Chapter 6: Taken Seat

George pulled his cock out of his husband’s rear with a satisfying slurp, and admired the temporary gape. Gila’s anus remained open to show its semen-glazed cavern. The cat felt a rush of liquid and clenched as quickly as he could, rewarding the gecko with a pearly squirt that whapped onto the leg of George’s makeshift chaps.

“You need to, um, use the bathroom?” George asked.

Gila scowled. He bet that smug toilet would love his husband’s musky, thick load. “Give me a plug; I wanna keep it in as long as possible.”

George felt his body temperature rise. This possessive pride was what future fathers must feel when their wife is swelling up with their progeny, big belly rolling up the shirt hem. The gecko went to their little sex cabinet, a grand woody fixture with a frosted door meant for liquor bottles. Instead, it hid anal toys. The leopard gecko selected one of roughly the same width as his anatomy, and the cat raised an eyebrow.

“I think a smaller one might just fall in,” said the reptile drily.

Gila snorted, and felt a wet squirt coat the inside of his rump cheeks. “Y-yeah, actually that’s a good idea.”

“Did you snart on the bed?”

“J-just a little!”

George ran numbers in his head, recalling when he last washed it. Gila blushed, feeling his groin twinge at the lurid shame. He felt their intimate treacle ooze down his tail. His ring was a wet kiss, making itself obscenely apparent.

“Let’s get this in before you’re making bird art,” George said. His walk back to his husband was a lovely one; even in his drained afterglow there was still the spice of sex tingling his throat and his gonads. His long penis, now soft, swayed nakedly before his clothed legs. His robust balls rubbed against broken-in denim. George’s clothes plainly displayed his pledge to his husband.

The plug slipped in simply, lubricated by George’s love-emission. The gecko watched his mate’s beautiful slit accept the thick plug with a spread and clench. Gila’s lungs performed a similar expansion and push.

Gila and George didn’t get showered, but they did go through a number of wipes. The stocky gecko cleaned the intimate area around the blue silicone base, then lay on the bed, planting cool kisses to Gila’s cheek as he rubbed the cat’s stomach and chest of his own sticky epiphany. George secretively grinned, feeling a little bit the hypocrite as his exposed anatomy, still slick and a bit sticky from their bonding, flopped sideways and stamped gooey smooches on the bedcover. Then onto Gila went a pair of dryer-fresh briefs that bulged only slightly in the seat, coyly hinting at the implement nestled in his canal.

Gila for his part, carefully flipped onto his stomach. His lower body gurgled as George’s voluminous gift splashed against the plug. He proceeded to clean his husband, alternating between wipes and kisses to the cool shaft and the weighty sac beneath.

They adjourned downstairs, arm around each other’s waist, and clothed exactly opposite: Gila only around his groin and rump, and George everywhere except his loins and rear. His broad gecko tail covered some of his spotted cheeks, but George’s dedication to his workout regimen left plenty of the perky mounds exposed to the lusty eye.

They got to dinner and were particularly blessed by their glass dining table: they each caught the other stealing poorly-disguised peeks at the other’s crotch. Both takeout containers were placed askew of their diner so they were not in the way. George watched Gila’s small pouch squish against the chair as the cat leaned forward to eat, and the gecko’s penis hung over the edge of his own chair. His balls lazed on either side, ready to fall off.

George chuckled, lifting noodles out of the styrofoam. His sticky tongue snapped to the chopsticks and twirled the food into his mouth. “How are you still horny?” he asked, nodding down to Gila’s briefs. The cat’s pouch was at a small point, but still had some wiggle to it when he moved. The cat shrugged and smiled, shoveling in his own dinner.

“I’m not sure,” he smacked, gulping down a hunk of duck. The Thai sizzle warmed his body; they got “Yerp-Guy Hot” and still it was enough to make them both weep like women at a Christmas romance movie. Perhaps there was an inverse relationship between articulation of the English language and spice tolerance. Tears rolled down Gila’s face as the meat tumbled down his throat, on its way to make another turd. “Today, in general, has just been spicy. Even at my base, I’m feeling frisky.”

