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A Padded Account

An Auguste and May Story

By Nathanielle CrawfordPublished 4 years ago 38 min read
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A Padded Account

"If two shots are fired in the woods and no one is around to hear them, was a murder committed?"

I spun around and saw a far loopier grin than I thought appropriate for a guy standing in the middle of a crime scene.

"Did you have an extra edible with your coffee this morning?"

"No," Auguste said with a chuckle. "I just wondered what poetic quip you would include when you write all this up. By now my character will fit a size fifty with all the casual meals you have him eating and then your character will make some kind of breakthrough as soon as he sits down at his desk."

I rolled my eyes as Auguste broke from his crouch to remove a bag of almonds from his coat pocket. There had been no wind all morning and the chill had come to just below tolerable. Little clouds of vapor still sprung from the mouths of the officers standing by the yellow tape like dragons in human form standing guard over a grizzly treasure. Some of them still gaped at me as I stood there in a thin sweater and black khakis. My coat was still in the car at the bottom of the trail. Auguste only wore his to carry his snacks. He was used to colder winters, as he mainly worked in Quebec and I just liked it cold.

He took a step back, looking at the place where the body had been a few hours earlier. Only some dried blood and other bits that hadn't been recovered by the crime scene unit remained. My stomach rolled and I looked up at the tree line, trying to find a spot on a pine or birch to focus on.

"Since we're talking about predictability," I said. "Do you ever get to relax when you're in Vermont? Read a good book, take a Zumba class?"

"Read a book? Isn't that the thing you do all day that barely pays the rent?"

There were too many members of the state and local police force in the area to risk an assault charge but a mosquito with a very strong constitution braved the midwinter cold to find a vein just above my eyebrow. I rubbed the sore spot with my index finger. August grinned and popped a few more almonds in his mouth.

"The shooter wasn't very good with the gun," he said.

The photographs had told us that much. Ryan Beaumont, nineteen, had been shot twice. Once in the chest and once in the right eye. That whole side of his face was covered in whatever blood didn't stain the ground and I had to avoid looking at the place where his body had been if I didn't want to add my own "evidence". He was wearing the jacket from his high school lacrosse team and a Lyndon State sweater with green camo pants. The boots were barely appropriate for hiking weather and the body wasn't even half a mile from where the trail began.

"What do you think?" August asked.

I forced myself to speak. "I think you're probably right."

"What else? Come on, there's a special treat awaiting you if you're right."

The way he said 'special treat' calmed my nerves a little – at least in my stomach. Below the waist was another matter.

"I don't think it was drugs," I said, remembering the initial report. The state trooper who found Ryan's car at around two in the morning had mentioned a string of heroin-related incidents in Orleans County. There were no drugs found on Ryan or in his car and his money was still in his wallet, but Ryan had been in trouble with the law for driving under the influence of marijuana when he was sixteen. "Didn't Ryan's dad have him pee in a cup almost every day?"

Auguste made a thoughtful noise. He offered me the bag, I politely refused. Then he went into a slow pace, circling the area with his eye on the ground, like a vulture who can still smell the carcass. Careful to avoid the blood, he swallowed a mouthful of almonds and said, "There was a whole cabinet full of drug tests. Paul Beaumont could have opened his own pharmacy. But after Ryan turned eighteen, he stopped testing him, reasoning that if he got in trouble again he would be on his own."

I rarely went with Auguste to interview clients. He took careful notes and sent them to me and by the time he got to the bookstore, I had read everything twice. I usually had a few theories based on what I had read. Auguste only brought me into the field when I had spent far too much time sitting behind the old teacher's desk at the back of the shop, or he when needed an extra pair of eyes and ears. He calculated the value of any assistance I offered and took it out of the rent, which made our relationship all the more beneficial in addition to the other unspoken perks.

"So why come up here at all?" Auguste said.

"Kids do stupid things." I shrugged. "I mean, okay, there's no age limit on dumb but this could have just been some hazing ritual that went wrong. I remember in college, there was this big storm and the basketball team had a freshman dive into the pond to get a basketball."

