FSE

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Purity was the big thing going through Patterson's mind as he woke up between his husband and wife. He just wanted a hushed, relaxed life: from there, he could operate himself into an excited, intense romance. Dealing with too many warning lights and hazards, that could wear down a man, and while he could live an excited, chaotic life, at a certain point he'd want to stop and rest, and think more of the disasters coming on than he could the rewards he'd already earned.

Just too much noise, with not enough reward.

Susan woke him up with a soft, pleasured sigh: the rabbit stretched out on their bed and she was only wearing a diaper, no bra and no onesie. Patterson felt Clark stir beside them, and he patted the older cobra's flat, firm stomach before rolling over to their wife. He slipped one arm under Susan's neck and he looped it around to grope her exposed, perky breast. The other rested square on the crotch of her diaper, where he heard and felt the delicate hiss of her vulva as it poured with urine into her protective swaddling. The plastic garment grew warm and her nipple, wide as the otter's thumb, grew stiff.

Patterson didn't wear a diaper to bed, instead electing for a tight thong that merely housed the bundle of his genitals. He felt the whole package, pink spandex, stretch out with feral, instinctual intensity as the mother of his kid wet herself.

"Yeah, that's it," he growled with lust, pressing a finger against her pissing slit, "Just relax and enjoy yourself."

"You're so cute," Susan chuckled as she moved her hips against his paw. "I almost wonder if we married you just for your horniness and sober brain."

"What do you mean?" Patterson asked as he swung one knee over her, putting both his paws on her tits and squeezing them, feeling them leak milk against his palms.

The rabbit murred and pushed her wet diaper against his stretched thong. "I'm just teasing you, baby. Clark said you had a good talk with our son last night?"

The otter's ears burned. Last night was a few doses of insanity. He'd given their cobra-rabbit kid a pull-up diaper in order to guard against nightly pubescent emissions, and when he got angry at his step-dad Patterson for also wearing a diaper, he'd shit himself in protest--then deeply regretted it. The poor boy had traumatized himself so badly that he'd asked for Patterson to clean him: as in, clean the feces from his ass. That went astonishingly well; Patterson cleaned the young male as he would a filthy car, then Clark had intervened and rightly questioned the young otter step-dad on whether or not he was making sexual advances on the newly-minted man.

Trust was reestablished--not that it was ever broken, but significantly tested. On a trip to the bathroom in the waking hours of the morning, Patterson had caught his stepson Fortnight playing video games in his underwear and a t-shirt: no diaper.

Patterson was wearing a pair of shorts over his pink thong, and had carefully hidden the straps under the waistband.

"How's the game?" the otter asked, attempting to sound like a gruff adult. He was only nineteen, which made the "authority gap" between him and the twelve-year-old cobra Fortnight a bit weird.

The snake continued to kill scores of badguys even as he held the conversation. "It's really cool," he said, his thumbs and fingers clacking away, "it doesn't give you too many moments to breathe, but you find gaps in their attacks and it becomes more a game of dodging their bullets than it does shooting them. You gotta do both, obviously, but it's decently easy once you pay attention."

Fortnight could become a videogame reviewer if they'd bought him a microphone and camera. He was smart and well-spoken as his father was; he just needed the confidence that predatory, skirmish-based public school didn't give him.

"Hey, about earlier," said the otter, scratching his ass to seem adult-like.

"No," said Fortnight. "I mean, I appreciate it, but ... it was crazy, okay? You were cool, but I don't wanna dwell on my deaths. Let's just say I respawned and I'm trying again."

Patterson nodded, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Even his own peers had the same problematic quirk. If a situation had been weird or difficult, they preferred to shut it down and shove it out of the way. Still, Fortnight put forth a decent analogy. If you fuck up, scavenge wisdom and throw away the rest of the wreckage.

The cobra would probably never wear another diaper.

Patterson filled a glass from the fridge, giving the boy some space. A smile crept across his face, imagining him introducing his first boyfriend--or more likely, girlfriend--to the three of them.

"Hey, mom, dad, and dad, this is Bethany," the kid would say with a bashful smile. "I met her at a soup kitchen and she does missionary work up in Michigan with her church. She and I don't see eye-to-eye with religion per se, but the anthroid element we really love. Just ... we get to talking to all the homeless people, and I don't wanna profit off their mistakes. But it's great to see people who've really ventured out there. They ... haven't been successful ... but their stories are so fascinating. So that's a win, right? You can have my PlatStadium by the way. I haven't touched it since she and I took up woodworking."

"Does it ever feel good to shit yourself?" asked Fortnight from the living room.

Patterson splattered water against the fridge's edifice, losing a mouthful in surprise.

"Nerve endings, Fortnight," Patterson said. The otter groggily looked at the microwave clock: it was five thirty in the morning.

"Ah, so like those vibrating toys," said the cobra with a bored tone.

The otter's heart hurt: when had the boy lost his innocence? Then again, everyone had to at some point. From there, the task was venturing out toward dignity. Profits and losses.

The cobra's thumbs rattled across the controller buttons. "I wanna say that I don't care what you and mom and dad do, as long as it makes you happy."

"That's cool," Patterson said, refilling his glass.

"But really," said Fortnight, "it's more like I don't want to know. It's your private life, and me intruding would be like shoving my face into it. Literally, you shouldn't tell me what you and mom and dad do."

Patterson felt his fur rise as if he was being scolded. But that was the wrong feeling: Fortnight was just airing out his grievances. He was working out how the world worked.

"I don't know why I hate the master bedroom, as they call it," said Fort. "I'd always assumed the house was our nursery: me, Whither, Thence, and Thither. But obviously their bedroom is where, y'know, they made all of us. There's cum and pussies and shitting on the birthing bed," the snake said.

Patterson leaned against the kitchen counter, making enough noise with his movements to let Fortnight know he was listening.

"But that's just a stupid fixation right there," the cobra continued. "There's such a taboo over body functions, even though we all do them. Just like, a tacit agreement not to talk about it."

"Because it's gross?" asked Patterson, cradling his glass of water.

"No, not even that," said Fortnight, "Just because it's as banal as the weather. Banal, just a dull reality. Who the fuck cares? No, that's not the right question," he corrected himself, his controller rattling away. "Yeah, this game's good, but ... meh. I think that's the death of civilization right there."

"What's the right question?"

"Oh, yeah," said Fortnight, setting his controller down and walking into the kitchen. He was queerly fast; he shot into the freezer, grabbed a microwaveable pastry, unpackaged it, clapped it on a plate, then tossed it in the microwave and set it before Patterson could see all of what he was doing. The cobra pulled at his fur-fringed hood--a gift from his rabbit mother's genes--and stared off into space. Patterson had given up on tracking what the cobra was looking at: he had no eyelids and his eyes didn't move in their sockets. "The question isn't who the fuck cares, but why should we be bothering. Weather is weather. It's just like some weak way of people reaching out to each other. Which is cool since it's universal, but it really marks out how lonely we can all be. No, that's not it, either," he said.

Fortnight was wearing a graphic t-shirt of a band Patterson faintly knew, Cannibal Rapegang Holocaust and a pair of cotton briefs not unlike his father's. A faint, warm wellspring grew in the otter's heart: this kid was completely comfortable around him, pouring his brains out. "It's not how lonely people are: because I see Twatter and I see all these fucking social sites of people being edgy on one paw, or protectively censorious on the other. Either being ironically racist or going on a witch hunt for racists: that's something crazy right there. Figuratively, it's people shitting on the streets, or people hammering a cork up your ass saying 'how dare you acknowledge that people shit.' It's not that we're lonely: that's a side-effect. It's that we've lost nobility. Like a reptile who's lost his sun."

Patterson straightened up. "I don't think your father--"

"S-U-N," clarified Fortnight. I think that's why people like religion," he continued. "I dunno if it's correct or not, but just like a good video game, it's something to talk about. Something besides the fucking weather or, for older people, how infrequent or unpredictable their bowel movements are."

The otter nodded, trying not to smile too brightly and seeming condescending. Even though Fortnight's eyes didn't move, Patterson was floored by the wealth of intelligence they seemed to store. "So what's the death of civilization?" asked Pat.

"It's meh," said Fortnight, picking right up on what the otter asked. The cobra ran his thumb against his fingertips over and over. "It's like a lack of feeling. The reason kids don't like adults is that they just seem to have corroded inside. Like an ancient video game console. It flickers, freezes, then eventually dies. You see these gamers on UwUTube in their thirties, forties, with beards on their snouts and their wattles," he said, jiggling his own larynx, "and they get into the pettiest shit in a game. The main character's provocative design or how this one particular weapon makes the others look like a joke. How certain points of a map don't line up with the polygons, just niggly niggly niggly itty bitty shit," he ranted, repeatedly pinching his middle finger to his thumb, perhaps to crush dust or oxygen atoms. It was a snapping snake jaw, with his ring and index fingers as fangs, his middle finger the tongue. "Like who the fuck cares?"

"Rather, who the fuck should care?" said Pat.

"Exactly!" said Fortnight. "It's people looking through the ashes of their house for family photos. And that's how the world dies, right there. Not with a bang, but with a ..." he paused, and the reptile's perfect petrification performed well. He froze, and the otter waited. Patterson watched his ribcage, but no breath entered in or out.

Patterson himself began to suffocate, not realizing he was trying to freeze like Fortnight had.

"Meh!" said the cobra, blowing his hands wide to signify the explosion of the universe. His golden fingertips fluttered, tracing existence's falling particles. "When you see something for how arbitrary it is. Like games that are technically good, but they don't stand out; they're expected. Like people who are technically good, but talk as expected. I'm not saying we should all be edgy and ... y'know, shit ourselves," he said with a grin.

The cobra assumed a boxing stance and landed a few light, whiffing blows on the otter's bare stomach. Patterson braced himself against the counter, not knowing what the kid would do next. Wanting to see what it would be.

"But ..." Fortnight said, pacing back and forth. The microwave dinged and the cobra pulled is pastry out, then held it under the sink, doused it in cold water, and then swallowed it whole.

"Do you ever taste those?" asked Pat.

"In my burps. And once I'm old enough for diapers."

Patterson swore that he winked, but he had no eyelids.

"We're not having this conversation."

Fortnight smiled, watching Pat's face. "I'm just punching at you to know your tensility, you know that?"

"You're running circles around me at this point," said the otter.

The cobra grinned, fully satisfied. "But the corporate way they make video games, the corporate way that people handle themselves, the corporate way they make these pastries or fast food: it's all the same. A big groupthink, everyone pouring spices and ingredients into the same pot until the product is tasteless, formless vomit."

"How's that?" asked Pat.

"Everyone is aiming for some unknown, generic target," said the cobra. "Like playing a video game blind and twenty people shouting at you what to do. Like, we're all trying to be as tame and acceptable as possible. All the spices, all those ingredients. People swallow this disgusting soup and wonder why their stomach goes rotten, and why they're fountaining the diarrhea of despair into their diapers. Like you said earlier, diapers can be like alcohol or cigarettes. Coping mechanisms ... against a world that's feeding them tasteless vomit."

This kid is twelve years old. Then again, that's eight or so years to read through the wealth of anthroid knowledge. What have I been doing with my life? Then again, he's not encountered the wealth of clutter that an adult stumbles over. He sees fully-built cathedrals, not piles of brick and glass.

_"_It's all a theory, I dunno," conceded Fortnight. He scratched at his groin, which was completely flat for a male snake, then yawned. A venomous snake yawning was always a strange sight, as they didn't have any chopping teeth, but merely fangs for injecting venom and a fringe of ratchet-style teeth to clutch at their prey. "Like," Fortnight continued, "I didn't really care when I saw you wearing a pissy diaper in the living room."

Here we go again.

_"_At first, I was really grossed out, but the second thing I thought was," and then he paused, which made his entire body freeze. Then a smirk broke it. "This is fucking interesting."

Patterson clutched at the counter he was leaning against.

"I got to see you doing things," continued Fortnight, "Enjoying yourself. And ... I mean it was really gross," he said, which made Patterson's fur burn hot, "But I don't care. It's not my business to care. And dad, I accept that you have a diaper fetish. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, or maybe you found a way to make them fun. I'm sure you like video games I don't like. Clowns and Castles was ... okay, but it was great because I was playing it with my family. Diapers, though. I didn't see my own as some pleasure piece. More like a cast, like my pelvis was broken. But no: you have fun."

Patterson's jaw clenched and he tried to smile. He tried to take a drink of water, but realized that the glass was already empty.

"And I know what you and my bio-parents get up to. I take out the trash; I'm not stupid."

A laugh swelled in the otter's throat. This kid had more dirt on Sue and Clark than Pat did: and Patterson was the one that changed their diapers. He cleared his throat.

"I don't want to burden you with that stuff," said Pat. "That's hilarious, though."

"Disconnection," said Fortnight, snapping his fingers. "We live in a society, but that doesn't mean we are society. That in itself is a moving target. The more we try to control it, the more it moves away from us." The cobra took his wet, faintly-digested Hot Pocket and slipped it down his throat again. "We can kill the 'meh' of society when we realize just how generic everything is. Then move to make something special. It's fine. A thousand diapers can survive the same nasty dump. Was mine okay?"

Patterson dropped his glass, and fortunately it fell in the sink.

"W-what?"

"We gotta make our own happiness. Then we can share our happiness with others. I dunno. I was playing an indie game before that one and ... a lot of thoughts came out."

The otter took a deep breath. "I'll say."

The cobra smiled and picked his controller up from the kitchen counter. He reached into the fridge, grabbed a fizzy seltzer, and moved back to the living room. Before he did, however, he lightly punched Patterson in the stomach.

"Look, about earlier," the cobra said, "I dunno how to thank you because that was waaaaaaay too much. I'm sorry and thank you."

The otter snorted. "Honestly, I think that's what every parent needs to hear."

"So what if I shit myself right now?" Fortnight said, grinning. "What if I, oh no, here it comes, hnnngh..."

Patterson's adrenal glands exploded as the snake grabbed his knees again and squat down. His tail went up and his neck strained, simulating the same movements that were happening down below.

