Chapter 3: Log-istics

Everything was sticky and slimy and soaked. Wrapped about Gila’s waist was a garment almost completely despoiled by his excretions, reaching up to the waistband in places with urine and spunk. Every little step made the heavy, softball-sized load in his britches twitch, and with the fatigue of his arms the backs of his paws could not help but rest against the great dung mound.

His balls were butted up right against twin turd heads, and the swollen crotch strap threatened to spill its yield between his ankles in thudding splats.

Gila heard the slam of the garage door, then the burst of a gas engine as George started his Fjord Studstang (manual, 6.0, all that good stuff that gets car guys rubbing bulges) and left.

He promptly felt his phone vibrate … in the pocket of his glorpy semen shorts … and cleared his throat.

“Hey Go-Ogle, do I have any text messages?”

His phone talked to him with a speaker full of cum. Was that still a bag of rice or did he have to stick his thumb in the port and call it a “good slut?”

“Yes. From George: ‘Hey baby I’m gonna get some groceries we are out and probably pick up thigh food.’”

How the fuck did Go-Ogle not know the word “Thai?” Maybe George was voice dictating?

“‘And also no offense el-oh-el but perhaps some of that S.O. Scrubber for the kitchen since like the commercials say there can be hidden scents in our kitchen. Nose blindness, very hidden.’ End of new messages.”

In protest, Gila inhaled through his nose, opening his throat and sinuses like a sommelier. He immediately coughed and his eyes watered; his stomach knotted in self-defense as he virtually farted up his own snout. It was humid, lingering, festering fish and mud, blooming on the back of his tongue in all but texture.

“Fucking hell!” he hacked. His scat clung to his ass like melted chocolate, and his undie pouch stuck wetly to his groin, threatening to give him trench balls. It was time to get changed—even that word had a filthy connotation that made his thighs squeeze together; he felt his logs conform ergonomically to his legs—and showered and cleaned and be right as rain.

This was all some screwed-up, impermanent accident and hey what was insurance for. Entire businesses were formed because people make mistakes.

And the entire freaking city of Puerto Panuela and their adult diap—

He stopped himself, shaking his head.

Time to make this all go away, he thought.

His hands opened up to grasp the putrid pouch hanging from his rear and he almost felt sad: soon he would be clean and fresh and everything would be back to normal. With his defiled underwear, he shared a brief moment. He cradled the lumpy load, feeling its amalgamation of firm, sticky turds and soft, squishy hunks, and felt a spark of pride and relief: pride, because he’d made this hefty pile all his own, and relief; because for all the fierce edicts of bathroom hygiene, the wet wipes and bidet craze, here was his super scary poop; smothering his taint and the inside of his buttcheeks, definitely the underside too, and its worst sin was that it was distinctly malodorous.

It was aromatically radioactive, he realized, needing to be handled carefully to avoid the many afflictions that its potent bacteria could impart. However, it could be handled properly, its power respected.

A toilet almost seems cowardly, he thought, then vehemently struck the thought from his head.

“I’m romanticizing my big, stinky load—damn it!”

The cock in his cummy, clutching, piss-soaked undies stirred again. The ones with a fat pile of shit in the back of them…

“Argh, stop it!” he hissed.

Maybe I can get George a beer or mix a cocktail. He’s got that Smoothyner laxative that comes with an eye-dropper … I’ll make him a special drink, then seduce him in the kitchen—all it takes is a rub of the bulge, expose his undies, pull that Dune worm through his pants—and while I’m cramming his giant petrified redwood log down my throat, he’ll be laying some logs of his own into his boxer-briefs and he’ll feel so good…

“You’re really gonna roofie your husband?” Gila asked himself. “Or what’s the Puerto term … loofie?

Now was the time to turn off the tap of greedy, secretive desires, and not the time to contemplate whether he was freeing himself of an imprecise phobia or greedily grabbing something that polite society was “keeping away” from him. Nor was it the time for him to ruminate on why he was indulging a watersports or scat fetish, accumulating arousal from milking every possible fluid or solid from himself because he saw urine and feces as a second and third ejaculation. And then there was the fact that the only way men could give birth was to a big, fat food baby. There was definitely some psychobabble, deep-seated mama-trauma truth to that! And then…

“Jesus Christ; it just felt good to shit myself,” he growled, waddling to the washroom.

