Author's Notes: Written for the Cuff 'Em, Vamp 'Em or Just Make 'Em Come Already Multi-Fandom Challenge with the prompt of 'Coming without being touched.' Thanks to Sihaya Black and The Star Fish for beta, and for The Amused One for extreme cheerleading.

Suzanne, who he'd decided was the work of a particularly malicious devil, smacked him in the face with Toad. Again.

"Hey, ow! That's enough, kids. Let me up now, and we'll finish the story." He forced the joviality, smiling with gritted teeth. "And then it will be bedtime."

It had started out as fun--educational, imaginative fun, even--but transmuted quite rapidly to a personal hell. He couldn't believe he'd been so gullible, helping them, providing them with some of the very cords that bound him, particularly considering how wily and chaotic this particular trio of pint-sized hellions was. How he'd managed to get the children to don their pajamas before he started the story was still an utter mystery to him. Of course it wasn't entirely his fault. Constable Fraser bore the lion's share of blame for this predicament. If Constable Fraser had asked, he'd have willingly told Constable Fraser just how bad he was with children--with references, if necessary--and, more to the point, that he'd had plans for the evening that certainly didn't involve children. Or, unless he was far luckier than his usual wont, bondage. Definitely not children and bondage. But another, more appropriate babysitter could have been located. Miss Vecchio, perhaps, or one of her relations.

And to add insult to this ignominy? They weren't even Canadian children.

As Robbie climbed on him again, he cupped his hands protectively as far over his genitals, still aching from Suzanne's small and deadly knee, as he could.

"Shut up, bozo. We don't care about the stupid story." Robbie held up a roll of white, waterproof medical tape.

So that was what the loud crash from the washroom had been. "No, no, no, no, no--"

Suzanne grabbed handfuls of his hair and held his head steady.

"--Ow! Stop it! No, no, no--"

Robbie tore off a piece of the tape, sticking it firmly over Renfield's lips and smacking the edges down. Suzanne laughed and pulled his hair some more. He felt like weeping. The Queen's bedroom would never be the same, and, oh dear, Constable Fraser would be so disappointed in him--

Watching him as if he was a turtle on its back, Suzanne pinched his nostrils closed.

And, horror of horrors, he had to let her do it. The grip she had would break his nose if he tried to shake her hand off and then he'd be unable to breathe even if she did let go. Worse, beneath the shield of his fingers, not far from where Robbie sat upon his stomach, he was now hiding the beginning of an--inappropriate, shameful, disturbing, and, above all, involuntary--erection. And, oh God, he was going to die or come at the hands of a couple of prepubescent sadists, and Constable Fraser or Inspector Thatcher would find his lifeless body, and he would be sued--posthumously, despite the paucity of his estate--for child sexual abuse and for utterly disgracing the RCMP...

Then Suzanne let go of his nose, hit him with Toad again, and announced, "I'm tired. And I want cookies."

While he gasped in relief at her short attention span, hoping only in the vaguest terms that her desire for cookies might mean his freedom, Robbie kneed him in the stomach, yelling his approval of the cookies idea, and Annie, her every movement indicating her boredom, got up from where she'd been sitting and ignoring her siblings.

"Here, read your dumb boy's book." Annie slammed his treasured hardcover of Gulliver's Travels onto his chest, opened to the title page. "Bozo."

For one brief moment, he wished--oh, so immaturely--that he could stick his tongue out at her, but she was leaving the room, nose already buried in her--apparently--not stupid girl's paperback, the younger pair in tow.

And he was alone, struggling in earnest for several minutes. He succeeded in doing nothing more than giving himself a--as he believed it was called in the colorful vernacular used by Detective Vecchio--wedgie, and determining--again--that the Morse children had a better grasp of knot-tying than the average sailor.

He had the sinking suspicion that he was doomed to lie there, trussed on the floor behind Inspector Thatcher's desk, until Constable Fraser and the children's mother returned, however long that might be. His stomach growled its displeasure at missing dinner, and he sighed resignedly. Dinner would be all the better for waiting, after all--more marinating time for the steak strips could only improve his planned stir fry--even though he assumed he no longer had someone to share it with. Married hockey players weren't known for their patience, and Danny was less patient than most. Ah, well. It wasn't as if they had any sort of future together... but it would have been nice. It had been entirely too long since he'd had an uncomplicated date, and Danny--three nights ago when they'd made this one--had nearly promised water sports.