"He wasn't actually in college. He worked at White Market and shared an apartment with some friends. The police questioned them this morning and they all have airtight alibis." Auguste pocketed the almonds and patted me on the shoulder. "But I agree with you. This young man was not exactly the best and the brightest of the North East Kingdom. I do not doubt that once we find the killer, it will be so simple that you will be padded and happy before the day is out."

Auguste snuck a quick peck on my lips as I shuddered from a wave of euphoria that seemed less appropriate at the crime scene than his earlier, loopier, grin.

The Vermont State Police used their crime scene command post van as an added barrier, with plastic dividers and an officer letting people in and out of the area as needed. By the time we got there, the trail was crawling with men and women in what looked like blue pajamas and matching plastic booties as they searched for any forensic clue that might shed light on the suspect. Now they simply wanted to keep the area closed off for as long as possible while a helicopter searched the woods and the mountains, in case poor Ryan Beaumont had run afoul of a drug dealer, an illegal poacher, or anyone else that might be packing heat and on the lam.

I cast a wary glance at Ryan's car; a sea-green relic of the 90's with the fossilized remains of a Saturn ornament still attached to the hood. The kind of car you'd be happy with if your credit was poor and you worked in the city, or if you were a high school student with a part-time job and no other bills to pay. My insurance premiums went up just by looking at the dented frame, scratch marks, and caked in mud. A very callous and mean spirited remark lingered at the gate of my lips, involving an encounter with the vengeful spirit of Paul Walker. I waited until we were out of the earshot of the two technicians going over the car and I almost whispered it when someone called over.

"Excuse me, Mister uh, Courtmunch?"

August did a discreet eye roll before turning to a man in a black polo shirt and beige khakis approaching us from the van.

"Quart-mansh" August corrected the pronunciation. "Auguste Courtmanche. What can I do for you?"

"Deputy Sharpe tells me you're the detective assigned to this case."

"No, sir, you misunderstand. I am working for the employer of the victim's father, though I do help the police from time to time."

"Well, I guess you must have done something useful because Sharpe just radioed to have me tell you that the victim had a cellphone. The girlfriend's been texting him all morning, he hasn't answered."

“It's almost like he's been busy," I muttered, slamming my mouth shut as soon as the words were out. The officer gave me a gimlet stare that bookended Auguste's restrained amusement. "Sorry."

"Can they track it?" Auguste asked.

"I'm sure someone's trying," the officer said. "And no one's found anything up here yet so Sharpe told me to pass it on to you before you left."

I studied an interesting pattern in the dirt but I could feel the officer's eyes on me before he scraped ground on his way back to the van. I still my hand over my mouth and a burn in my cheeks that Auguste only snickered at. He put his arm around my shoulder as we made our way back to the highway where my car was parked in the breakdown lane.

"Are you too embarrassed to drive?" he asked.

"I'm good," I said. "Couldn't help it."

"You never have to. Besides," Auguste flicked his head back towards the parking lot. "He's probably said much worse behind closed doors. Or he's going to, someday if not soon."

He climbed into the passenger seat as I put the key in the ignition. And without warning, he stuck one finger into the waistline of my jeans and felt around for the thin fabric. I felt a tingle as his skin touched mine and he found the absorbent pad covering my body.

"Hmm, you need a change," he said looking at me with a warm, suggestive smile. "How fortunate that I need you to drop me off at my house. We have a little time, I think – for your treat."

* * *

My knuckles were so white it looked like bone would break the skin. I stayed two miles below the speed limit with my eyes glued to the road. Obeyed every sign, slowed down for every yellow light and stopped exactly before the red. I didn't block a single pedestrian from safely crossing the street, nor did I cut anyone off. When we finally got to Auguste's refurbished farmhouse in the middle of the countryside I executed a parking job that gave driver's ed teachers wet dreams.

Auguste had never lied to me. He didn't tease without provocation and he never belittled or criticized me. I had no reason to believe he was lying to me now and yet I couldn't help but take his hand as we got out of my car and lead him up the salted driveway, up the walkway to his front door, only letting him get ahead of me to unlock the door and then I followed him into the foyer. He kicked off his boots and hung up his coat before turning and helping me out of my shoes. Then he pulled me into a tighter hug and locked my mouth in his own for a time that seemed like forever until a sharp gust of wind reminded us that the door was still open.

