Chapter 7: Public Region

The pair got dressed and got into George’s truck, which still had their water tankard from yesterday’s aborted disc golf excursion. Today was turning out to be a nice day as well, so while George opted for a pair of long jeans and a clean blank shirt tucked into them, Gila wore some shorts and a graphic t-shirt of his current favorite game, Live Serviceman: L’Estasi Dell’oro.

LS LED was a space-western online shooter where players could, from the comfort of the intergalactic base built in the Sierra Madre mountain range, build their space robbers, space cowboys, space train conductors, and space whores and go on multiplayer heists against the computer or other players. Naturally, there was a shop with $25,000 of virtual armor to buy, and a bajillion unlockable items, modifications, classes, et cetera to build one’s perfect, game-destroying character that was really, really ridiculously good looking as well.

Gila complained to high heaven (i.e., the LS LED forums) when the game did a promotional deal with Pendrael, Davis, and Co. for a New Year’s special. It was a quick event with really cool trimmings—a bank raid at an art-deco skyscraper whose vault devolved into an eldritch hellscape with quivering tentacles and gnashing teeth—but the last boss was a gigantic hell-coyote with eight eyes, a cowboy hat made of gold dragon scales, and a gleaming adult diaper between his leather chaps!

Even worse, the heist had a “game over” event where the boss, Wesl’nath Schie’Zn-Stroed’ygn, would have his diaper visibly swell between his legs and under his tail, and then explode in a wave of gribbly nibbling monsters and shimmering, semisolid chrome goo.

Worser still, the boss’s attire was available for purchase after-the-fact, and for the next two weeks LS LED had avatars running all over the place in twenty dollar diapers before the game could patch in a toggle that allowed for players to hide the diapers.

Backlashers called it the “Nazi Toggle,” because it allowed for “diaper-bigoted curmudgeons” like Gila to “not-see” their “true and valid selves.”

The game developers themselves put out a stunning-and-brave statement (and a downloadable Diaper Pride Flag) that their game was for all walks of life. The diaper company themselves; Pendrael, Davis, and Co.; merely put out a statement that they are more than happy to sell to bigots, fascists, racists, communists, and more ethically stable people provided that they have the time-honored, productivity-backed, barter-based notes of capital, and that this was the real ecstasy of gold.

Gila, over an agonizing lunch that had George ordering one too many beers, tried to explain the whole fiasco to his husband. The leopard gecko, in return, managed to slur out a decently prescient counter.

“These people, bickering, calling each other … war criminals … video gamers placed in the same echelon as baby-rapists and flame-thrower men … are devaluing the methods of anthroid communication … and thus … in a way … anthrality as a whole. Because language is a machine that turns a man into a community, a community into an empire. Their chaos… is garbage and worse: it’s poison.”

“But—”

“Do you enjoy the game, d-dtharling?” he slurred, sliding his keys across the table and beckoning at the waitress.

“Well yes! I just thought—” Gila started, then pivoted. “Okay. So what I will say, that I wanted to express, is that I’m very frustrated both by PDC, because they’re allowing their fetish garments on a computer game—”

“Is it because of the fetish or just because it’s a shameless promotion? Why not have car brands in your game?”

“Okay, yeah. It’s immersion breaking, one; and two it’s …”

“It’s just like the billboard in Spreadings.”

“I just think it promotes adult people acting not like … adults. And not because of the baby thing!”

“It’s always the baby thing.”

“Hey!”

George squinted at the check, and while his cash counting was impressively slow—even for a reptile—it was exact change for a 19% tip. “I am teasing. We, as men, poke at each other’s sensitive parts—not like that, you cute, sexy thing—to make those parts firm up … you know what I mean. Calluses enstrengthen.”

“Okay, so—”

“Let’s frame it,” said George, sliding out of his seat. “You got the keys?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy. N-not like baby-boy. Just like a dog.”

“Or a cat?”

“Cats are assholes,” George said, making sure to reach back and pinch Gila’s rump. “So let’s frame it. If you were mayor of this town, what would you do?”

“I’d go a step further than the Praetorians!” said Gila. “Their Stupid Laws are PG-13. Let us make it PG. Men in suits, women in dresses, or suits, whatever, but in the public space it’s just a place for entertainment and commerce.”

“How are people going to flirt?”

“In bars! But because we allow such sloppiness in the common space, society has softened.”

Outside the restaurant, George took a deep breath. The sun on his scales seemed to revivify him. “Phwoo! That’s nice. So you’re saying society softened. I ain’t doubting you, because my Facepalm friends are all posting about ‘life back in the day;’ how ‘blowing a tranny’ was an auto problem, not date night. ”

“How do we stop it?” asked Gila.

“The fuck do I care about society?” asked George.

“Funny for you to say, former Mayor.”

“And you remember what I did,” said the gecko, pulling himself into the passenger seat. Gila’s legs smacked the steering wheel; he spent ninety seconds reversing the driver seat, adjusting the mirrors, and swearing under his breath. George continued, “I let people go about their business. Let the good businesses succeed, and let the bad ones flounder. People will naturally group to the positive, healthy, and good.”

“Kaczynksi, Idaho’s a lot smaller than Puerto,” said Gila. “But you think about a public park. Remember Beavercream? The druggies there? That stink, like someone had poured milk in their sheath and let it bake for fifteen days?” The cat pulled out of the parking lot and started driving them home.

“What if we brought back bullying?” asked George, leaning against the window. “Get kids with water balloons.”

“What if the kids turn on the grownups trying to have a good time?”

“Turn on the kids.”

Gila’s thumbs tapped on the steering wheel. “Public humiliation, huh. The spray bottle for anthroids. But what about the homeless, or tramps that try to behave themselves in public? It kinda paints a weird picture that you must be a taxpayer, a cog in the government system, in order to exist. You cannot be ‘free’ and wander the city, nay the country.”

“That’s pretty romantic, pretty kind,” said George. “I’d say you’d not know the status of a homeless person if they’re decently clean. Spreadings has a good shelter with services. So does Puerto proper.”

“But you can’t be dirty in public…” trailed off Gila. “Can’t be messy.” That final word gave him a twinge in his loins, and also under his tail. His ring pulsed, feeling like a rubber band stretched between coccyx and cock. A ring that could stretch, let things in or out.

“Well, there’s purpose dirt and there’s pity dirt. Are ya coming home from the factory or is that dirt from five days and three states ago?”

“Ah. So in public … I guess it goes along with the Stupid Laws. Do not present an unpleasant sight before others. No visual or aromatic pollution.”

“So what were you saying about that game?” said George. He burped, and the car smelled like chicken wings. “Ah, geez, sorry.” He rolled down the window.

“Oh,” said Gila, pulling his shirt up to sniff his own cologne for a bit. “Just that it all seemed so cynical. PDC does a gaudy advertisement, then the publisher charges players for that advertisement, then the developers make a gaudy social statement, then PDC says, ‘yeah fuck you it’s all about money.’”

“Isn’t that what a product is all about?” asked George.

“Well, yeah, but Live Serviceman is art!”

“You’ve told me yourself you’ve dropped two hundred dollars on that game.”

