The New Narnia- Chapter 10: Bad Ideas (Patreon)

Chapter 10: Bad Ideas 

Don't tell your ma, don’t tell your pop

I'm a mad mad bomber and I'm ready to drop. 

MAD BOMBER!

I'm a mad mad bomber!

When a boy’s eighteen years old, he’s ready to explode!

“Awwww.  Cuuuuuute!”

Tom looked up from his tray, foolishly hoping that Amanda Monroe was talking about him.  He needn’t be worried about that, he realized.  Once again, the popular girl wasn’t even looking at him.  It was Monday, now.  Cheerleader uniforms were out.  Tight jeans were in. And Tom had to resist the urge to stare again.  It did not end well for him last time.  

Was he really that awkward?   Tom sipped his chocolate milk and finished the last of his cheap school cafeteria chili, his question left unanswered.

“Look at them!” Amanda kept saying to  Cameron. “Little kids are so cuuute!”  Scrumpton was a small enough town that all of its public education was community based: Meaning that it’s Elementary, Middle, and Highschool were all pretty much piled on top of one another.  Different buildings stretched out across a flat campus, but as soon as you were old enough to go, you pretty much stayed put until dropout or graduation.  

The Highschool campus was front and center, with the Elementary and Middleschoolers going to buildings that were on the left and right respectively.  Each level keeping its own schedule and operating relatively independently of each other.  In this instance, that meant that when Thomas Dean and his peers were eating lunch and enjoying the warm fall weather leftover from summer, that a group of second graders were having recess not two hundred yards away on the Scrumpton Elementary’s playground.  

Amanda kept drooling over them.  “Awwww,” Amanda kept saying.  “I want one!”

Cameron looked over to her cohort.  “This isn’t how you tell me you’re preggers, is it?”

Tom’s crush snorted.  “Gawd no.  I want one.  I don’t wanna have one.  I just wanna play with them.  Bounce them on my lap. Tickle them.  Then give them back to their parents.”  Tom’s mouth went dry.  

“Babysitting…” Tom spoke up.  “You mean, babysitting.”  Tom didn’t believe in ‘auras’  (or dwarves until very recently)  but the energy that Amanda was exuding was palpable.  Were she a sorceress, Amanda would be casting a field of disintegration or something, with Tom as the target.  “What?” Tom said, hoping he didn’t sound as intrusive or defensive as he found. “You play with a kid, make sure they don’t die, and at the end of the night you get paid and give it back.”  Then he added, “Sorry for eavesdropping.  I just overheard.”

The strangest thing happened after that.  Cameron and Amanda exchanged glances, seemed to half- nod, half-cock their heads to the side, and when they were looking, they seemed...nicer.  Apology accepted, Tom guessed.  “I guess you’re right,” Amanda said.  “But I don’t wanna miss my date night, to babysit.  I just wanna bring some of them over here and cuddle with them.”

Cameron closed her eyes and rubbed her temples as if the conversation itself was causing her pain.  “Most people just get a tiny dog for that kind of thing.”  It took every bit of willpower Tom had in his tank to not volunteer to be that tiny dog; to be that little cuddle kid.  He would sit back in his lap and let himself be tickled all day if he could.

Instead, Tom let out a dry, very fake chuckle.  “Yeah.  Right?”  He picked up his tray and made to go drop it back off in the cafeteria.    

“Oh hey...Tommy!”  Tom stopped in his tracks.  It was Amanda.  He turned around.  “Would you mind throwing my tray away for me? Thaaaanks.”  She smiled at him, and he felt any resistance he had melting away.   Damn it.  He was being used.  And he liked it.

He stood there like a dummy as two of the hottest girls in school piled their trays into his arms.  Cameron didn’t even ask.  Then again, with tits like those, Tommy’s adolescent brain justified, she didn’t really need to.  He savored a last look as the girls walked away from them and towards the girl’s bathroom.  The swish in Amanda’s hips got him looking perhaps a little longer than he should have.  At least this time Trevor and Josh weren’t there to make fun of him for it.

Tom about faced and stumbled forward into the school’s cafeteria.  A wall of noise and overtaxed air conditioning hit him in the face as he pushed past the doors inside.  The talk and mumbling of his peers created a kind of wallah-wallah mumbo jumbo where only key words could be made out.