He led me to the basement and let me go down first, closing that door behind him as well. Not that anyone ever came out here or could see the basement door from the foyer but he paid for the privacy and security and damned if he wasn't going to get his penny's worth.

The basement smelled of lavender and mint. The walls were done in shades of blue and purple. One half of the basement was devoted to a flat-screen television, a couple of recliners and a very comfortable sofa straight out of the Fingerhut catalog. Shag carpeting covered the concrete floor, except for the other half that Auguste had recently devoted to me.

He took off my sweater and tossed it on the sofa. Then he unzipped my pants and pulled them, along with my boxers, down to my ankles and helped me out of those so that all I was wearing was a Walgreens brand men's pull-up that was already sagging from the morning Slimfast and coffee cocktail.

There was a sink and a counter with two cabinets above and a row of drawers below, like what you would find in a doctor's office. The countertop was covered in boxes of latex gloves, adult wash clothes, an economy-sized tube of A+D ointment, cornstarch, and a few green tins of bag balm. Auguste had saved a hospital-style bed from a medical supply shop's liquidation sale where he had also purchased most of the supplies he devoted to, well, our relationship.

Auguste helped me onto the bed, fluffing the pillow before I lay my head down. He teased hardened nipples a little, beaming love and affection into my eyes as I let out an exhale of joy over his touch. Then he went to the counter and pulled on some gloves. He tore the sides from the pull-up and I lifted my bottom as he pulled it away, rolling it up and dropping it in the wastebasket beside the bed. Using a new wipe each time, he cleaned the inside of my thighs. He gently wiped my testicles and my penis, taking great care to clean beneath the penumbra before moving onto my taint. Then he had me turn over to my side so he could wipe each buttock and my anus. When he was done, he removed the gloves and washed his hands before taking a generous amount of bag balm in one hand and returning to finish what he started with the adult wipes. He placed a firm but gentle grip on my shift and moved his hand up and down as he looked into my eyes, kissing me gently on the lips as I writhed.

He whispered in my ear. "I love you so much."

I exploded in his hands, panting heavily and crying out with a gasp and a squeal that the neighbor's dogs must have heard. Auguste went to work wiping me down with more wipes and holding a clean one over my penis and kissing me until I finished cumming. But the show wasn't over yet. He went to the cupboards and I listened as he tore open a plastic package and unfolded something big and crinkly. He had me lift my bottom again and I looked down and watched as he slipped a shiny, violet diaper beneath me. My mouth went wider than my eyes as I realized what the real treat had been.

"Rearz!" I said.

"That's right," Auguste replied. "Violet Seduction. I know you've been wanting them for a while."

He applied powder to my bottom and a generous layer of A+D ointment to my skin before positioning my penis down into the pad and pulling the front of the diaper over my waist. He securely fastened all three tapes and left me to enjoy the experience while he replaced the garbage bag and brought the old one, tightly tied, up to the garage.

I looked down, still not believing what I was seeing.

I've been wearing diapers and pull-ups ever since I was thirteen. Not for medical reasons, at least, not since I was twelve. There's a long story I won't get into now but for your own peace of mind, I will tell you that my foster parents were supportive. They understood my fixation and they kept me supplied with the pull-up style Attends until I was eighteen. After that, there was a three-year stretch that went on forever as I tried to have some semblance of normal adulthood in the dorms of Castleton. But I never really grew out of them.

Actual tab-style diapers were a rarity. Those I usually had to buy with my own money, whenever I saved my allowance. When I graduated from college the available jobs for someone with a liberal arts degree in Creative Writing were surprisingly few and far between and I had very little spending money after rent, food, and student loan repayments. I saved up for weeks just to buy one package of Depend from the grocery store.

When the Internet became more of a fixture in my life I found out about ABU, Tykables, and Rearz. Something about those big bulky diapers, with the spaceships and the dinosaurs, just made it feel less disgusting. If grown men and women could still wear underwear with cartoon characters and sports team logos, why couldn't I have nice shiny black diapers to last me all through the day? Or diapers with a pirate logo?

The pad felt soft and secure against my body. The outer material sounded like a grocery bag as I walked back and forth in front of a full-length mirror near the staircase. I reached down and felt the diaper and felt tears of joy started to form.