“Well yeah, but … over seven years!” Gila sputtered. “Besides, it’s all about the community! And paying the devs for their hard work! All the players I’ve met online; they’re a really great group! It’s fun collaborating with people, everyone on the frontlines teaming up, bringing their skills and their carefully crafted robbers and whores to beat the boss! You know about great projects!”

“I know about pain-in-the-ass cars we were happy to get out of the garage.”

“And you still talk about them.”

“Yes I do.”

Over a subsequent weekend lunch, Gila had tried to explain the mechanics of LS LED to George. The leopard gecko had initially been on board, using the game’s mobile app to drag and drop armor pieces on his space train conductor, but then the cat had taken the phone and opened up all the armor and weapon tabs, explaining the synergies between different pieces.

Five minutes into that sermon, George ordered a pitcher of beer and listened to Gila talk. To be fair, George said that “he wasn’t sure anymore,” and to that Gila doubled-down on his explanation. “It’s really simple!” he’d start, and then talk for ten more minutes. After Gila had hand-crafted George’s character and given him a brief history on the train conductor’s special power, the cat paused and blushed.

“I’ve really been going at it for a bit; does it all make sense?”

George, looking through the gold of his beer, set the glass down and smiled. “No, but I enjoy spending time with you, my love.”

The cat’s ears lowered and he rubbed his thumbpad against his fingers. “I guess I went a little hard. I mean, at the base, you shoot the guns, you drive the train, and numbers go up. It’s really simple.”

“It’s really simple,” is the gaming equivalent of the phrase, “I’m not racist” or “I’m not trying to be greedy.” It is a prelude to a lie.

They tried the game together, but they couldn’t all be winners. Gila’s commands sounded so simple to himself, but he may as well have been telling a caveman to put the dishes in the sink, then turn on the water and wash them. Each of these commands implied levels of technology unfamiliar to the gecko, and so the two men’s patience eroded until they barely passed the given mission and George immediately got up for a glass of water and an apple.

“H-hey, did you have fun?” asked Gila.

George immediately grabbed the cat’s body and pulled him against him, smooshing him against his muscular, marbled chest. They didn’t even notice that George’s head went under Gila’s chin. “It was all right. Was fun doing something together, and I appreciate you dragging me through that.”

“Oh, so maybe not again?”

“...how about we fix that relay problem in your car, then we talk?”

“Oh, God, no.”

George laughed, crunching through the apple’s firm skin. “Now you understand how I feel about your Nintendo games.”

“It’s not—” Gila started, then saw the gecko’s smirk. “You’re doing that just to troll me.”

“Bridge and everything, baby.”

It was a strange semi-concession that George, then, would often set Gila’s LS LED shirt at the top of the pile when he was done folding laundry. Gila, therefore, would often wear it, and George would ask how the game was treating him.

The gecko asked this very question as they entered the Spreadings Treasure Trail mall. Originally they were holding hands, but Gila’s gestures could not be contained to just one paw.

“They’re really wondering what they’re gonna do for the sequel,” said Gila, “Because this version’s already been out for eight years, through multiple updates. At the same time, Scayming Interactive has laid off three-fourths of their staff. Kinda weird? Are they just pumping and dumping? People wonder.”

“I couldn’t see how the tech industry would be so different than others,” said George with a shrug, “frankly if I saw an auto shop laying off the majority of its workforce, it’s either a death knell or the prelude to a reboot. Scamming—”

“Scayming.”

“Scayming’s not already, like, announced the second one; no word to their customers?”

“It’s the fourth one, actually, but yeah! Not so much as an acknowledgement that there will be an Oro 4, or a platinum edition of 3.”

“The Platinum Gold Edition, right,” said George with a twinge, pulling Gila close so they could duck around a sunglass kiosk. They got a couple of strange glares, seeing that George was, by species, definitely not the cat’s father, and definitely a little cozy with the younger male; but they’d long ago gone blind to the cringes. Naturally, the public did not owe them their automatic approval; and by the same token Gila and George did not owe them an explanation.

The Spreadings Treasure Trail Mall was an absolutely splendid complex of consumerism. Defying all odds against the modern online revolution, the STTM actually increased in business because it was so complete and immediate in its offerings. It even bragged of an affordable motel, an upscale hotel, and three full-service restaurants in addition to its two-level food court.

“A pride parade for your wallet!” it proudly declared.

Built in the desolate tundra of Wyoming, it grinned with gold-plated teeth and slicked-back hair against the wasteland with an open skylight ceiling stretching as far as the eye could see. The glass would change its own color to reflect the mood of the day, whether it was a warm sunshiney morning for discovery or a cool, relaxed evening for refinement.

Its planters and boardwalks boasted all sorts of trees, from palm to maple to juniper. It was an arborist’s nightmare, seeing all these different species from radically different environments, but again gleamed the mall’s gold defiant grin.

“So you gonna quit the game sometime?” George asked. “I mean, if Scayming is going under anyway.”

“That’s the queer part, because it’s still super fun,” said Gila. A vendor offered the cat a milk-flavored ice cream and Gila found himself buying it before saying no. “Do you have any interest in computer games?”

“I spent eight hours on Solitaire once. Real slow day at work; had the worst back pain the night-of.”

“You should get an ergonomic chair,” said Gila.

The gecko grumbled, putting his hands in his pockets. “Already got one. The leather one in Kaczynksi town hall spoiled me like a little baby. Once I got back to the auto shop, I could do nothing less than the cushy chairs you buy from the front of stores.”

“So why’s the one at home so plain?”

“I guess at home, I’m more comfortable. So I need less.”

Gila blushed and stroked the inside of George’s palm with his finger. “That’s sweet and all, but maybe it’s laziness?”

“We call that, ‘energy efficiency,’ in the reptile world,” said George with a smile.

They stopped at the top of a long, winding brick hill. The pathway here waved back and forth on a slight decline, making the storefronts undulate as well. It looked like a stream had originally cut through the area, and combined with the cheeky mixture of trees, made the place light and lively.

Over at the far end was a store brazenly called “Bulge’s.” The apostrophe made it wonder if it was someone’s last name; but the website, which was oddly reserved for a store that sold what could derisively be called “men’s lingerie,” informed that the underwear was so comfortable and supportive that it truly became the property and first choice of one’s bulge. As sedate as the website was, with males of many species and (athletic) body types confidently posing, even smiling, while wearing little more than a cloth purse held up with straps or strings; the store itself had a little more friskiness to it.

Beside its name on the storefront protruded a notable and geometrically pleasing mound that hung down just a foot or two above the doorway. Unfortunately, the doorway was still twelve feet tall, and so only the most enterprising—usually by sitting on another’s shoulders—could reach up and rub the prominent wad.

“I’m hoping this isn’t just a thong store,” whispered George, “how do you get a premium spot with just dong-holders?”

The store’s employees dressed rather professionally. They were overwhelmingly male, though Gila spotted a few cashiers of the other persuasion. His ears picked up a catchphrase as the employees conferred with customers. “Oh, I noticed!” was said an awful lot.

And they noticed the males, too: everyone wore cotton polo shirts tucked into white or beige dress shorts, which themselves displayed the moderate curvature of their male anatomy.

“Hello, good sirs,” said a tabby cat with a tennis ball lump below his belt. “Is this your first time here?”