“Wallah-wallah-pussy-wallah-wallah”

“Food-sucks-wallah-wallah-wallah-wallah”

“Wallah-wallah-wallah-wallah-T.V.”

“Wallah-wallah-loser-wallah-wallah-in-his-pants-wallah-wallah.”   Tom felt himself grunt and growl a bit.  He was almost sure they were talking about him.  Who else would they be talking about?  Katlyn didn’t have this lunch, so friendly faces were in short supply this time of day.  

Tom felt he deeply knew what it was like to be Elphaba from Wicked; irrationally hated for things he didn’t feel like were in his control.  Only he’d yet to find his Glinda or his Fiyero or even his Boq.  With relatively few exceptions, everyone was just so Madame Morrible to him around here.

It might be for the best that this wasn’t his magical land beyond the clock.  Dwarves got second chances with him.  People?  Tom wasn’t so sure, anymore.  Tom turned in the trays to the dish bin with a click clack and took a hard left out the side door.  

Instead of open air, the muted thud of hitting another human being.  “Shit!” someone’s voice called out and the scuffling sound of clothing scraping concrete mixed with the metal clangs and more muted clattering as things rolled off the walkway and into the grass.  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”  

Heart racing, Tom stepped out and surveyed the damage he’d done.  On the ground was Lunch Lady Doris, (Tom didn’t know if Doris was her real name; all Lunch Ladies were named Doris in his mind).    “Oh my god!” Tom yelped. “I’m so sorry, I’m soooo sorry.  Do you need help?” 

The fat older woman was already picking herself off the ground and using the wall to steady herself.  “Nope...nope...nope,” Doris said, still leaning with one hand on the wall. 

“I’m so sorry about that!  I wasn’t looking…”

Doris held out her other hand.  “Nope.  Don’t worry about it.  I wasn’t looking either.  That’s what I get for stopping to text right in front of an exit.”

“Is there anyway I can help?”  

Doris gestured to the ground, and Tom followed it.  Packages of single serving cereal bowls littered the ground.  Doris had been minding a cart and her tumble had sent the cart and its contents tumbling, with the metal cart on its side, and disposable cereal bowls scattered on the walk way and in the nearby grass.   “Help me pick these up…?”  

“Sure.” Tom scrambled into the grass to pick up what he’d helped spill.  “It’s still good. It’s still good.  No seal’s been broken; and cereal is supposed to be crumbly anyway, right?”

Dorris was busy righting the cart.  “The preschoolers ran out of gram crackers for snack time, and I was gonna run this cereal over to them as a patch job.”

“Can I help?”

“No, I don’t think so…” the lunch lady started.  “Shit…”

Tom came out of the grass and onto the concrete, his arms filled with cereal boxes.  “What?”

“Two of the wheels got busted somehow…”

“I am SO sorry!” Tom was beginning to feel like the world’s most pathetic pull-string toy.

“Not your fault.  Not your fault.”  Doris started grumbling something to herself.

“Now do you need my help?”

The lunch lady didn’t say anything, but she did nod.

They walked in silence, from the cafeteria over to the elementary preschool area.  Doris carried at least a dozen bits of Honey Nut Cheerios and Coco Puffs in her apron.  Tom carried almost as many corresponding samples of Froot Loops and Cookie Crisp in his t-shirt.  Come to think of it, this shirt was getting a little baggy on him.  He must be stretching it out so that it’s nearly threadbare, he figured.

Doris took  a lilting right turn as they crossed over from the high school, to the elementary campus.  The preschool was near the back of the elementary building, Tom remembered.  If it wasn’t obvious before, anyone would have known they had arrived from the high pitched screams and the pitter patter of little feet, and the frantic raving of the only adult in sight.  Children who were little more than knee high ran around screaming, and ducking and hiding into plastic houses or chasing each other on tricycles. This wasn’t the playground that could be seen from the highschool.  No steel bars or jungle gyms, here.  This was for the littlest of kids.

A blonde teacher, in her late twenties to early thirties, clothed in a denim dress, motioned them over.  “Hiiii!” she chirped, but the subtext read as “Heeeeeelp!”.  “Normally we have snack time, then play time, but since we were in a bit of a jam, I decided to flip-flop them.”  The laugh the woman gave was positively neurotic. This lady needed a day off.  Bad.

