Chapter 13: Overt Capacity

George recoiled as the smell hit him and threw an arm around his snout. “Jesus Christ; that’s worse than this morning.” He reached for the garage door opener, then thought better of it.

“H-hey,” Gila said, trying to cover his flooded shame. The diaper felt as if it was filled with concrete, and ever moreso as his filth dried. “I can explain.”

“You don’t have to,” said George, showing Gila his phone. On the screen was a purple and gold spreadsheet with a toggle at the top for “AB/DL.” The leopard gecko had it set for “AB” and as such, the lettering was preschool and the icons were weather-related stickers. He tapped the screen with a claw. “What does that say?” he asked. His free arm went back over his nostrils.

“Incident with G. B. Strac—” Gila read.

“So what the fuck did you do?” George asked, then coughed. Even his words sounded wet.

“Well,” Gila started, then cringed. His jeans were glued to his crotch, and when he looked behind him, the disposable changing pad in his car had a big brown smear up and down its surface. “The care package that you— excuse me. If we start flinging poop, we guarantee it gets on our own hands before it possibly strikes the other.”

“Save me the fortune cookie, marriage counselor bullshit.”

Gila looked at the duffle bag again and a knot formed in his throat: there was only one duffle bag. He had to get everything off before everything unraveled. He didn’t know how the two things correlated, but he had the same sinking feeling that came when his car slid on ice … or when he was voluminously voiding into his pants.

“I’ll explain but you’ll listen, okay?” Gila said, popping off one shoe, then the other. The soles were dry, and had last stepped through mop water, not pee-pee. Then came off the socks, and he started undoing his jeans.

“What the fuck are you—”

“Either I stand trial or I burn at the stake; fair?”

George walked a few steps backward and sat on the stoop to their kitchen, glaring through reptile eyes. “You don’t gaslight me, Gila Bratislava. You don’t bullshit me. You knew the deal: no more Praetorians means no more trouble. Praetorians, on the other hand…”

“Check the scanner,” said Gila. He had his pants open and was peeling them off his diaper. The jeans’ insides had a full blast of brown, as if tossed outside in the mud. His diaper, full, round, and leaden, had the same streaks on the outside, near the seams. Gila cringed as the earthy, off-savory musk revivified itself in the air. Bravely, or perhaps recklessly, he peeled off his shirt as well. Gila gasped, and George growled, as they saw the back with a distinct, dark and sticky triangle near the hem. “Read the actual report; it shall speak for itself!”

The cat stood before his husband, clad in nothing but his swollen, soaked, soiled diaper. George watched with morbid curiosity; his slitted eyes dilated when Gila stripped and revealed all. “You’re really putting it all on the line, eh?” he asked.

“It sounds like it already was,” said Gila. He paced, feeling his padding and mess slide against him. “I’m just anteing up. Chips on the table! Go.”

The gecko obeyed, clicking the sticker, which was a thundercloud mixed with a grinning sun. “Mmhmm. ‘G.B. Strac - wit and P. A. Treat - vic. Prae responded to [store] to mitigate a potty emerg re: vic P.A. Treat. G. Strac neutral party, no innoct vic and no prop dmg. No chg pressed, coupons awarded. Parties cleaned mess themselves with Prae M. Barnyardt supervising. End of report.’”

George looked up from his phone, then back down to scroll other stickers for today. He attempted to search Gila’s last name, or at least “Strac,” and came up with nothing else for today, and yesterday’s mall report, which had a full stormcloud with no sunshine.

“I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions, dear,” he said, pocketing his phone, “but what the hell is all this?” Tentatively, he lowered his arm, but then gagged and sandwiched his nostrils in the crook of his elbow. “What are you doing?”

Gila instinctually wanted to put his guard up, but instead stood exposed in the full brunt of the light, letting his sodden, soiled diaper reflect the garage’s fluorescent bulbs. “I’m being honest. After work, maybe it was a little lingering spritz of the Praetorian laxative, maybe it was the fast food I had this morning—you were right about that—and maybe it was just the relief of a full day hitting my ass and passing through. I fuckin’ shit myself.”

George’s arm fell away from his snout, though his fingers plugged his nostrils. “You proud of it?”

Gila’s shoulders settled to a more normal plane. “I mean, I’m not demanding a certificate or anything, but … it felt really, really good.”

The gecko leaned back against the wall. “Guess you won’t mind the Shoresy Hennings diaper gatherings?”

Gila recoiled. “Now that’s a bit weird, seeing another person with pooped pants.”

George’s brow rose. “It is a bit weird.”

The cat crossed his arms. “But implied in our vows, with each other. In sickness and in health … of our pants.”

