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Well, here's my take on a Western babyfur story (one that @Horatio Husky did something similar with, except I'm doing mine differently): Desert Fountain! Now as a bit of content warning: there's a bit of body horror (in that some animals' body parts are used as trophies for a sadistic sheriff/judge and age regression to babyhood while still being aware), so yeah, that's a thing. But if you're curious enough to read a Western babyfur story as well as Horatio's wonderful work, welcome to this story! About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. But, anyway, the story: - Chapter One: Bloodblaze Town at Sunset - Locals to the region said that the westernmost town of Bloodblaze had the most beautiful sunsets in the whole of the West - and they would’ve been right, with crimson, scarlet, gold, harvest moon, burnt orange, and all of the prettiest colors on the warm color scheme dancing in the few clouds in that gorgeous sunset. Dakota, known to her friends as “Kota” and her enemies as “The Brazen Bitch of the West”, was gazing at that sunset, waiting for the time to strike at night…for the coyote was a notorious outlaw who had grown up around the region outside of that safe little town, made her living in the so-called “Outskirts”. The Outskirts. A fun little part of the part where the West ended in the midst of a complete desert, where literal monsters roamed, and no one other than outlaws, the Jiingo Tł’é’na’áí Gahe tribe (West Moon Dancers, for easy translation), and the most desperate or foolhardy animals made their living out there, considering how dangerous it was. Not that many of them (the West Moon Dancers, aside) survived more than one night at most without a shelter - and no, tents did not count. She whistled a small tune to herself to occupy her thoughts as she counted the minutes down on her brass pocket watch, all the way down to nightfall. No offense meant to the few townspeople (very few people actually stayed at Bloodblaze because there was nothing really…well, notable other than the sunsets, and Dakota felt that once you saw one sunset, you saw them all, and with the Outskirts as dangerous as they were to both people there and the town itself, you quickly wished for morning light after the sunset ended or you died. One of the two.), but she and her band needed food and water, and the damnable sheriff/judge was notoriously corrupt and not prone to sharing his food and water with anyone, least of all outlaws. He lived like a king with his own private army and left everyone else to suffer. The coyote would’ve gladly met with the town deputy, Washington, to make a deal. The cougar was a friendly enough sort, even to outlaws, so long as they behaved in the town and didn’t cause a ruckus, but the damned sheriff/judge’s laws, from what little she overheard whilst sneaking into the town on occasion (with a damned good disguise) were getting even more draconic, and everyone, Wash included, was too scared to complain. It wasn’t like any of those poor creatures had much of a choice; the sheriff/judge was known as a “hanging judge” for a reason. She curled her lip, her tail instinctively lashing from side to side while she thought about the poor bastards with their skulls, ribs, and hides decorating his office. She had been there once. Never again. Never, ever again. That koala was as monstrous as any of the monsters in the Outskirts, if not more, and she knew what was out there…even if she couldn’t put a proper name or face to any of those beings. That damned judge/sheriff/whatever was the reason she and her gang had been forced into the desperado lifestyle - and she refused to let the animals under her starve. Dakota’s loyal steed, a black Clydesdale colt named Bartolomeo, nickered a bit under her reins, and she stroked his neck. “Shh, it’s okay, boy,” she whispered from the bandana covering her mouth, her ears flicking from either side of her cowgirl hat, trying to calm her steed down. “Easy, Meo, easy.” The Clydesdale snorted a bit, maybe a bit of displeasure with the quickly dropping temperatures (which sent a chill racing down her fur that not even the patchcoat duster and thick clothes she always wore could prevent), but he quickly calmed under the coyote’s gentle strokes. She was alone for now, her turn to go on the twice-weekly supply run. She had to be alone; better for only one of the band to risk themselves on a supply run than more of the group getting caught, and one outlaw sneaking into town under the cover of night was more inconspicuous than the whole group of eleven. Night came, the sunset disappearing over the hills, plunging the entire town into sheer darkness that not even candlelight could penetrate. Dakota nudged Bartolomeo’s sides with her boots, and the Clydesdale trotted until he was in the