"You look so cute," Auguste said when he came back down. "Now it's time for the other part of your treat."

I cocked my head to one side, wiping my eyes as he showed me a large bottle with a green cap, filled with a thick black beverage I frowned.

"I don't do the baby part," I said.

"Well, I want to try it. Come on, we've both been so busy and I want to take some time to enjoy this moment."

I sniffed and wiped my eyes again, smiling as Auguste guided me to the sofa and sat down. He wrapped me in a soft blanket and had me lean back, supporting me with one arm as he placed the bottle in my mouth. There was slightly larger hole in the nipple that made suckling easier and a thick chocolate shake filled my mouth as I looked into Auguste's eyes. His warm gaze, never judging, never cruel, made it seem like the rest of the world didn't have to exist. I had warmth and security in his arms and as long as he was here, I had love.

I don't know when I fell asleep but I awakened to the smell of coffee. The Game of Thrones clock on one wall said it was half-past noon. Auguste had left me a clean outfit on the coffee table next to the empty bottle. A note leaned against it.

See you at the bookstore. I have to speak to Mr. Beaumont.

Take your time and be sure to lock the door when you leave.

And don't take the diaper off. I'll change you when you do #2.

A cute little doodle of me in a diaper closed out the note. I looked down at the Rearz and felt a familiar twitch as the thought of wearing it all day, to the bookstore, to the grocery store, and the possibility of Auguste changing me when it was full.

Part of me was certain Auguste would back out once he smelled the mess. I wouldn't blame him for that. He had already gone so far above and beyond and he clearly enjoyed what we were doing so far. I wouldn't blame him if he decided that was too much. But I couldn't deny that it would be in my thoughts the rest of the day, especially when I went upstairs for coffee. I put the bottle in the sink and as I took a sip of chicory coffee, I saw the nutritional supplement Auguste had used to make the shake. Next to it was a white and green bottle with a spoon full of a white powdery substance.

Benefiber.

* * *

Kaylee had a box of used college textbooks awaiting my approval. She had already checked online to see which classes were still using them and the full prices of each. By the time I arrived she had already thumbed through most of them and made an inventory of any highlighter marks, doodles, and other damage to the pages and covers. I sent her home early after paying her for the week and giving her a commission on the textbooks, even though they hadn't sold yet. I could already see that one Human Anatomy book had been marked with an F grade for "obscene hair doodles" but I factored it into her bonus anyway and thanked her for her hard work.

If she heard any of the crinkling she kept it to herself. Call the bonus hush money.

Grading the rest of the books helped take my mind off the growing need. Between the rigged milkshake, the coffee, and the fact that I didn't have enough time for my usual morning rituals, I had quite a movement lining up to be released. The pressure became so intense at times that I had to get up and walk around the store, forcing my muscles closed until the urge went away. A customer came in and didn't buy anything. I found some space on a shelf and started arranging the textbooks after I had priced them.

I paused, clenched, shelved more books. Stopped, clutched my belly, willed away the urge and shelved more books. I thought about just going to the bathroom then and there and hoping I had a big BM later for Auguste benefit but the powers of delayed gratification were overwhelming. I hadn't soiled in a diaper since I was in high school when the nurse refused to change me and insisted I do it myself. The clean up was never worth it so I settled for just wetting. I never even told Auguste about the times I had messed for fear that it would scare him off. This was entirely his desire and just this once, I was going to hold him to the mark if it killed me.

At around two o'clock, money was wired and emails were sent. Anyone who dropped off books I couldn't sell had ten business days to claim them or they became donations. In a rare stroke of luck, a frequent customer of the edibles shop next door stopped by and noticed the book with the "obscene hair doodles". Intrigued by the note, she flipped through it before I could stop her and laughed when she saw the rather intricate pubic hair sprouting from the figure in a chapter about the muscular system. She asked how much it was and gave me forty without asking for change and she was still admiring the "artwork" on her way out the door.

Shadows crawled across the street and the sidewalk became more visible through the window. A haze passed over the fading sky, growing thicker as it reflected the streetlight. The weather app called for possible rain and sleet, with an additional traffic advisory warning. I thought of texting Auguste and remembered he was still working.