And, speaking of which, thank his lucky stars that he'd used the washroom--despite excellent bladder control honed by long stints of guard duty--prior to the Morses' arrival at the Consulate. It was bad enough that he was in such embarrassing straits without adding the humiliation of bepissing himself to the mix.

At least his penis was behaving itself again.

Another crash from the direction of the kitchen--almost certainly the cookie jar--followed by peals of childish laughter, made him wince. The stealthy silence afterwards was terrifying in comparison, and he tensely awaited the next catastrophe or the return of his juvenile tormentors. Surely Constable Fraser wouldn't be away for too much longer...

He waited, but nothing happened.

Eventually, after the Consulate had been quiet--the silence of sleeping children, rather than the dangerous lack of sound of children up to no good--for a while he let himself relax and think about what had happened and just why he'd started getting hard. Because it wasn't the children's fault; oh, yes, it was their actions, but not their fault. Nor was it the potential of his date with Danny; despite all the tantalizing options he seemed to offer, bondage and erotic asphyxiation were not likely amongst them, not straightforward enough, somehow. He should have known better than to let the kids tie him up, even for their--lie--innocent request of 'Let's play Gulliver and the Lilliputters,' but how could he have anticipated that Suzanne would cut off his air like that? God, it hadn't happened in years...

"No, stop thinking about sex," he told himself firmly. His stomach rumbled again. "And food, don't think about food."

It took some effort, but he managed to direct his thoughts safely to curling. That lasted for a while, interspersed with despairing that Constable Fraser would never return. However, as he grew more and more drowsy, unable to yawn with the tape on his lips, he couldn't help but think of the games of his own childhood. When he was a youngster, nobody would ever think of tying up a grownup! It was Cowboys and Indians, Pirates, kids' games, playing... playing...

"Still won't talk, eh?"

He blinked, closed his eyes tightly, and then opened them again. He was no longer trussed, in uniform, on the floor of Inspector Thatcher's office. He was standing shirtless, sweating, his brother's hand-me-down jeans hanging loosely on his hips, his arms stretched taut over his head. The straw of the Fergusons' barn prickled his bare toes as he struggled in vain to free his hands, his ankles bound with his belt. He shook his head.

Rough, clever, familiar hands--hands he'd not felt since he was a teenager--reached around his ribcage holding a pair of clothespins. He shivered in spite of the heat, holding his breath and remaining resolutely silent as the clothespins were clamped onto his nipples.

He couldn't remember what game they were playing anyway.

His tormentor moved to stand in front of him. Gordie, who wrote flower poems and had a mean streak a kilometer wide; Gordie, who was the most inventive and imaginative of them all, with his ideas about saddles and rosebushes and ants. The minister's only son, the one who'd told him--and he should know--that it wasn't masturbation if you did it to somebody else.

Gordie pulled another pair of clothespins from his pockets. "Where did you hide the loot?"

Oh, so that's what they were playing. Cops and Robbers. For a second, he wondered what the loot was today--the cookies from his lunch?--but he really didn't care. How ironic, though, that he was now a Mountie and Gordie was doing hard time in prison...

"I'll never tell. Do your worst!"

With a wicked grin, Gordie started decorating his chest, stomach, and armpits with random clothespins. He squirmed and moaned; the soft denim of his worn jeans chafing the sensitive head of his painfully erect penis--his cock, Gordie called it his cock--because he wasn't wearing underwear. And, oh, God it hurt, everything hurt, but, oh, it was so good when Gordie pressed his body against him, jarring the clothespins, and kissed him, hard, with tongue. And Gordie was hard, too, tan and lithe and beautiful.

His breath caught in his throat as Gordie stepped away and started pulling his own belt free of his jeans. "I'm gonna have to whip it out of you, aren't I?"

"No, please, no..."

"Then tell me where it is," Gordie ordered, moving behind him again.

But he didn't know where it was, didn't even know what it was, and he couldn't spoil the game, didn't want to. He was a Turnbull; he would be strong and take whatever Gordie dished out like a man. The belt landing across his shoulders caught him in mid-"Never!" and changed the word to a yell of surprise.

"Oh yeah, you'll tell me," Gordie said, and then counterproductively stuffed his rolled t-shirt into Renfield's mouth, tying the ends roughly behind his head, as a makeshift gag. "You'll tell me and you'll beg for mercy, Rennie. And maybe, if you're good, you'll get to suck my cock."