"You seriously can't be doing this, we just--"

The snake paused, then looked up at Patterson and grinned. He stood up, put his paw on Patterson's cheek, drinking in the look of panic on his stepdad's face, then softly slapped it. "You know a digestive system doesn't work that fast," he said, then went into the living room, turned his game off, and then went upstairs to bed.

Patterson sighed, then refilled his water and drained the glass. "Everybody batten the hatches," he said, "we got a teenager on our paws."

"Yeah, we had a few great talks," said Patterson as he pulled his thong down and lay his cock between Susan's fat tits. The rabbit hungrily licked her lips, then bent her legs upward, a few muffled farts precluding something more solid.

Clark stirred, but the older cobra decided to stretch out in his bed. "Your son is going to need a lot of support," he said. "He's sensitive not because he's insecure, but because there's a lot of things going on in his head. A proud parent is an exhausted parent."

Patterson yawned, having only snatched a few hours of sleep here and there, but his wife was warm and soft and ready for action.

Susan bucked against Pat, squeezing her breasts around the thick log of meat pulsating between them. Precum drooled from the tip, pooling on her throat. She lapped at the tip, and the otter pushed his cock forward, where her mouth accepted it.

With a kiss and a slurp, Patterson pulled it back out, then put his thong behind his balls so he could rest them on her chest. "Oh, so he's my son, now," the rabbit said with a string of pre and spit connecting her lips to her younger husband's penis.

Clark got up, stretching, wearing a new pair of briefs that were already stretched tight. He crawled over behind the two, then resting his chin on the rabbit's wet diaper, he pulled Patterson's thong strap aside and started licking his anus. The otter groaned, feeling the cold air and the warm tongue tickle his wrinkled hole, and then Susan came in from the front, encircling the head of his cock in her warm, wet mouth. Her perky, plump breasts encircled the rest.

The cobra reached down and grasped Susan's diapered rump. His fingers massaged the absorbent, crinkling case, feeling out which parts were wet and swollen, which parts were dry. "Why don't you mess for me?" he said.

Patterson's teeth clenched as his cock lurched again. Seeing and feeling his wife sucking on him like this was getting him very close, very fast. Clark's forked tongue tickling his tight back door was getting him even closer. His cock jumped and poured pre into the rabbit's mouth: he felt embarrassed at first, but she gulped it down and kept sucking. Her tongue teased his front slit while the cobra teased his back. "I don't think digestion works that fast," hissed Patterson. "And I don't want my bacteria to colonize your throat."

"Not you," said Clark, their wife's diaper crinkling as he squeezed it. Even so, the cobra put his lips against Patterson's slit and kissed it deeply.

"Oh fuck," Patterson gasped, and he pulled out of Susan's mouth as his cock pulsed and jumped. He looked down, frightened as it twitched and drooled, the rabbit's mouth open and grinning, her eyes closed, but he successfully backed off the edge. Clark chuckled, nuzzling his anus.

"Are you good?" she sweetly asked. Patterson fanned himself, breathing, then nodded. She put his thick, long cock back in her mouth and wrapped her warm tits around it. Then, her body tensing under Pat, her chest lifting his balls against his undercarriage, she pushed. Clark sighed with satisfaction and lowered his head against the bottom of her diaper, murring as the hot, solid material pushed out and filled her white, crackling seat.

Clark coughed once, groping at his white cotton underwear which had already gone stiff and tented. "A little ripe today; did you enjoy our dinner?"

"Mmhmm!" she moaned, her wet mouth and soft, big breasts encircling the otter's long cock, which was pulsing between his legs with a dizzying, electric high. Patterson really wanted to work on multiple orgasms, he thought, but he knew that he fired like a blunderbuss: everything in the chamber would blast out of the barrel hot and chaotic, and then he'd be ready for an hour of tranquilized afterglow.

All his coworkers knew when he got laid in the morning, because he'd be nursing his coffee, and if that coffee was put in a baby bottle, well: his mouth would be over that nipple like it was Susan's tit or Clark's dick. As a prank--not too much a malicious one--Kioga, Wesley, and Kyrie had caught him like this, and while whispering soothing, quiet reassurances into his ear, would say that he was their "big otter pup" and carefully remove all his working clothes, leaving him in a diaper that they would, additionally, change with the help of the office dragon wet-nurse Sakrasingh.

Patterson would then find himself tapping away at his work, wearing a purple, black, and gold onesie bearing the F-C LLC logo. And, if Kyrie was distracting enough with calling him a "good boy," dangling her breasts close to him (but never shoving them in his face), Wesley might be able to slip a suppository into Patterson. Then, as the otter was finding himself in cutesy "baby comfort" clothes, he might find himself filling his diaper with whatever he'd not pushed out that morning.

One time, he'd been so absorbed in his work and so content with his sexual reverie, that all the above happened and he didn't notice the stink, nor warmth of his messy diaper at all. His body merely thought this was all part of the happiness it was supposed to feel in his wonderful, fulfilling life.

Then he got up to get more coffee, and the heavy lump hanging from his tail sagged, whereupon he snapped back to reality when he realized the bulge in the back of his diaper was thicker and heavier than the bulge in the front.

Kyrie then slipped past him, the fennec having been one of the first to introduce him to this free-bathroom environment back during his F-C interview by flashing her diaper. She said, "Lunch time, Pat! We're going out!"

The otter tried to cover his enormous, swollen, lumpy rear-end, but he knew that the fennec's nose--or worse, her ears--had caught his whole accident.

"Um, can you give me five minutes, there's, uh--"

"Changing table at the restaurant, darling!" said Susan, who came up behind him and gave that mushy pouch a good smack. "Phew. What a big boy. That's what was hiding from us this morning!"

Patterson waddled all the way to the parking garage in his droopy, stinking drawers, with the rest of the crew trying to suppress their grins at their messy, young coworker. The otter never knew the humiliating pleasure of getting into a two hundred thousand-dollar SUV in a loaded diaper up until this point, and he blushed and groaned as he sat down in its perfect leather bucket seat, his filthy accident spreading all over his cheeks. He blushed and squirmed all the way to the restaurant, too, his scat sticking to all parts of his underside and his coworkers bravely holding their noses.

But it was a beautiful life, overall, and Patterson enjoyed the cool breeze to his exposed anus that morning as he thrust into his bunny wife's mouth, while down below Clark cut a slit into her diaper and pushed his own cock into Susan's wet, sensitive, welcoming lower lips. As such, the two double-teamed the padded rabbit, Patterson humping her tits, her mouth, while Clark thrust away behind him. The cobra pulled Susan's legs over his shoulders and his balls tapped against her messy, diapered rump as her warm, tight tunnel squeezed his shaft.

With the three rising in a writhing cavalcade of grunts, the three earnestly lunging at each other, pleasure rising, it wasn't long before one of them shuddered and set the other two off. Patterson, whose tailhole was still wet from Clark's lovely tonguing and exposed to the cool air, could only buck into Susan's mouth, between her soft tits a couple more times before he squeaked and went off, his body freezing as it straddled her stomach. In a daze, Patterson watched dreamily, lustily, as his cock lurched and spurted heavy streams into the rabbit's mouth. Susan's throat worked to gulp as much of it down, but eventually her cheeks filled and she coughed, dropping a thick load right on her neck as the otter's long cock shot a few more ropes on her forehead, closed eyes, and nose.

This thorough lacquering of male lust set her own body into fits. Her pussy clamped down on Clark's cock, the canal juicy and slick, and she tightened her legs around the cobra's shoulders, pulling him deep inside her, right up against her pelvis and the warm, stinking, plastic-wrapped load of her soiled diaper.

Clark lunged forward, biting Patterson's shoulder with his long, knife-like fangs pricked against his skin. The otter's heart jumped, but the snake was just needing something to hold onto as he flooded the rabbit's cunt, his balls twitching against Susan's diaper as he pumped hot seed into her preoccupied womb.

"Ah shit," trembled Pat, grinning as the afterglow washed over him, his asshole clenching, twitching as his cock drooled like a pierced frosting bag. "Oh man," he sighed, coughing once as lust dissipated and the stench of warm dung reintroduced itself.

Clark stretched his long neck and checked the prick marks on Patterson's chest. He patted his husband on the arm and pulled out of Susan with a slurp, trying to close the slit in her diaper before his seed oozed out of her. "Don't worry, sweetie," he said. "Even if I pierced--"

"No, it's really okay," said Pat, swinging his leg off Susan and slipping out of his thong. The thing had just become a string around his hips, the one protective strap jammed behind his balls. "Let's just say that my trust in you is the same as a sports car. A beautifully built machine, but deadly with the wrong idiot. I know I was almost that idiot last night."

Clark's hood flared, and he pinned it back with his own hands. The cobra was so pretty. His pussy-laquered, cum-dripping cock hung outside of his briefs, which also had some of Susan's juices ... and a little bit of a skidmark. "What you mean to say is that you appeared as an idiot, but were operating to the best of your abilities, which were indeed high."

Patterson nodded, milking the last of his fluids into the wad of his thong, which he then tossed in the--

"Not that one!" said Susan, still blind with a face full of spunk. Clark handed her a couple wet wipes.

The otter stalled, smirking as she'd correctly called him out. Then again, she probably knew where he was by sound alone. Damn bunnies and snakes with their super senses.

Patterson set it in a side hamper called "Bio Fluids--do today!" and noted how all their phones vibrated on the side table, the smart-hamper setting a reminder.

Clark grabbed a padded pair of panties, two similar briefs, and motioned Pat back on the bed.

The otter shook his head. "Nah, not today," he said, then went to the dresser and grabbed another thong. He cleaned his half-erect penis, his sac, and anus with a wet-wipe, then slipped the skimpy underwear on.

Clark paused in the middle of changing Susan, her diaper open and a menthol patch over his snout. The bunny was indeed a treat for them both: her firm, athletic thighs spread apart to a tight, pink pussy oozing with cum, the tight lips shimmering and slimy, slightly gaped open. Beneath that was a biological disaster: scat plastered her round, perky rump and a sticky, angled mound led right up to that second, wrinkled, more universal hole.

"Sometimes, baby," Clark said with a grin toward Pat. Susan was similarly grinning, her paws folded on her chest below her breasts. "Your wife and I think we married a boy-toy. Especially when you dress like that. We should get a pool just so you can clean it."

The bunny chuckled, briefly interrupting herself with a moan as Clark started scooping wads from her rear end. "Oof, baby. Don't turn me on for round two. You know I'm clean back there."

"You'll be clean eventually," said Clark, holding a filthy, bulging wipe.

"But like your husband said," continued Susan. "You'll have to make sure you bend way over while skimming the pool. Ladies like the back-sac too, not just you boys playing butt-pirate. And otters like water, don't they?"

"Stereotype," said Pat.

Clark didn't have heat-sensing organs like pythons or vipers. As a cobra, it was his sense of smell that was most keen. As a middle-aged adult, this was matched by wisdom and experience. With the three, he stared at Pat with half-lidded eyes.

"And?" he said.

Pat grinned. "Yeah, I fucking love water."

Clark smiled in return, those fangs looking more like buck teeth than deadly tools. "We're getting a pool, then."

"Now hold on, those are expensive and intensive to maintain!" argued Pat.

Both Susan and Clark were staring at his plantain-sized banana bulge. Pat really didn't mind. Susan and Clark were proportionally beautiful in their own right--as well as sexy. Susan had immaculate curves, snow-white fur (except for her butt right now), and a huge pair of knockers. Clark had the silhouette of a 1970's non-steroid bodybuilder, had beautiful golden scales and a graceful, curved hood, and his bulge was the perfect size. It wasn't some porno-cartoon donger like what Pat had.

"I mean, that's why we have kids, right?" said Pat.

"Right, slave labor," laughed Clark, then he helped Susan into a pair of deceptively absorbent panties. He dropped his own briefs and slid on a pair of his own.

Susan sat up, and Pat lost himself in her tits. She snapped her fingers. "My eyes are up here," she said.

"I've made my choice," said Pat.

She grinned and shook her shoulders, giving her chest a good jiggle. "Fine, then. You married them, might as well use them. So the conversation last night went well?" she asked her two men.

Those same two men found themselves drawn back to bed with her, placing themselves on either side of her. Clark and Pat linked hands and smiled at each other, but those hands invariably found themselves exploring. They couldn't decide if they wanted to be clasped across Susan's chest, or just have one on each boob.

The rabbit sighed. "You boys are so weird."

"Boys are weird," said Clark.

"I think the important thing is that I've opened up a dialogue with Fortnight," said Pat, ignoring Susan's groans as he and Clark massaged the same boob.

"It's time to be serious, Pat," said Clark, squeezing the fatty, furry mass.

"Then you stop first!" said Pat, lifting it from the underside, feeling its weight.

"Boys," said Susan.

They put their hands down. Patterson cleared his throat, already sporting another half-chub. Wrapped up by his thong, his cock looked like a floppy pink dildo resting on his thighs.

"As I said," said Pat, "I'm thinking Fortnight last night had his first 'car crash,' like nearly all teenage boys are going to have, and this will make him respect the subject matter more."

"Funny how you have to fail before you face reality," said Clark. "I mean, at least your generation."

"My generation?" balked Patterson. "Don't tell me that you never made a mistake as a kid, during the Depression!"

Clark took the insult with a smug, contemptuous grin. "Mistakes during the Depression meant death, and so what you see before you is a perfect being."

"I..." Patterson started, then couldn't immediately remember a time that Clark didn't act without grace, confidence, and analysis. He crossed his arms, then grabbed a pillow and put it over his lap as he caught Susan and Clark staring at his boytoy body and his bulk-sized package. "Tell me how you grew up perfect," he demanded of Clark. Susan's ear tweaked as she heard thumping around the house. "Thither?" she called to the female rabbit, "if you're taking the last of the celery juice, grab another carton from the garage!"