“Yes!” said Gila, deciding to be the extroverted one. He felt his stomach rumble; perhaps it was jitters. “We were just looking for, well, around-the-house wear. Something frisky, but not loud-frisky, if that makes sense.” His own loins stirred as he shared.

“Of course,” said the cat with a smile. “So no nightclub phrases around the belt; that’s easy. How complex do you want it? We have a new stock from Eudaimonia with removable pouches … or is that too frisky?”

“One step below that,” said Gila, and George nodded with a smile.

“That will be no worries,” said the tabby. Though he had his paws clasped before him, he kept his fists at belt-level as to not obfuscate his own murr-chandise.

The cat took the pair through the store, noting that they had all different cuts, from boxer-briefs to briefs to bikinis to jocks. “All of our products seek to support and gently lift the genitals, subtly enhancing the region without, as you said, getting into ‘nightclub’ explicitness. We even have boxers with an interior pouch to provide the same support.”

“What differentiates those from boxer-briefs?” asked George. They noticed the changing rooms in the back, where men emerged from the cubicles, pantsless, to admire themselves in three way mirrors. They saw a t-rex and a dolphin at two different stations, both of which had their hands placed on their hips to lean their overt bulges forward into the light.

“The pouch is hidden by the boxer curtain,” said the tabby, also admiring the half-naked males.

“But the region is still enhanced,” said Gila, feeling both an abdominal gurgle and a groin buzz. Next stop was definitely the bathroom; he didn’t know why breakfast was moving so fast. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

The tabby smiled. “They’re decently popular as a starter pair. Men who are highly modest that they have any sort of genital lump—after all, we know the potentiality of a bulge—but still want a little bit of spice.”

George nodded. “I’m not sure if it’s the normalization of homosexuality, but I remember my old man walking around the house in just his tank top and briefs. As a hatchling, I never noticed. First time I do the same around my husband, he’s blushing and making advances.”

“Precisely,” said the tabby with a smile.

Gila’s eyes tripped over the jockstraps. “And how about those? Would you say those are for the most brazen?”

The ginger cat wobbled his paw. “Mas o menos. There’s the sporting chic that side-rails the fact that the back is completely open. While people of certain persuasions do enjoy the sexual accessibility of such an item, they are still overwhelmingly liked for their specific benefit of supporting the male mound.”

“Why else would the back be open?” Gila asked. His long, winding canal gurgled.

“Sporting,” said the cat. “No fabric to bunch up or constrict under your uniform.”

“Riiiiiiiight,” said Gila. “I’m Gila, by the way,” he said, extending his paw.

The tabby grinned with shiny clean teeth and took the paw. “Jacko Jimprincess. Now what can I get you sirs for your enjoyment and support?”

Gila and George initially agonized because of Gila’s pickiness. George never called it pickiness, directly, but regularly went back to the euphemism of “paralysis of choice.” Gila, for his part, took the P.O.C. epithet at its implied value of “picky” but tried his best to counter with his own genteelism of “something that’s universally me.”

This, unfortunately, turned into an eldritch cart-horse-chicken-egg-horse-cart centipede/uroboros, because Gila wanted to try new things—tight things—but new could just be novelty. The old reliables—the briefs—were simultaneously stodgy old things but intimately comfy.

Jacko followed them around for a bit, but Gila caught him a few times with his finger in the collar of his shirt. “I may be biased,” Jimprincess said, “but it does not have to be stodgy nor novel if the quality is high.”

Gila cringed as his pelvic cradle tightened. He knew that the longer he drew this out, the more rushed he’d be at the end. “What would you suggest?”

“I cannot make you choose,” said the tabby, “but if you are concerned of the stodginess of the briefs, we do have varieties that are either lower cut towards a bikini style, or have very soft waistbands that don’t put you in the garter belts of yore. As for the bikinis, jocks, and thongs, the satin texture softens the skimpy nature. You will be impressed that they look good, before realizing how sexy they are.”

“Here’s a variety pack,” said George. “And it’s twenty percent off!

“That isn’t because it’s on clearance, right?” asked Gila.

Jacko’s eyes popped. “Oh! Those, um …” he started, tugging at his collar. “Never would I lie to you sirs. Those, yes. The material is only eight-out-of-ten and was from a nascent run. However, the variety packs toward the front are, themselves, a seven-day package for the price of six.”

“Pretty small discount,” said George, elbowing Gila with a smirk.

The tabby met the challenge with a stoic smile, jutting his snout forward. “We are not a discount store,” he said with a wink.

“Welp, we’ll consider it for next time if there is one,” said George, “Gimme your style of our normals, and we’ll see how they are.”

They managed to get to the dressing rooms with two normal packs: boxer-briefs for George; low-cut briefs for Gila. Gila asked Jacko, “Wait, is this sanitary, trying on underwear?”

“I already ran my card,” said George.

The tabby cheekily waggled a palm-sized card machine.

“Oh, I have a card, too,” said Gila.

“Buy me lunch,” said George with a pat on his back.

The mere weight of the gecko’s muscles, without aid of their force, thumped hard on Gila’s back. The cat gasped as he felt his ring clench and mass shift downward. Gila froze for a couple moments, flexing his lower muscles, but felt no matter.

“Heh, thanks, baby,” Gila said. “So what’s the point of the dressing rooms?”

“There’s a whole line of laundered proto-pairs,” said Jacko. “Trust me. If hotels can keep their sheets clean, we can keep your loin-straps clean.”

Gila and George slipped into nearby cubicles, feeling a bit silly that they couldn’t wait until they got home. But, if Jimprincess was correct, these new undies would be like upgrading their computers’ graphics cards.

Gila was already down to his stodgy, if wonderfully clean, old tighty-whities. He noticed there was a little flap on the cubicle wall, and he preemptively frowned to think that a classy place like Bulge’s would have something so ribald. The cat cringed, looking down at his stocking feet. He pulled each paw up in turn, and he swore his feet stuck, but maybe that was just the paranoia. The place had a perfectly fresh scent, hints of factory-fresh chemicals alongside a dignified, woody cologne.

“Hey babe,” Gila asked, swinging the flap open. To his pleasant surprise, there was a panel of glass sealing the round, baseball-sized hole.

He heard rustling on the other side, then the other door swung open to show a reptilian eye surrounded by spotted scales. George snuffed, but his breath wasn’t warm enough to fog the glass. “A peephole.”

“Yeah!” said Gila with a grin, standing back up and leaning his pouch toward the window. “You can admire each other’s bulges.”

“Geez,” George chuckled, shutting the window.

Gila hesitated when he opened the pack. While all the underwear was variations on brief and bikini style, with one thong and one jock if he was feeling cheeky, none of them were white. They were … dyed … and the cat had grown up his whole life in tighty-whities after his teen years in boxers.

He plucked out a pleasant, grayish blue pair and marveled at the fabric’s softness. It felt like satin sheets, but had the thickness of cotton. “Oh wow,” he quietly whispered, and he felt a stir in his loins, his member stiffening in anticipation of the feel.

He slipped off the old pair and brought them up to his face. Gila sniffed the warm, sweetly musky pouch, then gave it a kiss and neatly folded them like a military flag. “Thank you,” he whispered to them, then slipped on the new pair.