The leopard gecko’s tongue shot across the table and snatched a piece of flesh right out of Gila’s chopsticks. The cat would hold them at a certain angle so George George Binks could do his cool move. Gila wouldn’t call him that in bed, though: George not only was intimately familiar with that movie, having seen it in his childhood, he was also eerily good at the impression. It was the one fucking impression he could do.

“Well it’s been a hell of a ride today,” George said, smiling as he crunched and swallowed. “I’m actually kinda liking this cool breeze on my boys.”

Now that the gecko was gesturing down at his genitalia, Gila had full permission to stare. George’s gonads were draped just as gracefully on the chair as the rest of him, and maybe it was the cat’s androphilia but there was something so soothing and honest at seeing his husband’s penis and balls, like he was seeing the entire man. The same applied in reverse; if George wanted him in just his undies, who was he to complain?

They finished dinner and moved over to the couch, where Gila rested his head on George’s chest. Sexually satisfied for now, the flickers of the television painted the gecko’s thick, naked bundle of flesh between his legs as merely a beautiful statue, and not a live, thriving organ pumping sweet scents and essence deep into—and all over—the cat.

Gila actually fell asleep in George’s lap, his muzzle and snout right against the soft, cool skin of his cock. The gecko pet his husband and gave him one more episode to rest, then scooped him up and carried a snoring, half-snorting, Gila up the stairs to bed.

The cat enjoyed a strange dream through the night: he and George were out grocery shopping, and it seemed that every eye was turned their way as they passed. It didn’t matter what aisle they were in; anthroid adults of all species, sexes, and ages would pause in their shopping and conversation to silently stare.

Gila started feeling the horrible, old dread of 1500’s nightmare stories of religiously zealous settlements, where gay men would be publicly mutilated and slaughtered for their transgressions.

But the facial expressions on these peoples’ countenances weren’t quite horrified or disgusted; they were more nervous and quizzical. Queer, to reference an old word.

Gila couldn’t quite put his finger in it, so he just kept puzzling. George led him around the store, overloaded basket hanging from the crook of his free arm. More and more items went into the basket, but the basket never seemed to overflow.

The cat wondered what they were having for dinner and looked over at the boxes. He coughed and gasped: the basket was filled with food items of the most obscene labels! There was a rabbit whose mouth was gaped open with a ring gag and the brand’s cereal was being shoved down his gullet—”Slutty-O’s” was the brand! George had also selected some pastry dough, and this had a dolphin whose rump cheeks were spread wide, and strawberries were falling out of his ass and onto the crispy, flaky spread below him. “French Foreskin” was that product’s name.

“What the fucking fuck,” Gila whispered, breaking off his paw-grasp with George. Everybody else had fruits and veggies and lean meats in their carts, whereas his leopard gecko husband had a literal cock of salami hanging out of the basket. The thing was at least three feet long and six inches in diameter. The tip had a thick, meaty glans and a thick gravy oozed from the slitted tip.

To boot, everyone else was dressed in their Sunday best, with suits and dresses and hats and even gloves for the women. Everyone looked like they walked right off the cover of a fashion magazine.

Gila looked down at himself. To his relief, he was wearing normal clothes, as was George, but both of them had big triangular gaps in the crotches. The cat’s tighty-whities were as bright and visible as the sun on a cloudless day, and George’s commendable penis was hanging freely, right alongside the drooling cock of salami.

“N-no. No, no, no!” Gila stammered. To his horror, his cock sprang to life right there, growing stiff in his underwear in front of everyone. Women screamed; men roared in fury. Policemen tripped over themselves; a fireman hit George right in the chest with a heavy spray of water, flinging the gecko deep into a line of aisles that stretched past Gila’s sight and the horizon.