Multiple voices came from downstairs, indicating that the Thither was indeed fighting with her rabbit brother Thence, and then there was a giggle. Whither, the youngest, was probably in the corner of the kitchen watching them fight. Patterson had caught her spectating before: a vicious predator like her brother Fortnight and father Clark, the cobra would be in the most adorable blue cornflower dress, popping pre-killed feeder mice into her mouth like popcorn.

Then her rabbit siblings would catch sight of her and either scream or fall into gagging fits.

Patterson gave it a couple of seconds as Susan shrugged on a robe and slipped downstairs. Clark watched him curl his fingers, one by one, with a smirk, and then they got a bonus combo: screaming gags, with both of them struggling to yell at Whither.

"Yeah, what time is it?" asked Pat.

Clark yawned. "Time for us to get some work done."

Pat nodded, blowing a kiss back to Susan as she escaped the room. "That does really interest me, though," he said, keeping his pillow over his lap. His dick still ached from blasting down Susan's throat and hosing her face ... but if he started waving it in front of Clark, then one end of that snake was probably getting penetrated.

Likely the face, because Clark was a god at deepthroating. But still: those goddamn fangs. And the way he could unhinge his jaw so that he could fit Pat's balls in his mouth, too. And sometimes his bristle-teeth, the ones designed to trap prey down his throat, caught on the skin. The otter one time had to use Clark as a urinal as they worked how to get his non-prey trouser snake out of the cobra's throat.

Clark stood before him, as statue-still as Fortnight or Whither, handsome in his protective briefs that bulged smoothly, uniformly in the front, watching Patterson's facial expressions reflect a thousand tiny horrors, and knowingly guessing most of them. Patterson knew that Clark could guess his thoughts, much the same way a cobra could guess its prey's next move. Patterson countered with a prank of his own.

"You know, if I shit down your throat, you might not taste it," said Pat.

Clark laughed, though his lip indicated some decent discomfort. "That's horrendous, dear. What were you really thinking?"

Patterson shrugged. "Wondering if, while you were deepthroating me, you might be able to stick your tongue all the way to my asshole."

Clark looked toward the ceiling, thinking. "Yeah, it's conceptually possible. But if you shit on my tongue, you're wearing diapers for a week."

"I already wear diapers for a week."

"While taking light doses of PassThru."

"Ah, the incontinence angle," Pat said with a grin. "So I get to explain that to the kids, too?"

Clark chuckled, then shook his head. "Kids ruin everything; nevermind."

"Clark?" came Susan's voice. "Or Pat," she said as she opened the door. Her robe already had splatters of celery juice and there was a tiny feeder mouse sitting right between her breasts. "The kids are making their own breakfast, but I need someone to make sure they get on the bus."

"You were doing a good job, what's up?" asked Pat, then Susan opened her robe. Her padded panties were swollen in the front, and the dual smell of piss and musky spunk hit his nose. Patterson's cock throbbed beneath the pillow: he'd done a great fucking job of fucking her. "Nice," Pat said, then held a fist out to Clark. The cobra bumped it.

"But I'm only hearing three down there," said Clark. "Wait, Fornight's not up yet?" asked Pat, then yawned. "Oh, geez, if it's still before school, then I've gotten, fucking, two hours of sleep."

"You're young," said Clark. "As for him, something tells me he was having stomach troubles last night," he continued with a wry perk of his eyebrow. "We'll give him a day off."

Pat jolted, but he didn't stop Susan from walking on over, removing his pillow, and sitting on his lap with her wet, swollen, and spunky protection. He automatically put his paws on her hips and started grinding against that padded bulge. "And let him skulk around the house? Then we can't be fucking and sucking each other!"

"It's a work day," his husband sternly reminded. The cobra put on his own robe, tied it tight, and went downstairs. "All right, kids, shovel it down like I know you can," he called to them. "Fortnight, get your ass up!"

"Dad, I don't feel well!"

"You felt plenty fine staying on your phone all night!"

"But I shit myself!" Fortnight protested.

The kids erupted into laughter, with Clark not pausing as he countered, "Then you're doing your own laundry. Get moving!"

Patterson paused, smirking. Susan's diaper strap was already parted to the side, the otter grinding his thong-wrapped dick against her pussy lips, ready to get into a sperm competition with Clark.

Susan, her paws on Patterson's knees, pushing her rump up against his groin, chuckled as well. "Funny how he's now using it as a crutch."

"He's using it as is convenient. That kid could be a great negotiator," said Pat, murring as Susan slipped his thong to the side and pulled out his aching, throbbing nine-inch log.

"I was thinking stock market," Susan said, sighing as she rubbed the fat head of his meat against her slit, Clark's cum drooling over the otter's length and onto his balls. "He can turn on a dime."

"Ah, fuck," Patterson whispered, his toes going out straight as Susan's slimy, tight tunnel slipped over the head and slid down on the shaft. This was the best way for Patterson to fit anywhere. Either Susan with a strap-on, or Clark with his dick, that spouse would loosen the other up, and then Patterson could fit into them proper. Patterson loved having a giant 3-ton pickup truck dick, but he often found it difficult to park.

Clark was stomping around downstairs; they didn't have to worry about keeping one of their mouths ... or one of their assholes ... accessible to the cobra. Instead, the otter kept pulling the rabbit's protective panty-strap aside, exposing that wrinkled slit below her fluffy tail. He licked his thumb and started rubbing it, gritting his teeth as Susan continued to work herself down on Pat's monster cock, letting out little gasps as it stretched her out.

"So why is Clark so perfect and uptight?" asked Pat, letting out a low growl as the cobra's cum leaked down his shaft. He kept rubbing the rabbit's anus until his thumb bowed the wrinkled ring inward, then licked again and worked his thumb in.

Susan, for her part, remained straddled on Patterson's lap, bending her back and holding back a moan as Pat's thumb stretched her ass, and his cock slithered up her cunt. "Ah, fuck, mmmf," she groaned, watching her pussy lips stretch tight around her young husband, his balls still appearing a million miles away. She felt his thumb hook into her and cried out in pleasure. "Ah! Oh you lusty boy, you bitch," she growled. The rabbit bit her lip as she slid further down on him, keeping herself braced against his thighs. He was thick as a slim soda can, and another couple of inches would be hitting her cervix, which was closed up tight while it was brewing his baby. She relaxed her asshole as he started squishing his thumb into it, over and over. This helped her vagina relax, and she pushed down those final couple of inches, aided by the cum already lacquering the passage.

She wondered how weird it must feel to be a male, that the sensitive, intimate parts are on the outside; to have a special-built, swinging piece of meat for urination, baby-making, and partner-pleasuring. Everything seemed much easier on the inside: that while it was a more complicated structure, it was bundled up in an invisible package only indicated by a pair of lips and a cute little nub at the top. Susan murred as Pat ripped her disposable panty's straps, pulling the diaper out from around her hips, and continued moving on top of him.

Her pussy clutched at his cock, the smooth passage sliding across as much length as it could manage, and her ring clenched at his thumb, the otter working double-duty to get her as wet and excited as possible. And it was fucking working: the rabbit braced her paws against her own knees as she bounced on top of him, groping her own breasts, tweaking her sensitive nipples as that male pleasured her twice-over. She watched his balls twitch as his hips thrust up over and over, his thick cock becoming easier and easier to take with practice, and yet felt her front muscles tighten every time he pushed his thumb deeper into her asshole. Such a naughty pleasure was anal sex, because she'd changed enough diapers--her kids' and her husbands'--as well as filled enough of her own, taken enough ribald, stinking dumps on the floor that she knew how filthy that rear-passage could get. It was funny that such was the only passage that gay men could use, how Clark and Patterson could make love only by way of the same hole that made nasty, handsome lumps in the backs of their diapers.

But it still worked, and it worked well, even for Susan. While she preferred for her tight, smooth, sensitive vagina to take those wonderful and weird swinging meat sticks that males had, her bowels experienced plenty of pleasure when a tongue or penis was thrust deep inside them, or, ahem, when a solid, thick turd was sliding out. They were merely another conduit of pleasure and, as such, another way for beings to express their love in a physical matter.

Plus, she found it hot in a comical and free way to see Clark or Patterson's beautiful penis swinging away, sticking out like some funny antenna, while the other one was fucking him in the ass. Then they'd spill their seed all over the place and seem embarrassed for Susan to be licking it up, just about as embarrassed as when Susan was changing their messy diaper.

Triply embarrassed if, after opening their messy diaper, Susan decided, instead, to mount their erect penis. "Dirty boy," she'd whisper into their ear, moving her hips as her pussy took them in. Then they'd move their own hips in response, and blush all the redder as their soiled diaper crinkled and stuck to their rump, all by the glue of their own filth.

If the rabbit was feeling really naughty, she'd add to their mess while they were fucking her. Their cock deep in her sleeve, Susan would brace herself, then push out a long, hot log which would slide down their balls and fall right into their open diaper and its pile of filth.

If this didn't set them off, whimpering, gasping, and cumming, it put them on the razor's edge. The dominance-submission cycle of male-female, top-and-bottom, was always a dynamic one. One needed the other, the dom needed the sub, the top needed the bottom, and the need to give was always proportional to the need to receive. Susan wanted a hard cock in her puss, and at the same time wanted to pleasure the men she married. So whether she was feeling dominant or submissive, greedy or charitable, she always won.

Susan heard labored breathing from behind her and saw the otter's eyes close. He was mature for his age, but he was still almost half of her own. She wasn't as old as Clark, but closer to him than she was to Patterson. The boy was getting close. Rather: her husband was getting close. Time to take him home.

She groaned as she leaned back on him, and Patterson leaned into her, hooking his thumb deep into her ass and holding it as if it were a handle. He sat up, then drove his dick into her wet, silky pussy; over and over again did his thick, throbbing meat pull out, push in, slurp out, squish in. They wobbled into a standing position, their breaths short and quick, the bunny slamming her ass back against the otter and the otter slapping his hips against her bouncy white cheeks. Her pussy drooled, the insides of her thighs coated with Clark's cum, Patterson's precum, and her own juices, and that otter behind her could help himself. He latched himself onto her; his thumb popped out of her ass so his paws could clutch both her plump, soft titties as his dick erupted inside her.

"Fuck, fuck!" Patterson hissed as his cock spasmed from fatigue and lust. Nonetheless it fired again, dumping buckets of cum inside her until it was drooling back on itself, sticky strings dribbling down his pulsing balls.

Susan reached back and slapped his hip, her legs shaking and her pussy aching, feeling absolutely like she'd pissed herself. That thumb inside her made it half-feel like Clark had fucked her ass raw as well: times when both men had her like that, it was smart to wear a diaper. She'd be farting and pissing man-juice for hours.

Still, it was so fantastic, part natural and part unnatural having Patterson throb inside her like this. Natural because she felt so close to him--and it was nice letting physicality do some of the talking, not just her mental lexicon--of how much she loved him, appreciated him. Unnatural because the world seemed dull when she wasn't fucking her husbands, or working on cars, or playing with her kids, or (sometimes) working at Ferris-Chalmpers. She'd listened to her boys and girls complain about their video games in the same breath they praised them, about how the load times were too long, or how that character's story was cut, or that the first half of the game is way better than the second half.

That life worked the same way: it, too, had its bad parts, unfinished parts, and people got angry or depressed about those parts because, like a flawed video game they loved, they were stuck with the life they got.

Being here, wrapped up in Patterson's arms, hearing him panting behind her, with five squishy inches of his body shoved up inside her, felt supremely unnatural because she had to come down from how perfect this moment felt. She reached back and kissed him, and his arms wrapped around her. All the fluids dripping down her thighs, the uncomfortable stretch of her labia lips, that was all part of the perfect picture, too. Just a physical expression of beings intimately connected.

"I love you," Susan whispered.

