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"And what about Lugo?"

Kioga rustled with a start, almost hitting his head on the ceiling of Kyrie's luxury coupe now that he sat six inches higher. The American Apogee diaper, sized XL, dwarfed the cheetah's small pelvis but quite handily swaddled the messy remnants of the used and abused refuse formerly relegated as formal office wear: his cartoon company-stamped training pants.

His condescendingly meager incontinence aid, a pair of therapist-assigned, teenage training briefs no thicker than a vacuum bag, had bitten off more than they could chew and were presently choked and overflowing with scat like a proper coprophage.

"E-excuse me?" Kioga asked, turning in his seat and stifling a squick-filled groan as a chunky, grist-filled mud-snake slithered up into the crack between his asshole and tailbase.

His girlfriend Kyrie, all dressed up in a six-hundred-dollar suit and skirt with a platinum-accented pacifier hanging by a silver chain to rest on her diaper-white starched shirt, turned to him when she stopped at a red light. The city's shining, quadri-langular business district and the blue sky above it reflected off a pair of rectangular pince-nez spectacles as the fennec smiled.

"I was just responding to your comment. 'This -expletive- will all be over in a week and I can go back to being a -expletive-, -expletive-, droopy-pants pissy-britches -expletive- train-wreck of an economic -expletive- genius. I'm the Kanga West of the marketing world; ain't nobody better than me.'"

Kioga glared at her, sitting so straight his rump cheeks squeezed and molded his mess into a perfectly ergonomic crotch-cradle. His nose pulsed: Kyrie had three baby powder-scented air fresheners mounted in the car's A/C vents, and when combined with the repugnant metallic reek sneaking from his crinkled leg-holes, the scent of the cabin was that of a busy nursery. "Your point, love?"

"And I said 'there you go,'" she responded with a smile, then patted his chest so he would sit back. His office shirt, though tailor-made and perfect white like Kyrie's, only reached the top of his waist, guaranteeing no padding cover-ups. In similar ironic fashion, his tie was made of imported silk and was matched perfectly to his eyes and his fur, but it was a clip-on that only reached his navel and it also was color coordinated with his training pants, which was the only garment he was allowed to wear between his shins and his waist.

When Kioga reached down between his knees, a delirious whimper escaped him as filth squashed through the leg-hole of his ruined inner briefs. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then rolled his window down and lit up in one smooth motion. "Yeah, well the placating platitude is appreciated as far as you can throw a wrapped-up nappy," he said, watching her slow down behind a cherry-red Furoti sports car.

"Kee!" the fennec hissed, slamming on the brakes. Her glasses nearly fell from her face as she gave him the dirtiest look she could, nose already crumpled at his sewer stink.

Kioga flinched from an imagined slap, even though Kyrie had never struck him outside of consensual spankings. "What, what? I can help with your underhand and your aim so you can hit the diaper pail. It's like a warm, squishy basketball, or ... or have you ever played 'bags' or 'cornhole' in college?"

The fennec waved her paw in front of her nose as the stench of smoke intermingled with baby powder and cold scat. "Are you smoking?" she asked as she accelerated again, easing the car onto Main Street, just a couple blocks away from the Ferris-Chalmpers garage. "That's disgusting; the smell really turns me off."

Kioga ashed his cigarette out the window of her high-performance coupe, seeing a few particles stick against the glossy black door. "Helps with stress, Ki-Ki; I'm just trying to cooperate with Evan and the therapist. Besides, you've smelled worse."

The fennec faked a cough and briefly reached for her pacifier, but instead moved her paw higher and adjusted her pince-nez. "Yes, but _those_smells are of a functioning mammal's body."

Kioga took a drag before he laughed, filling the car with smoke. Kyrie stopped at the F-C parking garage and beeped herself in, but didn't move forward when the gate rose. Kioga found himself inches away from a glowering fennec, her ears flared and folded in half against the roof of the car.

"Kioga Cyrano Davis, put that cigarette out right now or I'm telling daddy," she scolded.

Kioga felt a squirt of piss hit the torn pouch of his training pants, shivering as the resulting stream trickled out the tattered leg holes into his oversized Apogee catch-all. His fur prickled and he saw cars line up behind them. Kyrie waved when she saw Wesley waking to the elevator. "Wh-who, Evan? What's he going to do, make me smoke the whole pack? HR will have a fit!"