Gila felt his thighs tremble and his balls clench. In slow motion, he felt his crotch buzz and his cock lurch. A sticky warmth spread over the front of his underwear, and when the first sweet, thick drop of cum hit the floor, the world exploded and a song got stuck in Gila’s head.

“No!” the cat shrieked, jumping up in his bed.

“Bluafharhg?” George snorted. His CPAP machine muttered along with little hisses and poots. Gila and George had seen a Darth Vader-themed one at Disneyland, and even with the price tag of Three Thousand and Sixty-Seven Dollars, George had to pull Gila away from the display by his nipple before the cat had schemed a payment plan.

No, they’d gotten a really good CPAP machine at the local Walter’s World. It had a state-of-the-art filter and George would even use it when chopping onions sometimes.

“I just … umghf,” Gila said, gulping at air. His sheets were ice-cold: wet fabric was like a wound that just bled out all the heat. “Just … had a bad dream.”

George pulled off his breathing mask, smacking his dry lips. “Still a bit wound up from yesterday?”

Gila cleared his throat. He dreaded peeling the sheets away from his waist: you jizz your pants in the Matrix, you jizz your pants in real life. “Yeah maybe. Still it’s psychosomatic I swear. I’m declaring something’s wrong, then freaking out when the data comes back fine.”

George checked the alarm clock; it was about time for breakfast. Today would be Sunday, since yesterday they were going to go to the park but then Gila freaked out about the Adult-Baby event going on. Not that George himself was entirely comfortable with people outwardly role-playing as puppies, or babies, or kitchen appliances—uncanny valley and all that—but it didn’t have to be a phobia. “Well, just let me know if you need anything, darling. If something’s crawled up your butt, I can grab a flashlight and a broom,” he said. His husband was behaving squirrelier than a teenage boy with a blank computer desktop. George swept the sheets off his side of the bed, revealing he’d slept in the makeshift crotchless briefs Gila made for him.

“W-w-wait,” said Gila. He swept the sheets off himself, then quickly pulled them back over his crotch. The cat’s heart fluttered as he reached under. George, of course, was staring at him acting queerly. Gila, indicted with seven spotlights and the bag in his hand, could merely blank out his eyes and stare through the gecko as he felt the bulge of his underwear.

It was moist, but it wasn’t sticky. They had pretty thick covers—George was cold-blooded, after all, and basically used Gila as a man-sized handwarmer—so combined with Gila’s insane dream, the cat wasn’t surprised that he’d steamed his hams. He got up and crawled across the covers, letting his tail luxuriantly wave. “You’re, um, looking good all naked like that,” he said.

George’s brow rose. He knew Gila’s age lent him a robust libido, but with the cat nearing thirty, wouldn’t it be tapering off soon? “I’m glad you appreciate,” he said, folding his arms. Putting himself on tip-toe, he managed to swing his penis up and over the edge of the mattress. He wasn’t the tallest. Gila, by comparison, was a telephone pole—frankly, he wondered if they presented more as Laurel and Hardy than a married couple.

Gila twinged; he somehow managed to keep the butt plug in all night, but now his rectal muscles were protesting. He clenched down, making sure it was pulled into place, but he found the response to be very weak. “I’m just thinking maybe we should make appetizers a thing for breakfast, too,” he said, smirking.

George grinned as Gila’s fingers slid under the head of his limp member and teased it on the bed. “Uh-huh. You get a stomach full of goodness while my appetite starts to rage out.”

Gila rolled onto his back, putting his head right alongside the cool, flaccid cock. He made sure to spread his legs, showing off his own small bulge. “I could share,” he purred.

George kept his arms folded, letting the cat paw at his thick dick. It wasn’t the hottest foreplay, but Gila had an entertaining temperament: there was a funny line when Gila would flip from playful and coy to desperately lusty.

The cat lifted George’s cock with two fingers, then let the limp, heavy member flop onto his lips. The heat of the cat’s snout, plus the coolness of his wet nose, made the gecko breathe a laser-stream of breath through his lips. It was already starting to feel really good.