"I love you, too," whispered Patterson. "Immensely. Purely."

~~~

Clark successfully got all the kids to school, even sent Fortnight out with a cup of coffee with only minor arguments from the quickly growing teenager. "But there's rapid changes to my body!" argued the fur-lined snake.

"Trust me," said the older cobra, "these are the good changes."

"But what if I ... you know ... in my pants?"

Clark glanced down the driveway to see Thence, Thither, and Whither waiting in line for the bus. The rabbits' ears weren't turned, and the snake wasn't still enough to be eavesdropping.

"What if you what?" asked Clark, watching his son with annoyance. He wondered if it was, indeed, out of vulnerability that Fortnight originally reached out to his step-father, who had the same age gap as himself and Susan, or if it was out of opportunism. That step-daddy would be more lenient.

Corporate journalism had made him suspicious of people: fellow journalists were bragging about their lies right to his face, saying, "It may not be true now, but if we say it often enough, we can steer the public!"

"Steer is right," Clark had said, "You're turning these people into slaughter cows."

Now Clark had at least one of the sneaky bastards running around his house. Or, better, now that Fortnight was standing on the lawn, dressed in a bunch of punk accessories to hide his natural beauty, Clark had a literal snake in the grass.

He squirmed before the direct question. "You know," said Fortnight.

"Number two, number three?" Clark asked. The line for the bus was getting shorter.

"Number three? Oh, right ..."

"You ask for a diaper, by name, from the school nurse."

Fortnight jumped. "Do they have those?!"

Clark was the one with the eyelids, yet he was the unblinking one. "We live in Puerto Panuela. Of course they do."

Then, of course, be it hormones in general, the male hormone in particular, or the bad temper of a reptile, Fortnight struck back at his parent. "Can't I borrow one of yours? One of the diapers you and dad and mom use? Those printed baby diapers, that go along with your pacifiers, or maybe the skull-printed ones that'll go with my shirt? I bet Cannibal Rapegang Holocaust might have some diaper merchandise," he said, stretching his band t-shirt. A year ago, Fortnight would have been forced to turn his shirt inside-out for being politically incorrect. With that sneaky bill Pendrael had passed last year, that Anthroid Dream of Electric Sheen, it was ruled as 'just a stupid shirt' and therefore permitted. "Diapers I can wear to school, no pants, and everyone will praise me for how cool I look, in my diaper? Maybe I can get a hot girl to change me when I make a big mess ... in my diaper!"

That word was starting to lose its meaning. If Fortnight continued pointing at his ass like that, his siblings would make up a story about him. They were already starting to watch.

But Clark had to address the situation. Maybe Fortnight wouldn't shit himself out of rebellion.

If a parent showed himself to be a hypocrite, then he lost all authority with his child. People didn't make themselves out to be hypocrites: they were the stars of their own story, and they didn't compromise their values as much as they "had to do what was necessary to save the day." Given, if a person was rational and self-aware, he would try and flush out any hypocrisies, because a rational man would act in ways he wanted the world to act. If he was full of hypocrisies, then so was the world: and any rational person did not want to live in a place as duplicitous and rotten as himself. That was the frustrating thing about thieves and liars, especially those in power, thought Clark.

"You could change my diaper, just like when I was a baby!" said Fortnight, and Clark's hood flared.

The boy cowered immediately, his hood retracting and his tail curling in. The boy was treading on dangerous ground: there were certain bonds that once broken, could be mended, but never made whole. Certain experiences that could be dreamed about, teased about, but once made real and visceral they could never be forgotten. That went both ways: trauma and reverie. His love for Pat and Susan, their wedding. Perfect.

Fortnight yeeting himself into a pit of filth and degradation, it was an atrocity: it was an eldritch horror stinking of the body fluids that made their romance great. The pleasurable turned to pain: the body turning against itself. When cruelty was accepted as kindness, it was only a matter of time that poison was accepted as food.

"Fortnight," Clark said in a low tone. The bus line was down to the Kensingtons and a couple other kids. Whither looked at her dad and made a sign with her paw, as if she was stretching something. Clark nodded and Whither promptly knocked Thence's books out of her arms, then the snake and the rabbit started fighting. The bus driver complained, and Clark gave her an apologetic shrug. "Fortnight. I'm proud of how smart you are. But with this great power and the freedom of thought that our household entertains, comes great responsibility. I heard some of your conversation last night: you know all about too much of a good thing. The drunks, the chain-smokers, the sluts. I know, right now, you're just testing boundaries. Which is fine: that is a natural part of the anthroid mind."

Clark tapped Fortnight's forehead and the boy reeled backwards as if struck with a hammer. Clark walked forward and continued. His tone took on a brutal edge, and his fangs flashed as he was talking. Clark jabbed Fortnight's chest with his finger. "But you need to learn how the world works before you start fucking around with it. I catch a single skidmark in your underwear, I'm sending you back to the landline and the hoop-and-stick."

There was an ungodly blurt, then a long crackle, and Fortnight's hood crumpled as tears ran from his lidless eyes. A stink crept to Clark's nose. Clark's hood stretched back; he needed to be careful with his intimidation game. First it was his husband, now his son.

Whither extended her neck, helping Thence pick her books back up as the bus driver yelled at them. Clark drew a line across his throat, which made Whither grab Thence and Thither by the sleeves and rush them up the bus.

Clark sighed, then opened the house door behind him. "Fortnight, did I ever tell you about the time you were playing with that fox at the wildlife park, and you kept flashing your fangs at it..."

Fortnight sniffled, waddling back to the house. "And it bit me right on the lip. Left a scar."

"That's right," Clark said. "You keep pushing and pushing; no wonder you shit yourself."

"L-laundry's not that hard to do."

The cobra thumped his son on the shoulder and pushed him forward. That stink was getting to him: why was he eating Hot Pockets when they had fresh pre-killed feeder mice? "Then you can wipe your own ass. Get cleaned and dressed; I'm driving you to school."

"Dad?!"

"LANDLINE, FORTNIGHT."

The boy yelped and waddled double-time to the bathroom. Clark was relieved he was wearing briefs, not boxers, else he'd be leaving a nasty morse code trail of turds down the hall.

As Fortnight timidly shut the bathroom door, there was a rumble upstairs, then an awkward scrambling of limbs. Clark smirked. Rabbits and teenagers were so fucking horny.

~~~

The day passed pleasantly. Fortnight did indeed wash himself with a load of wet wipes, piling them high in the trash can beside him--the one his diaper had gone into last night--and frowning as the mound of shitty tissues grew into a mountain. It was like he was dressing a wound, but instead of blood from a cut, it was just scat. It was a hell of a lot easier using a toilet: he didn't know he pooped this much until it was all over his backside.

There was a polite knock at the door, and Clark handed him a new pair of underwear through the crack.

"What, uh, do I do with the old pair?"

"Rinse it in the tub, then leave it on the floor. I'll wash them."

"My shitty underwear?!" he balked.

"Trust me, Fortnight. You took six months to potty train. We handled a lot of your shitty underwear."

Clark got him off to school, the snake hanging his head in embarrassment.

The cobra patriarch tried to pat him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, buddy. We all shit our pants."

"Yeah, but you do it for fun!" growled his almost-teenager. "Fucking pervert."

Clark had to chuckle at his mood swings. "Yep, and it makes this family enough to put your shitty ass into college."

"I'm going to trade school."

"Fine! Fine. Your mother could use a new car."

"When do I get a car?"

"Get a job and buy one."

"That's child labor!"

They got in the car, with Fortnight slamming the door, putting on his seatbelt, then crossing his arms. Clark had to hide his smile; the kid was so passionate but he desperately needed an outlet. Wounded pride was driving him crazy: his brain was a steel trap for facts and trivia, and his synapses fired at blinding teraflop speeds, connecting the world he was rapidly learning about. But on top of all that, his body was occasionally spraying the sheets with a fluid he wasn't supposed to use until marriage some six, ten years down the road. Evolution was a cruel mistress, giving a person an enormously complex brain that wouldn't finish developing until its mid-twenties, but rushing everything below the belt so that anthroids half the age of mental readiness could pop out more babies.

It was like the body was betting against itself: "I might live long enough to become a person of science, math, industry; a master of nature. However, let's throw all these kids everywhere just in case a nasty jungle predator murders half the village."

On top of that, Fortnight knew his parents had a weird sex life. And that was a cruel paradox as well: as Pat told him afterwards, adults should behave in a way healthy and ideal, demonstrating a world that a child could healthily live in. He had a very healthy sex life with Patterson and Susan: it was just highly complex, as a diaper fetish could result in maturity/age regression, and polyamory could result in envy and resentment.

It was like owning an exotic sports car: the excellent engineering made it a joy to drive, but a person needed to afford its insane maintenance costs.

"Fort, man," said Clark, backing their luxury sedan out of the driveway and pushing it through the suburbs. "Anything I can do? Anything you want? I can even leave you alone."

The younger snake's head hit the headrest. "I don't know why kids always hate their parents," Fortnight sighed. "I thought I was different when all my friends at school were saying, 'oh, my dad's so stupid,' or 'my mom's a fucking bitch.' I was better than them. More rational. You and Susan, now Patterson too, are taking good care of me. Our family is loaded, but I'm not a spoiled brat. At least I hope I'm not. But I'm still so furious at you."

"You're furious that Patterson and I 'arrested you' for 'breaking the 'law' and you're wondering if we're being fascist," said Clark.

Fortnight went straight in his seat. "That's exactly it."

"Yeah, well you're our first teenager."

The young cobra sneered. "Besides Pat, you fucking cradle-robber. What are you, twice his age?"

Clark laughed. "I am, yes. It's ... it's been a strange relationship."

"Don't open up to me about your relationship. If it needs help, see counseling. I'm only your son; don't foist your problems on me."

His father's brow ridge went up. "Ah, so now you're just a kid."

"I also wanna own everything," Fortnight sighed. "I'm so bored in school. I finish my math homework before the bell rings. Science, who gives a fuck about biology. I don't want to be a biologist. History is either America's wars or civil rights studies. Which is to say: it should just be fucking case studies for lawyers, generals, and politicians."

"What do you want to do with your life?" asked Clark. "I mean, what job do you want?"

"I just want to build things," said Fortnight, thumping his head against the back of the seat. "Pop up structures in the middle of open fields. Nothing public, no social work or medicine: people are wishy-washy, whiny, scared, and it feels like changing emotional diapers. Wipe your own fucking ass, you know?"

Clark was weirdly proud. It broke his heart to see his innocent boy deal out his own karmic, brown justice in the seat of his pants, but good God could he recover. "I know. So: do you think your parents are fascists?"

"I ..." then Fortnight sighed. They were getting close to the school. "My childhood is a video game. It's artificial constructs with you as the programmer. Glitches and all. I die in childhood, I don't die in real life. I ... I know you're trying to help me. I didn't shit my pants in school. Nobody knows except for ... my brother and sisters. And your twink concubine."

Clark stiffened, and Fortnight smirked.

"You son of a bitch," laughed Clark.

"Ah, so you hate your wife, too?" grinned Fortnight.

Clark's smile disappeared. "Do you want me to go fascist on you?"

"Crush my spirit, daddy."

Clark's head hit the back of the seat, laughing. "You bastard."

"Ah, so I'm born out of wedlock. Out of three parents, I have no legitimate guardian."

"And like your video games, you really like testing the boundaries."

"Not exactly," said Fortnight. "More like ... just seeing if this video game can keep up."

"Well, am I? Or are we crushing your spirit?"

"Hey, just like your weird relationship, you made this monster," said Fortnight, pointing at himself. "You gotta deal with it now."

"Fine, fine. Do you want to tell them or shall I?" asked Clark, pulling out his phone. They pulled up to the sidewalk and Fortnight pulled a wet wipe from the center console. Clark blushed, because Fortnight smirked at him, knowing exactly what the wet wipes were for. The young cobra cleaned the goth makeup off his face, and pulled out his fake piercings. The wipe and the piercings he dumped into the central cupholder.

"Tell them what?" asked Fortnight.

"That I'll send them back to landlines if they tell anyone."

"School itself is anarchy," said Fortnight. "Underneath a fascist regime, which is to say that the teachers slam down these impersonal laws and oftentimes, the creative kids are the ones that get crushed. It's a bland soup meant for the dullest of mental palates. In the halls it's anarchy, in the classroom it's a dictatorship. It's lose-lose."

"How about I sign you up for online classes?"

The cobra paused when exiting the car. He smiled, but his lip trembled. "I'll sign myself up. You just have to pay."

Clark grinned, chest filling with pride and breath. "That's my boy. Go be bored for eight hours."

"If I shit myself, can I come home early?"

"You get to go to the school nurse and wear those diapers you're so fond of."

"Oh God, eew," said Fortnight, recoiling from the car.

Clark smirked: he won. "Be good, Forty."

"Fuck you, dad!"