His abdomen groaned again, and he felt a stiffness building in the canal beneath his tail. “Mmph. Getting about time,” he said.

But then Gila saw himself in the mirror, and his eyebrows went up. He looked great. Though slight pudginess adorned his tall frame, the blue briefs broke up the lines of his body and filled him with a sense of respectful appeal. The mound in the front seemed slightly bigger, and this was in addition to the half-stiffness stirring in his loins.

He checked the inside and saw they weren’t padded, and mumbled to himself. “Merely a trick of the light?”

There was a slight firmness in the crotch; perhaps the elastic around the pouch was subtly lifting him. He was quite excited to see what he looked like in a pair of shorts! Gila envied the way that George always had a slight lump below his belt.

Thump thump thump “You about ready to leave?” came from the side wall.

Gila’s heart leaped and his tunnel clenched. With a rasping sound cut jarringly short, the cat’s ring spread and a slick, furrowed rod slithered out. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, and flexed all his pelvic muscles to pull it back in. The mass felt that it slid halfway up his body, pushing against the bottom of his stomach.

“Yeah, think I’m about done. Er, chose the right pair!” he said.

There was a slight pause. “Well, make sure you flush!” George said, then exited the cubicle.

Gila’s hackles were standing on-end, and his skin was burning so hot his forty million hairs may as well all become fuses.

Does he know? Nah; that’d be ridiculous.

Then again, Gila’s dad knew he was gay about five years before he told him. Maybe that was the bearing of most masculine men … they didn’t necessarily bottle up their emotions; they just coolly shouldered a multitude of them until the time and place was right. Then, of course, the less healthy ones just let the weight sit on them until their knees buckled and their back warped. The more healthy ones just talked out the sticky ones and tossed away the irrelevant ones.

Gila sharply sucked in air as he felt the slimy spear of the log prod his puckered exit. George was waiting outside; he couldn’t dilly-dally.

The cat slipped his new underwear down to check it, and frowned as he spotted a teeny-tiny dark dot in the rear expanse. The front had a coy dot of preseminal; that was natural.

He slipped them back on and tried to remember the mall layout. Gila opened the door and found George and Jacko chatting.

George was leaning over the tabby’s phone, and the ginger cat was gladly flipping through photos.

“It’s a silly sport, and I know it borders on trashy, but my dad showed me those wrestling videos of girls in their bra-and-panties matches and I mean, fair’s fair, right?”

“Sure,” George said, folding his arms. “Oh shit, Kukamonga 250, right?”

“Yeah,” the cat said with a frown, “and while the fuel-injected is super good, I just miss the dirty fury of the carbureted.”

“Mmhmm. Nostalgia’ll get you, though. Was it the bike itself, or just a younger, simpler time?”

“I mean, the old K250 took me a half-hour to maintain, so the ‘simpler’ still rings true.”

“Sure.”

“What’s this crazy sport?” asked Gila, feeling his rump cheeks firm as iron.

They both looked up. George laughed, and Jacko cleared his throat.

“I don’t mind you modeling the merchandise,” said the tabby, “but the rest of the mall might complain.”

Gila looked down and he was still pantsless. His blue bulge was peeking out from beneath his shirt, showing its perky roundness to the whole world.

“Oh shit!” said Gila, then shut the door quickly. He heard Jacko and George share a chuckle, then George beam with pride when Jacko asked about their relationship status.

The cat bent over to grab his shorts, and the press on his abdomen squeezed his loaded bowels. With a hiss through his teeth, Gila felt the log spreading him. His muscles were weakening, either letting it slide or helping it along. Gila straightened up and reverse-clenched. His neck flexed as his rectum reversed the process, but it felt like throwing a cargo ship in reverse.

“Hh-hah …” he said, feeling its furrowed girth crawling agonizingly back within him. A breath too hard, in or out, would drop it into his brand-new briefs.

“So what were you saying?” asked George.

“Ah, yes,” said Jacko, “it’s called an Undie-Run, sponsored by our store and PDC, actually.”

“Really, the wellness company. Do they allow any, you know, of their special underwear?”

“That’s where they get into a catch-22 with the proprietor’s Stupid Laws. But they do allow their hybrid underwear, which looks like male or female briefs but, y’know.”

“I know. But what about safety gear?”

Gila was clenching his teeth, sweat accumulating on his temples. His knees were getting weak, as were his sphincter muscles: an over-long session with George, where he was too tired to cum, produced similar results. His arm wobbled, braced against the cubicle wall.

“That they take very seriously,” said Jacko to George. “You have to be in full gear to ride the race, but the pants have a clear front-back window to show off your undies.”

“Can’t just have that region open?”

“Eh, there was a prototype with open-crotch riding pants, but the concern of groin injury pointed us toward cups, which did produce a pleasant synthetic bulge, but then the seat of the exposed briefs needed to be made with Kevlar. Which was exciting and almost acceptable, but the seam between the protective chaps and the undies was still open for dirt rash.”

Dirt rash… echoed in Gila’s mind, and his sweat turned into a trickle as the firm, corrugated log in his ass slipped an inch out. He reached back under his tail and felt a firm spire stretching out the back of his briefs. The cat’s member stiffened in its pouch, nuzzling the front of the brief.

Gila heard the squeak of the cubicle’s viewing flap, and another eyeball peeking through the window. “Hey, cute bulge!” said the voice on the other side. The cat’s heart skipped and he softly moaned as his turd lurched into full thrust. His body pressed down and the long, warm length slid out with no resistance, merely a freight train thundering down the tracks. It would need a mile of full braking to stop, but it only had twelve inches to go.

“Th-Thanks!” Gila honked, then closed the flap before the approaching male pouch could be thrust against the window.

Gila again was trapped in a cubicle with his briefs full of mess. The firm turd, broken in two, nestled warmly against his ass cheeks, coyly tugging at the elastic waistband with their weight.

The male on the other side coughed. “Hey, uh, warn a brother before you go ripping ass, eh? Oh geez; that’s bad,” he said, hurriedly exiting the chamber with his pants still around his ankles.

Gila’s ears ignited as he heard the chatter of Jacko remonstrating the man for flashing the store with their excellent, region-enhancing products, and the man provided the excuse, “I’m really sorry, man,” he said with the rustle of fabric, assuredly yanking his pants up, “It smells like the customer in the booth over dropped a deuce.”

Gila felt his heart and his bowels pulse as George cleared his throat. He also heard the hurried footsteps of a tabby cat, then the bam bam bam against the changing room door.

“Excuse me, sir, ackh ackh,” Jacko said with a cough. “This is my official request that if you do not exit that stall in two minutes, we will call security.”

“Jesus Christ,” George growled.

Gila’s skin felt electric and detached, floating about his body as humiliation seared through him like a lightning strike. “Uhm, okay!” he said. “Sorry; new diet so the gut biome is fussing!”

“That is not an issue for Bulge’s to fix!” Jacko protested, his voice muffled from his shirt collar. “I thank you for your patronage, but it will be two minutes!”

“Hey gorgeous,” George said, oddly brave considering the emanating fetor. Gila’s nightmarish thoughts imagined it seeping throughout the store, and everyone vacating and then looking into an empty, swampy store, with guys in hazmats creeping in with sanitation sprayers and maybe one or two Praetoric Pacification Sticks.