Gila let his lips open and George’s cock fell right in; the gecko felt soft, wet bands snap around the head of his organ and he had to start rocking his hips. This was feeling amazing. The cat’s raspy tongue batted the head back and forth; he angled his body so that his throat started swallowing inches; his paws gently insisted upon the exposed length with tugs and strokes.

Fast or slow, George was stuck here until he gave the cat a belly full of cum.

“Jesus fuck, honey,” hissed the gecko, feeling his crotch light up with sexual vigor. He could be cool as a cucumber, but if Gila pressed the right buttons then George’s engine was roaring to life.

His husband’s cock was intimidatingly big, but when lust and love suffused the cat’s body, Gila became as malleable as liquid. He still winced as the plug reminded him of its heavy, implacable presence, but the fact that it was plugging back his husband’s wonderful load from yesterday made it all the more easy to keep it in his walls.

Gila skillfully plunged George’s imposing rod down his throat, making the man groan and thrust his whole sensitive part into the cat’s body. The cat slurped and gulped, enveloping the gecko in an eye-crossingly intense tunnel of pleasure. His silky, wet mouth and neck swallowed George whole, massaging every inch in hot, knee-buckling pleasure.

Gila was feeling great, himself: despite his numerous, ball-drainingly intense orgasms, he was hard again, proudly standing his four-and-some inches in his briefs as he sucked down his husband. George enfolded himself well into the classic rhythm: when Gila gently tugged at his hips, the gecko picked up like a steam locomotive’s piston and went in and out, around and around.

The gecko had to boggle as he watched his husband’s neck. The thing stretched as his cock passed through; George wondered how close he was getting to Gila’s stomach. He bit his lip every time his balls tapped Gila’s cold nose: his husband was sucking him down good and his orgasm was building like a fire. George was trapped while this amorous cat gulped at his cock.

“Phew, don’t mind me,” said George, seeing the room fuzz out a bit. “Maybe I’m not all awake but I don’t wanna fall on you.” The gecko grabbed the muzzle of his CPAP device and helped himself to a nice muzzle of air. “Funny that I’m the one out of breath, considering.”

Gila chuckled, but did deftly grab a nice gasp of air during one of George’s out-thrusts. Heat was flowing throughout his whole body. He had the gecko’s portentous cock filling out his upper body, and he had that decently thick plug stretching out his backside. Soon he would have George’s load in both his ends, then they would go and get gay breakfast together.

Gay breakfast was just like regular breakfast, but with more cocks and bulges.

Gila could feel his husband getting closer. There were cool jets of precum that fired right into his stomach, slicking his throat up, and George’s big sac was getting tighter against his thick thighs. Even through the CPAP machine, Gila could hear the gecko’s groans.

The cat moved his hips back and forth as he sucked at George’s cock, making the plug stir around in his rectum. A gratifying glorp sounded from his intimate tunnel, stirring around what was left of the gecko’s fat load.

Gila smacked and moaned, spitroasting himself on George and the plug. He rocked himself back and forth on the bed, making the joints creak in between slurps and thrusts.

Baaaoorrrrhhh… he heard his stomach grumble. Yeah, breakfast was going to be real good.

Brrrrrhhh…went his stomach again. He knew he was hungry; that’s why he was gonna fill up on cum.

“Baby, I’m getting real close,” George groaned, cracking the mask.

Gila cinched himself tight to George’s groin. The gurgles in his stomach traveled lower, rattling his intestines. But the cat kept on sucking, even thrusting his own hips into the air as he rammed the gecko’s cock down his gullet. The plug in his rump was getting heavy, and the rumbling in his guts made his whole pelvic cradle vibrate.

The right thrusts even dragged the plug against Gila’s love-nut, and so it was with this perfect trifecta that the cat soldiered on. His cock strained against the tight fabric of his briefs, scraping against the semi-soft surface. His guts grumbled, chewing on that plug like a wad of tobacco.