“Don’t you press it, dumpy-drawers,” said George, and he opened the door behind him and snapped his fingers. “Get your dirty diaper-butt inside before I kick it.”

Gila blushed, his eyes flitting off the duffle bag to the open corridor of their shared home. “Is … everything okay, love?”

George shook his head, but Gila could see a tired smile behind the arm holding his nostrils. “As long as those dingleberries are mine and mine alone.”

The cat stomped. “Now that’s just gross!”

“That ain’t a quart of Rocky Road in your undies,” he said, then snapped his fingers again. “C’mon.”

Gila waddled inside, with George slinking past him to peel off the leak pad in the car and examine the seats. He gave the car a quick vacuum and examined the garage floor, seeing occasional droplets from Gila’s diaper. The leopard gecko rushed to the door and called inside,

“Baby, you didn’t leak on the carpet, did you?”

“I’m using the guest shower downstairs!” he called back.

George got to work mopping Gila’s little drip trail and was done in the span of five minutes. He leaned on the mop, basking in the house’s gentle clean scent and remembering the impressive mess his husband had made in his plastic brief.

Sheesh, so that’s what the anthroid body can do, he thought. And I got a husband that … it ain’t my favorite, but he sure is.

Time moves faster without conflict. Days become routine, and the anthroid mind looks forward when the present is satisfactory. Gila did not have any more public debacles, but still occasionally flirted with his risk-taking. George only knew about these because Gila told him, and while half the time they merely annoyed the gecko— “That’s fantastic, sweetie, but how long until you’re prepped for sex? Well okay, I’ll be in the garage.” —the other half showed George a confident, frisky side of Gila that grew his attraction for him.

What the proportion of that attraction was, between mental and physical, surely varied by the day. George delighted in the image of a renegade dodging about, parallel to society; and George also liked the thought that Gila’s groin was a wild beast in itself. The latter was made quite evident when the gecko would find his boxer-briefs stretching and himself opening his jeans out of necessity. Then Gila would leave him panting on the couch while the cat cleaned up, George lounging there, spread-legged, with a throbbing cotton bundle pouring out the front of his pants.

There were occasional times in which the two would be together, and Gila would announce his urgency with a frisky, flirty rubbing of his shoulder against George’s. He’d whisper, “I really gotta go, babe,” and it would be up to both of them to figure out a plan of attack.

One time they were coming home from getting groceries. George had bought a waterproof passenger seat cover for their truck, and a driver’s seat cover for Gila’s car. They were in George’s truck, and Gila was demonstrably squirming in his seat. George smirked, knowing the cat was putting on a bit of a show, then swerved as the cat’s paw came over to pull at the gecko’s crotch.

“I don’t think I’ll make it,” purred Gila, turning George’s crotch into a big cotton cabbage with the panels of his fly serving as the leaves.

“The fuck will getting me horny help?” asked George, blushing as the cat’s squeezes made him bloom and grow.

Gila slinked over in his seat, and it was obvious he’d undone the back tail-clasp of his own shorts. His briefs from Bulge’s poked through; they were bright white, his favorite color. “Doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asked. The cat brought his lips to the thick cotton lump protruding from George’s jeans. They feathered the double-fly, and his nose dipped down to inhale the gecko’s deep essence.

George felt his pulse quicken and his underwear stretch: there was no getting it back into the jeans, now. Gila coaxed his bulge into a proper mound with nuzzles and gentle kisses, then coyly nestled his snout into the first layer of the gecko’s fly, closing in on his sensitive organ.

George glanced back and saw that Gila’s tail was raised high. His buns, clad in clean white undies, crested from beneath his shorts. “You, uh, said you had to go?” he asked. “Those, uh, are those Bulge’s or Briefies™?”

“Real bad,” Gila whispered, unbuttoning the top of George’s jeans. The gecko’s cock sprang from the relaxed tension, and his balls poured from his jeans to make a proper cotton mountain in his lap. “Just regular underwear,” he purred. To accent his point, the cat gently moaned as gas rasped from his rear port. “Aaah! Close call…”

The cat grasped George’s undie-wrapped balls, causing the gecko to spread his legs. George’s mind raced, boggling at the crazy possibilities: Gila would start sucking his cock, then let loose in his underwear, dropping a nasty load in his briefs as his tongue and mouth coaxed the sweet essence out of the gecko’s crotch.

George thought back to the last blowjob, when he removed his CPAP machine—

“Hold up,” said the gecko, catching Gila by the cheek. He blushed as he opened his eyes; the cat had already extracted him out the front of his underwear and his aroused, ready privates were just standing free of their clothing’s fly.

Gila obediently paused, but there was a hand on his stomach.