"HR is mommy, kitten, and this is a healing process. We're not going to cause any undue stress," Kyrie said, reluctantly pushing the car forward when someone behind her honked. "Keep your tapes on!" she shouted out the window. "Sakra might wash your mouth out with soap, and if it's the kind which gives you the runs ... well, we may as well strap you to the training potty. You'll be a pipeline from mommy's breasts to the plastic bowl. Though we may need to get a second one to wash out the first," she thought openly, "and the transfer might be messy. Don't want you spraying down cubicles."

Kioga took another drag, and with the speed of a Sahara-bred micro-fox Kyrie stole it from his paw and put it out on the crotch of his diaper, the smell of burning plastic polluting the powder/poop/smoke cocktail of the cabin even further. Kioga looked down at the black burned spot, then up at his girlfriend, who even through watery eyes maintained a deadly matronly glare. This wasn't the soft, effervescent vixen from this morning that, in her zest for pulling down the front of his trainers to suck his diapered cock, had wet her own panties which, of course, even with a feminine pad, had zero absorbency at all. And with the hardwood floor being sealed and varnished, she'd made a proper musk oasis.

Despite his shame, Kioga felt a rise in his training pants. If only she'd touch it now, pull down his two pleated waistbands and give his winkie a few tugs ...

"We're here," she said, exiting the car and shutting the door with a brusque thump before Kioga could realize what was going on. Here in the air-conditioned, well-lit executive wing of the F-C parking garage, Kioga saw several well-appointed employees in excellent suits, ironed skirts or slacks make their way into a wood-paneled elevator. In desperate, futile modesty, the cheetah put his paws over the bulging white sack that pushed his naked legs apart. His fingers did nothing to cover the fat plastic expanse, and instead found themselves massaging the sealed amalgam of mess, ragged padding, and a pulsing erection that swelled the bulky catch-all even further.

His door handle clicked and Kyrie threw the door open, exposing Kioga to the working world. The skinny cheetah, his legs mere sticks out the sides of his colossal marshmallow, saw a shark in a pinstripe suit stop at the elevator doors and stare. Kioga blushed fiercely, knees coming up as he crinkled and squirmed, attempting to cover himself up with his paws, his briefcase, anything. The slick and gritty contents of his incontinence slithered and squished up against his undercarriage, coating his sac as his paws slid over the plush plastic, which caused his cock to throb all the harder, but nothing could cover that blinding white brief. He'd sooner have come to work naked, or in a onesie.

A coworker caught up to the shark and showed him her phone, which presumably had the email regarding the renegade new project in the marketing firm's "exotic, low-volume high-impact clients" division. X-rated fetish commercials for rich, unregulated countries, because why not.

The shark shook his head and tutted, shrugging as he said something to his co-worker and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. "As long as it makes money," he likely said.

Kioga's ears fell, and he looked up at Kyrie. "I don't wanna go," he said, puffing out his lower lip. "I'm scared, Ki-Ki."

A sympathetic smile crept across Kyrie's face, and she knelt down to hug his head, pressing it into her bosom. "There, there, kitty. We're almost there, and you're so brave. Gotta stop with the smokies, though. Or I'll put you in time-out."

Time-out usually meant being strapped down in their adult-sized crib. She'd put on cartoons, sure, but for kicks she may have his muzzle hooked, by tube, to a large tank full of water and/or high-fiber mush. For revenge one time, Kioga had spiked her coffee with laxatives before church service. They were never allowed back at that church.

Kyrie responded in kind by, while on an extensive shopping trip through a five-story mega-mall, frequenting his European Ultra as her personal mobile toilet while he was wearing it. She also forced him to carry her purchases, and by the end of the day it wasn't merely her towering pile of loot that made him waddle. At least the shopping bags hid his swollen behind.

It was this dominate-and-be-dominated dynamic that defined their relationship. They leaned against each other like two dominoes.

Kioga assented, sighing as he held out his pack of cigarettes to Kyrie, who had her palm flat out to him. "It's just stress; I miss Lu-- ... I miss the times when we were just silly, you know? Shenanigans, pranks, when diapers were a shared fetish and not some catch-all for mistakes, although our pranks led to many mistakes," he chuckled, "we never even tried an Alabama Hot-Pocket."

Kyrie snorted, startled by her own reaction. She took Kioga's cigarettes and palmed the pack, flipping it over a few times. Workers continued to pile into the elevator, though her sharp fennec ears caught a set of confident oxfords clapping towards them.

"Like you need any more stimulants. You're gambling on sneezes, now. I swear we go through more bleach than the Klan."

It was a crass joke, one with mean implications if Kyrie put any credence towards that ancient group that tried to pigeonhole certain species into categories tighter than bad riots across America were currently appearing to do.