There was a shower on the second floor and a shower in the basement. Both sets of stairs were carpeted in mottled white-gray, and while Gila was no longer actively dripping, there remained the vague threat of an extra drop of his urine or spunk departing from his pouch. The shit in his sagging understrap had halfway smashed into a thick paste, and was one wrong movement away, a misaligned lift of the leg, to separate the soiled cotton band from his crotch and spill a shining brown hunk on stairs that on one of them still bore the vaguest stain of red wine.

Perhaps his memory of the spill, and the multiple applications of carpet scrubber, that drew the outline out. Gila wondered if he’d forever remember the feeling of sticky feces coating his crack and perineum.

With his arms still bound in twisted, cum-sealed shorts, he decided to go upstairs. If he tripped, he could fall forward onto the stairs and hopefully avoid landing a big, stinking-brown kiss on the carpet. George had already warmed the shower up for him, and he could enjoy the humid echo of his husband’s body wash and natural perfume.

Every step smeared his load against one alternating buttcheek and tightened the crotch strap to squish it against his taint. He kept leaned forward, maintaining his balance, and his tail high in the air, making his asshole pucker against the dump it had made. His hands resisted playing with the hot sack, and his nostrils boggled in wonder as they continued to smell what should have been flushed fifteen minutes ago.

Why was it still there? they demanded.

Because I ain’t cleaned it up yet, he answered.

He made it to the top landing, heart beating from the semi-acrobatic exercise. Gila looked back, and to his second-greatest relief, they were pristine. Unsoiled, because his briefs had taken everything.

Well, except for the cum and piss all over the kitchen floor and sink…

It had felt so fucking good to let loose, to let his cock and ass dump everything they had without some fancy bathroom ritual: to be trapped in a hygienic cell, glued to the toilet while all the unspeakables emptied out into a dispassionate bowl.

The bathroom was part prison cell, part hospital room, part confessional: a room, excepting the shower, in which a broken man was fixed.

“I’m not broken. I pissed and shit with perfection!” he said. “It’s not a fetish. It’s freedom!”

He was grinning as he entered the torture room he was just disparaging. There sat the toilet, lid open and begging for his golden treasure like a homeless man. Smugly, he wagged his soaked, spunky bulge at the device.

“Sorry; I’m all drained out,” he said, then as a coup de grace, turned around and hovered his portentous, sagging, stinking load over its rim. The lump bumped the side, leaving a small brown smear. “There; you can lick the spoon.”

His chest was so full, he could apply for CEO. He could sell snake oil to a sweaty cobra.

“In capitalist Spreadings, bowl licks you!” he declared, and his heart dropped into the seat of his briefs, adding another eight ounces to the pile. While he’d not taken a literal dump on the floor, he’d sure squeezed out a turd of a joke. He wasn’t sure what stank worse.

The shower would be the key to loosening his bindings. His wrists and forearms had become one with his shorts by the superior amount of spunk George had gushed into them, and honestly if there was a way he could just wiggle his lumpy, soiled briefs off and shower his shitty butt off, he could wait as his husband’s little sex slave until he got home. He could get on his knees by the garage-kitchen door, and his thick leopard gecko would walk crotch-first into his face.

It was time to get going; George was pretty quick with his errands unless he wandered into the automotive section. Gila prayed that was the case this time; he still had to clean the kitchen. The shower was a standing-only model with a low lip and sliding glass doors. The cat turned around and fumbled for the knob to get the hanging door to move, but only encountered sheer, flat glass. Where the hell was that knob?