Clark drove back with a smug, yet proud smile on his face.

~~~

This time, Patterson went over to Kioga's apartment to play video games. He wanted to wear a diaper, he wanted to talk about dirty shenanigans, and maybe even mess himself while gaming. Drop a big load in his pants, and be around other perverts that would admire him for his achievement, then raise themselves off their gaming chairs to squeeze out loads of their own. They'd play games in mutual smugness, tinged with embarrassment, and try to remain in their soiled pants as long as possible while everyone's biological self-revulsion clawed at their brains.

Patterson was dropped off by Clark, as he'd forgotten to renew his driver's license. Usually he took taxis, which were reasonably priced in the Puerto region not because Pendrael had put pricing regulations in place, but because his own taxis had flooded the market. UwUber and Yyft had to scramble to fix their own pricing, but in introducing a dog-eat-dog economy, the dogs naturally got better.

Clark put his paw on Patterson's as he drove into the Leakguard apartment subdivision. "I had another conversation with Fortnight."

"Man, how many is that kid going to need?" asked Patterson. The otter was dressed in a t-shirt, diaper, and a pair of snap-up pants that were becoming all the rage, now that Pendrael had destigmatized diapers by desensitization. It was a brilliant commercial that showed Kioga performing many corporate tasks--presentations, meetings, handshakes, and phone work--with the camera never dipping below his waist. The cheetah wore a beautiful starched white shirt and a tie that shimmered with black, silver, and purple accents. Then, at the end of the commercial, when a set of clients and executives congratulated each other and Kioga, the camera zoomed out, revealing that the thin cheetah was wearing nothing below the waist except a white diaper that was swollen in the front and a little bulged in the rear.

"Let it not be the golden rule, as gold is soft and oft plates a rotten core," Pendrael's voiceover said. This was strange, too: the CEO had gone from a mysterious recluse to a warm, if calculating, semi-public figure. There was an animated billboard near the F-C headquarters that showed the keskin's smooth, short lavender snout grinning, flashing square white teeth. "But let it be as obsidian: sharp, shining, and shatters when you go against its natural properties. Your shit is your own: and with Ferris-Chalmpers executive diapers, it will always remain that way."

Diapers, now, were not a fetish item, nor a protective item, but a luxury item. They almost looked like superhero trunks from the old comic books, or perhaps an item of clothing from an automated, hyper-convenient future. They were insanely affordable, too, forcing other diaper manufacturers to become inventive with their own designs in order to justify the price. Cavendish Holdings managed to trump Ferris-Chalmpers, but only by a little bit: they created hand-made, machine-engineered diapers that never sagged, never revealed fragrances, and had wicking properties so strong, that even the most soiled diaper never left any remnant upon the skin. The fanciest models even dehydrated the feces and stored them as flat bricks in the padding, which amusingly made the diaper even more comfortable and cushioned, with none of the smell or wetness.

Problem was, those were ten dollars each.

The advantage: they were the best diaper the world had ever known.

In summation, this diaper war made them as popular as smartphones, and people were starting to be particularly proud of their purchases. Ferris, American Apogee, European Ultra, and Cavendish collaborated on a multi-console gaming tournament, where the Clowns and Castles game got to show off its MLG chops, which were oddly good for a game with thousands of different weapons. The key rested in its evolutionary balancing, where overpowered moves and weapons were indeed supported, but they were eventually trumped by an A.I. mechanism that captured particularly clever player exploits and reprogrammed itself to include those. Wikipedia's own History Fighting Force, which took the top 1,000 historical figures from the past five thousand years and pitted them against each other in 2D combat.

Players complained that Donald Trump and Adolf Hitler had curiously similar movesets, but the question remained whether this was a Left-leaning joke about the last sixteen years of Mr. Trump's presidency, or a meta-joke about the Left-leaning joke.

The former had been the theory for two years of the game's existence, but then the latter theory came up when Lugo Perry, an enormous fan of HFF, said, "Y'know, any moron can understand Trump's playstyle, but it takes a master to appreciate it."

One of the game's producers was a Mr.'s, abbreviated from "Mister's," Fred McKraken. When Kioga Davis, a sponsor and guest-of-honor of these ABDMLG tournaments, was interviewed, the annoyed cheetah said, "I know Fred. He's a prankster, pushing people's sensitive buttons so much you should call him a button-masher."

"So you're saying he's a manipulative puppet master?" asked the interviewer.

The reporter was a colleague of Clark's, not an employee of F-C but the two regularly ran into each other at media conventions. Clark Kensington was actually there, filling in for the reporter's intern when the intern mysteriously disappeared, having knowledge of environmentalist actor Gary Steuben's suspiciously young tastes in men.

This was the same week that one of Fortnight's classmates went missing.

"Manipulation can mean many things," said Kioga, his eyes always glowing with irritation, but his brow moving upwards in thought. "It can just indicate a superlative ability in operating oneself. You manipulate a gamepad, you're not psychologically torturing it: you're pressing the correct buttons at exactly the perfect time."

"So he is a manipulator."

"People shouldn't be as simple as gamepads."

"And what's his angle?" asked the reporter.

Kioga spotted Clark in the back mouthing the exact words of the reporter's questions, exactly in time with the reporter speaking them. If the cobra rolled his eyes any further into his head, his hood would collapse backwards into a flower's petals.

"Again, you need to ask yourself of Fred's end goal," said Kioga. He was wearing a Clowns and Castles t-shirt and nothing below the waist except for an American Apogee diaper printed especially for the event, saying ABDMLG across the front.

"What are your views of Trump?"

"Have you ever asked what his views of me are?" asked the cheetah with a grin. "Anyway, you're not letting me answer your question. But to add a comment: I'm far too busy and fantastic to be niggling about in politics. I am my own country, both in GDP and my ... gross, domestic product," he said with a smug burst of ego. The small crowd around him groaned and there was a couple rogues that gave him a "Woo!" One said "Shit your pants!" and Kioga responded, "I already have."

His cabal of groupies roared and Kioga blushed from the very, very strange reaction. However, he felt empowered. Looking behind him, Kioga spotted a couple gamers squatting. He continued on-camera, "Anyway, Fred, I believe, is pushing people's buttons so they reveal their core values faster. Then, with everyone's viewpoints exposed, perhaps he can kickstart us past this endless back-and-forth of calling each other ... is it still Nazi?"

"It's Sith Lord now."

"Really, people don't like Star Wars anymore? That's a pity. I loved fifteen."

"That's because you were in that one."

"But it was also a return to the hero story. Of a small man, large in spirit, fighting and winning because of his love for the good and his adherence to it, no matter how harsh his battles in-between are. Anyway: Mr.'s McKraken is doing the same as burning a hoarder's house down. He's helping people getting rid of all the useless clutter that's in their brains. Changing their soiled diapers," he said, tapping his head.

The ABDMLG Tournaments, summarily, were a big success with CC and HFF, along with a litany of others. Players played far into the weekend, and between the diaper sponsorship and mandatory shower and walking breaks, everyone was happy.

Fred McKraken even showed up, though his fur was dyed red to distance himself from his true identity.

"Are you ever gonna nerf Hitler?" demanded an annoyed second-placer. The winner of the tournament had been, of all people, Margaret Thatcher for her iron defense. Hitler came, sadly, in 7thplace, for the player's overreliance on his rhetoric blast.

"I don't think we should ever forget his effectiveness," said Fred.

"You mean evil!"

"His effectiveness around morons," countered the crimson fox/otter person, then bowed to a splitting tsunami of applause. "And to clarify!"

"Xian, don't," hissed Kioga, standing alongside him.

Fred batted him away and the applause paused. "Leave me be, heart-breaker. And to clarify! It's not because he was racist, homophobic, trans-whatever, anti-sedimentary, because he was all that. But those are symptoms, not causes. But! It was because he said that the German people deserved their nation state because of God. Of some immaterial space-being, of some 'noble ideal,' that anyone can misinterpret--often to their own profit, at the cost of another's plunder. That he deserved a master race. I would demand such an edict in writing before agreeing to such insanity, and no, the Bible doesn't count."

This got a wave of chuckles from his audience.

"And I will impugn any man, any whatsoever, who declares that he has a better plan, for some collective whole, which requires the murder of any certain people. If you're defending your country from invaders, fine: get them out, take your land. If you're burning bodies to turn your country into a utopia, however, don't. It didn't work for the communists, it didn't work for the national socialists, it didn't work for the fascists. Love yourself," Fred declared, "and hate those who step on your toes. Not your perceived toes! Do not overstep yourself!" he interrupted himself. "But your actual toes."

There was a mixture of groans and applause, and Kioga patted Xian on the shoulder for his passionate grandstand. "Apparently they kinda like your stance on 'Hitler bad,'" he said.

Xian chuckled and, with a quick claw, ripped the top tape of Kioga's diaper. The branded garment quickly slipped down his thighs, sagging with incontinent contents, and it was only due to the cat's quick reflexes that he avoided revealing the tip of his sheath to the world. "It's a necessary one. If you're to denounce an individual, an anthroid being, you need to be precise. Every life is precious--or at least, was precious once. Suicide by vote is monstrously dangerous."

Clark parked in front of the address given, and Patterson squeezed his paw. It was strange having a lover whose body temperature could be measured by the car's climate controls, but here they were. Squeezing the cobra's paw was not unlike squeezing the armrest of the car. However, this certain piece of room-temperature furniture moved.

"Hey, thanks for taking care of the kids tonight."

Clark smiled. "You've earned it, sweetie. I know you're still young, so you gotta have your video games and other pleasures."

"I just feel selfish."

"Feel selfish!" the cobra smiled. "Life, ultimately, should be spent slaving away at the furtherance of your desires."

The two butted heads, and then they kissed. Clark's forked tongue inside his mouth would always feel weird, and always feel fantastic.

"Mmmhf," Patterson sighed, then grabbed at the cobra's groin. "Can I suck you off before I go in?"

The cobra graciously smiled, even as Patterson opened his pants and groped his underwear bulge. In waiting to formulate his words, the cobra saw the otter pull his penis out of his fly and lean over it. Before it was remotely hard, Patterson was sucking on Clark's cock, and by degrees it firmed up in the otter's mouth.

Clark patted him on the head. "As much as your exuberance enhances my sex drive, my love, I still can't perform as often as you can."

Patterson didn't let up, and instead removed his mouth just long enough to push Clark's trousers and briefs past his knees, then continued sucking on his half-erect penis. Slowly, Patterson won him over, and Clark reclined his seat backwards, instinctually humping into the warm, wet orifice as his cock reached full mast. "Oh, God, my love, really?"

Patterson only answered by cradling Clark's balls, his lips working over the pink flesh and sometimes popping when the seal was broken. Clark looked out over the lower-income housing as his husband slurped and swallowed his erection, that which produced his four kids, that which had pleasured his monogamous wife, that which he modestly put in cotton briefs unless he was home alone, with his wife, and even then usually hid it in a diaper.

Clark let himself relax, droning out to the slick sounds of a mouth wrapped around his cock, to the grunting and moaning sounds of this young otter male he'd married. It soon became too much, and the cobra clutched the armrest of his luxury car as his cock spasmed and spurted into the spry male's mouth.

"Oh, shit," he sighed, feeling as awkward as if he'd started urinating into Patterson's mouth. There was so much perversity with the young male; he remembered many diaper changes at work which quickly escalated into a rather filthy kind of sodomy, the diaper-changer stretching a condom over his penis so that the soiled hole he was fucking didn't soil him.

Patterson came up, licking his lips and wiping them with his forearm. "I love you so much, my dear," the young male said. Clark smiled at him, his fangs resting against his bottom jaw, and nuzzled him.

"Is that so you don't cheat on us?" Clark asked.

It was a gambit the cobra ran: he wasn't actually accusing Patterson, but rather making a joke about it because he felt so secure in their relationship.

Patterson took it first at face value, then understood Clark's meaning. Finally, Patterson gave a vulnerable chuckle. "I wanted to ask you about that," he said, and immediately recovered with a splaying of his aquatic webbed paws. "You know I always ask risky questions!"

"Continue," Clark said gracefully, though he could not admit that his heart wasn't fluttering in his chest.

"I want to game with my friends, but Kioga and Ceylon are much more open than us."

"They have a completely different relationship," Clark said. "Both are exclusive to quality males, but that unfortunately includes you."

"What do I do if they start fucking?"

"Do I have to answer that for you?"

"No!" said Patterson. "I just want to hear it from you or from Susan."

"Why do you need to hear our wedding vows again?"

Patterson sat back in his seat, cringing as his diaper bulged, and not from urine or excrement. "You ever read a good book?" "I've read quite a few," said Clark, "Oftentimes as an anti-psychotic. Like a hangover cure. Life is much less ambiguous when coming from a person who has filtered out all of life's noise and reduced it down to its essential essence."

"I just want to hear from you why we have it so good," said Pat, stopping Clark from pulling his pants back up. He admired the older cobra: sincere, austere, yet vulnerable.

"Didn't you just taste why we have it so marvelous?" the cobra said with a smirk.

Patterson looked warmly at the penis in Clark's lap, which had already softened, but was drooling that precious white fluid which he'd already swallowed. Sometimes he just loved seeing his wife or his husband nude, to remind himself that they were wonderful, weird anthroid beings as himself. Things felt so honest when he caught Clark dressing himself, or Susan brushing her fur out.

"Just ... it's so tempting when there's a fresh hole out there," said Patterson. "I really respect Kioga, and Ceylon's such a nice person. So why shouldn't I floor them with my massive ... respect for them?"

Clark nodded, then let Patterson put his pants back on him. The cobra looked around; anyone who was smoking or drinking outside in this suburb plainly knew what had happened. They either didn't give a fuck or had watched on in envy. "Can you really give them your all, and then come back to us and do the same?" he asked. "That you love someone, and dedicate all your thoughts and attention to them ... when there's exceptions?"

"I got a lot of love to give," said Patterson.

"You certainly do," said Clark as the otter clumsily folded the cobra's drooling penis back into his briefs. "But how are you going to feel, connecting with Kioga like that--I don't know about Ceylon--and Kioga later casually mentions the fun time he had with yet _another_person?"