town. Then she snuck in under the dark cover, trusting her Clydesdale colt to stay where he was. She could feel the sheer crushing pressure this town was under as she went to the warehouse. The door was locked, naturally, but her handy lockpick got her in with ease. The warehouse was bursting at the seams with supplies, as the coyote outlaw sifted through the food and water, having done this once every week (as she was the leader, she figured that she had to lead by example and do everything for her band of fellow outlaws and more) without fail. Dakota went outside to put the food and the water satchels on the packs of her steed. She should’ve noticed that there was a trap set for her. The private army of the sheriff/judge was quickly surrounding the coyote and her steed. She leapt on Bartolomeo, who was already moving, but someone pulled her off before she could get away with the horse, who was dashing off without her out of town, panicking out of instinct. She fought, bit, and scratched with all of her might, unable to get to her guns, her tail lashing from side to side, as she was pinned by the numerous army members, quickly trussed up with her front paws bound behind her, her legs and tail tied together, and a muzzle put on her mouth, so she couldn’t even scream out curses, still wriggling desperately to get out. Then the kangaroo head of the army - a sadist known as Nebraska, Neb for short - stepped on her neck, crushing any chance of her breathing, as he sneered in her ear, “Well, if it ain't the Brazen Bitch herself! I’ll get you to Kansas, and we’ll see what he wants to do with you, you fucking outlaw thief.” Dakota snarled, still trying to fight; dying quickly now - even if her skull, ribs, and hide ended up decorating the koala’s office - was better than whatever the bastard must’ve planned for her for being an outlaw stealing. “Stop squirming; you’re not gonna die,” Neb said cheerfully. “Not yet, at least. If it were me, I’d fucking blow your brains out here and now, but Kansas said he’s got plans for you stealing. Then he’s gonna kill your fucking merry gang of thieves.” Dakota whined behind the muzzle. She couldn’t have her band, her friends, die for her. She desperately tried to breathe; between the kangaroo putting his foot on her neck and the muzzle on her snout, it was getting hard to breathe. Then the head of the army lifted his foot off of her as he hefted her over his left shoulder as easily as one would heft a sack, carrying the coyote outlaw to the sheriff’s office. She hated that place; there were seemingly even more skulls, ribs, and hides than she remembered. The ribs had been made into windchimes that rattled in the breeze outside of the window, the hides decorated the floor, the skulls put on the wall as trophies. And in all of that, the koala slouched in his rocking chair, a friendly smile on his face. Dakota knew that that smile meant that someone was going to die painfully - namely her. He stood up on his short legs, waddling over to her to pinch her cheek until his claws drew blood. “Well, my dear outlaw, aren’t you a cutiepie?” he cooed as if he was talking to a baby. “I know you and your gang of outlaws have been stealing from me. I know how to draw them out; they consider you their friend, and I’ll use that to my advantage. But what am I going to do with you?” Dakota breathed through the muzzle in terror. Torture was almost certainly going to happen. Pain beyond imagining. Then she’d die, and all of her would just be another decoration in his office. “Well, don’t worry; your gang, I’ll make trophies out of, but you, my little outlaw…well, I have a surprise for you, personally. Neb!” The kangaroo saluted. “Take her to the underground fountain!” The coyote was confused. A fountain? What the hell was going on? “You sure about that, boss?” Neb asked tentatively. “Normally, you’re the only one who bathes there…” “And I will soon enough, but she’ll get the full dosage.” The koala was grinning widely, and somehow, it was a thousand times scarier than his smile. “Bring her there. I’ll dunk her in personally. Now put her to sleep.” “Yes, boss!” Nebraska set her on the hard floor of the office, stomped on her head, and she knew no more. - Hope y'all enjoyed~