His mouth watered at the thought, easing the dryness of his tongue against the dirty white cotton of the shirt. Then Gordie was unbuttoning and--carefully, ever so carefully--unzipping his tented jeans, yanking them down to his knees, and Renfield was looking down at his own silly, bobbing erection, wishing desperately that Gordie would touch it, would suck him, would--

Stop--never stop--stop--oh, God, spanking him wildly with the belt, his ass on fire with every stroke of the cracked, rough leather while he--never stop, please, stop--yelled into the gag, humping air, blinking away the sweat that trickled into his eyes and wondering--fleetingly, not caring--how they'd gotten from the barn to the patch of woods up behind Old Man Mulgrew's place, melting into the pain and, when the strapping ceased, the pleasure of Gordie's caresses.

"You have beautiful children," he heard from terribly far away.

"They're rats. But you know, when you see them like this, you remember why you really wanted them."

God! Who was watching them? He froze in fear, echoes of his parents' lectures about fornication ringing in his ears, but Gordie just kept licking along his spine and rubbing the belt over his stinging, welted buttocks. He moaned.

No, it wasn't fornication; this was playing. No matter that he was fifteen and Gordie was sixteen and they should have long outgrown this sort of play. How could it be fornication if there were no girls involved? It couldn't have been, or he'd have been sent straight to hell without any supper.

And Gordie was beautiful, even if he wasn't. But Gordie always told him that he was hot--so hot like this, growled in his ear, so fucking hot--when it was just the two of them like this and they'd reached the point of forgetting they were playing.

Two of Gordie's spit-slicked fingers penetrated him abruptly, and he yelped.

"Oh, yeah, Rennie, that hurt? Tell me where you hid the loot."

He shook his head, dizzy and ecstatic, biting down on the cloth gagging him. As Gordie's digits twisted and scissored inside him, Gordie flicked several of the clothespins off his chest with the belt. God, he was going to die--come--don't stop, please don't, Gordie, please... Every time the belt landed, Gordie's fingers drove deeper, Gordie's breath blew hot against his neck and ear, Gordie's cock hard against his hip. Please, please... Gordie swung again; the belt snapped the final clothespins off his stomach. Gordie licked his ear delicately. His every nerve was singing with pain and pleasure and he was com--

Heart-stopping cold wetness and snuffling in his ear brought him instantly awake. If he weren't tied so firmly to the furniture, he'd have been on the ceiling. It took him several moments to identify the horror as a potential savior, to calm the palpitations he was certain he'd die from.

It wasn't until he tried to speak that he remembered the gag, that there was no way to communicate his needs to a deaf wolf.

He nearly wept in frustration, cursing incoherently through the tape, as Diefenbaker shifted from licking his ear to licking his face. One final lick, then Dief wormed his way through the cords to his side, curling up--and pulling some of the cords painfully tighter--and, with a gusty canine snort, fell asleep.

The consulate was eerily silent, except for the snoring wolf at his side. He drifted, half-hoping he'd fall back to sleep and his dream would continue from where it had left off. He started at every noise, the ventilation system's stops and starts, the creaks of the old building settling, certain that each one signaled either rescue or further attacks by Ms. Morse's brood. A nearby groan sent yet another shock of adrenalin through him, and he stared wide-eyed into the darkness, not breathing until he realized it was Dief, muttering in his doggy dreams.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the pain in his wrists. He breathed deeply, striving to relax and not think about sex.

He drifted for a while, somewhere between sleep and waking. He thought he was doing fairly well. This was just like guard duty, after all, lying down indoors instead of standing outdoors. Nothing sexual about it at all, nothing at all exciting.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin' yourself that."

He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. Ray Vecchio, nee Kowalski, stood with one booted foot on his chest, looking down at him with too-knowing eyes and a wicked, carnal smile.

He closed his eyes tightly, praying that he was hallucinating. Or dreaming. Ray wasn't there, couldn't be there. He raised his bound wrists and numb hands the few centimeters he was able; if Ray were real, he'd be freed...

"Those cuffs too tight?"

