Chapter 2: In Brief

Gila happily mewled to himself, blushing and sticky with cum all over him and inside his belly, too. The only place left was his frisky booty, which had almost also been satisfied but they decided in a frantic, thirsty manner to fill up his short-sleeves and his paws with the gecko’s little hatchers. Happy in his station, although battling seemingly too-often a feeling of ambiguous dread—like seeing that party sign at Shoresy Hennings and imagining nothing but men and women eating out of their own, geugh, diapers—Gila Straczynski the tuxedo cat was mostly okay. He looked satisfiedly out of the kitchen window, just beyond their stainless steel double-basin sink, and admired the vast emptiness of Wyoming beyond their secluded, high-fenced backyard. He only saw sky, but knew that just beyond that fence and the tops of houses was nothing but wilderness. Not another care in the world, not another person to avoid or prejudge or feel some weird sense of imposition of his life against theirs.

George called it “overthinking” and Gila insisted it was just thinking. George then said, in the gentlest manner possible, that this sort of paranoia could drive Gila mad; that’d he start seeing termites in the walls or think that his dick would fall off if he overjerked it.

“But the possibilities aren’t zero,” Gila would say.

“That’s why people go broke playing the lottery. It’s a mosquito’s dick of possibility.”

Gila admitted that he did often wind himself up too much, and thought about it right now as he rested his sticky, half-hard bulge on the lip of the sink. He immediately thought he’d have to clean that up now, so he slipped it right off and frowned deeply as it left a glazed smear right off the countertop.

So now he was overthinking about overthinking, and it was making his stomach turn. Gila took a deep breath, and he felt his stomach and lower parts rumble. Now he was affecting his whole body. “Stress kills,” wasn’t that the saying? But they also say “If you don’t prepare, then prepare to fail.” So who was right, huh?

He and George had a great house. Two stories and enough rooms for both of them to have an office. George had fronted the cost, having been mayor of Kaczynski, Idaho for four years and owner of a repair shop chain before and after that, and Gila repaid him in love and insurance and utility payments. Fair was fair, and whenever Gila tried to calculate their costs down to the nearest penny, George would stop him and tell him to take accounting classes if he was so interested.

Gila blushed in the bad way, embarrassed that the more and more he thought of it, George was a body pillow with a big dick strapped onto it. Sex and comfort, that’s all what Gila used him for. And George wasn’t innocent either! Yeah, because George didn’t have kids, he instead split the difference and married a boy twenty years his junior so he could take care of a kid and have a (technically) adult husband!

The cat’s guts rumbled again and he frowned. There was a tickle deep in his abdomen, behind his tail, and he’d worked himself up into a tizzy trying to rip open a relationship that George himself said was “just great, baby.” Gila could feel a pressure building up low down in his pelvic cradle, and it made his whole torso pulse with warm, electric pains. It wasn’t quite nausea, because that would be higher up. The entire region covered by his briefs seemed to cramp and twist.

“I’m draining his balls and his patience, God damn it,” groaned Gila, and he tried to extricate his arms from the cummy shorts but found his wrists to be glued in place. Wow, that was great, too; now George could undress him like a toddler. He was forgetting all about his sexy BDSM plan, cutting out the asses of half his shorts and the crotches of George’s. The more Gila twisted his wrists, the more fabric wrapped around them. His arms were completely useless, and all he could do was walk around the kitchen with his small cummy bulge sticking out from under the hem of his shirt. His thighs rubbed against his pouch, making sticky sounds with every step.

Gila turned around and saw that his shorts had been dribbling this whole time. In fact, his daydream by the kitchen sink had amassed a coaster-sized puddle right behind him! And driblets marked his circuitous, pacing path.

Gila’s abdomen cramped again, pain stabbing him below the stomach.

“Oof, dammit; at least my body is talking sense to me,” he said, squatting down to rub his belly-button area against the countertop edge. He bumped his small bulge on the way down, leaving a semi-translucent smear. That made him grin, being his husband’s little sex-kitten.

Everything felt so bunched up, so he tried to calm down. Here were the facts: George had not only blown his load down Gila's gullet, filling him up inside, but also all over his shirt and undies, marking him inside and out with his sticky, pungent man-juice. His big gecko soulmate had also filled the inside of his shorts with liquid love, binding his paws in an endless mobius strip of heavy male essence.

George had also tied him up like a Christmas turkey and marched him into the house, and had he not drained his fat nuts front-and-back on Gila, it'd probably be time for another stuffing.

It was time to face facts; George loved him and therefore, there was something to love about Gila. Yeah, it was time to relax: everything was good and he was just jumping at shadows.

Even his stomach felt better, but there seemed like a rock was sitting in the pit of his torso, just above his groin. Or maybe two: he felt like his pelvis was stretched out with a heavy mass. The pain was duller, now; pulsing away.