Patterson lowered his ears. Clark put his arm over the otter's shoulder. "My love is guaranteed to you and Susan," said the cobra. "You are part of an exclusive club. One that will always work with each other, one who will support the highs and help recover from the lows: whenever something horrible happens to you. We will be there. Whenever you achieve greatness: we will celebrate you."

Patterson smiled, then kissed his husband.

"Go and have fun with your friends," said Clark. As Patterson got out of the car, the cobra snatched the otter's tear-away jeans and tore them away. The otter yelped and tried to cover the massive white triangle covering his nethers, but the thing practically glowed in the dark.

"What did you do that for?!" demanded Pat.

The cobra smugly locked the door and dropped the pants in the passenger seat. "I don't have to tell you to keep it in your pants if you don't have any."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

The cobra stared at him. "You wanted to have a fun diaper time. Now starts your fun diaper time. This is Puerto Panuela, not Jamestown or Baghdad."

"This is just an act of dominance! You have to be the head of the household!" Patterson hissed.

Clark managed a glance that was both glare and grin. "I am the head of the household," he said, and then drove off before Pat could argue another word.

The gangbangers across the street saw the whole altercation, and already the jeers and laughs came on.

"Aww shit, we got another diaper boy in our midst!"

"Gonna shit your pants, diaper boy?"

"I'm not wearing any fucking pants!" shouted Patterson, then stomped up the stairs to Kioga's apartment before the deer amongst the group of the mongoose, lizard, and rabbit could drop his drawers and take a long, spooling, farting, crackling dump on the front lawn. Patterson paused, watching it from Kioga's balcony.

"Goddamn," Pat whispered to himself, watching the deer's asshole stretch around the turds he was pushing out. Like, he was literally shitting on the lawn, amazing, and his three friends were squatting around him, pointing under his tail as one log fell out, then his anus spread around another brown head which turned into a stinking rope.

Suddenly he didn't feel so ashamed of walking around, bottomless, in a diaper.

The door opened behind him and Pat nearly shat himself right there. Kioga stood there in a pink onesie, and behind him was the gryphon Ceylon in blue. The cheetah promptly looked below the otter's waist and laughed.

"Couldn't wait to get started, eh?" he said, welcoming the otter in.

"Clark decided to embarrass me," Pat growled. He entered into the place and it wasn't nearly as impoverished as everyone said it was. The floor plan was actually rather large, and Kioga chalked that up to a failed luxury enterprise. The local suburbs weren't able to support fancy cosmopolitan tastes, though it was slowly coming up in revenue as people snuck out of Panuela for cheaper housing and to avoid Pendrael's "stupidity laws," which cleaned up the city but unfortunately made its property value skyrocket. Clark had made a fortune, as their suburban home just bordered the city limits.

The cobra wouldn't, however, release just how well-off the Kensingtons were. They weren't rich enough to kill a man and get away with it, or change cars like they changed diapers, but Pat remembered seeing Clark's picture in a few local restaurants, and the staff being oddly formal with him as if he owned the place. It tickled Patterson to death that he'd be secure until death, but he chastised himself when Clark's penis seemed to grow a few inches whenever Pat thought of the cobra's bank account. You goddamn whore, he'd tell himself, you fell in love first and foremost. The moment he starts treating you like his sugar baby, making you give him road head on drives together, you are out of this relationship!

Patterson blushed, realizing that he had initiated the suck-off in Clark's car.

Regardless, it was nice being in an area of slight-poverty, where everything wasn't new and clean and organized. Clark and Susan were almost perfect, and it sometimes drove the nineteen year-old nuts. He felt like he couldn't excuse himself and be sloppy for a day, regardless of whether the step-children were there. Pat didn't like drugs or alcohol, but why not try? Why not smoke some weed, grab a pack of beer, and game all day with his penis drooped over the front of the chair, over a bucket?

Kioga's apartment wasn't filthy by any means, but there was a little clutter here and there, with an empty pizza box leaning by the front door alongside a full trashbag. Patterson spotted the faint printing of a few diapers through the plastic, and smirked at the two. All in all, the place was pretty clean, with a table in the middle of the living room wiped down and stacked with cheap snacks and napkins the cheetah had likely amassed from fast food places. Patterson could have sworn that Kioga was rich from all his involvement with the company, but perhaps the cheetah was lazy, letting it pile up. Xian had mentioned that they were constantly fighting with Europe and China over obscenity laws, and so a lot of Kioga's payments had to be in diapers--warehouses full of them, cargo ships loaded with them--and then, in exchange, Kioga would sell the diapers himself. "Kioga's Heavy Liquidations" he'd called it. "These things can't go fast enough!" the commercial bragged. "And I can't go fast enough to justify them! Come on down and grab a case or ten. Half the price of retail! Try before you buy. If you leave here dry, then I'm washed up! The back of your car--and the back of your pants--will be sagging by the time we're done. Take a load off! And let my diapers help."

Whatever it was, Kioga certainly didn't show it, living in an apartment that fast food employees could afford if rooming together. Pat was secretly glad that Kioga was slightly slovenly, because that let himself relax.

"Did you do something wrong?" asked Ceylon. The lynx-osprey was thin, but not quite as thin as Kioga, who even when healthy looked a little malnourished. "You mean with Clark?" asked Pat. "Nah, not really. I'm thinking he was trying one of those stunts from that BDSM movie, humiliating me to flaunt his power, and me secretly enjoying it."

The winged lynx pulled at one of the tufts at the corners of his jaw. "Sounds pretty sexy to me, but I don't get a lot of 'sub' energy from you. I'm not psychic, but your posture's that of a, uh, soldier, not a little lady-thing."

Patterson realized he was standing square with his chest out. Did he do that around Clark and Susan? "I'm not sure, then."

"A real 'dom' would have you take some PassThru and stand right in front of the car, in the headlights," said Kioga. He pointed them into the living room, where a third monitor, kinda small, was set up with a dusty PlatStadium the cheetah had likely dredged from the closet. It would work just fine. "And he'd probably blare the horn so everyone could watch while you messed yourself. I'm thinking it was just a cute prank."

Patterson's head jerked back. That there was no deeper meaning, that Clark was just playing with him? No, Clark was perfect; this wasn't just a stupid joke!

Kioga patted him on the back. "I got lots of snacks, even some fancy gas station sushi from Pettretto's Petrol Palace for you amphibian types. Drinks, got seltzer, soda, juice, all of which you can toss vodka in if you wanna get stupid."

"Sure you don't want to play that diaper fantasy game?" asked Ceylon.

Kioga grinned. "Oh, right, Pat's never seen that."

"Tonight is more Clowns and Castles," said Pat, "The Elven Circus is dropping tonight. And last time was really fun ... even when everyone started fucking each other."

"Did your night go okay?" asked the gryphon. "I heard there was some trouble."

The otter's eyes snapped open when he recalled all that craziness with Fortnight. "Actually, it went impressively well. Unfortunately, we now have a near-teenager who's discovered his body."

"Discovered, his?" repeated Ceylon.

Kioga frowned, his spotted face wrinkled. "It's a euphemism."

"And a horrible one, at that," Patterson agreed. "Always used by these sex-positive professors, which that's another fucking term, 'sex-positive.'"

"The bedroom is sex-positive. Discussing it in a classroom is porn-forward, orgiastic."

"Yeah, why is it that everyone who uses the term 'sex-positive' or 'discovering the body' is either a stalker or a pedophile?"

The lynx-faced gryphon smiled through all of it, but the corner of his eye came up as he listened to the two complain. "It's a rather sugar-coated term," he agreed.

"For a very serious issue!" said Pat. "You don't use Paw Patrol to explain the Holodomor!"

Ceylon laughed, his eyes wide at the image. "Oh dear, that's ... sure. The terminology is so soft that it's dishonest. So your almost-teenager, he's ... ejaculating?"

Patterson seized up as if someone punched him in the base of the spine. "Oh! Yes! But wow, that's ... too blunt. Now I'm being a wuss. Yes, he's going through the crazy rigamarole."

"Your terminology, is not that sugar-coating?"

"It's abstraction," said Pat, "Because it is a sensitive subject, putting some padding around it makes it easier to handle. Like oven mitts with a hot pan."

"Ah, very good. A slight loss of dexterity with the advantage of comfort. Still maintaining the knowledge that one is handling a 'hot topic.' And how did that involve a diaper last night? I don't want to pry. Just that you left the party very quickly."

Patterson was getting a little tired of explaining it, but to his friend's friend it was only polite. "I thought that a diaper would assist him with his nightly emissions."

"Every night?" asked Ceylon.

"Diapers are terrible at absorbing cum!" said Kioga.

"Jesus, does everybody know that?"

"Fetishists and pedophiles, sure," said Ceylon.

Everyone froze, staring at the innocent blue gryphon. Ceylon seemed to crumple from the atmospheric pressure of the stupefied stares, but managed a grin nonetheless.

"Dark American humor, yes?" he asked.

Patterson and Kioga looked at each other, begrudging awe painting their stunned smiles.

"Yeah," said Pat.

"Fucking good job," said Kioga.

"So you gave your young step-son, who is burgeoning on sexuality, a fetish item?" asked Ceylon.

He might as well have smacked Patterson in the face with a frying pan, so staggered was the otter.

"A protective item! He, I ... I made a retarded mistake, okay?" said Pat. "But I fixed it."

"Sounds like a crazy--" Kioga started, but Ceylon reached over and gently pushed the top and bottom of the cheetah's muzzle together.

"Then it's fixed," said the gryphon. "So shall we get to gaming?"

"God, yes!" said Pat, who immediately raided Kioga's fridge. Vodka and lemonade, great, he found, but skipped a pack of menthol cigarettes hidden in the crisper drawer.

"So what is the point of playing simplified console games?" Ceylon asked. "I don't mean to demean console games, but a ten-button controller versus a 115-key keyboard seems like it would have to make some compromises."

"Y'know, it's your tone that keeps you from being a snob," said Kioga. "And I, too, mean that in a non-demeaning way."

"I'm just very curious about the world," said the gryphon. "America is a very queer country, and it seems that this, what is it, _county_is the strangest of all."

"Eagles, boners, barbeque, and beer, baby," said Kioga. "And no, we don't barbeque our eagles. Not yet."

"It is funny the many ways to say those sentences," said Ceylon, "One way implies that my standards are the only viable ones, and deviations offend me. The other way is honest interest how different people achieve the same ends, that is to say: happiness."

"Plenty happy here, baby," said Kioga, and lit up a cigarette.

Ceylon turned on the ceiling fan.

The cheetah sat down in a gaming chair that had a towel spread over the seat, for obvious reasons. While Kioga wore rather good budget diapers, the cheetah found ways of overpowering them, both through stubbornness and laziness.

"We have better diapers," said Ceylon. "Don't you have a warehouse?"

"I'll know when they leak," bragged the cheetah, booting up Clowns and Castles and tweaking his character.

"Yes, but bowel incontinence," offered the gryphon.

"Welp, when a turd hits my foot, I'll change 'em!"

The otter chuckled, sipping his drink and logging into his Platstadium profile. As before, it felt good to be playing on a cheap system, on a cheap TV. It reminded him that sometimes, luxury was the appreciation of fine creation, and other times it was just fat rolls on a preexisting convenience.

He was glad that Clark and Susan weren't snobs. Even though they drove luxury cars, they bought Japanese, or the new American brand Hemingway, which were fiercely reliable if stunningly simple.

"But to answer your question," Kioga said, interrupting himself with a grunt. The cheetah leaned backward and there was the quiet hiss of a very familiar function. "Ah, fuck. I'm not sure if I'll last a couple hours."

"If diapers were cheeseburgers, it wouldn't be the contents of your ass overflowing the seat," said Patterson. "It'd be your ass!"

"Oh, goodness, that's mean," laughed Ceylon. "So, to answer my question?"

"Ah, right," said Kioga, taking a drink and then a smoke. "I mean, you can't play Dark Pantaloon Effluvia while talking to people can you?"

Ah, so that was the name of Kioga's weird porn game.

"Ahem, no," said Ceylon, his thumbs already clacking on the sticks. Already, people were logging on, and Ceylon was greeting them as they came on. Wesley, Kyrie, Joe, Lugo, Sahasrahla, Sakrasingh, Aloysius, Xian, Lasmo, Evan; everyone came on this Friday night. "You see, oh hi, Wesley; I hope you are well."

"Hey, you're uh, you weren't on your period or anything, were you?" asked Wes.

"I don't know if you missed it," said Ceylon, "but I'm a boy gryphon. I know it was caged up in plastic."

"I thought you all had cloacas, shit," said Wes.

"Is your penis really that indiscriminate?" said Ceylon with an astonished half-laugh.

"I don't know if he alternates holes or just misses, sweetheart," said Kyrie. "Don't worry, _nobody_missed it."

Patterson looked behind him, wondering if a furred, feathered gryphon could blush. As such, Ceylon's rubber-capped talons bumped and rustled through Kioga's shag carpet floor.

"And you were fantastic; you were so free and joyous," said the office wet-nurse Sakrasingh, the dragon with enormous, milk-bearing breasts.

"Ehehehe," nervously laughed the gryphon. "Let's not just celebrate my accomplishments."

"Those were decent cocks that you took," said Aloysius, "but ever had a luxury ride?"

"Look, that's enough; I'm not going to be spitroasted with praise," said Ceylon.

Kioga was silently chirping, heaving with laughter. Ceylon extended one of the wings on his back, tickling Kioga's ear until he flailed at the invasive feathers.

"So we're all here?" asked Lugo. "I'm ready to get my gaming on! Got my giant mug of beer, got my chicken wings--no offense, Joe."

"Chicken's fuckin' delicious!" said Joe. "I get my cousin's bucket from Pagliacci's Wang Dang Doodle anytime I can!"

"Isn't that cannibalism?" asked Kioga.

"Is your leather gimp-suit a serial killer fetish thing, you cow?"

Ceylon smushed his face with his paw, vibrating with laughter, while Patterson sprayed vodka-lemonade on his waterproof arm.

"I really like you idiots," said Lasmo. "This is the right type of peace."

"So why do we like console over PC?" asked Kioga, giving a thumbs up to the gryphon.

"It lets all us idiots keep up with these Mario games," said Lasmo. "Chatting with each other, bullshitting--no offense Kioga, you cow--becomes part of the experience."

"I know exactly who to serial kill," said the cheetah.

"All of us or none of us, faggot," said Wesley. "If I'm alive, I'm digging your corpse up and shitting in your skeleton."

"And fucking my corpse?" said Kioga. They were launching into a game, and shooting at each other as much as they were shooting at the enemies.

"Shit, well, your pelvis probably won't be much looser than your asshole," said Wes.

Everyone roared at the burn, with even Sahasrahla of the HR and Ceylon/Aloysius of Europe giving their begrudging respect.

"Et tu, Lugo?" asked Kioga. The cheetah had fallen back in his chair, grinning in utter defeat as everyone curb-stomped him. "Do I really have a loose asshole?"

The sound that came over the microphone was no less than an obscene PFFFPSSSHPTPTT from the wolf's lips.

"Nope," said his ex-husband. "You're the tightest-ass bitch I ever fucked. Practically cut my nuts off."

Another round of snorts came from The Crew.

"But I still love you," admitted Lugo.

"We killed each other too much, baby," said Kioga with a sigh.

"Yeah, we did," sighed Lugo. "But I'll still donate my asshole if your loose pink-sock ever falls out."

Kioga screamed, his lips back and his teeth flashing, smile wide enough to reveal the back of his throat as he lashed about in his chair. "Oh, I hate you so much."