Renfield could hear the scorn in Ray's voice. Cuffs? He could have sworn his wrists were tied with a jump rope; as he lowered them again, however, he heard the unmistakable metal on metal of handcuffs. Cringing, he nodded. An incalculable time passed while he waited breathlessly, knowing Ray's gaze was sweeping over his body, waves of conflicted longing coursing through him.

"Good."

The sound of a zipper made him gasp. No, Ray couldn't be... no...

"Open those baby blues, Turnbull." The toe of Ray's boot nudged his chin. "C'mon, look at me."

God, Ray was carrying through on his repetitive threats of kicking him in the head in a way he never could have imagined. He shook his head again, trying not to whimper, utterly aroused against his will.

"Look at me." Ray's boot prodded his jaw again, harder this time. He bit his tongue, tasted blood. "Open your fucking eyes and watch me. You want to watch me..."

"I don't want to watch you, I want to touch you," he wanted to say. "I want you to touch me. Please... please... please!" He opened his eyes, tried to sit up, wanting to get closer, closer... But Ray was so far away, standing straddling him, his feet on either side of Renfield's chest. He moaned as Ray began to stroke himself.

"Oh, yeah, that's good... good..." Ray bit his own lip, still smirking.

He found himself watching the way Ray's knuckles shifted, the way he applied less pressure with his middle finger, and the way he moved his thumb. He couldn't focus directly on Ray's cock; it was too much. Like a total eclipse, it could only be viewed obliquely.

Then Ray made it impossible for him to focus on anything else by kneeling so he was straddling his face. And he could smell... oh, God, and hear every tiny movement Ray's hand made on his spectacular cock. He knew better than to close his eyes again, but tried to turn his face away, overwhelmed. Ray's thighs prevented this, firm pressure on each side of his head, and Ray chuckled, his buttocks shifting on Renfield's chest.

Ray tightened his thighs, lifting Renfield's head, and caressed Renfield's forehead with the soft, long, elegant fingers of his left hand. "Why are you fighting? Hmm? Why aren't you paying," Ray tapped Renfield's forehead with the tips of his index and ring fingers, hard, and brushed the tip of Renfield's nose with the head of his penis, "...attention? I'm doin' you a favor, after all."

And wasn't that the problem, really? What made this more torture than if Ray were punching him in the face. That this was a pity fuck that wasn't even a fuck and he knew it and couldn't do anything about it. Couldn't even actively participate, as he had in the several other pity fucks he'd had the dubious fortune of experiencing. And at least the others had had the--decency wasn't the right word, but how could he think of the right word with Ray's dick right in front of his eyes--courtesy, maybe, to wait until after they were done fucking him to tell him, even if he'd suspected all along.

But he paid attention like Ray told him to; because he knew deep down this was his only chance, all he'd get from Ray ever. So he watched and suffered, wanting and humiliated, and Ray kept masturbating, groaning his pleasure, watching Renfield's face.

Suddenly--he wasn't sure how because he could have sworn it was one of the cords binding him, and he'd been paying attention--his lanyard was around his throat, above the collar of his uniform, and Ray was pulling it snug, wrapping the slack around and around the knuckles of his left hand.

"You take it up the ass, Turnbull? I bet you do. Bet you'd love it if I fucked you on the Ice Queen's desk right now."

He knew his eyes were pleading, begging, telling Ray the truth about his fear and desire, and he closed them again. This time Ray let him, speeding up the movement of his hand and rubbing the head of his cock on the tape sealing his mouth, drawing the cord more taut with every breath.

"Yeah, you'd fucking love that... Not going to happen... going to... choke you and come... all over your... face...."

And Ray was yanking the lanyard now, pulling it tighter and tighter as he fought to breathe, his blood pounding in his ears with a sound like the wing-beats of Canada geese. And he was so close--so close!--and despite his eyes being firmly closed he was seeing, impossibly, Ray's exultant expression, his bared teeth and fierce eyes and then nothing at all...

Until the pain of a brutal backhand shocked him back to gasping awareness, tears leaking between the lashes of his right eye.

"How dare you!"

He pried open his eyes slowly, afraid.

An older man--a sergeant--whom he'd never seen before stood frowning over him, eyes sparking with anger. "How dare you fall asleep while you're on duty, Constable. You call yourself a Mountie?"

He nodded sheepishly, blushing.