The joke honestly portended to many current issues of the day. These aforementioned riots, troublesome and destructive in their scope, claimed to have been inspired by the horrible scat-ploitation commercial that DiaPai had allegedly commissioned Ferris-Chalmpers to make. F-C, of course, denied any involvement, but that didn't stop a horde of vicarious crusaders setting the internet ablaze.

These Warriors of Social Gruntility allied themselves with these riots and endorsed their destructiveness wholeheartedly, lending the mob chaos with indignant diatribes such as this: "So the woman is taking_two_ cocks while wracked with horrible diarrhea, likely from a meat diet? So her_nose is the one close to a jockstrap--a symbol of the male's genitals, which hang over our heads like a sharpened pendulum--overflowing with a _North American canine's droppings? It had to be a fennec_,_ a North African fox, pinned between this North American coyote and East African cheetah, much like Egypt is trapped between Tanzania and the United States in a political dispute over Qurans made from recycled Scientology tracts?"

Lest let the woman speak herself--her anonymous apology video labeled her as an Aunt Thomasina and Cock Goebbles--one diaper-related leak and the internet was incontinent with rage. Kyrie herself didn't care: she claimed her bad humor and filthy fetishes were one grand ironic ruse, that like stainless steel, everything came off after a good shower. It was all to test her mettle, and she was blessed to be so fortunate as to not have to worry about the stigma of specism or incontinence.

She insisted that Kioga did the same: for specism, embrace being a cheetah.

"You're fast, aren't you?" she argued.

Kioga was in a hooded sloth onesie and was attempting to pry two toy building bricks apart, never mind there was a prybar included with the playset. His teeth scraped against the bricks as he put them in his mouth. "Not really. The diaper weighs me down, not to mention the jogger shits if I get going."

Her partner was correct in this. There was one time they'd run across a crowded parking lot into an outlet carpet store right before they closed to catch a one-day sale of a few excellent white DiaPai rugs. Her pretty kitty's needs came quick and came hard, and so he rushed to the bathroom, not worrying about public propriety as he wriggled out of his pants and briefs. The problem was, once he'd gotten the diaper down, he shat himself, missing everything but the rugs they were wanting to buy.

"Then forget about it!" she argued after a pregnant pause. "Your incontinence is a boon, anyway!"

"My inability to control the least sanitary functions of my body?"

"Yes! You can wear diapers everywhere. Why be strapped down with a modern toilet when you carry one everywhere?"

Kioga's ears folded, and he tossed the bricks aside. "Normal people can wear diapers, Kyrie. You do all the time, then stop when you burn out. I have to, because I _can't_stop."

"And that's their loss. Suffering brings strength," she declared. "You can burn out the stigma of incontinence by being proud of it, by owning it, by pissing yourself as he damned well please! Provided you wear the right equipment, which you're kinda bad at ..."

It was that irresponsibility that landed him in the trouble he was in today.

Kyrie felt a firm paw on her butt and squirmed, suddenly caught in a state of pleasurable submissiveness. This paw clutched and groped at her cheek so greedily that her skirt crawled up her leg. Wesley leaned over her padded shoulder.

"Well hey there, sport; looks like you brought your baggage from home," Wesley said, the coyote kneading Kyrie's ass until her panties crawled up her crack, "Tell me, if I got in a car wreck and you were stuffed rump-out in the glove-box, would that diaper save me or smother me?"

Kioga's thumb darted to his mouth and his knees drew up, shins resting against the dashboard of Kyrie's coupe. He watched the lecherous coyote fondle his girlfriend, a skilled tan paw swatting her pacifier necklace aside to undo the buttons on her perfect blouse.

"Still trying to form words, I see," he grinned, "how was that cruise for CubbyCon? Word tells me that Ferris-Chalmpers is funding housekeeping's pain-and-suffering lawsuit with the windfall revenue from DiaPai. Them and their oil. Don't know whether to bring American Apogees or hundred dollar bills to a strip club."

Kioga's thumb popped out of his mouth. His nose wriggled as his mess shifted against his sheath, his trainer pants mere debris in his messy mudslide. His stomach grumbled as a snack made its way downward. "Xian took the fall. Protests outside his fake apartment in 'Incontinnecticut,' as they're calling it, have caused millions of dollars in damages and put a few thousand in all our pockets."