Treachery and Tumbleweeds By Horatio Husky Commissioned by AnnaNapps Chapter One The Gulch The morning sun spilled across Brass Gulch, painting the bustling frontier town in shades of gold and copper. The air carried a faint metallic tang from the network of steam pipes crisscrossing the buildings, their occasional hisses and puffs a constant reminder of the town’s industrious, steampunk soul. Wooden sidewalks creaked underfoot as residents and travelers hurried about their business, and wagon wheels clattered over cobblestone streets. Above it all, the Brass Fountain gushed a glittering arc of water into the air, its spray catching the light like tiny jewels. Though the town’s residents knew not to drink from it, the occasional traveler might be convinced to take a few sips from the fresh flowing water as a mark of good luck, only to find themselves waddling around babbling nonsense only a few minutes later as the tinged contents reduced their limbs and thoughts to that of one much more docile and giddy. The town was alive with the clamor of commerce. Merchants shouted over the din, their stalls overflowing with goods ranging from exotic fabrics to intricate clockwork trinkets. A blacksmith’s hammer rang out from a nearby forge, the rhythmic clang melding with the lively chatter of townsfolk. Urchins darted through the square, their laughter weaving through the chaos as they played tag around the towering fountain. At the center of it all, Sparky, the sheriff of Brass Gulch, walked with an air of quiet authority. She was a fennec fox, her sandy-colored fur shining in the morning light, her enormous ears twitching as she picked up snippets of conversation from all directions. Dressed in a sleeveless leather vest over a crisp white shirt, a turquoise tie neatly knotted at her throat, and leather chaps that framed the front and back of her thick, plainly visible diaper, she struck a striking figure. The attire, bold even by the town’s standards, was both practical and declarative: Sparky was proud, unflinching, and entirely in control. She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and continued her patrol, the polished brass of her badge catching the sunlight. Her boots clunked rhythmically against the wooden planks, and her sharp eyes scanned the street for signs of trouble. Sparky knew the rhythms of Brass Gulch well, knew how to read its moods like a familiar tune, and something about this morning felt off. Not wrong, exactly, but a little off. Her instincts had been honed over years of keeping order in this chaotic, ever-growing town, and she trusted them implicitly. Ahead, the Brass Gulch Jailhouse loomed, its sturdy walls built of dark ironwood reinforced with brass-plated steel. A pair of copper steam vents flanked the entrance, hissing softly as Sparky pushed through the heavy door. Inside, the familiar scent of polished metal and faint lavender greeted her. The cells were unorthodox for a jail, each equipped with padded cribs instead of bunks, their occupants given basic comforts alongside the occasional meal laced with just enough regression water to keep them placid. Most detainees left as humbled as they were clean, though some were denied changes to let their new situation properly set in. Behind the desk sat Griggs, her deputy, a massive grizzly bear whose imposing size was matched only by his gentle demeanor. He was hunched over a ledger, his clawed fingers scratching notes in neat rows. “Mornin’, Sheriff.” Griggs rumbled without looking up. His voice was deep and steady, as dependable as the man himself. “New one in Cell Three. Caught him swipin’ gears from the clockmaker’s shop.” Sparky raised an eyebrow as she walked to the desk, her ears flicking toward the cells down the hall. “Gears, huh? Not the most creative heist I’ve heard of. What’s his story?” Griggs looked up, his warm brown eyes meeting hers. “Young raccoon. Cocky. Says he was ‘borrowing.’” Sparky’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk. “Let me guess… He didn’t have a return date in mind.” “Nope.” Griggs replied with a soft chuckle. “But I’ll let you hear it from him.” Sparky nodded and made her way to the back of the jailhouse, her boots clinking softly against the polished stone floor. The cells were mostly empty, save for Cell Three, where a wiry raccoon lounged in a padded crib like it was a throne. His striped tail flicked lazily causing the rather soggy diaper affixed to his waist to crinkle distinctly, and his sharp eyes gleamed with amusement as he saw her approach. “Well, if it ain’t the sheriff herself.” He drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face as his tone shifted to a higher pitch. “Come to tuck me in?” “Not unless you ask nicely.” Sparky replied dryly, crossing her arms. “Got quite the nerve, stealing from the clockmaker.” “Stealing’s a strong word.” The raccoon replied smoothly, his diction surprisingly clear given the dose of regression water he should have been under the effects of. Sitting up, he spread his dark paws in mock innocence. “I was jus’ borrowin’. Didn’ think them gears were such a big deal.” “Everything’s a big deal when it belongs to someone else.” Sparky shot back, her tone firm but calm. “You’ll have time to think about that while you’re here.” The raccoon’s grin didn’t falter, but his tail flicked a little faster as he drew a pastel blue blanket over himself. “Well, I guess I’ll just make myself at home then, Sheriff. Thanks