“Sorry about that,” Doris apologized as they dropped their cargo on a low picnic table.  “Had a bit of an accident.”

The preschool teacher nodded.  “You’re fine now.  Thanks!” Then she called out.  “SNAAAAACK-TIIIIIME!”

A swarm of locusts on chubby human legs swarmed the table, ripping into the dry cereal as if it were their first and last meal. The mingled wallah-wallahs here were much more pleasant than what Tom had heard in the cafeteria.

“Wallah-wallah-yummy-wallah-wallah.”

“Trade ya-wallah-wallah-wallah-wallah.”

“Wallah-wallah-wallah-wallah-play after.”

Doris turned to Tom and offered her hand.  “Thank you, young man.”

Tom shook the lunch lady’s hand.  “No problem,” he glanced at her name dag, “Phyllis.” How about that?  He was kind of close!  “Just trying to fix what I broke.”

“Much appreciated.  I wish more freshmen acted like you.”

“I’m a senior, actually.”

Phyllis’s mouth twisted.  “Oh really?  I guess you just got a bit of a baby face.”

Tom shrugged.  “I guess I do.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Miss Keisha,” Phyills said to the stressed out teacher.  The preschool teacher was too distracted to notice, busily tearing open cereal covers for the kids who hadn’t developed enough dexterity to do it themselves.  The lunch lady about faced and started to mosey on back to the cafeteria.

“Uh-huh”.

Tom was about to fall instep behind her, but then his stomach gave him other ideas.  Involuntarily, he drew his hand to his gut, as it rumbled and cramped up.  The chili wasn’t agreeing with him.  That kind of stuff was always like playing gastronomical Russian Roulette.  Now, there was a bullet in Tom’s chamber.  “Excuse me, ma’am?  Miss Keisha?”  

“Yes sweetie?” the teacher replied automatically.  Her eyes scanned the munchkins surrounding her, before she tracked the source to Thomas.  “Oh! Sorry!” she said.  “I mean, how can I help you?”

“My stomach is hurting.  Any chance I can use your bathroom?”

The young man felt himself being scanned.  Sized up.  Another cramp made itself known, and Tommy suddenly had the very real fear that he might shit his pants if he didn’t make it in time.  No way would he be able to make it to the high school bathroom.  “Sure,” she finally said.  “You should be able to fit.”  She pointed to her classroom.  “Through that door and straight to the opposite corner.  Just make sure to clean up after yourself.”

Tom nodded.  “Yes ma’am.”  He didn’t think anything of the comment about cleaning up after himself.  A lady works with three and four year olds all day, some things are going to be habits. 

“Oh,” Miss Keisha called out after him.  “And I’ll keep everybody out here as I can, but be aware the door doesn’t lock.”

“Yes ma’am,” Tom called back, doing his best to burst through the classroom door before something else burst through him.  He didn’t even look back and make sure to close the door; fast stepping his way over carpet tape for Circle Time and ducking out of the way of self portraits done in crayon that were hung too low.  “Gotta-go-gotta-go-gotta-go,” he whispered to himself.  “Just hold it...just hold it…”

He cut through the classroom and flung open the bathroom door.  “Oh you gotta be kidding me.”

If the plastic playhouses and tricycles outside hadn’t been childish enough, the bathroom made up for it.  Two toilets sat directly in front of him, but they were so small, they might as well have been training potties bolted into the ground.  The urinal next to them was so low that Tom would have had to practically do the limbo to pee in it.  That’s why the teacher said that he’d fit.  A less scrawny high schooler  might have not.

Thank goodness for small mercies. 

It was even decorated.  Who decorated a bathroom? Who did that?  The two potty toilets didn’t have a tank, just plumbing that went right into the wall.  The wall behind each was painted bright green, with stencil outlines of fairy tale characters.  The left stall had what could only be the Gingerbread Man, and the right one had a decorated silhouette of what was more likely Rapunzel.  Little boys would be peeing in a urinal right beneath the Frog Prince.  The side wall had tiny sinks, attended to by a Pinnochio doll, its wooden hands in proper hand washing position.