George growled and grunted, fucking his husband’s face and the seemingly endless tunnel it was connected to. The cat was writhing under him like a fish stuck to a worm: he wasn’t even dominating him that hard.

The gecko felt that electric lightness, like a sneeze but much lower. He felt his balls draw up and his whole nine inches widen, preparing to fire. George could barely reach out and tweak one of Gila’s nipples before his crotch lit up with sensation and awareness, then lurched past the point of inevitability.

His eyes widened and vision went fuzzy. George gasped into his breathing mask as heat flooded his groin, pouring down Gila’s neck with volume and velocity. “Hh-ah shit, oh love,” he grunted.

That first hit of sticky heat hit the cat’s throat, making him double his efforts. He coughed and choked around George’s gigantic rod, gulping as liquid heat flooded his stomach. The cock kept his upper body in place, forcing him to drink every last drop, and it left his lower body to writhe and hump his stretched briefs.

His ass clenched down on the plug it’d kept there, squeezing it toward the exit and spreading his ring with its bulbous outward curve. Gila gasped and gripped down on it, and when it moved back into him his trapped cock scraped across the inside of his tent and set him off like a flint.

“Mmh!” Gila gasped, barely needing to swallow as his stomach filled with cum. The cat grabbed George’s hips and mashed his face against the gecko’s groin, then spread his legs and humped into thin air, giving George a show. The gecko watched, through an orgasmic haze, Gila’s crotch spasm just beyond the curve of his slightly pudgy belly. The cat’s tent jumped, his hips twitched; then at the peak a jet of cum leapt from the tip, then another and another, coating the small mountain in cum.

“Damn; that’s what I like to see,” groaned George, putting the last few thrusts into his husband’s neck. Afterglow was already taking him over, and if he couldn’t be rolled up safe and snug in some good boxer-briefs, he supposed he could be sitting in the hot, slick caverns of Gila’s digestive system.

The gecko relaxed, and with a twitch of his tail, balanced himself. He put one paw on the cat’s head and stroked his fur, then used his thumb to feel out the connection bridge where lip met cock. George closed his eyes, half-napping while standing, his breathing machine giving off little hisses and poots.

Gila, for his part, gave off a few thrusts of his own, feeling George’s dick throb deep in his throat, and the walls of his stomach coat over in cum. He felt the heat of his own male splatter spread over the crotch of his undies, sealing them to his throbbing groin one more time.

He felt his anal walls clench around that plug, grasping and groping in envy of Gila’s filled mouth. His abdomen rumbled and pushed that plug out into the seat of his brief with a relaxing pop, fully satisfied with the workout the plug gave its systems. Following this momentum, Gila felt his guts grumble and clench, and with a triumphant groan of relief, the cat’s bowels pushed out a long, coiling snake of shit into the seat of his undies.

Gila coughed around the cock filling his throat.

I’m soiling them again; oh God… he thought, only latently realizing that his ass was still pushing and a second coil was filling his briefs, creating a solid and heavy lump in the back. Gila looked up in alarm, the best he could with his head being upside-down, trapped between George’s thighs, hooded by the gecko’s fat balls.

Gila couldn’t see shit, but he could sure smell it. As he writhed around, pinned down by the heavy dick in his mouth, he felt the hot, thick squish of mess in his briefs.

Yet George wasn’t stirring. The leopard gecko was short, thank God, but if he even stood on the slightest of tip-toe, he would probably see around Gila’s cummy bulge and see the grand dirtslide dominating the valley between his thighs.

So he was pinned down by the giant load in his pants, too.

Gila heard the subtle “sssst, paaaah” of George’s breathing machine. He knew the filters on the thing were really good, but could they take on freshly-shat drawers? As Gila experienced the day before, there was a mile of difference between a pooped bathroom and pooped pants. A pooped bathroom had the virtue of a toilet bowl covering up 99.9% of the stink: pooped pants were a first cousin to just having one’s face in it.

George was going to see one way or another. There was just no fucking way.