"You should be ashamed. In my day, we never fell asleep on duty. Why, I remember tracking Hugo Lightfoot--no relation to Gordon--for six solid days without sleep, across ice so slick you could curl on it. I was hallucinating by the end and nearly arrested a tree, but I got him, by God! And you?" The stranger snorted contemptuously. "You fall asleep baby-sitting."

He wished he could retort angrily to the--entirely true--accusation, took a deep breath, in fact, to do so no matter how unintelligible the result might be, but then Diefenbaker woke and sat up. The pressure on the binding around his wrists lessened instantly, and he groaned loudly instead as the circulation increased, bringing pain in its wake.

"You should be ashamed, too, Diefenbaker," the stranger said. Diefenbaker ignored him, yawning hugely, and wormed his way out of the web holding Renfield down.

Something shifted. The pain in Renfield's hands changed to pins and needles, and he whimpered in relief. Diefenbaker trotted away; the stranger followed, still muttering about duty and the dereliction thereof. Renfield closed his eyes again, defeated. Would no one free him? He waited, listening, but the man didn't return.

He moved his hips experimentally. Oh, that felt good, odd, but good. The brush of his still shamefully erect penis shifted the tingly feeling around in his fingers, and he could apply a little pressure with his hands again. Oh... Oh, so much better than the numb, dead weight they were for so long.

"Ah, there you are, Constable Turnbull." Constable Fraser rounded Inspector Thatcher's desk, glancing down at him offhandedly, as if he was just another piece of furniture, before opening the pencil drawer of the desk.

Renfield stilled his hips, blushing.

Constable Fraser didn't seem to notice. "We have a busy day today. The Queen's Bedroom needs a thorough cleaning, and I do mean thorough." He pulled a riding crop from the drawer, flexed it experimentally, nodded, and tapped it against his boot, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Something was... off. Not that Constable Fraser wasn't really paying attention to him; that was rather commonplace. No, something was different about Constable Fraser.

Once he pegged the difference, he moaned. Constable Fraser's uniform was leather. From head to toe, he was clad in soft, supple, brilliantly dyed leather that clung to him like Renfield wished desperately he could.

"Tonight, Constable, Inspector Thatcher is entertaining the Chairman of the Beef Marketing Board."

Renfield shuddered, thankful he could go home at the end of the day. The Chairman looked--and smelled--like one of the beeves he was in charge of marketing. He acted like one, as well; once Renfield had nearly had to resort to violence when the honorable Chairman wouldn't back off in the kitchen hallway, and the Inspector, upon hearing of it, had promised him he'd never have to deal with the man's untoward advances in the future.

"She doesn't want the...ah...discipline problems...attending that gentleman's last visit, therefore she instructed me to properly tenderize and marinate you in advance."

Once the meaning of Constable Fraser's words sank in, he struggled furiously in his bonds. It was as if his fondest dream and his worst nightmare were coming true simultaneously. Yes, he had a vast array of fantasies that centered on being more a consular sex slave than a Temporary Assistant Interim Associate Deputy Liaison Officer and catering to Constable Fraser's--and certain select visitors'--every sexual whim, but this was just... just beyond bearing. Not the Chairman of the Beef Marketing Board! He'd rather stand guard duty naked in January... or baby-sit the obnoxious Morse children for weeks at his apartment. And yet, his erection wasn't flagging; in fact he was so aroused it was nearly painful.

"Come now, Constable, you know your function here is to follow orders, however distasteful you find them. Your lack of discipline is truly disappointing."

He stopped fighting instantly, his heart aching, fighting back tears. He never wanted to disappoint Constable Fraser. He whimpered, wishing he could protest that it wasn't his fault, wishing he could kneel contritely at Constable Fraser's feet and prove his obedience and devotion--oh, please, sir! I'm sorry, sir!--by whatever means Constable Fraser deemed necessary, if it meant he wouldn't have to suffer the Chairman's attentions.

Still not looking directly at him, as if this was an ordinary, somewhat tedious, everyday occurrence, Constable Fraser tucked the riding crop under his left arm, and began to pace. "Much better. You should be grateful that I persuaded the Inspector that displaying you on a meat hook in the foyer was in poor taste--"

Renfield nodded frantically, squirming, because--oh, God--how horrible yet disturbingly arousing the idea was, and he was ever so honestly grateful to avoid it being real.