Another rumble made Tom stop pontificating long enough to get his pants down and waddle over to the nearest bowl.  He lifted the seat, turned around, and shimmy-shimmy-shimmied his way down between the narrow barriers of the stall.  He’d forgotten to wear underwear today so that was one less obstacle.

His knees almost to his chest, his body felt the opening and let loose with an absolutely horrendous blast from down below.  Tom let out a heavy groan as his body shook and a mostly water mess splashed beneath him, the rising water tickling his butt cheeks. Maybe it wasn’t the chili.  Maybe it was those darn Lemon cookies that Katlyn had gotten for dessert…

Another rumble and groan before Tom gave himself a courtesy flush, trying to hold his bowels while the tiny toilet spirited away his mess.  Anymore, he feared, and his own feces would float back up to kiss his cheeks.  He might as well be wearing a diaper then…

It was after the flushing stopped that Tommy looked straight ahead and knew something was amiss.  These stalls didn’t have any doors.  And the doors weren’t locked.  

A pulse surged through Tommy’s gut and he finished emptying himself into the bowl.  The thought that some little kid could walk in on him caused him to push through the pain all the faster.  Not that they would have seen anything.  His knees were forced into blocking view of any “strategic area” that anyone might have seen.

The stalls were so small, however, that Tom had to actually stand up and step out half way so that he could wipe himself.  Turned sideways, the high school senior wiped himself, again and again.  He kept looking at the bathroom door, readying to throw himself against it if it were to start to open; only turning his gaze from it so that he could throw a wad of used toilet paper into the Gingerbread Man potty.  

At least the toilet paper was good, not like that cheap sandpaper stuff used at home.  

Another small mercy.

But small mercies weren’t getting his bum any cleaner.  He was starting to get genuinely scared that he might use up the whole roll.  He hadn’t been wearing underwear today, and didn’t want to risk there being a brown spot in his pants.  A-holes like Josh would spring on that in a second and Tom wouldn’t live it down till Christmas.   Standing sideways as he was, Tom only had to look straight ahead to get an idea.

To the right of the door he came in, now almost directly in front of him and pushed up against the wall closest to the door was a changing table.  It wasn’t anything fancy.  Just thick oak with a cabinet beneath it and a vinyl pad on top.  There were even little retractable stairs so that a small child could climb up and down themselves instead of needing a boost.  

More to the point, atop that changing table, was a spare box of baby wipes.  That’d do it!  Awkwardly, Tom penguin-waddled with his pants around his ankles over to the box, removing a single wipe.  Only one would be needed.

Feeling like an idiot, he shuffled back over to the stalls and dragged the cool, moist towelette between his cheeks.  Even nicer than the quilted toilet paper!  He folded it over for one last swipe, just in case.  Clean as a whistle!

Done wiping, Tom turned to the toilet and prepared to throw the used wipe in.  And stopped.  He thought he remembered something about how flushing baby wipes could cause the toilet to clog.  That wouldn’t do.  Instead, he flushed, and used wipe in his hand, he looked back over to the changing table.  Maybe there was a garbage can or diaper pail nearby.  

He shuffled over to where he’d found the box and looked around.  Nothing.  Nada.  Nothing by the sides.  His eyes lowered to the cabinet.  Squatting down like a catcher at a baseball game, Tom opened the double doors to the compartment beneath the changing table.  

A little bundle fell out at the high school senior’s feet, causing him to flinch and scoot back a little.  He looked to his feet and breathed easier. Just a backpack.  Quickly, his eyes scanned over the interior shelves. Diapers and Pull-Ups greeted him, and Tom felt his breath go shallow and his heart skip a beat.   Just like at the grocery store the other day, the young man felt an inexplicable fixation.  

He felt a pulse; a throbbing sensation. And it wasn’t strictly in his heart; and it wasn’t strictly in his brain.  He shuddered, staring at the Luvs and the Pull-Ups.  Purple monkeys next to Mickey Mouse’s fade when wet designs called to him.  The scents of lavender perfume mingled with baby powder beckoned him.

Nervously, Tommy’s eyes shifted to the right inside of the cabinet. A bit of stainless steel gleaned from the darkness.   “Bingo,” Tom whispered to himself, as he lifted the lid of the tiny waste basket and threw his used wipe away. 

Baby stuff.  That’s stupid.  Even if it might make him seem cute and cuddly, like what Amanda was talking about: Sitting on her lap.  Being tickled.  And played with.