Then Gila, the scat-monster, a gremlin with his buttocks and the backs of his thighs and calves caked in shining brown feces, would emerge from its lair, and a hazmat Praetorian with an animal control pole, would lasso him and they’d wrestle him to the ground. Gila would snarl and claw, and one guy’s suit would rip open with a hiss, and he would scream as it depressurized and then he’d groan as an echoing rumble and splurch would sound out as he filled his own briefs with mess.

“Gorgeous?” George asked. “You need anything?”

“Nope! Just ripped ass, but thankfully not my pretty new undies, ha-ha! I’ll be right out.”

“O-oh-kay, love,” said George, his voice a combination of fatigue and compassion. Then Gila heard George cough and his heart sank. “You know, in fact, I’m going to get a coffee at the food court. You know where that is, right?”

“I can figure it out!” Gila hastily snapped. In the booth, he’d lowered his briefs, and was staring at the two logs cradled by the cotton pouch. Their potent smell was becoming a sort of musk to the cat as he got used to it, but that didn’t mitigate how prevalent it was. The robust turds jiggled in the strap with the cat’s slightest movement. Guess the scat was out of the bag.

“Well all right,” George said with a sigh. “See ya soon.”

“You know,” Jacko said, and his voice was a bit quieter than normal. “There is a motorcycle parts store right here in the mall. You’d think their prices would be horrible, but I can show you some great deals.”

“Oh, izzat right?” asked George. “Well, I stopped riding a few years ago, but there’s no harm in looking!”

Gila’s throat knotted; he was reading way too many implications with that. His thumb rubbed his wedding ring. He wanted to shout out that he’ll be there with them soon, but any further time estimates may assist them in figuring out his predicament. The shit in his briefs was like an iron anchor, dragging the garment and himself ever-deeper.

Despite all this, with his soiled undies hanging between his knees, Gila’s cock was rock-hard. “Jesus christ,” he hissed.

“Hey Marvin,” said Jack, “We got a code beige in number two; 120 seconds on the clock.”

“Code beige;” said a deeper voice, “I’ll double down and bet you code B.R.N. for a bottle of red.”

“I already owe you two glasses and a kiss; I’m going on break.”

“Yeah, perfect timing, Crackerjack.”

“Love you, too, Marv.”

“Hey babe?” asked George. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’ll join you once I’ve chosen the right pair!” said Gila. “We can talk later; promise.”

“Better if there was nothing to talk about, but… all right, fine,” said George.

“Sir?” said the deeper voice belonging to Marv, “I got you for one hundred seconds, then you’re going to have to leave that stall.”

“I heard the first time; thank you!” said Gila. His retractable claws were extending; he had to be careful not to pierce the fabric as he lowered them to his ankles.

Gila noted that the door was not flush with the ground. He stopped before he dropped his loaded underwear that far, then gingerly stepped out of them. His heel bumped the saggy center pouch and he froze: the logs wiggled in the hammock, continually filling the room with a bathroom sewer stench. Gila was hoping and praying that the store’s fresh, woody cologne was fighting the good fight.

The plastic bag that used to encapsulate his variety pack opened up, and after Gila dumped all his lovely, fresh briefs into the store’s shopping bag, he gingerly rolled the two lumps of mess into the impermeable bag and rolled it up.

It was clear, and perfectly showed off his two rump-sausages, but it was also relatively sealed.

Gila looked over his shoulder at his rear end in the mirror. Nervously, he took a paw and spread one cheek, revealing fairly minor brown streaking. “At least I get a sort of break,” he whispered.

With a frown, he picked up his new blue brief, saw the collateral damage in the understrap—of fragrant, dark-brown smears—then spit on a clean spot and put the underwear beneath him, wiping between his buttocks.

“Sixty, sir,” called Marvin.

“What’s going on?” whispered an irritable, mid-thirties male.

“Oh hey there and welcome to Bulge’s!” changed the voice. “My name is Marvin and I just want to apologize for the inconvenience; a customer is having a little trouble in the dressing room but we will handle it discreetly and neatly.”

“Goodness; that’s not the best. Hmm…” the mid-thirties voice said, lowering his volume. “Smells like he had quite the problem; Godspeed if that’s a Code-K.”

“A code what, sir? O-oh you’re that…”

“Cheetah? Yes. That one. Not many of us in Wyoming.”

Gila’s brow furrowed. The cat rolled up his smeared briefs batter-side-in and stuffed them into his shopping bag.

“Funny you don’t have an entire entourage.”

“Well, with the kind of work I do, popular as it is, knowing me is basically a confession.”

Gila found a new pair of briefs, a pleasant bright gold, and noted their lovely shallow waistband. His hair buzzed and his penis jolted; this was to be a sexy low-cut pair.

“Is there something I can help you with? I’m afraid we only have one type of your specific type of underwear.”

“That’s exactly what I’m here for,” said the smooth other-voice.

Gila’s eyes snapped open.

The fucking billboard.

The cat made sure that the rest of his merchandise was sat atop the rolled-up underwear and bagged-up turds, then slipped his pants back up and exited the changing room.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m out.”

Marvin was a shorter male and quite fit. He was a skunk with custom, clean white stripes—three instead of two—and while he didn’t have the bulk of George, he certainly had the athletic bearing. His biceps bulged beneath the hem of his polo shirt, and the one in his pants had quite the notable heft.

Beside him, however, was a slender cheetah of average height, roughly three inches shorter than Gila himself. Marvin had his arms crossed, and was rubbing his biceps while pacing.

“Sorry for any ruckus, sir,” said Gila, his knees still wobbly and his undercarriage buzzing numb. He felt like a smoker emerging from a closet. “A-am I free to go?”

Marvin was at least a half-decade Gila’s junior and looked at him with an eyebrow. Silently, he leaned past the cat, saw that the dressing room was empty, and leaned back to face him. “It’s not been a big issue, but we’ve had occasional problems with Leakguardians doing drugs in the stalls. I’m not accusing you, but I hope you understand our sensitivity.”

“It’s really that bad?” asked the cheetah, who had a more relaxed posture. “Are they really that bad?”

Marvin cleared his throat, knocked off balance. “Well, um, Sir Darvish—”

“I’ve never been knighted,” the cat purred.

“W-what I mean is…”

Gila’s eyes widened. Royalty like that guy could probably get Marvin’s whole family fired.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“S-sir, if you would just let me finish—”

“I don’t think you’ve even started.”

“But what you’re saying!”

“I’ve not said much of anything, have I?” the cheetah asked, turning his gaze to Gila. “Not that you need to take a side in this.”

“How do you know that they’re Leakguardians?” asked Gila to Marvin.

The skunk braced himself against a mannequin, only latently realizing he was holding the statue’s plump bulge. “W-well, we photocopy their IDs to ban them from the store. And I hate to profile, but—”

“—but, to you, it seems that an awful lot of lesser income people seem to cause problems in your store?” said the cheetah, tapping his thumb claw against each of his finger claws.

“Now I didn’t say ‘lesser income,’” said Marvin. The collar of his shirt was going damp.

“But you were awfully quick to call them Leakguardians.”