The coyote yipped with laughter as he pulled the cheetah's girlfriend's shirt open, exposing her lacy pink bra. Kioga's cock throbbed in his diaper as Wesley's paw slipped into one of her cups and his tongue lapped across her muzzle, curling inward under her lips. "In an ideal world, Xian could apologize and not be burned at the stake. But we're in a reactionary time--God, Kyrie, is that Kioga I taste? You two had an eventful morning, didn't you?--where our tired, huddled masses are just yearning, not urinating, for change, and like an exhausted two-year-old will just throw the most violent tantrum it can."

Wesley sliced his claw down the strap holding Kyrie's cups, ruining the bra and exposing the fennec's breasts to the executive parking garage. With Kioga's deleterious diaper predicament already at-paw, the open, even molestation of one of their comelier employees drew scores of phone cameras to the display.

"Of course," Wesley said as he ripped the rest of Kyrie's shirt open and exposed her breasts, rogue buttons pinging off her high-performance car, "When a two-year-old throws a tantrum, it knocks down blocks. When underprivileged ghettos do it, they knock down store fronts."

All of them were millionaires with the IRS sweating over their ill-in-spirit (albeit legitimate) gains from the horrible diarrhea-and-spitroast commercial they'd done with each other. The three literally shat gold, and now here was Wesley parading the privilege ... and openly cuckholding his friend, pulling on his girlfriend's teats and licking at her teeth when she squirmed.

"You're being really rude ... Evan's going to throw a fit if Kyrie's going in like that," Kioga protested.

Wesley laughed. "Nonsense! We're bonding here, buddy," he said as he walked up to the car, his crotch at muzzle-level with Kioga as one paw stayed with Kyrie to pull at her erect nipples, "We're bonding, here, reinforcing the brand of incisive marketing to countries with plenty of dollars and no sense of decency. And since you're in such a defe-catory mood this morning, our kinky kitty, _would you kindly_appreciate my appreciation of your appreciative state?"

That was a lot of appreciation, but DiaPai paid top-dollar for his saggy bottom. Wesley had an obvious erection in his slate blue slacks, the knot obvious in the underside of his tent and the tapered head fully silhouetted at the tip. A dark spot had already formed, but this was a mere portent for things to come.

Like a leaning domino whose significant other had fallen, Kioga leaned in and nuzzled Wesley's crotch. His erection bent against the cheetah's muzzle, snapping against the bridge of his nose when his mouth moved off of it.

"See, that's the support I like. You always take the piss," Wesley purred, undoing the back of Kyrie's skirt so that it fell down her thighs, exposing her shirt-tails and the pink of her fresh panties. The coyote sighed, hips bucking against the cheetah's nose as the dark stain spread, urine soaking and then spraying out of the fabric as he wet his pants. Kioga lapped at the dark mess as it trailed down the insides of Wesley's legs, urine sprinkling over his muzzle as the filter of the fabric caught some and let the rest go.

There came many cringing and hushed angry statements from their audience, which had all stalled before a held elevator which was impatiently beeping. Kioga's ears burned at the exposure, knowing these videos would be submitted to the internet, intercepted by Ferris-Chalmpers, and then re-submitted to porn sites. Kioga was a household name at this point, although that name online was "feral cheetah derelict" who couldn't "handle his heavy load" one more time.

Kioga whimpered as piss drooled off his muzzle and dribbled onto his diaper-white shirt, splotching it in yellow glitter, and again when Kyrie's skirt didn't fall far enough, so Wesley kicked her feet together and made it drop to her ankles and bind them like a set of clothing manacles.

The coyote ignored her gender, however, and instead dawdled with her plush, sensitive breasts as he took his piss-wet cock out of his pants, urine still spraying out to drench the cheetah's face.

"This isn't going to last much longer, but a good boy deserves daddy's milk," he growled. Lust had taken over, and although the coyote maintained his cocky, devil-may-care grin, the glare in his eyes was that of a hungry predator.

Kioga opened his mouth at Wesley's cock, his nose throbbing about the strong coyote musk that drenched his pants.

"Wrong end," he growled.

The cheetah whimpered, lifting himself off the seat and feeling his mass of shit fall to the center of his diaper, balancing him as a counter weight as he turned around. He put his knees on the seat and his elbows on Kyrie's seat, his ears flicking as she whined when Wesley licked and groped at her, pulling her panties up into her slit and spitting on her breasts.

It was all madness, captured on a hundred phones, the coyote dropping his pants and commanding the fennec girl to finger his ass as he encroached upon the poor diaper boy draped over her seats.

Wesley cut the back of the diaper out with his claws and Kioga's training pants spilled out with the mess over his naked calves and Kyrie's passenger seat.

"Quite a load, there; messy kitty make it himself or did he get some help?" Wesley groaned as Kyrie slipped her fingers under his tail. He farted on them and commanded she keep going.