Baaaaoooooowwwwwrrr, his stomach growled. Or was it his stomach? It felt a bit lower in his pelvic cradle, something like an avocado or peach pit was rolling around.

Yeah, he should probably start thinking of dinner. He actually felt really good, all tied up like this. Gila smiled and shifted away from the sink, marching proudly in the musky, sticky uniform of a monogamous pet. He could be a one-man slut for George, especially if that big gecko was going to suck his tiny prick off through his briefs. That felt immaculate: a ping in his crotch reminded him that he may never have been less than half-mast after his shorts were removed.

Just the thought of George made him feel full. It took a good amount of foreplay, stretching, licking, fingering, and lube, but when George gently pushed that big, hard, slick, throbbing cock of his into Gila's ass, the cat felt a magical unity that finally he was full, solid, and complete. All the nerves of his bowels would go off, tingling and shimmering in blissful pleasure, then his big lovely gecko would move it around, and in and out, moving the two of them together.

Gila grinned as he thought of it, and his briefies became wet and stiff as he leaked precum and rubbed his small bulge against the kitchen counter. He felt his ass tingle as well, pain turn into pleasure, and fullness into completeness.

"Mmhf," he said, twitching and writhing, rising to his toes. Just thinking about it made him feel full in his ass, and that avocado pit grew into a full log inside him: George’s log, that full fat nine inches stretching him all the way to his gut. Gila’s cock pulsed as he rubbed it against the hard counter, putting more juice into his sticky briefs.

His ass still felt full, and a painful pulse clamped on his intestines, making his back straighten up. “Ahh!” Gila exclaimed, which broke him out of his aroused haze just long enough to realize that his bowels were stretched like a balloon. He tried to remember the last time he went to the bathroom; this morning he’d just taken a piss before they tried disc golfing.

The cat raised his tail and relaxed his body to relieve some pressure.

Fffrrrrrt, came out of his rear, a long, slow hiss of gas blowing through his spunky cotton seat and surrounding him with the tangy fish and grassy asparagus they had last night, and the bright eggs and juicy bacon they had this morning. Gila liked the smell of his own farts, but that was probably because of the familiarity … and the nostalgia of a good meal.

His guts were still pulsing like a big fishing net of sparking nerves.

“Ow, ow, ow; geez…” Gila complained, then took a slow breath in his own fart cloud as he relaxed again. Brrraaapppp! Pip! went his asshole this time, and the cat yelped as it echoed in the kitchen like a gunshot and rang in his ears. The shower water upstairs stopped, and he could hear the muffled cheer of his husband and the slapping of applause.

“Whoa! Better get those cylinders checked!” called the gecko.

Gila went bright red under his fur and waited to smell burnt hair. “You shush!” he protested, then coughed as he was surrounded in his hearty, fishy backfire. This one had more sharpness to it, a combination of lemon juice, dirt, and paprika. The fact that George had heard him blow out his back end gave him that submissive arousal he hated, but also set his lap on fire. He was really pushing against his briefs again, with the thumping pain of an erection reconstruction coming too soon. The spunk and spit gluing the double-fly of his undies started to part, giving a small side window to his anxious and tenacious crotch.

Gila shuddered and rubbed his pup-tent against the sink, feeling rather close. His nose twitched and his abdomen growled again, the same distinct baaooowwwrrr below his stomach. As the house cat, hands cuffed behind his back, rubbed his sticky and stretched underwear against the counter, his nostrils flared, and he deeply inhaled the spicy, earthy scent of his manly funk cloud. Spunk and gut-rumble, and sweat from their outside exertion, combined in a profound masculine musk that wet his chops and filled his nostrils with sparks.

Closer and closer, with the tip of his rod dribbling new fluid through his briefs and onto the sink, the cat’s buttocks clenched with teeth-gritting lust. Sensation coursed through his body giving sharper, enlightened awareness to all his limbs and organs. His toes flexed, his shoulders ached, his balls clenched in their cummy pouch, his cock strained, and George’s imagined log pulsed in his ass, growing bigger and bigger.

Gila’s rump clenched and felt something. The cat froze, shocked out of his reverie, still breathing on his edge of epiphany. There was something between his cheeks, like a cock ring that fell off? No; it was more like a charcoal briquette, but softer. Like a laundry pod that accidentally fell into the hamper. What was more, it had been a good minute since Gila ripped ass, but the scent in the air was still fresh, raw, and vaguely rank.

His entire backside cramped like he’d slept wrong, and now his heart fluttered at this alien sensation. Gila squeezed his rump again around the soft object: it was warm, almost body-temperature. With his arms bound in his shorts, the cat hesitantly, awkwardly moved his paws up under his tail, to his rear, and felt down the back of his grassy underwear.