In a deft—or maybe daft—feat of acrobatics, Gila pulled himself off George, gasped at the sudden vacuum, rolled off the bed, then threw the bedsheets half-over the … surprisingly light … brown smear that he’d left on the bed. All this he managed to do without mashing his loaded drawers further into his butt-fur, or karate-kicking George’s breathing tubes so that the gecko’s nostrils were flooded with the oh-so-invigorating scent of fresh, hot cat scat.

He planted a few fluttering kisses on George’s chin, trying to hide his free paw, which was holding up the back of his sagging briefs. Gila could feel the warm, heavy lump resting against the back of his thighs.

“Hey, um, so the plug came out,” he said to George, pointing at the smear, “so I’m going to wash up in the bathroom.”

The gecko blinked to recoordinate his eyes, stirred from orgasmic reverie. Now his semen-glazed cock was flopped on their clean new comforter and his husband was trying to hide that he’d burned steak dinner.

In fact, it was kinda smelling like burnt steak dinner… “You want to grab me the fabric cleaner?” he asked, cracking his CPAP mask.

“Wait wait wait,” Gila said, pushing the mask back on. “It’s gonna smell like old cum.”

The cat’s heart skipped a beat as his thumb left a brown smear on the mask. He wiped it off with a finger, then returned to trying to hold up the fat, stinking wad in his briefs.

“Then get the SO2 Scrubber as well,” sighed George. “I really don’t wanna be trapped in my own bedroom.” The gecko coughed. The little crack of air he’d got had an impressive zing to it, the sort of repulsive malodor that activates one’s natural phobias to fight or flee. George twitched, but in defiance he nestled himself deeper into the bed.

“Yeah, of course!” Gila said, feeling like a serial killer genius because George’s head was affixed forward, and therefore could not turn and see his heavy, sticky, warm waddle of shame.

Gila felt the under-strap sag and his paw immediately flew to it, clasping the fragrant, domineering warmth. He was getting used to the scent, so he was half-hard, half-queasy. “Oh no you don’t!” he whispered.

“What was that?” George boredly asked.

“Nothing!” Gila said in response.

George, for his part, could only glare at the butt-smear on the bed. Sure, there’d been times Gila’s passage hadn’t been completely clean, but the more they made a grand production of it, the more it was some angsty item of shame instead of an inconvenient coincidence.

Wipe, apologize, continue: it was as simple as that.

“Here they are!” Gila hastily said behind him, already stumbling into the bathroom’s threshold frame. The bottle of fabric spritzer and the small tower of SO2 Scrubber landed on the mattress.

“And a rag,” George demanded.

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Gila. One hand was permanently affixed to the sagging wad between his legs: his fecal coils and the frosted butt plug were rolling around, fighting to fall out. Because his gait was off, he often had to catch himself on the wall, but he was one hand down. If he caught himself with the other one, there’d be a big brown pawprint.

He snatched a rag out from the linen closet and peeked his head back out. His heart leapt as he saw George turned around, cock resting between his legs, and CPAP machine coiled up in the corner. The leopard gecko looked like he was just resting his snout against his fingers, but really his thumb and forefinger were covering the nostrils. George already had his bifocals on and was reading something on his phone.

“H-here,” Gila said, tossing the rag. “I’m gonna shower right now.”

“I could use a shower, too,” said George.

“Um!” said Gila, supporting the stretched sack hanging between his legs. “I’m thinking there’s a little extra that the plug was holding back; maybe I’d best go this one alone.”

George smirked. “Kinda smells like you already let it all out.”

The cat gasped. “W-what? What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” George said, thumbing through some articles. Gila ducked back into the bathroom; if George started mumbling about politics or current events then Gila would feel like he’d married his own grandpa.

And Gila did appreciate that George had a vested interest in current events: if regulations went up, that put a squeeze on Fort Knox Motors from the top down. If regulations went down, then the squeeze could come in from the sides—suddenly fly-by-night mechanics would try and undercut Fort Knox’s rates, and customers would evaporate… for a while.