“We’re still easing into this. So I’m not ready for you to hot-box my truck in fecal wind,” said George. His naked shaft throbbed: perhaps he could just hold his nostrils and let the magic happen. It was already crowning with pre, oozing down its generous length.

“I gotta go now, babe,” said Gila, his fingers massaging his lower abdomen. “Yes or no; tell me what to do.”

“I—” started George, seizing in panic. He looked toward the house and remembered their errand. A smile spread across his face. “I am not sure,” he said with emphasis. “Why don’t you just take in the groceries and we will take it from there?”

The cat frowned. “Take in the groceries, but—oooooooh,” he said, suddenly realizing. “Hope I make it in time.” Just like that, Gila slipped out of the passenger seat and the truck entirely, letting George hang out all on his own. The gecko braced himself, one arm on the door’s rest and the other on the center console, and glanced between his throbbing, abandoned erection and his husband, whose shorts were coyly slipping down in the back and whose tail was quivering straight up.

Gila fetched the groceries from the back seat, wrapping each of his paws and wrists full of the plastic bags, then sauntered toward the entrance door. His shorts were holding on in the front and about halfway down his rear, showing off a lovely half-moon of his briefs. He fished for his keys and his legs bowed inward; the bags around his wrists swung back and forth, exaggerating his limbs’ momentum.

The cat jolted and his thighs clutched inward: George could see his husband making controlled breaths through his lips. “Hmm,” he pleasantly growled, watching Gila’s strain. His pants were choking up a little bit under his balls; the gecko undid the tail-snap in the back and pulled those fuckers to his ankles, letting his boys breathe. Gila had finally convinced him into a pair of briefs, and George appreciated the extra leg room as he let his legs spread, nothing around his groin but a blue strap of fabric with his shaft and sac hanging out.

The gecko humped the cool air, watching his husband at work. Gila fumbled for his keys at the door, frustratedly biting his lip as his hand dug into his shorts, and then his shorts slipped further, trapping his wrist in his pocket. The cat’s legs trembled as they wrapped inward, pulling in fabric all around his groin to accentuate his small pouch. With his teeth on full display, he yanked his paw out with the house keys, then agonizingly attempted to line the key up with the lock.

One paw went to his crotch and George could hear a faint whine. An echoing poot startled Gila, and he grumbled as he fidgeted with the lock. “Come on, come on,” he growled. His shorts were about two-thirds down the back of his rump, putting his undies on full display. “Mmh, shit,” he hissed, and George’s breath caught in his throat as he caught a small dark spot on the front of Gila’s shorts, right at the tip of his lump.

“Piss yourself, boy,” George growled, kneading his thighs on either side of his aching, drooling hard-on. He was startled with the words that came from him, but he refused to denounce them.

Gila struggled with the lock, failing to turn the key, and the handle, and free his grocery bags at the same time. More swearing, more urgent, issued from behind Gila’s teeth. The door opened and moved with Gila’s hand, but his wrist bent, making it impossible to remove the key. A loud, trumpeting rasp made the cat moan and he bent forward, trapping all the fabric in his crotch while letting the back part hang wide open.

A submissive yelp and that rasp turned to a quick crackle. The back of Gila’s briefs bulged with a thick, heavy log. First it stretched out the back, tenting it under the cat’s tail, then it fell with a wiggling thud right in the back of his undies, making a fat ridge at the bottom of his rump. Gila jerked as the dark spot in his bunched up crotch grew. It spread out in all directions, almost completely coating his male lump before a stream burst from the tip and poured onto the garage concrete.

The cat audibly moaned as his shorts rained with warm piss, soaking the insides of the legs and splattering on the ground. Another point formed beneath his tail and pushed outward, stretching his briefs again before tumbling to the bottom, adding to the pile. He relaxed his thighs and his shorts fell all the way to his ankles, his hands tied to his sides with heavy bags. Gila panted as his bladder and bowels emptied into his briefs, dragging down the back and saturating the front. He carefully set the groceries on a nearby bench, above his lake of piss, and braced his paws on his thighs as he pushed out a final log and squirted his last few droplets.

“Fucking hell,” George growled, kneading his armrest and center console. His tailhole twitched in sympathy, wanting to push one out itself. He resisted, then opened the truck door, revealing the raging hard-on virtually trying to escape his lap. Gila saw the spire and inquiringly pointed at it. George nodded, his sinuses reeling as the full breadth of his husband’s bathroom mess hit his nostrils. But the absolute gall of it, the flagrancy: the way that Gila fully besmirched his briefs, letting it all go freely and forcefully, provoked some guttural instinct within George that had his chest heaving and his crotch throbbing.