“That’s the address on a lot of their IDs!”

“I have an address in Leakguard,” said Mr. Darvish.

“Wow, you?” asked Marvin, then squawked as he sucked in air. “I mean!”

“Do you have a problem with me having an address in L.G.?”

“I gotta take a break,” sighed Marvin, sitting back against a display. A couple pairs of folded briefs fell off the table.

Gila thought it best that he should be leaving shortly. God only knew how noseblind he became from the stall experience. His fingers buzzed with electric nerves; he was still holding onto a bag that contained a warm, wrapped turd.

“Did you want to check the stall first?” asked Gila. “Since, you know, a lot of … let’s say people wearing twenty-dollar jeans have been a bit funny with your thirty-dollar underwear?”

“Oh, goodness,” said Mr. Darvish. “Each pair?”

“We have sales and bundles,” said Marvin, using a pair of underwear to dab his wet collar.

“No, no;” said Mr. Darvish, “a man should stand alone, less he mask his stink by the group. Do you stand by your prices?”

“I wear nothing else, sir. I mean! Mister Darvish.”

“‘Kioga’ or ‘sir’ is fine. I was just busting your balls; wanted to see if you had a straight spine.”

“I sure hope I do.”

“It’s good enough. Are you the person I spoke with on the phone regarding the Briefies™ line?”

“As well as the jiaper quote-endquote ‘Jockies™,’ yes,” said Marvin.

“They’re already changing that name; I’m sure you can guess why. Regardless, if I can just borrow five minutes of your time, I’ll be up and out of here faster than a shoplifter. Though tell me, how do you photocopy the IDs of those you ban?”

“We let them buy something at a discount if they cooperate.”

“And how long is the ban?”

Gila was bad at speaking with celebrities. While he was obliquely impressed that Kioga “Davis” Darvish had made a name for himself as most-everyone’s favorite salacious mascot, he didn’t know if there was a proper way to pay tribute. “Thank you for your service” would be the goofiest salutation ever, and “I love your products” would be a lie.

It was just two different worlds; Gila didn’t know exactly how to cross that bridge. Currently, Marvin and Kioga were fully engrossed in their conversation, and to Gila that was another wall of engagement he’d need to pierce.

Instead, Gila just waved—with the hand containing the bag—and then started walking toward the exit with his ears tweaked backwards. Every step felt like the tighter pull of a great rubber band: soon would come the cry of the sentinel, “Excuse me, sir!” with a dreadful grasp of his bicep. Past the boxers, past the briefs; past the boxer briefs Gila strode! And then …

Nope; he just got out of the store and was back in the mall. Once he got out, however, there was definitely a certain grunginess hovering about him. The cat pretended to inspect his merchandise, sifting around his stack of undies, and opened his nostrils.

The smell was sealed off, to his relief, but its warmth and aroma seemed to radiate through the plastic. At this point, it was half superstition and half actuality. Gila went to a mallside kiosk and bought a bottle of cologne from a Persian cat with a thick accent, one that kept calling him, “my friend” with the frequency of a punctuation mark.

The Persian was a bit surprised at how quickly Gila selected a bottle, and how he immediately agreed to the price.

“You sure you want to pay full price?” the Persian asked.

“Seems about right for a bottle this size; cheap even,” Gila said, then paid in cash. The tuxedo cat immediately spritzed himself a couple times, then at least six times did he spray the bag. When he gently set the bottle in the bag, among his briefs and loaf of waste, he noted that the cologne’s brand name had peeled off on his thumb, and that it was misspelled.

“Looie Vuwuitowonne” was probably based in “Paree, Fraunce.”

The scent was nice, but also made his fur itchy.

“Oh goodness, what is that smell?” asked a female in the general area.

Gila’s ears went hot and his back went cold.

“Yeah, I smell that, too. It’s real strong, isn’t it?” another woman answered.

Gila’s throat got a lump and his bowels gurgled.

“It is, yah,” said the first, “Like, I immediately miss my grandpa.”

“He always did smell like that, didn’t he? Like, I think mine did, too.”

“Do old guys just have the same smell?”

“You know why that is, right?” she asked with a giggle.

Gila’s lungs felt full and his stomach, empty enough that the sides touched.

“Excuse me, mister?” said the second female. “Mister cat, hey?”

Shitting himself would be a defense mechanism at this point. But, just as he wanted to be civil with Kioga, the billboard diaper slut, he may as well be civil with these random interlopers … that might totally know everything. “Uh, yeah, hey? What’s up?” he asked.

“Like, I’m totally sorry,” said the first female. She was a perky young lady in her mid-twenties, a pink furry dragon with a pinstriped vest and matching skirt. “My friend would be a school shooter if it was avant garde, but it totally isn’t R-N right? Anyway, hey, my name is Jill and we were wondering what your scent was. It’s like, bam, suddenly we’re back in a living room surrounded by wood paneling and thick carpet.”

“Hey,” said the other girl. She was a chameleon with large eyes that seemed to change color with her scales. Currently, she was also completely pink, like her friend Jill. “So I’m Saigemary Autumn, and we just have to know—”

Gila audibly swallowed.

“Like, what is that cologne you’re wearing?” asked Saigemary. “It’s so funky.”

“Really retro,” said Jill.

The chameleon frowned. “You can’t use that word, Gillian. ‘Retro’ is a dead word.”

“It’s a correct word,” argued the pink dragon.

“Connotatively, no,” said the chameleon with a downturn of her lips. At least a foot of her tongue slipped out and braced itself against her snout like a fist, but it moved so well that it didn’t seem awkward. “‘Retro’ currently is for boomers missing their Nintendos.”

“Those are millennials, Saigemary Thyme,” corrected Gillian.

“Anyway,” said Saige, snapping her fingers, “You smell like an old man and ‘old man’ is in.”

“No offense,” said Gillian.

Saige grinned. “She has to be the nice one. So what’s the secret?” asked the chameleon, taking hold of Gila’s wrist and pulling him toward her. Her large, pink eyes flashed as the cat came close. “Wow, that scent is such a trip!”

Gila’s bag rustled—with all its contents—as he was yanked. The cat’s heart fluttered, and it would only be a quick peek down to discover his secret.

“That is so accurate,” boggled Saige. “It’s strong, ancient cologne, and a certain Jenny Sequod—”

“Je ne sais quoi?” asked Jill.

“Also ancient. French is an excellent language but for non-polyglots it’s a crutch,” said Saige.

“I, um,” Gila said, turning his wrist so that the bag’s aperture wasn’t directly below Saige’s large eyes, “Got it from the Persian booth over there.”

“Is that racist?” asked Jill.

“Racism is in; try and keep up,” said Saige. “But he’s correct either way.”

The pink dragon slightly collapsed, as if frustration was atmospheric pressure. “So let’s get some,” said Jill. “I think we’ve taken enough of this nice guy’s time.”

“But it’s not just the cologne,” Saige said, snapping her fingers near her ear hole. “And I’m not gonna excuse any Jenny Sequods.”

Gila felt a lump in his throat, which was a much better location for one. “Ehm, it’s been a long day? I’ve not showered yet?”