Then the squeeze would come from the front, because Fort Knox would be fixing everyone else’s “handy-work” (that is, if the handiwork was a handjob with 60 grit sandpaper, or a colonoscopy with a steel bottle brush).

“You feeling all right, sweetheart?” George called out. When he used his elevated voice, often used for the shop, it held the unspoken question, “I don’t need to come over there, do I?” which in itself, was either the question, “Do I have to unfuck something you fucked up?” or, “I’m here if you need me; don’t be a martyr.”

It was more a venn diagram than it was a catalog.

“I’m fine!” said Gila, slinking back into the bathroom. He carefully closed the door.

“I’m serious;” said George, scrubbing the sheet smear. “We could go to Pistoli’s Pharmacy, or PDC’s Emporium. They got a meninine hygiene department for manginal health. For the anally active?”

“I’m fine!” the cat called out, drawing out the second word a bit petulantly. Now that the door was closed—and locked—Gila went right to work in cleaning yet another pair of shitty underwear. Just like last time, the seat stuck to his rump and he had to peel off the grabby fabric. The bath mat was still in the laundry room, so his underwear slipped right off and wetly thudded on the tile floor. The butt plug bounced, leaving a mischievous chocolate stamp on the glass shower door.

A clinging hunk of mess fell from Gila’s buttocks, also thudding on the tile floor. Forming a makeshift glove out of toilet paper, the cat picked up his droppings and placed them in the toilet bowl, then gingerly lifted up his fecal hammock and pivoted it so that the few sizable, coiled logs fell into the bowl.

THOONK went the mass into the water, splashing up and hitting the towel. “God damn it,” growled Gila.

“Sheesh, really dislodged something, didn’t we?” asked George.

“Honey, please,” groaned Gila. Yet again, he had a pair of darkly brown-stained tighty-whities in his paws, and the poop smear went all the way from the tail-slit to the scrotal pouch.

Gila heard George’s thumping footsteps pass by the door, then trudge down the stairs. His triangle feline ears traced the gecko’s positioning all the way to the guest’s half-bath, where the faucet came on. The cat’s heart fell as he realized that his wonderful husband was washing his dick in the sink.

“I should just tell him,” sighed Gila, flushing his poop. “Or …” he said, halting. He wiped smears from the tiles and the shower door. “Maybe this is just my thing. The last thing I wanna do is burden him. Fuck’s sake.”

The cat proceeded to wash, and just as before the room filled with the heady, pungent reminder of his fecal catastrophe—of filling his underwear with warm, sticky shit—before it washed down the drain and was replaced by delightful, fragrant shampoo.

Again, the cat was half-hard by the time he’d cleaned himself. “Why the hell do I love shitting myself? God, of just making big dumps in my drawers? It sounds so amazing. I love loading my briefs with my feces. Big fucking shits in my drawers.”

“You say something?” called from downstairs.

Gila’s heart leapt in his chest, electrocuting both his lungs. “Just arguing with myself!”

“Ya winning?” asked George.

“Oh, yeah,” called Gila. “You should see the other guy!”

“I dunno if I can handle two of ya.”

“Me neither!” said Gila.

The cat then cracked the glass door and grabbed his briefs to wash them in the water. He didn’t know how much shampoo to use—or at what point would it be redundant—so he squirted out a good glob and scrubbed the crotch strap and rear panel until it was a faded milk chocolate. Then, after a rinse and a tight wringing, they almost looked acceptable. The problem about living with a person with a blue-collar background was that they knew how to clean hardcore dirt. The double-problem with George was, now that he was mostly white-collar, he had higher standards running alongside his grit. So not only did George know how to remove stains, but he expected them gone.

Gila shook his head, knowing this’d be another pair he’d be sneaking to the laundry. He snuck them to the bedroom hamper, then stretched them out, letting them dry sandwiched between two sets of jeans. He heard some clinking and clanking downstairs.