He leaned over to fumble better, and felt the distinct squish of his warm load press up against his buttocks. Gila turned around and saw he’d left a brown smear on the glass. While he was initially annoyed that it was another thing to clean, there was also that burst of freedom and accomplishment: he’d taken a fat dump in his briefs and this was the price of that sumptuous feeling of relief, expulsion, and pure ownership of his bodily functions. He stank, surrounded by the dominant, relentless cloud of shit; there was a strange thrill of the filth piled up against his precious rump; and he toyed with an adventurous, precarious glee seeing that the tighty-whities that had been made to secure and clothe his sensitive area were now soaked and stretched with their dirty expulsions.

Did he seal their betrayal or their ultimate purpose? He took one final grope at his feculent burden, feeling the soft squish and its notable weight: his undies were excellently filled, and the elastic of his waistband, tail-loop, brief-seat, and leg holes were fighting a heroic battle holding his ass and its formidable, nasty bounty.

Baoohrr…

The loopy, pulsating pathways of his bowels squeezed, and Gila’s eyebrows rose as he realized he had to poop again. He glanced down at his slightly pudgy belly with a smile, with his soaked bulge hiding just beyond that. His briefs were so wet in the front he could see the pink of his cock; apparently it’d never fully retreated.

“Oh wow, found a little more, eh?” he quirked. The shower door was still closed; his fumbly hands hadn’t gotten them open yet. The smear on the glass was the size of his palm, though it seemed to dominate the otherwise pristine plane. He could make all the dirt he wanted and conquer it with some simple cleaning: master and commander of his pooping ass.

Gila felt his bowels load one in the chamber, locking and loading with perfect expertise. Now it was his turn, and his briefs sharing the same mess, and the same luminescent runner’s high as his rump, would be a faithful brother in this crusade of autonomy.

He stood over the bath mat and pushed, bottoming out into a grunt as the grimy mass passed into his rectum, sliding against his silky walls and teasing them. His cotton pouch tilted upward as his cock stiffened. The cat raised his tail and relaxed his anus: he could feel its every wrinkle as it spread, and out of it started to slide a perfect, firm, wrinkled turd.

Its length caressed his undulating passage as it passed through his body. It stroked his ring with warmth and presence as Gila stretched around it. Free, it emerged into his full underwear and joined a proud mass, sliding across the top of the great mound in two, four, five inches of satisfied, digested completion.

His underwear stretched as the pile grew, straining alongside Gila with noble effort. The cat’s dick, diamond hard, joined the Atlasian effort in holding his briefs in place, and the garment in turn accepted this extra tension. His fly slightly parted and his cock twitched; his bowels glowed with vivid awareness as they pushed their odorous load.

A soft spire pressed against the back of his forearms, and Gila marveled at the back-tent he’d made in his briefs. His log departed his body with a graceful slip, though the physical forces at play, the stress in his elastic, could only stay balanced for so long.

“Wait a minute…” Gila said, feeling a direct warmth slide against the underside of his tail. It tickled the fur, then his underwear breathed a sigh of relief as its elastic snapped back towards its original place. The tent pole had broken, and now his tailbase was enjoying the same rippled, firm slither that his asshole had conquered.

The tail-catch!... he realized with a start. His tail flared like a bottle-brush as half his turd slid through the relaxed hole. A soft thud shook his short-cuffs and his packed briefs regained equilibrium. Gila flushed, feeling the little couple filthy ounces now sitting in what was once his bottom clothing. Here he was, a bound-up, cum-glazed and pee-soaked cat that had managed to not only dump in his briefs, but his shorts, too; and they weren’t even on his ass. His prick moved in cycles of exhaustion and arousal: Gila gave a parting smirk to the toilet as he bathed in the afterglow. He was a young man that had cast off the tremulous, neurotic shackles of spoiled society and conquered a terrific reality. All those adult babies out there in their air-conditioned homes, they all wore diapers in their own right; they all ageplayed on their own: they were toddlers hiding from adversity in their office cubicle playpens; all their fear poured and farted out of them into milquetoast conversations of platitudes and common-denominator unity, a bland culture growing rotten with their unrealized, unfaced waste. Their daily routines were a preschool schedule; their meaningless “culture” was an unspoken, all-known dumping ground. Society was silence.

Every man poops. Not every man really shits.