At the bottom of his briefs, he felt a lump. He squeezed it and the object yielded, pressing in like a moist brownie. This, combined with the lingering rank of his gas, made Gila’s heart leap.

He’d just pooped in his undies.

Gila had no clue but to stare out the window into their backyard, to the site of their naughty reverie. Suddenly all the mess in the kitchen felt wrong; all the cum dribbles were just body fluids and here was some more filth in their loving home. The precum on the sink started to dry as the cat stood statue still, frozen except for his beating heart, his swirling mind, and his fixated fingers, which in morbid curiosity held onto the lump, gingerly squeezing and rolling it in their pads.

His cold blood faded out of his consciousness and all he could feel was the warm, soft squish of the hunk of feces in his pants. Gila was only 27 years old; this was a problem for when he was 80! Or those crazies in the Shoresy Hennings park, people pretending to be 8 months old.

Gila’s mind calculated in frantic, fragmented swipes, like grabbing comic book pages in a windstorm. Theoretically, what does someone do when they shit themsel… no. If they get really muddy. Their garage had a utility sink! He could run out there and shake out the … dirt … and give it a quick rinse.

His fingers continued to squeeze the shit briquette like some eldritch object of fascination. It anchored him in place, keeping him to the sink as he smelled of aging spunk and a little bit of … that. He rolled it around the pads, steadily forming it into a sphere, and assuredly making the stain in the back of his undies bigger.

George usually did laundry, which made his heart skip. Gila wasn’t lazy per se, but it took him five minutes to get going whereas the leopard gecko could start and stop on a dime. He’d see that big, brown stain and immediately have questions and suggestions. D-diapers? No, that’s why they call these accidents; he’d first suggest dark underwear just-in-case. Or shrug it off …

Baaaaoooooowwwwwrrr.

The sound came to him like a slap in his windstorm of wonder. His guts were still full; his pelvic cradle was pulsing as if he’d landed ass-first on concrete. Here he was day-dreaming about a little poop nugget when he needed the full bathroom service!

There was a restroom downstairs, next to the garage. His hands were still bound behind him, but he could easily just turn around, twist the knob, and hobble the door open. He’d use his thumbs to slip his undies down just enough to put his ass over a toilet, and the nightmare would be …

Gila yelped as a hard pain jolted his anus, and he sealed his lips fast together to stop a groan. Frightful, he patted around his rear: nothing more had come out, but his asshole was actively clenching against a mass determinedly trying to push its way out. His rectum felt horribly stretched, making Gila wonder if he’d gone to the bathroom this entire week!

It was time to take care of this insanity.

Gila took one step forward and gasped as another blunt shock hit his lower cradle. He felt his very heartbeat thundering in his anal ring as it fought an active, urgent battle. He could feel the hard, thick log fighting its way out, and every squeeze of his rectum just recovered the few inches it had taken moments before. A sizzling realization came to the house cat as he stood in the kitchen in his cummy underwear:

He wasn’t going to make it.

His best course of action was to … shit himself … and drop the giant log manually in the toilet. But how was he going to do that?! His arms were tied behind him; even if he wiggled out of his undies and let them drop to the floor, how would he separate the garment from the dung and …

“Honey, you coming up?” asked a voice through the floor.

“Just a second! Getting a drink!” he called.

“Wow. How? Gotta show me later,” answered George.

Gila felt one final pulse, with his ring spreading on its own as a fading will flagged to natural processes. As he felt the first smooth, slick inch of defecation slide out of him, he exhaled and yielded to the action. A great girth stretched his anus, large as his best buttplug, and he could count the seconds by the ridges that slid from his unpuckered rear. His body blessed him with shimmering endorphins as it relieved itself into his drawers, and the pleasure relaxed him further to ease his imposing shit.

The stink was fresh, oddly pure, like a perverted cologne of dinners past. His briefs tented in a way the front never could, and that thick log stood sturdy against the fouled cotton before slipping down and creeping along the band between his legs. Nine, ten inches filled the gap between his thighs with warm, wrinkly filth, and Gila moaned as he grew hard and pushed along with it.

Relief flooded his briefs and lovely crackles filled his ears. He felt his elastic waistband tremble as he loaded the back of his undies, and opened his eyes with soothed glee as he saw the pointed front of his short-pants grow dark with a widening wet spot.

The wet spot continued to grow, and traveled down to his balls. It coated the understrap of his garment with warmth, meeting his fat pile, then started dribbling on the floor and misting his ankles.

“Ah!” he exclaimed and his asshole pinched to cut his long turd. Its second half was well on his way, worming out of his rear and spreading his pucker with ease. The tip of his tent jolted and squirted a jet forward, and Gila felt the underside of his cock relax like his ass.