“You coming down for breakfast?” called out George. “Your salmon’s getting cold!”

“Yeah one minute!” said Gila. “Just, you know you get in a hypnotic rhythm!”

“Sure thing,” said the gecko. “Honey I was thinking we should go out and get us some new underwear, since you’ve been so frisky this last day.”

“You sure I need some?” asked the cat. He dumped out the hamper to take the load down to the washer. “I think I have … like ten, ain’t it?” Gila asked, slipping a new pair on. They were infuriatingly white, perfect like a communion tablecloth. Feeling sexy and refreshed, strutting around in his fresh undies, Gila prayed the extra cleaning power of Tied™ worked on his last pair.

“Twelve; was three packs during a Spring refresh,” said George, his voice becoming clearer as the cat padded down the stairs. “B’sides—oh hey, baby. You’re looking good enough to get all messy—there’s fourteen days in a fortnight, so it just sounds like a good amount of underwear just in case something goes wrong.”

Gila blushed at the sudden compliment, but then stuttered as George dropped that second thought. “Something goes wrong?” the cat asked, already halfway into the laundry room. He prairie-dogged his head out, scanning over George. The gecko was back in a pair of boxer-briefs, which were casual enough for lounging, but still form-supporting enough for lusting. His bulge jiggled as he walked.

George stared at Gila as if he’d asked why gravity always works, or why he has to pay for things he grabbed at Walter’s World. “Yeah, just like any piece of clothing. If it rains while biking, or after a long workout. What do you think I meant?”

“Nothing!” Gila said, ducking into the washroom.

He heard the hard clank of a spatula. “Honey, can you get your food?!” demanded George. “I can eat alone, but I thought you wanted breakfasts together.”

Gila felt his ears ignite. George had the patience of a glacier, but the temper of an avalanche. “Yeah, sorry!” he said, throwing the laundry basket down. He quickly checked the bin of the washing machine and his heart skipped. It was still full! There was the towel and the bath mat and his undies!

The cat’s forehead beaded with sweat as he transferred these articles to the dryer. One, two, three—there’s his shorts and shirt—and in they went. On top of the mountain was his briefs, the ones he’d pushed and loaded up so much the tail-strap was threatening to break. The back was … okay. It was impressively okay, which made Gila somewhat happy.

The back, from the scrotal pouch all the way to the slit of the tail (much like his more recent pair), was a faded, grayish white, the same color as an old pair of socks.

“Holy shit; no one can deny the impressive cleaning power of Tied™,” he said, silently tut-tutting the restored brief. Maybe his subterfuge would work. Maybe he could live a conciliatory life of log-pushing, coil-clenching, brief-loading leisure.

“Gonna do your taxes in there, too?” asked George. “I freshened up your coffee.”

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” said Gila, starting the dryer and exiting into the kitchen. He was in a much better mood now that his secretive enterprise had some plausibility. At the same time, however, he couldn’t help connecting this strange tangential image, the sight of his leopard gecko in the rain, standing at a bus stop in a wilted trenchcoat with roses that have gone as soft as cooked asparagus.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself, then brightened up at the sight of his husband. Both of them were in their lovely, clean undies. “Good morning, darling; what’s for breakfast?”

“Besides some lip?” smirked George.

Gila grinned, putting his paws behind him so he could wag his small white pouch. “I mean, you didn’t have to cook anything. You already filled me up.”

George’s eyebrows went up, already bringing a plate to the table. “Yuh-huh. We’ll see what an all-liquid diet does to our love life.”

Gila cocked his head as he sat down. “Oh, it’s that bad? I never did the workout protein powder thing.”

The leopard gecko was already digging into his food. Absently, he scooted Gila’s plate closer to him, but the cat still had to reach across and drag it the rest of the way. “Let’s just say you’d be in that laundry room a lot more than you are now,” George said.

The cat laughed. “But I’m never in there. You always do the laundry!”

“Yeah, strange,” chuckled George, but it still made Gila’s fur prickle.