Eventually, the urge faded. I turned the sign-off and locked the door, leaving the shop through a rear exit into the hallway that connected my shop with the two other stores, the staircase to the apartments and offices above, and the laundry room. The edibles shop was open for another hour, so I treated myself to some coffee ("Black, decaf, nothing added, no CBD oil thank you.") and sipped it slowly as I checked out the notices on the community board. I stopped at the notice from a bowling alley.

Tapers Club Tournament

Win Prizes

3rd Price: Basket of Blank Tapes and New Tape Recorder

2nd Prize: $100 worth of postage stamps

Grand Prize: Gourmet Candy and Wine basket*

Benefit to Raise Money for Cancer Treatments

(Non-Alcoholic prize option available)

Doors open at 6:30 PM Tournament begins at 7

Below the text was a xeroxed photo of an older woman standing next to the hospital bed of a woman in her late twenties, early thirties. The older woman wore a t-shirt for the Tapers Club that had a planet Earth on the front with the image of a cassette tape "flying" around the planet.

The date was for the Twenty-Second of February, last night. I took the notice down, along with a few others that had been up there for too long and brought them upstairs to my apartment. After cutting most of the fliers up for scrap paper, I logged on to the bowling alley's Facebook page and found the event on the timeline.

Apparently, it was a very successful event. More than two hundred photos of bowlers in various self-made team shirts filled the page. People bowling, drinking punch, buying snacks and stuffing dollar bills into various jars. The prize winners held their winnings and trophies up to the camera, the spirit of their laughter practically visible in the haze of the bowling alley's dining area. Assuming the clock below the sign was accurate, the tournament had gone on until about half-past one in the morning. There was even a thank you video from the woman sitting upright in a recliner, wearing a knit dolphin hat and Pikachu pajamas. I followed the link to a GoFundMe page and made a donation. Then as I was about to log off for the evening, David Guetta's Lover's on the Sun cried out from the phone on the charger.

"Brian, how's the nappy?" Auguste asked.

"Surprisingly easy to walk around in," I said. "And I've been fighting the urge to mess all day."

Auguste chuckled. "I could use your help if you're available. I have been questioning Ryan's friends. Some of them say they have been calling his mobile all morning. I'm afraid I am the one who delivered the bad news."

I sighed sympathetically.

"No, I am at the police station now. The friend I spoke to said he got a few rings and then the voice mail, then all of a sudden the calls went straight to voicemail."

"Someone turned the phone off."

"Exactly. We know what tower was activated but that is a mighty wide radius and it's roughly twenty miles from the trail where Ryan was killed. And if the killer still has the phone, there's plenty of places he could toss it."

"Good ole, Vermont," I quipped. "Assuming he isn't in Canada."

"I have the number of the phone. Are you online right now?"

Auguste had me go to the service provider's website. The phone was a pay-as-you-go deal but the site offered a tracking service for lost phones. Sure enough, the last known location of the phone was a lot more specific. I rattled off the address and listened as Auguste passed the information off to someone else.

"Do you want me to meet you there?" I asked.

"Would you, please?"

I felt a rumble in my stomach and hoped I could hold out at least until we found Ryan's cellphone.

* * *

I found Auguste's van parked next to two police cruisers in the middle of a plaza. The plaza contained one strip mall with three empty spaces, a Hallmark Shop, and a bar and grille. A Chilis held the place of prominence nearest to the highway and when I got out of the car, I saw a sign with the familiar-looking bowling pin and ball.

"Oh, that's weird," I thought aloud. Auguste gave me a questioning look. "Nothing, so, this is where our suspect is?"

"Or where he was," Auguste confirmed. "Or she, not ruling anything out."

"Right. So, what's the plan?"

"The police are reviewing security footage from the restaurants and someone is in the bowling alley right now. We have all tried calling the phone at regular intervals but nothing is ringing a bell, as it were." I saw a third SUV disappearing behind the strip mall with the glare of a flashlight still visible for a few seconds. Beyond the mall was a stretch of forest that seemed to go on forever and a light but stinging wind howled from the bare trees.

"He might not be here," I said.

"True but it's a lead and it's better than nothing. Do you have any ideas?"