for the hospitality.” Sparky didn’t respond, turning on her heel and heading back to the front desk. “He’s too relaxed for his own good.” She muttered to Griggs. “Keep an eye on him. Double his dose” “Already have.” Griggs replied with a tone of exasperation barely concealed in his grumble. His large, heavy paws steady on the desk as he continued. “Not sure if triplin’ or quadruplin’ the dose is a good idea either. He’s already had two changes this morning.” Sparky faltered at this, turning to gaze back at the rows of cells as she considered this fact. She turned back, continuing as she motioned with a paw for the bear to go ahead and increase the dose. “Do so anyway. I think he wants me to think he’s harmless… We’ll see.” As Sparky stepped back into the sunlight, the town seemed different. The clamor of voices in the square had grown softer, replaced by hushed conversations and furtive glances. She paused, her ears swiveling as she picked up snippets of murmured words: “Bandits,” “trouble near the mines,” “more than last time.” Her tail flicked sharply behind her as she scanned the crowd, her sharp eyes narrowing. Brass Gulch had seen its share of bandits before, roving gangs armed with weapons designed to fire regression water to pacify their victims. But this felt different. Bigger. Sparky adjusted her hat and started walking again, her boots clicking steadily against the boardwalk. - = - = - The desert stretched out like an endless sea of sand and stone, the golden horizon rippling in the heat. Sparky adjusted the straps of her saddle and glanced at the small group of townsfolk gathered by the edge of Brass Gulch to see her off. The trouble near the mines had stirred up plenty of whispers, and while most residents were wary of the dangers out there, they trusted her to handle it. It was a sheriff’s duty to step into the fire when others hesitated. Her mount, a sleek, muscular desert rat named Annie, shuffled under her. Annie’s fur was short and bristly, a brilliant white streaked with a few pink patches on her belly. Her large paws were perfect for scrambling over rocky terrain, and her long, whip-like tail swished impatiently. Sparky patted her broad neck as she settled into the cushioned saddle, its padding thick enough to cradle her diapered bottom snugly. She gave a light tug on the reins, the motion accompanied by the faint crinkle of her own garment beneath her chaps. “All right, girl.” She murmured. “Let’s see what these bandits are up to.” Annie let out a low squeak and surged forward, her powerful legs propelling them across the desert in a smooth, loping gait. The ride was surprisingly comfortable, the saddle designed to distribute the jostling motion evenly. Sparky allowed herself a brief moment of appreciation for the clever engineering before her focus returned to the task ahead. The mines weren’t far, maybe an hour’s ride at Annie’s pace, but the terrain grew rougher the closer they got. Jagged outcroppings of rock jutted from the ground like the broken ribs of some ancient beast, and the air carried the faint metallic tang of exposed ore. As they crested a low hill, Sparky spotted the entrance to the mines below. A yawning black mouth rimmed with rusted scaffolding and abandoned equipment. The place looked deserted, but her instincts told her otherwise. She slowed Annie to a halt and slid down from the saddle, her boots crunching against the rocky ground. Sparky adjusted her hat and unsnapped the holster on her hip, her fingers brushing the polished brass handle of her revolver: The Tranquilizer. She crouched low, her ears swiveling as she scanned the area. The faint sound of shifting rocks reached her ears, and she froze, her eyes narrowing. “Come out nice and slow.” She called, her voice steady but firm. “No one needs to get hurt.” For a moment, there was silence. Then, the air erupted in a cacophony of shouts and movement. From behind the rocks and shadows emerged four figures: two raccoons, an armadillo, and a spiky desert lizard. They wore patched-up gear and dusty clothing, their diapers unmistakable under their loose trousers and skirts. One raccoon’s garment was decorated with frayed ribbons, while the armadillo’s sagged noticeably, as though it hadn’t been changed in a while. The lizard’s diaper was thicker than the rest, the bulky padding forcing his legs into a slight waddle as he moved. “Well, well,” Drawled one of the raccoons, twirling a small, makeshift pistol in his nimble fingers. “If it ain’t Sheriff Sparky herself, come ter pay us a visit.” Sparky straightened, her hand hovering near her revolver. “I don’t suppose you’d like to do this the easy way and come quietly?” The armadillo let out a low chuckle, his voice gravelly. “Sorry, Sheriff. We’re more pahr-tial to the fun way.” Without warning, the lizard raised a strange, tube-like contraption