The dribbles picked up into a full stream, showering the tile in front of him like a duet to George’s above. “Shit, shit, shit!” Gila exclaimed, waddling to the sink as his anus continued to pop and fart, leadening his underwear with another rank log. His thighs rubbed against a fattened, defiled cotton band thick with his shit, and felt their hard, warm filth as he got his spewing bulge over the sink.

He clenched to make his bladder piss faster, and while the stream vortexed around the drain, his cum and urine-soaked pouch still dribbled down his legs, tickling his ankles with hot shame. The second turd pinched off in his underwear and a few lumps followed. His tail felt the weight of his progressively sagging briefs, and his nose filled with their tenacious, prevalent stench.

His piss stream stuttered because his cock refused to go down. It was rigid and aching, beaming with confusion as his bladder and bowels emptied themselves and desecrated his cummy undies, turning the front dark and the back brown with perverted relief.

Far past the point of no return, Gila let a third, smaller turd squirt out of him without resistance. He showered the sink as he filled up his tighty-whities, feeling the ridges and length of his fecal disaster rub against the sides of his buttcheeks, the crack of his ass, and the back of his balls.

His bladder continued to drain, stuttering with the occasional throb of his small prick. He could feel it starting to end, but he was trapped here against the sink, arms behind his back, undies full of scat, until it was all over. He saw that there were still dishes in the sink from their lunch, and his heart latently skipped as he realized he was pissing all over them.

Another thing to clean; great… he thought as a fourth, short turd plopped into the giant pile hanging off his ass. With his bound arms, he reached down to feel the weight of his enormous sin, and his heart fluttered as his hands clasped a consuming, reeking mound that filled both of his paws.

His piss stream stuttered and started to cut off, dribbling on the counter and floor as he tested the pile’s weight: there had to be at least a pound back there, maybe two. Its cloud had to have filled the entire kitchen by now; he rubbed his dribbling erection against the counter, feeling the urine reach his hips as he thought how deep he’d gone. All this dung, all this pee, the floor and the dishes soaked and his underwear utterly ruined: it gave him a charge of reckless release.

It could all be cleaned, he thought as he groped his heavy load. Never would it be scrubbed from his mind, but what was so wrong, he thought; what was so wrong?

The wet ridge of the counter felt great against his wrapped-up, sprung shaft. And he’d made such a massive dump; it was just hanging against his legs, seeping through the fabric, with his asshole pulsing as it tried to add to the pile. He was empty for now; his bladder and bowels were empty, but his briefs certainly were not.

His prick throbbed as it beaded its prelude fluid. He’d pissed and soiled himself thoroughly, perfectly, and his load was just hanging there in a big droopy lump like was wearing a full … wearing a full diap…

“Shit!” Gila exclaimed as the thought locked in his head and his cock painfully jumped, spurting its own load into his briefs and sliming their tented surface with savory, musky cum. The cat could only stand there in climactic shock as he anointed his undies with a creamy finishing sauce, then stare out to their backyard in surrender as the sober thoughts rushed in like a S.W.A.T. team.

Shame, shame was not the first feeling in his heart. His ears pricked to the shower as his cum drooled into the sink. A squirt had even made it across some remnants of lasagna. His first thought was not shame: it was emergency response. A catalog of all he had to do to erase all of this from his husband to whom he’d promised his whole body and whole heart.

He’d seen online posts of relationship discussions … of couples sinking under a one-sided kink, or drifting apart. “Dealbreaker!” kept echoing through his head.

N-no, no; this was just an accident! A huge accident, he said, trying not to purr. His messy, malodorous dump was just revenge against stress, or something.

The shower wasn’t going anymore.

“Hey, honey?” Gila called out. He coughed, a little wetly, as the rank smell and damn-near taste of scat filled his sinuses and lungs.

“No rush, babe!” the thick gecko called out. “Need any help?”

“No!” Gila called, trying not to sound desperate.

He heard the creak of the stairs. His heart leapt and he looked to the back door: yes! He could escape! Then, uh, just tell George he leaked in the kitchen. Very normal; he just came in the sink as well.

“Phwoo!” George exclaimed. Gila’s heart was at 200 bpm now; what if he fainted in the kitchen, with his briefs full of shit? “Guess we’re glad we didn’t try the ol’ butt-yoga, eh? Do I need to buy a new toilet?”

“Oh, no,” Gila chuckled, finding it hard to talk because his throat had become a second heart, choking him with his own pulse. Dumb-ass oxygen-hungry body cutting off its own oxygen. “Just had to buck-break it; show it who’s boss!”

“Yuh-huh. Oh, geez, wow!” George coughed. “Hey honey, no offense but I’m gonna let you find the air freshener. Open all the windows, or burn the house down. Make it look like an accident. You and your evacuation proclamation. Damn that butt can shit!”

Gila did not take the highway to shame; he took the off-ramp towards smirk. If only he knew…