"Just one." I held my abdomen with one hand and gave a pained, sheepish expression.

A smile crept across Auguste's face but he restrained.

"This might not be the best time for a messy change. You should probably use the bathroom in the bowling alley."

I hated to be so distracted. A kid was murdered but the biggest thing on my mind right now was missing the chance to have a full diaper change. But this was hardly the time or place for messing myself in any event and with some regret, I agreed to take a rain check.

With a kind hand on my shoulder, Auguste and I made our way into the bowling alley just as one of the officers started to leave. She stopped to talk to Auguste and I waited in the door she showed him a blank disc in a sleeve with a date.

"Looks like the victim was here a few times throughout the week. I can get in touch with you if we find anything useful."

"That would be very helpful, thank you." Auguste gestured for me to go ahead.

A powerful urge struck me as I went through the tinted double doors. The lady at the main desk informed me that the restroom was for customers only. Before I could reply, Auguste came in and showed her his PI license, introducing himself and explaining why he was here. He laid it on thick with the full force of his native French accent and the lady conveniently forgot that I existed. Now I just had to swallow my pride as the strobe lights of the bowling alley lit up every speck of dust on my clothes and turned my skin into a traffic sign. I was sure the hem of my diaper would light up too as I walked by the little arcade where two guys were playing pool and another group was knocking a puck back and forth across the table hockey field.

I followed the signs down a hallway, past the ladies' room, past a door marked "Private", to the door just before the fire exit. A toilet flushed and a man, no older than twenty, came out of the men's room and disappeared behind another door with a Private sign. The door was open ajar and I saw the brightly lit screen with multiple camera feeds, including ones from the parking lot. The detail was so clear I could almost see the bald spot of the officer driving a cruiser slowly along what I guessed was the back of the bowling alley. I even hear the engine and the sound of the tires just beyond the exit door.

Another wave hit me. I went into the men's room and straight for the stall, then paused. There was a wet stain on the toilet seat. I'm no germaphobe and in an emergency, the false security of a sanitary sheet or a quick wipe down with a wad of toilet will suffice. But I draw the line at any substances I can readily identify, especially vomit.

I was about to see if the guy in the security room could call for a janitor when I saw something sticking out from the trash bin; a black sleeve. The urge went away, pushed aside by what the officer had said.

"Our victim was here last week."

Ryan Beaumont had been at this bowling alley. There was even footage of him being here, which I assumed the officer had at least glanced at. I carefully lifted the cover and placed it on the floor, then I pulled out the hooded overcoat with the shiny gray buttons. It could have come from any department store and there was nothing visibly wrong with it, except for a few tears in the fabric and some dried mud at the hem. One of the buttons and parts of the surrounding fabric were covered with a speckle of dark material that was hard to identify until I took a deep breath and noticed the smell that turned my stomach.

I put the coat down and went into the hall. The door to the security room was ajar, the screen visible from where I stood. Multiple feeds had been replaced by a single window and I heard the soft buzz of a printer. I lightly tapped the door. There was a fumbling sound and the rustle of papers as the screen changed again before the man opened the door.

Tall and thin, he had curly dark hair and glasses. I couldn't tell if his pale face was from being sick or from the computer screen. He wore a Game of Thrones t-shirt that seemed to match the cover of a leather-bound notebook on the edge of the desk where the monitor sat.

"Can I help you?" He asked in a harried tone.

"Yes, um, sorry to bother you," I pointed to the lobby. Auguste was drifting over to the pool tables now and I tried to get his attention without making it obvious. "My partner was asking your boss some questions and I wanted to ask you some if you don't mind."

"That police officer was already in here," the man said. "I gave her a week's worth of our security feed."

"Okay, that's really helpful." I thought of raising my voice slightly but I didn't want to startle him. Bumbling idiot seemed to be the best way to go for now. "I just thought, maybe, well I'm not a cop but I'm working with a detective. And I thought, maybe, you could just answer one or two of my questions. Please?"

He sighed.

"What do you want to know?"

"Where were you last night?" Not subtle but I had read that direct questions were the best for flushing out liars.

"Here, at work. I'm here seven days a week."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm the one who installed the security equipment." The man reached behind him and showed me the photo he pulled from the printer. "See, I was here last night playing Dungeons and Dragons with some friends."

