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I sometimes wondered what made my colleague and I so different. Both of us were PHD graduates. My big plan was to be in Africa and putting my degree in Archaeometry to use unearthing the buried past of my lion ancestors. Instead a silly courtship with an African studies major got in the way of an internship blossoming into anything more, and when she inevitably left I had to throw myself onto Pop's mercies. Being the CEO of a small product testing company he was able to secure me what he called a "laudable position" as an assistant technician, and he made it clear that as long as I let him be he'd let me be.

The lion I worked with was so different though. He shared very little about himself. He once let slip that he has a PHD too. He expressed interest once or twice in my knowledge of Africa. I knew he liked Shakespeare, Hamlet especially, because the longest I got him to talk with me was on the topic, even then he went quiet again after an hour. Most of the time I had to assume or deduce what I could about the dark, mysterious lion's past. I assumed his PHD was in chemistry since he seemed work well in the field. He never spoke about family, so I assumed they weren't close. I could relate given my tenuous relationship with my father. I hadn't spoken of or to the man since the day I was hired. He actually looked to be about the same age as my father, though I could never tell his exact age, and I could never piece together why a chemist of his skill would take his job.

While I found his air of mystery enticing and nonthreatening, dark rumors ran rampant among other technicians in the lab. I once heard one hyena assistant wildly theorized that the lion had no PHD. The reason for his savant-like abilities in chemistry was due to time spent with a drug cartel. A warthog who joined the company as a technician some time ago informed me of the rumor that he was a retired bomb builder. The meerkat secretary to my father swore the lion had to be ex-secret service as the meerkat could never find the application files he filled out. Despite the sheer number of them, I abhorred these accusations and assumed they were nothing more than the product of the lion's species and the scar he bore across his left eye. His nickname, "Scar", proved at least one of these to be true.

Anyway, one day I came to work to find him extremely and unusually excited. After a little prodding he told me all at once, and quite clumsily, all about how he had been working for some time on a brand new and previously unseen type of paint. Apparently it was entirely organic, made from various natural substances, long-lasting, biodegradable, and much more. He was so excited in the pitch he was giving me that he barely mentioned that the company, my pop, had bought the patent, failing to mention how he made my no-nonsense and stuck up father to do so as the CEO of a strictly product testing business without even testing the product.

Instead he simply rushed me into the lab with barely enough time to put on the safety gear. Jabbering all the way in, Scar practically shoved me into a chair before slamming a small box with "Mufasa Paints" printed on it. He said he remembered me telling him that it meant "King" in Africa. He also said that most of the natural ingredients were harvested from the continent, and I was rather flattered when he told me his revitalized interest in the "fatherland" and the completion of his product was all thanks to me.

After that he instructed me how to mix the powder from the box with water to create the paint, and the first things I noticed was how aromatic the mixture was. The distinct scent of berries and fruit arose the "Royal Red" and assaulted my sense of smell leaving me a bit light headed. I tried to record the finding in the ledger nearby but found I was too dizzy to reach it. Instead I conveyed the sensation to my confused lab partner.

"Really?" he questioned after I voiced my concern. He held a pregnant pause after the rhetorical question, and though the room was spinning at this point I could have sworn I saw the lion eye me like he was sizing me up.

"The concoction is supposed to be fragrant, I'll grant you that, but no one I've tested it on before has had this reaction. They've all found the experience quite pleasant."

He eyed me again before his searching eyes dialed in on my face.

"I think it might be the mask. Would you mind taking it off?"

I was hesitant. The rules on safety protocols were rather strict there, but then he spoke again, softly and almost alluringly.

"Please?" he inquired, his time as sweet as honey. "I do so want the product to pass inspection, and like I said, I've already conducted more than a few private trials. It should be completely safe."

I looked into his eyes, and I felt my previous convictions slip away. I knew I should be worried about protocols and rules. Pop simply dealt with me being around, and I was always just one slip up away from getting fired. That fact seemed to be further away than it usually was though. It was like the foreign scent had gently pushed it to the back of mind, and now all I could think of was helping the lion before me, my friend.

I removed my mask to reveal a relaxed, understanding smile to my lab partner, and without another thought, I bent over the mixture's bowl for a deep intake of the smell. The aroma then promptly crashed into my consciousness with the force of a semi truck. My eyes shot wide before relaxing into a half-lidded stare into the deep red paint. With every breath a certain part of my mind seemed to be drifting further and further away. My smile became one of simple bliss at my increasing mental numbness.

"That's it," his velvet voice encouraged as his soft hand caressed my back. "Just relax. Bask in the euphoria."

My mind seemed to melt as he spoke to me, and I had no ability or will to resist his suggestions. At his behest I removed all of my safety equipment so I could experience the paints more thoroughly. I shudder as I felt the the mixture's silky softness ooze between my finger when he told me to. I nodded, smiling dimly, as he told me that these were special paints. They would help me submit.