"--despite how much it would please the Chairman and be an appropriate punishment for the deplorable condition of the Queen's Bedroom." Constable Fraser abruptly stopped pacing, his frown deepening slightly, and turned on his heels to face Renfield again. "Are you fondling yourself, Constable?"

He shook his head. He wasn't, at least not intentionally; his hands were completely numb again. But he ached to, oh so very badly, because Constable Fraser was finally looking directly at him, really noticing him, and his cock throbbed in time with his heartbeat as Constable Fraser strode toward him.

Bending over him and looking into his eyes, Constable Fraser trailed the tip of the riding crop from Renfield's temple down to his chin, the gentlest caress of leather on his skin. "What have you been up to, Constable? Hmm? Has someone been playing with you without asking me first?"

He held his breath, not daring the slightest movement, unsure how to reply.

Constable Fraser ran a gloved finger through the remaining semen on his face, sniffing, then licking it almost absentmindedly, still meeting his eyes. "Piquant." His frown cleared, but his expression remained stern. "I expect that you showed Ray the fullest hospitality while he was here."

But... but it couldn't have been real... could it? His lanyard wasn't around his throat. "Sleep apnea," his brain--quite rationally--informed him. He nodded, anyway, because he would willingly show Ray that sort of hospitality if he were asked to.

"Good man." Constable Fraser ran his spit-slicked finger along Renfield's gag. "Did you achieve orgasm, Constable?"

Trembling, the scent of the moist leather filling his nostrils, near delirious with need, he shook his head. Oh, God, please... please...

Constable Fraser nodded, nearly smiling. "Very good." He moved his hand away, straightened up, and glanced toward Renfield's crotch before meeting his gaze again. "I suggest you do so now."

"Sir?" he tried to ask through the gag.

Constable Fraser's tongue brushed his lower lip.

Renfield's body jolted, the heat in Constable Fraser's eyes searing through him like lightning.

"Come. Now."

And he did; the lightning now a supernova, the hours of pent-up frustration and agony burned utterly away in moments of purest ecstasy that left him shaking and blind.

"No, sir."

"An orphanage?"

There was no conscious transition between sleeping and waking, not that he could discern. Just that one moment where the subject had changed drastically and he became uncomfortably aware of the sticky dampness in his shorts. Muzzily, he listened to Inspector Thatcher, drifting off into another dizzying dream of licking her sensible-yet-sexy pumps, before it hit him.

This was real.

He raised his head, opening his eyes, glorying in the early morning light. His ordeal--and he would call it that, despite the pleasure some of his dreams had brought him--was over. Resting his head back on the floor, he waited, limp with relief, for them to notice him.

"Perhaps, then, it's a bordello."

"No, sir."

"So in conclusion, this is not a place where travelers sleep, nor is it a daycare center, and it is most definitely not an institution where you would bring wayward women to satisfy animal needs and unmentionable underwear."

"Did you mean 'desires,' sir?"

"That's what I said."

"So you did, yes."

"Good. I'm glad we agree. I await your full report with bated breath. Dismissed."

Suddenly it became vitally important to him that Constable Fraser still be there when Inspector Thatcher rounded her desk, what with the evidence of his personal, perverse desires drying in his uniform. Oh, dear, Constable Fraser could undoubtedly smell... oh! His penis twitched, starting to harden, and he struggled again at this betrayal, his long-cramped and sluggish limbs fighting him, in almost hysterical panic.

"Fraser!" the Inspector exclaimed, aghast, rounding her desk alone and spotting him.

Then Constable Fraser was there beside her, and Constable Fraser's eyes met his, and Constable Fraser's tongue brushed over his lower lip.

Renfield's eyes closed, his body, already primed by his hours of erotic dreaming, reacting predictably and treacherously. And he couldn't, he just couldn't, despite his...upset with Constable Fraser, get him in any more trouble with Inspector Thatcher.

Frantically, he tried to come up with something innocuous to say, something to emphasize the innocence of the situation, something to belie the pain and stress and sheer embarrassed horror he had suffered throughout the long night, to deflect them both away from how much he'd--loved--hated--loved being tied up and left there for hours. And oh, thank God for the children leaving the open book on his chest... Tears squeezed from the corners of his tightly shut eyes, and he opened them, changing his sounds of pain and panic to laughter as the inspector reached down and pulled the tape from his lips.

Grinning, ignoring the inspector, he addressed Constable Fraser directly. "Oh! Those kids, sir! What a hoot!"