I looked at the photo carefully. There were three guys and two women sitting at a booth near the food counter with pads of paper in front of them. He was wearing a different shirt at the time but his hair was about the same and his face was clearly visible. He had his glasses on the table beside the folded board he used to cover his won pad.

"You were DM?" Enough of the books passed through my store over the years so I at least knew the lingo.

He relaxed a bit.

"That's right. Usually, the boss lady lets us play after the alley is closed. She knows my friends are cool kids and we always buy food and drinks so she's not losing money."

"Must be a nice place to work," I said. "No wonder you plug in the hours."

"Hehe, yeah. Is that it?"

Auguste finally looked my way and I gave a casual wave that ended with a get the hell over here gesture.

"Can you just tell me what time the alley closed last night?" I asked.

"We close at midnight," he said. "We started playing at one. Just like you can see in the photo."

"I do see that. I do. I also see the timestamp here," I held up the photo so he could see the time and the date clearly visible in the lower left hand of the paper. He went a little paler. "It must have been really hard to concentrate on your game with people still cleaning up after that big event last night."

He slammed the door.

"Auguste!" I shouted.

Auguste ran over just as the door flung open again. I turned around to see the guy slamming into the fire exit, triggering the alarm as he ran. I followed him.

"Brian, no!"

He ran into the woods, following a trodden path that was partially visible in the light of a flood lamp. I ran after him, barely registering the sound of August trying to stop me. I crashed through piles of dead leaves, jumped over a low branch and nearly tripped and fell on a root. I threw out my arms and avoided hitting the ground just as a large report ripped the air. My ears buzzed from the sound but I could feel the sensation of a small moving object whizzing by me and striking the branch, sending splinters everywhere.

I tried to stand up as thick, soft logs snaked their way out of my bottom, captured by the pad and barely having time to rest as softer turds followed suit. Hot urine flooded my balls, forming a temporary pool before the pad quickly absorbed it. The sagging sensation made it harder to walk and I had to waddle ahead, struggling to listen for the man, over the ringing in my head.

"That was really stupid!" I shouted. "Now they're going to know you're armed. Do you want to die tonight?"

A faint, muffled voice seemed to respond. But I couldn't tell if it was Auguste, or the man, or if an officer was shouting into a boom mic. I thought I heard barking. It was so hard to tell for what felt like an eternity.

I stumbled a bit, trying to ignore the load between my legs. The light was behind me now and my eyes had to adjust to the steadily darkening surroundings. I stopped as a low branch appeared to be too high up for me to climb over but so low that I would be vulnerable if he tried to take another shot. At that moment, I remembered I had a phone. It was already lit up from several of Auguste's texts in the space of a few seconds, none of them repeatable in polite company in French or in English. I used the flashlight app to find another path and I slowly hobbled down it, taking cover when I could. I could now hear the roar of a river and it almost drowned out the whirring blades of a chopper high above. The dogs belonged to the barely audible shouting voices some distance away and when I heard the text alert again I saw August's warning. "They're sending in police dogs. Get back here, you fool!"

Knowing that I was basically invisible out here, it occurred to me that a phone and a gun might look one and the same to a cop who valued his life over the life of a potential killer. I turned off the light app and pocketed it.

"They're coming!" I said. "Don't do anything stupid...er. I mean you already did something stupid, so try and have some common-,"

A second gunshot. Closer this time and doing my head no favors. I dropped to my knees as a flashlight flooded the area and put up my hands as two strong bodies forced my hand behind my back and slapped cuffs over my wrist.

"What's that smell?" I thought I heard one of them ask as every last thing I had eaten or drank put Rearz to the ultimate test.

Without thinking I replied, "Protein shake, Benefiber, and fair trade coffee. Possibly the pork chops from last night."

I was escorted out of the woods. The confusion didn't last long. Auguste confirmed who I was taken out of the cuffs but the officer who handled me did an about-face and immediately took off as quickly as etiquette would allow. An ambulance arrived and the worker made a face but quickly reassured me when I sheepishly explained what happened.

"It could happen to anyone," the technician said.