“Oh no, I smell your dollar-store shampoo,” Saige said. “And no offense; honesty is the crucible in which filth is burnt away.” The chameleon’s nose was still going, which made Gila want to yank his arm away. How could he explain a turd in a bag?

The cat recalled the Treasure Trail’s map. He remembered there was a dog park, but again why would he be carrying any sort of scat in a shopping bag?

“You know, I’m sad to say but I just have to leave it at Jenny,” said Saige. “How absolutely mysterious.”

Gila promptly removed his wrist. “Well, hope you find the ‘new cool thing!’” he said, but immediately got a scoff from the chameleon, who was actually turning black and white like him.

“If you call it that, you’ve already lit the fuse,” hissed Saige.

The fluffy dragon sheepishly waved. “Sorry,” she said, and the two walked off bickering about how Saige had to be rude, because manners were distracting to the searing truth of artistry and insight.

“But you know,” he heard Saige say, “Maybe it’s just bodily waste?”

“From him?!”

“No; he seems like a good boy,” Saige said. Gila had to freeze his neck muscles so he didn’t turn around. “But old-man smell.”

“I hate that would be a part of my grandpa.”

“People age; can’t control things down there.”

Gila’s face flushed with a burst of searing frostbite; it was as if the court had convicted him behind closed doors.

Faeceus Corpus.

But, now that he was free, the cat promptly went to the nearest kiosk, identified a dog park just outside the building, and went shuffling that way, spritzing on another dose of “old man cologne” just in case. The eyes that turned toward him had to be thinking of the perfume stand. He smelled the bag: it was a set-in odor not unlike a room yellowed by cigarette smoke. Ever-present, but thankfully muted.

Outside, there were a few suburbanites (and even some Leakguardians) walking their dogs on the fake grass to relieve themselves. Gila knew he could not linger, for he had as much business there as a childless man hovering around a playground. Instead, he went up to the green disposal bin and put his body between the can and the pet owners. He pulled out his aromatic sack and briefly admired how his two logs were yet firm and faintly warm, enjoying the faint nostalgia of how they indefatigably marched their way out of him with the bravado of a military procession.

The bag went in and Gila was sure people disposed of drugs, here, too. Maybe there was a brick of cocaine—or in Puerto, coke laced with Smoothyner for a proper loofie—hiding in the basin waiting for a dead-drop.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” asked a monitor lizard. He had a small Pomeranian dog sitting in the chest pocket of his coat, rapidly panting and looking around.

Gila looked left and right. “Yeah, picked it up and left the dog with the husband,” he answered. His ears were bright read.

“Dog and husband, sure,” said the lizard, lighting up a cigarette. He blew the smoke away from his dog.

“Yeah,” said Gila, then went back inside.

A small worldview was shattered, here—as much as people had been looking as a result of his strong cologne, was there a minority smelling something else? Anthroids had all sorts of scenting alacrity. The cat’s was very good, but the wrong species of dog could probably smell whether a person had properly wiped that morning.

Reentering the mall, he covertly sniffed his bag. Despite the original sack being sealed plastic, there was yet a baked-in odor to the paper walls and the folded merchandise. It wasn’t strong, yet it snuck through the overbearing knockoff cologne like a cum stain on a curtain.

His paranoia, too, he could not quite shake off. The girls had been oddly perceptive—especially that snarky one who said that racism was in vogue (what the hell did she mean by that?)—but other than that, the looks he had gotten were just looks. Had he a big brown stain on the back of his shorts, or a tell-tale lump, he could accept that his best course of action was to turn himself into the nearest Praetorian kiosk or just run out of the mall with, perhaps, a sweater tied around his waist. That monitor lizard had been especially unsettling, but he’d only asked rhetorical questions.

Sometimes the most piercing light was that which was reflected.

Because of that, his paranoia persisted. Everyone knew that smell: it was an evolutionary alarm bell that sounded out, “Danger!” “Disease!” “Claimed Territory!” and so it was just as tell-tale as porn. And because of that, his body remained in a state of unease.

“Where r u?” came from his phone.

“Sorry lol just got caught up in all the fancy stores,” he texted back. “I’m coming right there.”

“Tight ass like you becoming a spend queen?” asked George. He’d tried a winky face, but ended up sending brackets and ampersands.

“Maybe the sexy undies loosened me up!” Gila texted, then groaned at the double implication.

“Riiiiiiight,” was George’s reply. “Well, hurry up; I wanna go home. We’re by the Orange Ghibli.”

Really, this two-day ordeal hadn’t loosened Gila up: it’d honestly done the opposite, tightening him up so much that he was squeezing like a toothpaste tube at the bottom of the ocean.

And he didn’t have a cap.

His goal right now was to get to the food court, so he got back to a kiosk and mapped himself out.

“Huh.”

His odyssey out to the dog park had taken him down a labyrinthine path; the hallways of the Spreadings Treasure Trail had been as short as a house’s, and now were that of an airport. He oriented himself due West and started moving, and that’s when the trouble began.

As he perambulated, his systems kickstarted back into action, and for the first several paces, he was just feeling the friendly gurgles of a hungry stomach. It’d been a while since breakfast, and when George cooked at home, it was a cozy affair where the meat was juicier than citrus and the potatoes were fluffier than cotton. Gila felt pressure in his lower passage, and after a couple observant steps he noticed no weight, so he gently unclenched and let a poot escape through his briefs. The mall was pretty loud, but the trademark brip, pop! was as obvious as a distant police siren.

Shoppers tweaked their ears and a couple rambunctious kids laughed and looked for the source. Gila kept his ears forward, not down, and pretend-distracted himself with his phone. He was too frazzled for social media, but too unfocused for an e-book, so he just flipped through Facepalm. People were showing off their vacations and home-cooked dishes: it was banal, but comforting.

Gila cleared his throat as he felt his bowels inflate. Glancing around, people were just going about their business, and the mall echoed their clatter and commerce from its large skylights, so it’d just be another sound. Having the bizarre idea that Treasure Trail’s mismatched arboretum trenches would quickly recycle the fetid air into oxygen, he walked alongside one of the long planters and relaxed his ring. Cats naturally had their tails up, so that wasn’t too tell-tale a sign, but—

Fffrrrrriit! Bap bap.

“What the fuck?” came a random voice.

Jesus Christ; it sounded like the two-stroke engines George was always reminiscing about. He kept moving, ears burning, because it wouldn’t take much to triangulate who was crop-dusting the shopping center. Whoever had complained had better not try to start a streamed confrontation, where they yelled at him while filming with their phone. He escaped the cloud, but caught a pungent whiff of his post-processed sustenance. It reminded him of the knockoff cologne.

Gila felt his stomach bulge and waistband tighten. Whatever he’d eaten for dinner was really having its day with him. Slowing his pace, the cat made the pronounced effort of stiffening his inner muscles, and with a gentle stride he felt the gas and warm vapor whisper out of him. He was right at the end of the tree-line, so that was good.

His ring remained flexed, tickled by the hot air, and Gila found his paw pressing against the top of his stomach as the savory, potent byproduct escaped him. The humid scent surrounded him with memories of salmon and lemon; did he break out the aioli and capers, too?

Then there was that twang of dirt and garbage: people would run out of a restaurant stinking like this. Gila felt his loins stir in his briefs, gaining awareness of the humble cock and soft balls nestled in their cozy, supportive pouch, and scolded himself that he’d better not be getting an exhibitionist kink.