"We could get hate-married," said Lugo, and Patterson suddenly felt a bolt of jealousy strike his chest. If anyone was going to get hate-married, it'd be him and Kioga. The otter shook his head, staring at his drink as the alcohol teased his head. This was what Clark meant by open relationships. Errant partners: like ordering food that went to somebody else's house. Fuck.

"So hey, what's the boss we're killing?" asked Ceylon.

"Isildur Dalrymple," said Aloysius. "He's an amusing fellow of the new DLC. Very good: the fight has to be done with everyone playing to their own excellence. Cooperative, indeed, but tricky to lean on others if you drop the slack."

"Ah, like you?" asked Xian.

"No," Aloysius grunted. There was a creak of his chair, then a heavy wet thud, like a raw steak had fallen on the floor. "It's not the slacks I drop, but what I drop in my slacks."

"You know, we're going to smell that in a couple minutes," said Xian.

"My maid will be by. Oh, there he is."

"You know, I don't remember you hiring white foxes and albino otters in thongs. Oh God, that one has a diamond butt plug."

"Worth more than your car. The plug itself is also diamond, not just the tip." The platinum dragon purred. "I don't know what it is; perhaps I like the aesthetic," he said to the artotic. "One of them could suck you off while you load your briefies."

Xian murred in response. "Let's get through the boss fight first."

"I think you should do it during the boss fight. How is that penis that Pendrael gave you?"

The Crew collectively leaned forward in their chairs. Ceylon was a bit distracted, licking Kioga's cheek while he slipped his paw through the leg of Kioga's onesie and stroked his stretching diaper.

There was a distinct rustling sound. "Guys, if you hear anything, it's because I have a silk package rubbing against each of my shoulders," said Xian. "If I go quiet, there's two cocks in my mouth."

"There's a cunt-boi around here as well, as well as a full-functioning hermaphrodite and a very hung dick girl," said Aloysius.

"For all my holes?" asked Xian.

"Mmmh, not until you drop some big boy logs in your panties," purred Aloysius. There were a couple different voices humming while slurping, then another grunt and a wet thud. Indeed, the dragon was having his footlong monster being serviced while freely defecating in his mansion.

"Ah shit, glllp--" said Xian, and there went two hard cocks into his mouth, one fox and one otter, while all their characters were reequipping themselves in town. Then Xian coughed, grunting. Patterson heard another poot over the headset, then a distinct, wet crackle. Alongside it, a slick wet squish, and a more feminine male's voice moaning. "D-don't worry guys," the artotic said with a groan. Xian was likely stand-squatting, boy-servants on stepladders feeding him their cocks while fucking a cunt-boi in his pussy, his bikini briefs pulled down in the front while he pushed big, thick, heavy turds into the back. "I can still play; these servants will clean me up while I get my equip load set." "It's all on stream, too," said Aloysius, "Cavendish Gaming, unlimited rating for unlimited ratings."

"Jesus, you guys are wild," laughed Joe.

Patterson took another drink of vodka-lemonade, his paw trembling as his diaper swelled out in the front. Another gaming orgy to delay the actual game. He wasn't sure whether to store all these memories, save them for his spouses, or release some pressure. The afterglow would make him sloppy, he decided.

The cheetah purred, and Patterson looked back to see Kioga stroking the round, front bottom of his onesie, which was getting a little conical. Ceylon looked over and grinned. Patterson swallowed, reaching into his own diaper to loop his cock around the inside of his padding's curvature. He didn't stay inside of his sheath much, especially when diapers were involved. On weird days, the first sign he was soiling them was, of course, the bowel pressure. The second, however, was a warm stiff turd hitting the head of the cock beneath it. For a brief moment it'd feel like him and Clark rubbing dicks together, sometimes within the confines of Susan's diaper.

"Guys, if you're gonna do it, just do it," Pat said. "And I don't mean that in a pissy way."

Ceylon grinned, then undid the snaps at the bottom of Kioga's onesie. The two felines kissed, the half-osprey gryphon flapping his wings happily, then undid the cheetah's diaper tapes.

"Oooh, you already made a mess, little kitty," purred the gryphon.

The cheetah undid Ceylon's snaps and slipped the lynx-osprey's diaper to his knees. The baby-print garment waggled as it slipped town, the front already a solid wet bulb. "And you're a leaky birdie," sighed Kioga. "But so chaste." The cheetah gently flicked the metal cage confining Ceylon's penis to a small, shiny hood ornament hanging at the end of his pubis.

"That's just buildup for later," the gryphon murred.

Patterson readjusted himself. Now his cock was curving out the front of his diaper like he was hiding half a bicycle tire in it. Shit, shit, shit. He excused himself to the shower.

Kioga watched him go, and Ceylon paused in his ministrations, having turned his nude buttocks, his lion-tail up, toward the cheetah's lap. "Oh dear, should we have--" said Ceylon, pausing.

The cheetah stared at the black, wrinkled ring under the gryphon's tail. He didn't know whether he wanted to fuck it, or watch a long, nasty turd spread it and fall into his lap.

"Hey Pat!" called Kioga. "The shower gets really hot. And if you take a bath, all my fancy soaps are on the shelf. Actually, hold on."

The cheetah gathered his diaper as best he could, retaping the half-soiled napkin around his waist, then waddled to a chest in the living room, where he grabbed a controller attached to a tablet.

He went to the bathroom door and knocked. "I have a waterproof remote player so you can relax away from all us degenerates and still enjoy your game."

Patterson poked his head out. The brown-beige otter, with his latte-art fur, was completely nude, and his erection poked past the door. Kioga cleared his throat a few times, catching a slice of the beautiful young otter through the door. Fuck, maybe I should have gone for that.

Then he looked back toward Ceylon, who was patiently waiting with his onesie rolled up to his stomach, his chastity cage glimmering in the game light, his cub-print diaper hanging bulbously around his knees, and his paws on his thighs, his blue and black butt still exposed. Nah, I got it good.

Patterson stared at him. "Please promise me we'll get some gaming in tonight."

Kioga slid his fist through the door and softly punched the otter in the chest. "Good on you for staying strong. Dinner's on me at the USDABDL Steakhouse. I'll even change you afterwards."

"Maybe," said Pat, taking the portable gaming contraption. The door opened more, revealing the young male's beautiful form, causing the nearly-thirty cheetah to bite his lip.

Goddamn, if I can't have it all! thought Kioga. Ah well: such is the fall of man.

_"_Thanks for understanding," said Pat.

"Goddamn, I'd pay a million dollars to watch you mess your diaper," blurted Kioga.

Patterson smirked, suddenly seeing a person who was as emotionally incontinent as his step-son. "Get a hold of yourself, you crazy old pervert," said Patterson. "I'm gonna be doing that anyway once we play some fucking games."

_"_My ass is getting cold," purred Ceylon, crawling up onto the gaming chair to flash his beautiful backside at Kioga.

The nude, half-erect otter emerged from the bathroom, his long penis swinging between his thighs. "You be careful with this one!" he called out.

"I'm just dating him for his cock," teased Ceylon.

"Well you sold yourself short!"

"Oh, fuck you both!" growled Kioga, grinning with his teeth out and his ears down. His onesie flaps hanging, he waddled with his half-loaded diaper back to the gryphon, who he kissed on the neck, the cheek, and the side of the lips as he dropped his soiled diaper on the floor with an audible thud and moved in on his rear end.

Patterson took a nice, long bath.

In the living room, Kioga and Ceylon set their headsets aside as the two males kissed, then the cheetah growled, grinned, and pulled lube from his gaming desk. He lathered up and stroked a couple of fingers against the gryphon's wrinkled slit, causing him to moan. Then the cheetah locked the wheels on Ceylon's gaming chair and pushed himself into the gryphon's rear. Ceylon responded by pushing back against him, a sweet smile spreading on his face as Kioga's firm, average-sized cock entered him. The cheetah shivered with lust, his hips instinctually bracing themselves as the gryphon's smooth, warm, tight orifice spread, clenching against its guest.

The two started bucking in unison, Ceylon bracing himself against a chair this time, not a railing, with Kioga thrusting into the gryphon's rectum over and over. Precum spurted into the lynx-osprey's bowels, and Ceylon bit his lip as his own cock swelled against its cage, then remained as firm as it could against its confines. Its tiny lock jingled against the metal collar. Their diapers swished, Ceylon's wet diaper having fallen to his knees and the seat of the chair, while Kioga's somewhat soiled diaper swung in midair. The musk of Ceylon's urine, and Kioga's feces, crept through the air. The two males didn't mind the latter's stink so much; it was just a bodily function not unlike their lusty, passionate mating.

Over the Cavendish Gaming stream, which Kioga switched over to in curiosity, Xian's character moved with awkward sluggishness. On the main stream, it was a wonder the artotic could move at all: Aloysius had him suspended in a platinum silk harness, with a cunt-boi fox riding his new and strange black cock, which seemed to glow with purple runes up the underside. With the assistance of stepladders, Xian had a fox cock and an otter cock in the sides of his muzzle, with the dragon straddling his whole body, feeding him his own foot-long black monstrosity. On the older, silver and blue dragon's flat stomach hung a screen so Xian could still play while fucking and sucking a total of four genitals. His blue bikini briefs were still on, just pushed down in the front, and the harness exposed the artotic's cotton-covered rump.

With a grunt and a moan, then a wet rattling poot, the whole filthy audience of his streamers watched a tiny spire form between Xian's buttocks, then splurtch out into a thick tent of a log that filled out the seat of his briefs. Then another spire formed, and his briefs bulged again as a second long, pendulous lump filled out the seat.

"Rrrrrgh, dirty boy," snarled the dragon, shoving his huge cock between the two smaller dicks, deep down Xian's muzzle and throat. Two of his servants also lifted their tails, each of them pushing out a rope of stool that fell off-camera.

"Goodness, what decadence," Ceylon breathily said, his anus relaxing as Kioga pounded away.

The cheetah was already feeling his first orgasm coming on, but instead of freezing in place he just let his cock erupt, spurting into the gryphon's guts as he thrust himself towards a second.

"Oh, fuck," Ceylon said as he felt the hot fluid fill him, their diapers rustling away as his ass started to drool. Kioga would be riding his cock in an hour or two: the gryphon was abuzz with lust and delight. And by the way his own insides were gurgling, he knew it'd be in spite of a diaper whose back end was packed in spunk and scat. Maybe he'd save the sex for morning, when Patterson the gaming workaholic was conked out cold. He knew he wouldn't be able to save his bowel movement that long, especially with Kioga loosening everything up.

On the screen, the two saw on Xian's stomach the stain of a turd that had dropped from Aloysius, then rolled off. The cunt-boi's unoccupied rump was also streaked, while his pink, puffy pussy lips were gleaming with the precum of Xian's queer, peerless prosthetic. Xian's briefed rump was heavy, lumpy, and stained at this point with his own explusions, a literal sack of shit clinging to him, jiggling with every thrust.

Kioga wrapped himself tight to Ceylon and the two kissed as the cheetah's second orgasm spurted into him, and the gryphon bit his lip as he felt solid material higher up his colon shift. "Would you want that type of decadence?" the cheetah asked.

Ceylon blushed, Kioga's afterglow absorbing into him with their bodies' closeness. "That's a lot of dicks I gotta trust. Not in a health way per se, but an emotional way. It's fun porn though. We don't have to have it on, it's just extra. You know what they say, can't have frosting without a cake."

The gryphon reached back and scratched Kioga's hip; the two smiled at each other.

On-screen, this decadence came to a peak, and Xian coughed as seemingly a pint of spunk entered his throat and then spilled over, coating his chest in a blanket of white slime while the dragon, the fox, and the otter continued to spray his face.

His own cock lurched and the boi mounted on it moaned, tightening his pussy as much as he could before glowing violet-black goo drooled out of him.

"That's the normal color, don't worry," gasped Xian. "It's safe, and/or Pendrael has a lot of money if you need a lawsuit."

"That's reassuring!" complained the boi fox, dismounting and scrambling for a towel.

Aloysius caught him by the tail. "It's safe. What Pendrael's scientists did show me, it's not much different than than the cum-lube you use on the weekends."

"And it's produced in his balls?!"

Ceylon switched the stream off. "Love," he said with a little cringe, an audible gurgle rattling through him. "You might want to let me get my diaper."

Kioga perked up, then carefully removed his spined penis as best he could. He was getting pretty good at it, but then again, he'd been using it for thirteen years, and owned it for twenty-six. The gryphon slipped his diaper up just in time, and laughed as Kioga tried to nuzzle the backside, saying "No, don't, I'm embarrassed, I--oof here we go."

A muffled crackle, a blurt, and then a splatter made one male groan and the other one whoop with stupid male joy.

Patterson was soaking away in the bathroom and heard the whoop through the door. The water was indeed capable of boiling the skin off a chicken, but fortunately Kioga had installed a temperature dial right above the faucet. The otter had chosen the highest healthy setting, and had groaned with relief as the huge, hot bath opened up all his blood vessels and caused a sweat that seemed to aerate his stress as well as any body toxins away.

The otter spent a good twenty minutes just plonking away at the game, playing with Lugo, Joe, Sahasrahla, Sakrasingh, Wesley, Kyrie, and Lasmo as Xian and Aloyisus got crazy.

Patterson still had the snobby opinion that, like rich celebrities that get fat, sun-dried, and stupid before they're fifty, Xian and Aloy were going to burn themselves out like heroin junkies. But Pat was Pat, and he admitted to himself that he had some very snobby tendencies.

"Live and let live," he told himself with a shrug. "So when's the baby due?" he asked Kyrie over the waterproof console's mic.

"Oh! Four months."

The otter smiled, assisting his gaming crew with a magic beam spell that dropped the console's framerate and nuked the gryphon-drone from the sky.

"That's neat. Got a name for it?"

"Got a name for yours?" Kyrie said.

The otter pushed himself up in the tub, flexing his webbed toes under the hot water. "Minecraft."

Lasmo snorted, Sahasrahla balked, "What?" and Wesley exploded in cackling laughter, then went on a rant on how stupid that was.

"You're fucking with me, you're fucking with me!" he said.

It was just a stupid pun, considering his renegade step-son.

"Nah, I'll discuss it with the spouses tomorrow," said Pat. "Everything's really cool."

When he heard the whoop from outside, Pat muted the microphone and yelled out towards the closed door, "You guys done out there? I can't be around those temptations of the flesh, you harlots."

There was the sound of ripping tapes, then a blasphemy uttered by Kioga.

"I'm sorry I don't have your bland American diet!" countered Ceylon. "Or your arrogance, you pretending that your scat don't stink!"

Patterson shrugged, then closed the shower curtain and shook off his waterproof fur. He grabbed a diaper and a onesie from under the sink and walked naked into a swamp of sewer gas. He coughed and leaned against a wall, taping his diaper up as he watched Kioga clean the gryphon's rear.

Same old song and dance.

"Oh hey, I came up with a slogan for your liquidation company," said Pat. "Are you a diaper millionaire yet?"