I cocked my head confusedly at this, but he gently pet my mane. I shuddered again and purred softly at his authoritative touch. It was nice letting him make me feel good. He said that we were relatives, him and I, as we were males of the same pride. It made sense for my submission to feel natural. He dipped his fingers into the bowl of paint and brought them to my nose as he told me how submission makes me feel good. I melted at the scent and his soft touch. I could not help but to emit a subtle, contented mew.

Then he withdrew his hands to issue an order: I was to remove my clothes for him. I was eager to obey and shucked off my clothes with gusto. My nudity showed my loneliness and pleased him, he informed me, and I purred at the prospect. Then he brought a new thing to my attention: a big, pink, puffy thing he called a "diaper". The word registered vaguely before the fluttering thought was quickly burned off by the alluring scent of the "Royal Red" in the air. He caressed my mane and informed me it would please him greatly if I were to wear it. At that I quickly took the sizable thing in hand, and my mind melted a little further feeling the squishy softness in my hand. He talked me through the process of applying it around my waist, and soon I was waddling in a circle at his request for a spin. I was looking down at the awkward padding between my legs noticing how difficult it was to move in it when he took my chin again.

"Good boy," he purred seductively.

Then he pushed down on the shoulder after releasing my chin bringing my body to sink to the floor. I was on my diapered butt now, and I heard my new infantile garment crinkle beneath me. My tail swished excitedly at the sound. I couldn't help a childish giggle from leaving my grinning lips. I looked up to see Scar smiling down at me, clearly pleased at behavior. He held out a finger to me and used it to gesture for me to follow.

"Come with me, boy," he requested in a sweet and alluring tone.

I started to comply quite eagerly, though as I attempted to stand I found that the room started to spin again. My feet became unsteady, and I landed on my padded rump once again. This warranted another burst of giggling from me and a specification from him.

"On your hands and knees," he suggested. "You'll find that it's much easier."

I did remember the difficulties from earlier, and it was in the way that Scar suggested that I proceed to follow him. In a toddling crawl, we headed out of the lab and along the many corridors of the business. I saw lots of things like a hyena painting "I'm a chuckling, little diaper butt" over and over on the walls. I saw a familiar warthog scrawling "Scar's smelly diaper pig" in a similar manner. The meerkat outside Pop's office wrote "little helpless baby" in blue across his desk. All of them were in diapers, and Scar explained that was because we were all part of his pride. We were all beneath him.

Then we entered the last office to see Pop. He was on the floor, and bright pink diapers engulfed a large portion of his lower half in uniform with the rest of the pride. His tail swished back and forth gleefully and his eyes had a certain daze to them. On the wall he was writing "Mufasa is a diaper bitch" in the same deep red from the lab. Scar explained that his name was Mufasa now, the fallen king. I didn't quite get what he meant. My mind was so fuzzy, and a lot was going on. Scar seemed happy though, and Mufasa was definitely happy, so I smiled dumbly as well.

Scar knelt down next to my father and caressed his padded groin. Mufasa mewed and purred, grinding his crotch against the presented hand while Scar explained to me how befitting the big, pink, puffy diaper was for a "diaper bitch" like him. It was a big, soft thing that clinged to others and was meant to be used, just like Mufasa had used him all those years ago: stealing his formula in college, using the funds to start the business, keeping him around in case he had any more bright ideas. Well, now he had one, and if Mufasa was a particularly good diaper bitch he wouldn't throw him away after Scar was done with him.

At that Mufasa's mew turned into a soft growl that betrayed how aroused me father was. His waist bucked and jumped forward into Scar's generous palm, effectively humping the hand of the lion my father had betrayed so long ago and was now being put in his proper place by. Scar scoffed at his reaction, looking down at the bulging crotch and referencing the "purposeless prick" inside. He then leaned in next to my father's ear.

"Good diaper bitch, Mufasa," he purred seductively, and then quieter, "Cum, brother"

Mufasa roared as his body shook and shivered. It was clear he was being wracked with absolute pleasure as load after load of his virile seed oozed into the puffy garment his new superior brother had bestowed upon him. I could see the diaper grow damp as it absorbed the goo and any remaining ounce of masculinity, pride, or respect I had for my father with it. Then he settled, looking more dazed than before and entirely in a fog.

"Good diaper bitch," Scar praised, albeit with a bit of a disgusted sarcasm. "Now back to decorating the cave."

Mufasa slumped back onto his padded bottom, now soaked with his own cum, and dipped his fingers in the bowl next to him once more before continuing to castrate himself with his written recitation.

"You too, boy," he said, addressing me.

Then I was on my padded bottom, just as mindless and submissive as my father next to me. I dipped my hand into my own bowl of paint, and proceeded to write what came to mind. My name is Simba. I'm a mindless diaper cub. Uncle Scar told me that, so it must be right. Uncle Scar is always right...