They wouldn’t even fit him.  Scrawny he might be, but Tom wasn’t the size of an actual kid.  Stuff like diapers and Pull-Ups were a commodity, too.  The teacher probably kept track of them; probably had potty charts somewhere and would know if one or two went missing.  Teachers did that, right?  Right.  Best to leave them alone.

The little voice in his head, that sound of himself wishing and wanting the cute crinkly things that he’d talked to in the grocery store whined, but knew that his more rational adult analysis was correct.

Exhaling dejectedly, Tom looked down at his feet..  He chided himself, realizing he hadn’t even pulled his pants up.  “Idiot.” He chided himself quietly.  Yet for some reason, he didn’t think to correct his compromised position.  “Dumb dumb dumb.”  

He’d better put the backpack back in there, he knew.  With both hands he carefully picked the bag up, and felt something jostle inside.  What did three year olds need backpacks for anyway.  Then, he took a closer look at it.

There, on the top of the backpack, just above the zipper, written in black sharpie marker, was a name:  “Tommy”.

His whole body tensed up.  This was his backpack.  It belonged to him.  Not really.  ‘Tom’, ‘Thomas’, and “Tommy’  were still common enough names, but young Master Dean couldn’t help but feel a strange connection.   Unbidden, going on a kind of trance-like reflex, Thomas’s hands unzipped the backpack;  his eyes taking it in as each tooth in the zipper uncoupled itself while the metal buckle glided past on its track.  

Slowly he opened the backpack.  He shouldn’t be doing this.  He shouldn’t be doing this.  But he was doing this.

He reached in, and when he withdrew his hand, out came a clear plastic bundle.  Half empty, and with the top roughly opened, it was a package of underwear.  Kiddie underwear.  Brightly colored underwear.  White, mostly, with trims in different colors.  

Red. Yellow. Green. Orange. Blue.  

It made sense.  Preschooler.  Potty trained.  Doesn’t need diapers or training pants anymore, but...accidents happen.  So send him to school with some extra undies just in case.  Easy.  Makes sense.  Practical.  

And this kid.  This ‘Tommy’.  He probably doesn’t have accidents all that often.  Hence just a backpack full of spares.  Just in case.  Chances are that the teacher didn’t keep count of these.  One single pair wouldn’t be missed.  Would it?  Of course not.  Not by the preschool teacher.  Certainly not by Tommy.

Still not thinking, or more accurately, not admitting to himself what he was doing, Tom reached into the little clear plastic bag and took out the underwear inside.  The blue trim one. He unfolded it and took a closer look.  A sharp inhale cut into his lungs.

Chase.  It was Chase.   Paw Patrol.  Just like training pants he’d seen on Saturday.  Still in a trance, Tom rubbed the inseam with his thumb and forefinger  rather like checking a baby’s diaper.  It was thicker in the front than in the back.  A little extra padding woven in to contain tiny dribbles, if not outright wettings.  These weren’t disposable, but they were definitely training pants.

That’s when Tom knew.  He was taking these.  He was taking this underwear.  He flipped open the inside and checked the size.  

4-5T

Pulse racing and breath catching in his chest, he slid off his shoes and wiggled out of his pants.  Gingerly, as though they were made of tissue paper, he slipped his feet into the leg holes, closed his eyes, and thought skinny thoughts as he shimmied the toddler pants up his hips.

Amazingly, they fit.  They probably shouldn’t have.  But they did.  He slid over past Pinnochio to look in the sink’s mirror.  Was it deja vu, fantasy, or nostalgia that caused such a massive dopamine release in Tom?  

Didn’t know.  Didn’t care.

All that Tom noticed was that he was in a T-shirt and kiddie undies with Chase on the front.    He looked like a giant preschooler.  He didn’t whisper as much as mouth the words “Chase is on the case” and felt a silly little grin form on his lips.  

He looked cute.  Like something Amanda might wanna cuddle, and tickle, and play with, and let sit on her lap.  Hadn’t Cameron quipped something about getting a small dog?  Paw Patrol had lots of little pups.  In the darkest parts of his soul, Tom fantasized about that being close enough.  His penis was pressed up against him, with the tight underwear being not quite equipped for a little boy with a man sized package.  It didn’t help that blood was starting to rush there, causing his member to engorge.