"Talk about your padded coffers," chuckled the cheetah. He abandoned the wet wipes and decided to dig Ceylon out with his bare paws. "It's rude to talk about money. My investments in the market are overvalued right now. We'll see if this diaper bubble bursts, with all the gross fallout. So what should the slogan be?" asked Key.

"Laundering's not that hard to do!" said Pat.

The cheetah laughed. "As if I need the Fed on my ass as well. It's good, though," he said, then sniffed and wiped his nose. Then immediately regretted the brown-white frosting he'd smeared all over himself. "Fuck's sake!" he snarled.

Pat moved to the kitchen, grabbing a drink.

"Hey, can you make me a triple?" Kioga called.

"A triple?!" asked Pat.

"I wanna forget how happy I am right now."

Pat laughed and rolled his eyes. Feeling a chill on his chest, he tossed on the black onesie, and it unfurled into a silly "Love it or Leave it!" USA onesie... one whose crotch strap hung around Pat's knees.

"Ah, great, it's your old boyfriend's shirt!" both Pat and Kioga said to each other.

Then they glared at each other, Kioga wiping his paws while Pat made him a diamond-stiff drink, and both of them returned to their jobs. "Fuck you, homewrecking bitch," they both said.

Patterson kept the onesie.

Finally, it was game time.

The three boys pulled their chairs and desks together, happy to be three diapered males in relaxing, warm onesies. Their padding crinkled as they shifted in their chairs, playing their medieval-circus roleplaying shooter, and as drinks alcoholic and non-alcoholic coursed through them, nature took its course. Ceylon and Patterson were having such a great time, that their bladders seemed almost as free as the incontinent cheetah's. The gryphon found it easy to let loose during a boss fight, his lynx face gaining a serene smile as he felt that warm trickle pool into his seat, and then see his diaper markedly swell from beneath his onesie. Kioga's grew on its own, often with intermittent hisses, and occasionally there was a blurt, then a crackle as his bowels piled a little bit more into his lumpy seat. Ceylon and Patterson didn't quite seem to mind the smell; after a while it was more of a mild fart that lingered.

It was especially funny when Kioga was talking tactics, rattling off where all their classes needed to be for the next gigantic boss with a clearly loaded diaper that, as American Apogee promised, took a patriotic amount of punishment. One time, the cheetah was standing up and pointing at Patterson's screen, the puffy, swollen base of his pink onesie hovered right in Pat's face. Instead of taking the erotic approach and grabbing Kioga's hips, nuzzling that lumpy and wet rump to mash Kioga's filth back onto him, Patterson serenely smiled, enjoying Kioga as a whole--just a male in his element, wearing a portable, protective toilet so he could game until the diaper was heavier than he was.

No, that luxury was now Ceylon's, and Pat was unsure if Kioga was simply giving him an extra-hospitable lodging while in America, or if the two were practicing a deeper connection. It wasn't his business; the two seemed happy either way, and when Kioga returned from Pat's screen, he instead sat in Ceylon's lap. The large, squishy, soiled diaper smooshed right against the gryphon's wet, chastity and padding-protected groin, and the two gamed in this position for another forty-five minutes.

Patterson peed himself as well, though it first came as a shock, as piss erupted right against his tailhole and then pooled there. Instead of readjusting his dick, he just let it flow, cringing as the thing got harder while he was sitting on it.

Conversation was lively, as always, and the older adults Lasmo, Joe, and Sakrasingh seemed to keep up with the late twenty-something of the rest of the crowd. Kyrie was amusingly vicious, racking up damage and party heals as her controller audibly rattled in the microphone.

Wesley expressed his admiration, to which Kyrie just said, "Eh, women are just better at multitasking. That's why you, sir, are the arch-sniper: you do one thing over and over again with complete ignorance of everything around you. Which! You do very well."

"That's some blanket stereotyping," Wesley said, but then he blasted the head off a hippogriff bomber that wasn't on anyone else's screen. Then five more shots rang out, five more fantasy planes plunged into the ocean, and the screen flashed VICTORY SEIZED FROM THE CLAWS OF MEDIOCRITY! "...which I can get behind. Wow."

"Wesley OP, please nerf," laughed Patterson.

"I'll admit that Kyrie was healing me the whole time," Wes said. "Yeah, you clearly passed five points of cover getting to that vantage point."

"But then I couldn't see the planes."

"Nobody could see the planes!"

Aloysius had been chuckling the whole time, whereas Xian had gone silent.

"You okay there, our auteur artotic?" asked Evan.

A lot of people straightened up: they'd forgotten that the boss of most of them was playing with them. He was just the steely paladin, whacking away and shotgunning hordes of mooks, keeping them out of everyone else's fur.

Xian sighed, a few weak chuckles of his own. "This was supposed to be a D-Day invasion that lasted an hour," he said, "But I guess Wes killed the event that would have blown down your front castle walls."

"You should see him," laughed Aloysius. "I can practically count the furs on his body; they're all standing on end. It reminds me of the day that Xian's mobile phone was out all day: he was so discombobulated, unable to manage his diaper empire, which of course is going fine under the iron stench of Pendrael's velvet diaper."

"My phone was out because the satellite got destroyed," said Xian.

"By what?" Asked Kioga. Patterson had made him another drink, but had made this one much weaker. Kioga was right in the Ballmer Peak, where he had super-anthroid shooting ability without thinking. The game was just vectors and hitboxes; only Wes's amazing sniping and Kyrie's insane healing could come close to his current score.

"God only knows," sing-songed Xian.

"Sure, sure," said Kioga, and had retreated to his own seat. He patted Ceylon on the thigh, then checked back for skidmarks. The gryphon's onesie was clean. "They fall out of the sky all the time."

"Well you can't expect everyone to be an astrologist," butted in Wesley. "Probably a meteorite or something."

Kioga's suspicion hovered over to Pat. Patterson coughed, remembering the Executive Plane. Remembering their velvet nanny.

"Hey, Xian, how's your eye?" Asked Kioga.

Patterson's fur spiked. If Kioga was going to get bitchy, he might just spike his drink with cough syrup and casually "not know" why their star assassin had suddenly conked out.

"Just as fine as the other one," said Xian in the same innocent tone.

"Which one?" Asked Kioga.

Ceylon cleared his throat. "Dear, we already know you have a magic penis. We saw it on Cavendish Streams."

"It's not magic; it's a highly advanced prosthetic," said Xian.

"With creepy writing on the underside," countered Kioga, "It looks like you strapped the Cthulhu obelisk to your crotch!"

"If you two have a problem between you," said Sahasrahla, their trusty HR skink, "I suggest you schedule a time to sort it out in private. Airing out your grievances in public is merely to gather the mob on your own side, and win your 'argument' by humiliating the other."

"Boys," said Kyrie, "that's a fancy way of saying we're grounding both of you if you don't stop bickering."

"How are we going to do that?" asked Wes.

"I can certainly handle my side," purred Aloysius.

"I really don't want you to be mean," said Ceylon to Kioga, a paw on his thigh.

Both Xian and Kioga grumbled, then sighed and went back to their games. Patterson hadn't seen Xian in person since the casino, but there were solid rumors that Xian did, indeed, have a cybernetic eye that could read heat levels, visualize soundwaves, see through skin and walls, and not only map out a person's brain, but see the doneness of a perfect steak. Kioga was, indeed, intolerant of bullshit if Xian was indeed hiding this enormous secret. Patterson empathized: he had a similarly short fuse when it came to hypocrites.

"Suffice to say," Xian said with a sigh, "If I had suffered the embarrassment of shooting my eye out with a giant rifle that might have sniped a satellite from space, and gotten a billion-dollar pity gift from Cavendish and a mysterious, almost otherwordly penis prosthetic from Pendrael as an out-of-court settlement, I wouldn't want to talk about it. Do either of these give me super-anthroid powers? We can only leave that to postulation. And if these are indeed defects that--positive or negative--make me less of an anthroid being, I would not want to be defined by them, because I desperately want you all as friends. I don't want to be 'celebrated for my handicap' nor worshipped for hypothetical super abilities. We are all here on this Earth to operate on equal levels where they apply. Obviously, people are not born equal, nor through their trillions of choices in life will they ever be exactly equal. From our differences comes trade and collaboration, from the honorably humble janitor content to wipe the floors and throw out the diapers, to the insane and obsessed Pendrael and Cavendish, who puppet nation-dominating corporations with a flick of their fingers.

"In this very game, we are celebrating that interplay of our differences and our coincidences. We all love this game, and must all play it in order to succeed. We have many different classes to contend with, but we do not lean on any one class as a 'novelty' for our enjoyment. Rather, everything brings something to the table. We all coincide. From our differences come collaborative unity, not from the stratification nor fetishization of our diverse classes, our different beings. Such, I believe, is also the American ideal. From diversity, comes unity. Conscious, willful, consensual collaboration. Not the Gays versus the Religious, but rather anthroid beings setting aside irrelevant differences in light of a coinciding project, if and when such exists. Mohammad and buttsex do not play a part on a construction site, nor on the battlefield.

"So I do ask you in the same breath ... or rather, several breaths thereafter, do not fetishize me for my novelty, same with Kioga's incontinence, Kyrie's paddle-sized ears, Aloysius's gigantic penis and wallet, Evan's stern fatherliness, etcetera etcetera. Appreciate when relevant, if ever."

Kioga was smugly grinning, and Pat didn't know how to punch him in the face without hurting him, or breaking something. Was he going to be a witness to an assassination of friendship? Could he stop Lee Harvey Oswald with a swift right hook?

"So, you totally have a futuristic eye and an Eldritch penis."

The chat exploded with protestations, with even Ceylon grasping his head and storming down the hall. "How fucking dare you!" rang out quite a few times over the microphone, and Xian had to quell the rush with several, "Guys, guys, it's my drama, not yours. Remember what Sassie said about the mob? Yeah, a democracy of zeitgeist ain't gonna solve personal problems. Like killing an ant with an iron slab, Jesus," he said.

Everyone quieted down, and Ceylon returned to the living room with a cup of tea, watching the cheetah with nervous anticipation. Patterson just stared at Kioga, a look of astonished disbelief, his mouth cracked up in a smile. Kioga sat firmly in his seat, arms crossed and his onesie heavily bulged on the bottom. They'd be taking a changing break soon, if just to literally clear the air.

Xian cleared his throat. "I ... may have been manipulating the controller solely with my penis. And I might be in the front field of Aloysius's estate, broadcasting the game through my eye. I might be, hrrnngh--"_the artotic grunted, then there was the unmuffled, open sound of a fart, then a crackling slurp. "Might be taking a shit on the front stone walk to his giant mansion. Just a little bit, _oof--" he said, then a loud splurt as another rope exited him. "Don't know how I missed all this..."

The cheetah nodded, his face satisfied and stoic. "You know I'm here for you, buddy. But I can't abide by problems you don't admit. Get it out in the open--isn't that why we came out of the water closet?"

"Ah, a little dump of emotions, brilliant!" Xian laughed, then there was a clatter as he exchanged his controller to his paws, then there was a loud splattering trickle as he started pissing on the mansion's grand approach.

"You know, I swear I could have needed to go," Aloysius mumbled.

Xian gasped, then there was a stumble as he struggled upright. "Why is my poop silver-colored?"

"Platinum," the dragon growled. "Xian, you little bastard!"

"Goodness, I guess there's a little magic in all of us," said the artotic.

"No, just you," laughed Kioga, and everyone chuckled as they fixed themselves more food and drink, then returned to the game.

Patterson smiled, launching right into the boss battle of Isildur Dalrymple, demanding the best of every player. And they played very well! However, wiping a few times--mostly their team, though a few bottoms also needed some wiping--and the friends played into the night, happy and content.

Pure, this was, Patterson thought, eventually pushing a load of his own into his diaper. He didn't even mind it when Ceylon and Kioga collaborated to clean him and change him. There wasn't any eroticism about it, just cooperation. Everyone happily working to a common and clear goal. It was an honor for the gryphon to wipe down his long penis, and for Kioga to scoop out dirt from his buttocks. A pleasant, clean existence even despite the current goings-on.

When diapered and fed, Patterson returned to the game and they gave Dalrymple another go, beating him in thirty minutes.

"There we go, just as programmed!" cheered Xian.

"Well done," congratulated Wesley, who had done his best to snipe everything and anything.

"So that night of joy and release," said Pat, yawning as the sun crept through the living room's curtains, "That tonight, Aloysius?"

"No," said the dragon, yawning, "give an old dragon a day to recover from this particular night of reverie and wonderment. Then we'll seize the night in my way. My treat, of course! Oh, but I do have a couple guests. Pendrael may make an appearance."

"WHAT?!" screamed most everyone in unison. If there was a person in the audience that had been holding it, they certainly weren't holding it any longer. The only exception was Pat, Xian, and Kioga, who had already run across Pendrael and his strange, strange machinations. He wasn't a bad guy, just ... seemingly all-powerful and overwhelming. Patterson and Kioga's new jobs--surpassing even Evan--were starting next week. Patterson and Kioga were a bit afraid of the hyper-promotion, but Pendrael's secretary promised them they'd be demoted appropriately if they couldn't handle the load.

Then they'd just be on Evan's level, bossing around all their friends.

"Oh, and Penny passed this along to me; don't tell him I referred to him as that. He's probably afraid that my fortune makes his look like pennies, but then again he may have otherworldly investment accounts," the dragon mocked. "A stock market on anthroid pleasure and a money market on sentient existence; he says the Jurassic account is still going strong in other dimensions."

"Oh, that's where he got the t-rex bones," muttered Xian.

"I know, didn't they seem fresh?" asked Aloy. "And Xian, next time you poop on my front lawn, would you kindly let me watch?"

"Sorry, I was pacing and then it just happened."

"With my excrement. Anyway, Mr. Peters, Penny mentioned that a handsome, confident, upper middle-class otter named Parker was going to be joining the firm in domestic sales management. He won't have your job, Pat, at least not yet. I thought I'd take him out and he could have a live interview in the bustling streets, the seedy night clubs, and the high society hotspots of Puerto Panuela."

Patterson's heart thumped and his bladder tried to release fluid that wasn't there. All he said was, "Fuck me," while Lugo laughed and said, "Aww, shit."

"Lugo, he's married," growled Patterson.

"Happily married?" murred the wolf.

The otter grumbled. "You can ask Mr. Perfect day-after-tomorrow."

Patterson Peter's older brother, Parker, had indeed been perfect all his life. He'd been the jock that Patterson hated, he'd been the nerd Patterson hated, he'd been the wholesome family man that Patterson hated, he'd been the star attraction on a PRIDE float that Patterson hated.

Parker Peters had started as a salesman at the local used car lot, then transferred to the finance office of a Furoti dealership, and now worked at corporate selling whole fleets of exotic cars to Diapai Obstiphates. He had the swagger of a TV lawyer and the appeasing diction of a celebrity politician.

Why was he switching from supercars to diapers?!

When Patterson's life wasn't pure, at least it was pure insanity.