the apron. He had brushed his hand past his groin and felt that he was a little wet. He wouldn't actually admit it to himself, but for some time now he'd been wearing pull-ups when he went out, not entirely for the buzz of doing so. He'd had several incidents when the pullups were wet when he took them off. He hadn't even felt himself peeing. So wearing them was just a sensible precaution, he told himself. Nothing to do with his secret fetish. The door opened, and a pregnant woman in her thirties entered. 'Your first customer,' said Abigail. 'In at the deep end. Off you go. I'll be in the office,' she added and disappeared behind the back wall of the showroom. 'Hello,' said Chris. 'Can I help?' To be continued.