and fired. Sparky ducked, the liquid shot from the weapon missing her by inches and splattering harmlessly against a rock. She rolled to the side, drawing her revolver and firing a single shot. The brass projectile burst mid-air, releasing a mist of water that caught the armadillo in the chest. He staggered, blinking as his expression turned vacant, and he dropped his weapon with a clatter. “Anyone else?” Sparky asked, rising to her feet and training her revolver on the others. But the bandits weren’t about to make it easy. Both raccoons rushed her, zigzagging to avoid her aim, while the lizard fired another shot. This time, the water grazed Sparky’s arm, leaving a cold, tingling sensation in its wake. She gritted her teeth and fired again, catching one of the raccoons in the leg. He stumbled, his cocky grin fading as his movements grew sluggish. The other raccoon was quicker, darting around her and firing a tiny dart-like projectile. It struck her squarely in the back, the liquid payload spreading instantly. Sparky gasped as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled, her grip on The Tranquilizer faltering. “No…” She muttered, shaking her head in an effort to clear it. But her movements were already sluggish, her mind fogging over like a clouded mirror. The lizard and remaining raccoon closed in, their weapons firing in quick succession. Another shot struck Sparky in the shoulder, then one on her thigh, and finally a direct hit to her chest. The regression water soaked into her shirt, the potent formula taking hold almost immediately. Sparky’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the ground, her revolver slipping from her grasp. Her thoughts unraveled into a haze of warmth and simplicity. The sharp, commanding edge of her personality melted away, leaving only the soft, unguarded core. She tried to lift her head, but it lolled to the side, her eyes glazed and unfocused. The lizard crouched beside her, his spiked tail swishing as he examined her with a toothy grin. “Looks like the sheriff’s taking a little nap,” He sneered, poking at her cheek. “Good thing she’s properly padded, eh?” The raccoon with the ribbons crouched down as well, his own diaper crinkling loudly. “She’s gonna be drooling for a good while! We should haul her back to camp and figure out what to do with her.” The bandits exchanged gleeful laughs as they worked together to tie Sparky’s hands and hoist her onto the lizard’s broad back. Sparky’s body was limp, her mind a placid, vacant pool of simple thoughts. She could feel the gentle swaying as they carried her off, but it registered only faintly, like a distant memory she couldn’t quite grasp. Her captors didn’t notice the faint glint of brass just a few feet from where she’d fallen, the forgotten revolver lying in the dust, waiting for its moment to be reclaimed. As Sparky’s consciousness continued to fade, the last thing she saw was Annie, sprinting away back to town, the bottoms of her pink paws flashing in the sunlight as she made her panicked escape. - = - = - The dim light of the mines flickered and danced on the rough walls as the bandits made their way deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels, carrying their incapacitated prize. Sparky hung limply over the spiked desert lizard’s back, her ears drooping and her eyes half-lidded, a faint glaze still clouding her once sharp gaze. Her mind was swimming in an unfamiliar haze, an odd, comfortable fog that dulled her senses and left her helpless to resist the bandits' plans. The group of outlaws finally arrived at their camp, nestled in a large cavern illuminated by hanging lanterns and the faint, bioluminescent glow of moss creeping up the walls. Piles of stolen goods littered the area: crates of food, barrels of water, and shiny trinkets pilfered from the townsfolk of Brass Gulch. At the center of the cavern stood an oversized contraption, equal parts ridiculous and unsettling, a massive baby bouncer, its frame constructed from rusted steel beams with springs that looked sturdy enough to hold even the lizard. The bandits set Sparky down on a tattered blanket and began preparing her “seat.” The raccoon with the frayed ribbons fussed over the bouncer, testing the springs with a delighted giggle. “She’s gonna look real cute in this,” he snickered, motioning to the others. “Get her all snug while I finish setting it up.” The spiked lizard and the armadillo exchanged grins and crouched next to Sparky. She groaned softly as they worked to strip away her chaps, leaving her in her thick, already slightly damp diaper. The soft crinkle of the material filled the air as they moved her, fitting her arms into a set of plush, oversized cuffs behind her back. The restraints were snug but surprisingly gentle, covered in padded fabric that ensured no harm would come to their helpless