He reached down between his legs, and rubbed himself through the front, the extra bit of cloth making him have to press just a little bit harder.  It only made the feeling that much more intense.  The top row of his teeth bit down into his bottom lip to suppress a low moan.

This was a bad idea.  This was a bad idea.  He really shouldn’t do this. 

Betting down the sides of his tongue he hustled back over to the Gingerbread Man stall and sat down on the toddler toilet.  He leaned back against the wall, his shoulders being cradled by the imaginary arms of the Gingerbread Man, stretching out his legs for comfort.

Through the front of the training pants, his training pants now, he started rubbing himself, teasing himself bit by bit.  This was a bad idea.  This was wrong.

No.  Not wrong, the little voice inside his head whispered to him.  Just naughty.  And sometimes naughty could be fun.  

His teasing himself picked up the pace as he started to rub himself in earnest.  Hrnnn...internally he grunted.  Not quite right.  He was chafing.  If he really picked up speed, the dark clinical part of his mind told him, he’d give himself a rug burn on his dick.

He really should stop.

Tom had a choice, he knew.  He could make a good decision, or have a good time….but not both.

Thinking quickly he darted to the underside of the changing table and grabbed a small travel sized container of baby powder.  He pulled the front of his new shorts open and sprinkled a hefty amount down and around his crotch, letting a little puff come out as the front waistband snapped closed and enjoying the cool soothing feeling on his dick as the powder settled it.

Now he looked AND smelled like a little kid.

With no time to lose, Tom took his place back on the potty, legs stretched out and he started rubbing himself again.  Oh yeah.  That’s good.  The baby powder was helping things slide along nicely.  No chafing.  No rashes for little Tommy.  

Lids half closed,  he still wearily eyed the door. No doors on the stall.  Someone might just walk in.  But that only made it more exciting, didn’t it?

That’s what this potty was for.  Little guys like him couldn’t be trusted to go potty all by himself, could they?  A teacher, or maybe even a highschool volunteer- one who wanted to play with cuties like him-had to be able to pop in at any second and check in on him.  Make sure he was okay and that he was using the potty like he should.

Oh.  That hit a good  nerve.

Tom’s real eyes went hazy as he imagined the door squeaking open, and Amanda peaked in, checking to see if he had made it in time.  He had been holding his pee-pee and had run off to the potty without permission.  Teacher had sent in a trusted senior to check up on him since she was so busy looking after the other kids. 

At least, that’s what he pretended had happened.   Looking down at his pants on the floor, she grinned and shook her head, knowing the truth before even Tommy did. 

Eyes now fully closed, Tommy saw his unrequited crush swish over to him and take a knee.  His free hand playing with his balls and pressing them into him.  He was shrinking.  Shrinking there on the toddler potty.  And Dream Amanda was gingerly poking and prodding at his wet training pants.

“Uh-oh.  I think you had an accident, little guy.”  Tommy whispered to himself, hearing it come out in Amanda’s voice.  “Do you know what that means?”  Tommy shook his head.  He was lying.  He did know.  

“It means that Miss Amanda needs to get you all dry and clean. Come on bubby.  Up ya go.”  Tommy bent his knees as he imagined her scopping him up and carting him over to the changing table.  No steps for him.

His lips moved to the imagined words.  “Don’t worry, little bubby.  You’re not in trouble.  You did your best and that’s all that matters.”  Just like in Malacus, he was small and fragile, but loved, oddly in control.  The hero.

In real life, Tommy’s legs lifted higher off the floor as he imagined Amanda shimmying his Paw Patrol undies off of his hips.  “Let’s see,” she said, looking under the changing table.  “What am I gonna put you in, now?  Diapers or Pull-Ups?  Diapers or Pull-Ups?”

She brought forth a rectangular piece of folded fabric.  “I don’t think Charlie will mind loaning one of his diapers with you,” she said.  Still there in the open bathroom stall, Tommy thrusted his hips a little bit as he imagined Amanda lifting them and sliding a freshly unfolded diaper underneath his bum.  

Her eyes traveled down to his blood engorged member.  “Oh-hoh!” she giggled.  “Is that what happened?  Did the big boy have an accident because he couldn’t point his pee-pee down?”  Tommy gripped himself all the harder.  Then he/Dream Amanda said,  “Here.  Let me help, honey.”