They removed a few splinters, sprayed the open cuts, and gave me some stitches on one particularly nasty gash that wasn't deep enough to be dangerous but I would definitely remember it. I declined to go to the hospital with them and promised I would follow up with my doctor. They gave me some ibuprofen for the headache and let me go.

Auguste led me to the van and loaded me in one of the backseats where he covered me with a thick blanket and told me to lie down. He said I could give my statement to the police in the morning but that he wanted to get me home as soon as possible. In spite of the commotion outside, the flashing lights of emergency services, and the fact that I had nearly been killed, I fell asleep.

* * *

We didn't get home until about two in the morning, approximately 24 hours after Ryan Beaumont was murdered. Walter, the man from the bowling alley, had shot himself in the head when he thought the police were closing in. Fortunately, for him, he didn't get a chance to fire a second shot and he showed signs of improvement a month later.

Without his boss knowing, Walter had secretly installed cameras in the ladies room at the bowling alley. Since he could see when she was coming, it was no hard task to turn the feed off and avoid getting caught. He would hours of women using the toilet or changing tampons. He even had a few videos of some of the women from the cancer benefit. There was no age limit with him. Young and old, minor and legal. He even made a nice little profit for himself posting his videos on porn sites and collecting ad revenue. The footage of children he sold to special clients from around the world and I'm told that the sex crimes unit will be earning every penny of their overtime for quite some time.

Ryan Beaumont found out about this when his girlfriend apparently saw a picture of herself taped to her locker at work that someone downloaded and printed from one of Walter's accounts. It almost seemed like Ryan was being the noble boyfriend, going to bat for the woman he loved to take down a sick little pervert.

Nope.

Ryan did go to the bowling alley and he did find out that Walter was the one taking the photos. But while Walter was away, Ryan snuck into his office and found the leather-bound notebook full of Walter's favorites. Ryan then found Walter's cellphone number and sent several texts giving Walter a location and a dollar amount that he wanted in cash by a very specific time and date.

Walter brought a gun instead. He came out of the deal with his notebook and a cellphone that he didn't think to get rid of as soon as possible.

I lay there on the changing table as Auguste used a warm, damp washcloth to clean my bottom. He didn't say a word the whole time but I figured he was just concentrating on his work. He didn't seem happy with me when he rolled me onto my back to clean my testicles and penis. I was enjoying the change but I thought that perhaps he wasn't so thrilled about it after all. When he was finished, he toweled me off and applied a generous layer of A&D ointment. Then he stared at me for a long time, with a long, tight-lipped expression.

"Are you going to diaper me again?" I asked.

"First thing is first," he said. "Stand up."

“What?"

"Did I say, se lever? No. I understand my own English quite well. Stand up and face the table."

He crossed his arms and glared at me until I got to my feet, standing across from him until he came around and took me by the shoulders and guided me over to his side.

"Bend over," he said. "Don't make me force you."

My heart raced as I did as he said. The cold sheet of the changing table and the air against my clean, bare ass made me tingle all over. I didn't have to wait long for the first smack.

"What was that for, ow!" another smack. Barehand against my cheeks, Auguste smacked me several times, some harder than the others. I cried out and begged him to stop.

"You-" smack! "ran after" smack! "a man," smack! "Who has already killed once." Smack, smack, smack, smack.

He stopped and paced around the changing table. I was too afraid to stand. Finally, he turned to me with tears soaking cheeks that were redder than my bottom.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I got so excited when I found out it was him. I didn't want to let him get away."

"I don't care if he got away," Auguste said. "We did our jobs, the police are meant to catch him, not us. I lose him, I don't care. I lose you, I don't want to live. Understand?"

I stood up, covering my testicles with one hand and touching my lips with one finger.

“I don't want to lose you either," I said.

Auguste came around the table and pulled me into his arms. He held me firmly against his chest as he rubbed my naked back with a warm hand. The sores from where he spanked me faded as he took me upstairs to his bedroom without dressing me.

Punishment out of the way, it was time for my reward.

fetishes
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About the Creator

Nathanielle Crawford

I was born in Bennington, Vermont.

I've overcome many barriers that others were sure that I couldn't take on. I hope that in my writing, you will find advice and ideas that are original and helpful.

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