captive. “Don’t want her squirming too much.” The armadillo chuckled as he tightened the cuffs. “Not that she looks like she can put up much of a fight right now.” Sparky’s legs were left free, though they dangled uselessly as the lizard hoisted her up and carefully placed her into the waiting bouncer. The seat was padded, designed with an exaggerated level of comfort that pressed warmly against her diapered bottom, squishing it slightly. As they secured her waist with a thick strap, she felt the faintest blush creep into her cheeks, though her thoughts were too muddled to fully grasp why. The springs creaked softly as the bandits tested the contraption, hoisting it up and anchoring it to the ceiling with sturdy chains. Sparky was left dangling several feet above the cavern floor, her legs swaying beneath her. The movement caused her diaper to crinkle and squish audibly, drawing a round of laughter from the gathered bandits. “Well, would ya look at that.” Said one of the raccoons, leaning back against a crate. “Sheriff Sparky, defender of the town, reduced to a big ol’ baby in our little playroom.” Sparky let out a soft whimper, her fogged mind registering the humiliating situation but unable to muster the clarity to respond. Her body felt impossibly relaxed, the regression water making her limbs feel like jelly and her thoughts drift aimlessly. Then, she felt it, a faint warmth spreading between her legs, followed by the telltale squish of her diaper absorbing the liquid. The normally grey witness indicator on the front of her padding slowly shifted its hue, turning into a distinct light blue that made it all the more apparent for the surrounding bandits as to what had just happened in her diaper. The blush on her cheeks deepened as she wet herself, the sensation impossible to ignore as it pooled warmly against her fur. She let out a soft, involuntary whimper, her ears flattening in embarrassment even as her lips curled into a faint, uncontrollable smile. The regression water’s effects continued to toy with her mind, dulling her sense of shame and leaving her teetering on the edge of giggles. The lizard noticed her reaction and chuckled, nudging one of the raccoons. “She’s already getting comfy. Look at that little squish.” The raccoon grinned and picked up his regression pistol, twirling it lazily in one hand. “Let’s make sure she’s enjoying herself. Sheriff deserves to have some fun, don’tcha think?” Sparky’s eyes widened slightly as the raccoon raised the pistol and fired, the familiar cold splash hitting her squarely in the chest. The regression water soaked into her shirt, and Sparky felt another wave of warm, fuzzy helplessness wash over her. Her mouth opened as a giggle bubbled up unbidden, soft and high-pitched, followed by another and another. Soon, she was laughing softly, her voice carrying an almost childlike glee. The bandits howled with laughter, the raccoon slapping his knee. “Would ya listen to her? She’s already lost it.” Another bandit, the armadillo, raised his own pistol and fired, the water striking Sparky’s shoulder. Her giggles turned into full-blown laughter, her head lolling back as she babbled incoherently. Words formed and dissolved before they could leave her mouth, leaving only a stream of nonsense sounds and squeals. Her diaper squished audibly as she wriggled in the bouncer, the springs creaking gently with each motion. Her legs kicked faintly, toes curling as the regression water worked its magic, reducing her once sharp and commanding mind to a puddle of joy and simplicity. She was dimly aware of the bandits jeering and laughing below her, but their voices seemed distant, like echoes in a dream. The lizard leaned against one of the support beams, his arms crossed as he watched the spectacle with a toothy grin. “Reduced to a squishy, giggly mess. Never thought I’d see the day!” The raccoon with the ribbons pulled out a small camera from one of the crates, its bulky, brass design and lightbulb exaggeratedly oversized. “This is too good not to capture.” He said, snapping a photo. The flash startled Sparky, as the bulb practically exploded and let out a small puff of smoke as it went off. This made her blink rapidly before breaking into another fit of giggles. “Think the townsfolk would pay a ransom for her?” Asked the other raccoon, leaning casually against a barrel. “Or maybe we should just keep her like this. She’s pretty quiet now.” “Quiet and cute!” The armadillo added with a chuckle. “Could be nice having a sheriff-turned-mascot.” As the bandits debated their next move, Sparky’s laughter began to fade into soft babbles, her head lolling forward as she swayed gently in the bouncer. The faint, rhythmic squish of her diaper was the only sound she made, her body too relaxed and her mind too far gone to resist. Treachery and Tumbleweeds - Chapter 1.pdf