Whether it was Amanda beating him off, or Tommy masturbating was all a matter of perspective.  A telepath would have said the former.  A security camera would have indicated the latter.  Fortunately for Tommy, neither was present, and it wasn’t until he was pumped into an absolute frenzy, all but hearing the actual crinkle of the imaginary diaper beneath him, practically feeling the non-existed vinyl mat beneath his shoulders, that his self-control finally gave up the ghost and completely overwhelmed, rushed him to orgasm; hot ejaculate pumping forth into his purloined undies.

Those training pants were his now.  It would have been cruel to give them back.  Not to mention rude.

And not a moment too soon.

“Hello?”  A voice called out.  It was the preschool teacher.  “Are you okay?”

Tommy scrambled off the potty, yanked up his pants and quickly buttoned them.  Not even thinking  of removing the ill-gotten undies.  “Yeah.  Sorry!” He called out.  “Just having some stomach problems.”  Quick as a bunny, he slipped his shoes back on and stashed the kids’ backpack back under the changing table where he found it and closed the cabinet as quietly as he could.  “I’m coming...out,” he called, trying to hide the noise he must be making.  

Please don’t look like a freak, please don’t look like a freak.  

He opened the door, his heart thudding in his chest.  Over her shoulder, the preschoolers were still snacking playing.  He couldn’t even look the woman in the eye.  “Everything alright?”

“Just a...tight fit.” Tom said.  He motioned back.  It was kind of the truth.  “Chili day, too.”  

Please don’t look like a freak.  Please don’t look like a freak.  Please let the erection have gone down.

“Ah”, the teacher said.  “That’s why I bring my lunch from home.”

Tom grimaced.  “No such luck.  Thank you very much.”

Please don’t look like a freak.  Please don’t look like a freak.  Please let the erection have gone down.  Please Don’t have the bathroom smell like baby powder and cum….did cum even have a distinctive enough or strong enough odor?

Tommy didn’t wait any longer.  He brushed past the teacher, and weaved out “Gotta go.”  He all but closed his eyes, speed walking.  He wished he could have closed his ears, too.  

Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught.  

That was the problem with masturbation.  It was the best thing ever until it stopped.  Then the real world poked its head in and started meddling.

Thank goodness that whatever karma he’d earned by bringing the snacks and helping Lunch Lady Phyllis was on his side, because the teacher didn’t call out, and neither had asked him his name.  Within two minutes he was back across campus in the safety and familiarity of Fourth Period English class, just before the late bell after Lunch.

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Kiesha Thompson walked into the student bathroom in her classroom, sniffing around.  She didn’t know the kid who’d just asked to use her bathroom, but something seemed suspicious about him.  Like he was hiding something…

Trying to smoke pot in the preschool bathroom wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d heard of one of these idiot teens doing.  She chuckled to herself.  The teenage years really were like a second toddlerhood for some.  Especially boys.

The putrid scent of improperly digested feces invaded her nose and Kiesha almost gagged.  Ugh.  Okay.  Yeah.  Never mind.  Maybe the guy had just let a big deuce drop and was embarrassed about it.  Definitely not weed, though.  

Out of force of habit, she went over to the changing table and opened up the bottom compartment.  Time to get some air freshener!   Out of the cabinet tumbled a blue backpack.  “How did this get here?” she wondered.  It didn’t look like any of her students’ belongings, and she wasn’t one to put school supplies with the Pull-Ups.  

Weird.

She found a name, written in black sharpie marker on top. “Tommy?”  She read the name written on the back pack.  “Who’s Tommy?”  

The sound of roughhousing from outside told her she’d have to find out later.  Kiesha hurried out of her class’s bathroom and back to the little makeshift playground not thirty feet away, leaving the errant bookbag on the floor.

Meanwhile, from beneath the changing table, a gentle white mist creeped out, quietly lifted the backpack on it’s smokey tendrils and ushered it back into the quiet darkness beneath the changing table.  

The next time that Kiesha Thompson, or anyone, looked underneath that table, all they’d find were the usual Pull-Ups for the kids who hadn’t quite mastered the potty and diapers to go over certain underwear during naptime “just in case”.