“C’mere,” he hissed, and Gila waddled right over, his shorts swishing through his piss puddle. The cat awkwardly stepped up on the truck’s floorboards and his head fell right down on the leopard gecko’s prominent cock. The wet, warm stimulation was more of a formality at this point: George knew as soon as Gila’s raspy tongue hit his genitals he’d be blowing his top. The carnal brutishness of the situation tickled the gecko’s depths and he became as a beast, fucking his husband’s sweet face as his balls lurched into motion.

George reached behind Gila and grabbed his soiled ass, mashing the scat up into the crack as his cock lurched and erupted with thick seed. Almost in service to the situation, the cat pulled his mouth free of the jumping organ and let it spew all over. Heavy white ropes leapt from George’s heavy pole like a syrupy geyser, splatting on the gecko’s crotch, on his chest, on his snout, on his thighs, on the steering wheel: virtually everything in a two-foot radius received at least one squirt of semen.

Gila pumped George’s dick, milking it for every teaspoon. The gecko gasped and groaned as the cat prolonged his orgasm. Gila grunted as George’s fingers packed dung up against his tailhole, practically pushing it back in. The cat’s free paw went to his own tented, soaked bulge and needed but a couple of strokes to get his own prick into action. Gila shuddered as his own climax stickily sprayed in the pouch of his briefs, creating a gooey, drooling elastic rope that jiggled as it stretched down to his shorts.

“H-H-Holy fffff…” George huffed, dazedly looking at the two pearly ropes he’d slung up on the inside of his windshield. “Was that the sluttiest, or the most degenerate…”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Gila shushed, holding a finger of his jacking paw to George’s lips. The gecko took the finger inside, sucking on cum and urine. “It was just us, and just some stinky fun. I actually got an idea … do you need to, y’know…”

Gila slipped his paw under George’s sticky shirt and rubbed his round stomach. Then he went down, under the gecko’s balls, and tickled the cotton crack wedged underneath. “Need to … push?”

George lifted his paw from Gila’s ass, cringing as the cloth stuck to his hand and stretched before it snapped back with a wet slap. The inner surface of his hand was coated in a thin layer of brown. He gently pushed the cat’s finger out with his tongue. The fingers of Gila’s other paws insistently prodded George’s pucker, and the gecko’s hips rolled against the pressure.

“Mmmf. Mmm, wow. H-hey, baby, let’s take it one step at a time,” George said. His eyes were starting to water, and the skin of his paw was starting to crawl. He also couldn’t stop glancing around his cream-glazed cockpit.

Gila, in admirable alacrity, quickly climbed out of the truck and kicked off his shoes so he could remove his shorts. George observed the wiggle of two lumps as the cat shuffled out of his clothes: that in the front of his briefs, and that in the back. Those undies were tortured, but like a good marriage they could snap back from any damage that wasn’t structural.

“So we have two showers,” Gila said, taking the lead. “Our, um, groceries I’ll just stuff in your beer fridge—did we buy ice cream?”

“We bought ice cream.”

“God damn it. I’ll toss the bags in the deep freeze—you can freeze fuckin’ anything; it comes right back—”

“We also have steak and salmon.”

Gila sighed. “You take care of the groceries. I’ll go, um, in the first floor shower, because obviously this’ll take a little longer. Just five minutes, really.”

George’s eyes dilated. “Only five?!”

Gila bashfully smiled. “As you know, I’ve done this before.”

“Geez, don’t remind me.”

“Now hey, we’ll figure this out.”

“Yes, we’ll figure this out.” There was a part of George that was immensely relaxed. His younger, lighter husband was being the big man, and that load of litter sagging the back of his briefs was like dirt from a jobsite. Himself, he felt romantically vulnerable with his knees spread, his undies stretched around his groin, and his organ hanging limp and naked.

“You take care of the groceries, garage, and your truck. In the appropriate order: I’ll leave that to you. Then I’ll come back out after my shower, in clean undies, and help you finish the rest.”

The thought of his husband walking out in only a bulge-strap was like a sip of coffee to George. Underwear, in a way, was more naked than nudity, because it was specifically hiding the good stuff.

Gila clapped his hands together, feeling like he was back at Wally World. “We all got a plan?”

George jumped from the paw-slap. “Yeah. Yessir!” he said, smiling. He reached out and cupped Gila’s cheek, and his cat smiled and nuzzled into it. “Now wash your shitty underpants.”

“Only for you, baby.”

“No, seriously; this place smells like a baked outhouse.”

“Rude!”

George laughed and Gila sashayed away. Watching the fat load wagging beneath Gila’s cheeks made the gecko half-cringe and half-stiff.