He stood up and in a futile gesture, spritzed his swarthy cologne over his shoulder. Then, like a thief in the night, he escaped his intestinal war crime of Agent Brown and continued West. He continued … as much as he could.

Constipation turned to vindication as Gila’s tail stiffened and his ring tightened. Whatever mass that was inside him shifted downwards, and his colon pulsed with a prodding pain as it filled. He felt his heartbeat throbbing in his bowels and a cold sweat misted his shoulders.

Baaaaooorhh…

“Oh shit; nononono,” he whispered. Gila half-waddled as he made it to the next map, his lower abdomen gurgling so loud he swore it was audible to others. His insides clenched, starting their process against his self-tightening.

The map showed him the restrooms and he started his painful journey. Every step seemed to yield another inch, and he felt a thick log wend its way into his rectum. Its ridged tip prodded his ring, which buzzed with heat and throbbed to complete its natural process.

The cat clenched against the insistent turd, but every squeeze brought more and more fatigue. Gila looked around; he was nowhere near any exit doors. If he just shat his briefs outside, George could pick him up and they could face the music.

The sight of the restroom sign brought hope to his heart and weight to his bowels. His rectum, his colon … everything felt filled and stretched. The log prodding his backside was as dense as lead. Blame it on the soft fabric cradling his groin, but his cock was hard, too, and it made a ridge against the front of his shorts.

Respect given toward the briefs at Bulge’s, however: Gila’s lump did certainly look larger! But this wasn’t the place for a lump, neither in the front nor back of his shorts.

Gila coldly shivered as he felt the slither of his shit trying to escape. His ring bit down as hard as it could, but this was a bad compromise. The cat’s heart sprang as he felt a hunk pinch off and fall into the seat of his underwear, and roll against his rump cheeks with every step.

The cat quickly opened the restroom door and waddled inside, his erection stretching his front supportive pouch as his filthy nugget left dirty kisses on his ass. Thankfully, a stall opened up, and Gila hurriedly shuffled toward it. The sight of a toilet sent his bowels into overdrive, pushing and pushing until his anus was at a breaking point. The fact he’d already slightly-shat gave them carte-brun.

Gila closed the stall door with a little more force than necessary, feeling a log start to creep, but when he turned toward the toilet his movement forcefully halted. The cat looked down and saw his belt loop was hooked to the stall door.

“Goddamnit; no, no no!” he hissed. In his panic, the cat forgot all logic of walking backwards, slipping it off. Instead, he tugged and tugged, then pushed the handle down, which just yanked the belt loop. His bowels pulsed, his ass full and demanding release. Trapped against the door, Gila hurriedly unbuttoned his shorts, but then his shorts were just open, and still hanging from the handle.

“What the fuck do I…” he whispered, but when he looked toward the toilet, he knew it was too late. With a final jolt of his rectum, a gasp escaped Gila’s throat as his intestines pushed and laid a full, hard log into his new briefs. The process was startlingly easy, and the cat could scant remember but the smooth, ridged slither as his turd slid out and stretched the seat of his undies. More mass was ready to go, and in full surrender Gila pushed again and loaded up his undies with hot, moist scat.

“Fucking hell,” he growled as the formerly potent odor grew into a dominant presence, filling the stall.

There was a cough from next door and a knock on the wall. “Hey, bud, care for a courtesy flush?” the male asked. The cough was accompanied by a few grunts and plops of their own, then a long rasp.

Gila’s whiskers flickered as he heard the sounds of straining, and his erect front pouch rose through the open fly of his shorts. “Yeah, sure; just dealing with a big one.” In the tingling, delirious sobriety of shock and necessity for action, he managed to unhook his shorts, then reached back and flushed the empty toilet.

“Aren’t we all,” said the stall next-door. Gila saw the anthroid’s toes curl in his flip-flops, then more sounds of an anal trumpet as the male passed a crinkled load of his own.

His neighbor ceased further communication, dealing with his own sanitary ritual which included a long piss raining down into the bowl water. Gila moved his own feet close to his own bowl just in case the male inspected, but the man was soon wiping, flushing, then exiting to handle his own business.

Gila quickly shot off another text, saying, “Hey, just had to stop by the bathroom. Out soon.”

George merely replied with a thumbs-up.

The cat took a deep breath. He was standing with his back to the toilet, his shirt pulled up above his waist so he could see the pleasantly low waistband of his bright gold briefs, and the promising spire jutting out from his shorts. The back of his briefs were filled with a heavy, hard shaft and a bundle of smaller clumps. Every move shifted the firm mass against his rump, which in the brand-new undies were stuck fast against him. Gila let his shorts slide to his ankles, and put one paw on the front lump, and one on the rear.

His fur prickled as he stroked both. His prick twitched as he stroked it through the clingy fabric, jetting a pleasant squirt of pre into his briefs. His hand grasped its humble length as the other stroked the warm, bumpy mound in the back, and went only faster as he beheld the mass and the breadth filling his precious undies. The understrap was a solid pipe, and the backside rounded his rump out to that of a soccer ball.

God, you shat your undies; loaded them up real good, didn’t you, you dirty cat? Gila thought to himself, grinding down on his cock.

His rear hand groped and grasped, stroking the log like it was a second dick. His front hand went wet as it scrambled into the double fly, seizing his hard maleness to milk it in its pouch.

Holy shit I fucking love this…

The cat bit down on his lip as pre poured out of him, darkening the front until it was beading off the apex.

Took a huge shit in your briefs…

Gila worked to keep his panting down, listening for others entering the restroom. The rhythmic sound of his fist sliding up and down in his underwear whispered throughout the room, and he watched with hungry intent. The mound weighing down the back was too big for one paw to cover: he stroked and lifted his heavy, filthy bounty.

His asshole pulsed, hanging open as it tried to squeeze any remnants into his soiled seat.

This is what briefs are for; to be messed…

The cat’s breaths came in humid gasps as he pounded his hard prick. Nothing was off-limits; he was the master of his pleasure and he would milk his body of all its gifts.

“Ah … aaaaah,” he sighed. His cock and his bowels opened in tandem, ready to yield their loads. Gila jolted, and he pumped his shaft with its orgasm. His dick sprang in his undies, spurting jet upon jet of warm, gooey cum into his briefs. It darkened the spire and beaded upon the tip in thick globs, then drooled down in long strings to the crotch of his shorts.

Clean shorts are only lying, yeah…

On cue with his lusty contemplation, his bowels lurched and found creamier, sticky remnants within him. His tailhole clenched and then squirted, spewing semi-solid goo into his hanging load. The cat groaned as his briefs grew heavier. His tent oozed spunk all over his shorts, and then he grunted, as if a finger was stuck up him.

His guts churned and poured pure liquid, and all Gila could hear was rain. His eyes dilated in delirious relief, him having turned his body into two open, rushing tubes. Everything was perfect, except his calves felt wet.

Gila looked down in abject horror and saw his shorts, socks, and shoes splattered in milky brown.

Sex-sobriety crept in like a wraith and he texted George on his smartphone, which was dripping in cat sauce.

“Love, I have a big problem.”