"It's ... it's all mine," Kioga mewled, grunting as the coyote's warm thumbpad slicked shit from his tailhole, pressing in deep as to open it, and then wiped the nasty fragments on the back of his thigh. The cheetah felt a rumble in his bowels, both from the need to be filled and the portentous gurgle of about-to-be-filled anyway. He just hoped Wesley's cock would make it in first.

"God, you're almost too much," Wesley said as a turd the size of his foot rolled out of the car, bouncing once on the floorboard and leaving its muddy stamp wherever it roamed. He delicately ran his fingers over the waistband of Kioga's torn diaper, which now more like a perverted jockstrap or fatty loincloth at the moment, and hissed as Kyrie's fingers made their way inside his rectum.

"Love, that won't do," he sniggered, turning back to look over her for a few seconds, admiring that her disheveled clothes framed her shapely torso, her round breasts pert in the cool air, rather than covered it. Her pussy still clung to the panties wedged inside them, and Wesley briefly wanted, for all the world, to suck on them until soaked with his drool and her juices.

Pin that to the taskboard.

"Hey, sharkboy!" he shouted out, cupping his muzzle with a paw dipped in Kioga's shit, "You got two dicks, right?"

The shark that had first spotted them froze. His eyes went wide on the sides of his smooth, hydrodynamic head and as he fumbled to put away his phone, paw shaking as they rifled through his slacks, that he was painfully hard. A prominent two-pronged tent tugged the fabric away from his belt.

"It's pay or play, water-boy, and I've got a great position for you to fill!" Wesley shouted, his voice breaking once as he farted out air Kyrie had pumped inside him. Her fingers came out dirtier with every thrust. The fennec felt something lodged inside Wesley start to move.

The crowd around the shark looked at him expectantly. It was no secret that a good number of them, including the shark, enjoyed the confidential videos Kioga and Crew had been putting out. The content was so perverse, yet so free. Ultimately, it erred on the side of goddamned abomination, but it was so oddly liberating, for many of them, to see fine, upstanding employees of their international juggernaut of a company fly so far from the graces of decency.

Really, who hadn't been stuck in traffic going to or from work with a potty emergency reaching critical, and just wished for one free pass, one all-sins-forgiven moment for them to let it gush, let it explode, and have a truly innocent accident?

"Stop or I'm gonna shit myself, honey," he hissed back at Kyrie. The fennec purred and then insisted on a faster pace, making the coyote moan as he lowered himself into position around Kioga's blast zone. As she pounded on his prostate, the last leg of his rectum felt like a conveyor belt on tilt. He couldn't let it go, not here. Kioga was supposed to be the one with ... aggressive bowel syndrome.

There was no doubt, Wesley had to admit as sweat beaded on his forehead and precum on the tip of his cock, that it was a little difficult at first to find Kioga's tailhole. The whole area looked like a dirt-clumped disaster zone after flood waters receded. He was only able to find it when, reaching down to squeeze Kioga's enormous soaked, saggy package the cheetah moaned, and a brief sinkhole appeared amidst the rubble when his anus flexed.

"There you are," he grunted, spitting on his cock once and leveling it down as he lubed it up. Wesley heard a pair of shoes stop behind him, then a loud zipper and then finally the clank of a belt buckle against the parking lot asphalt. Camera flashes were going on all around them. He saw an otter from accounting pull a husky from actuary close, and then right there pull his cock out to masturbate him as they watched the show.

The shark was right behind them, sandwiching Kyrie between them, and ensuring he was double-sandwiched between a car, Kioga, and those two. Wesley pushed his tapered head into the quicksand of Kioga's filthy rear, finding his asshole and pushing in only to find more and more earth to tunnel through. When he leaned into Kioga and thus the car, the stench hit him full-force, and his body shuddered as his lungs choked on the dizzying malodor of the male's body waste and baby powder that couldn't hope to mask it.

Wesley held onto the ruined, ripped, overloaded diaper's pleated waistband as he thrust his cock into Kioga's tight, sticky confines, and his ears were rewarded by a lusty mewl from the cheetah and a dreadful rumble just above the diaper's waistband. Kioga hadn't bottomed in a long time, as far as he remembered ... or didn't do so nearly enough. His bowels were actively trying to force him out! Or something else ...

"Jesus, not you too," he groaned, then lurched as the fennec's fingers slipped out of him, leaving him hazardously empty with barely enough time to clench. He'd give birth to a football at this point.

Kyrie let out an intrigued purr as she leaned against Wesley, her warm breasts squishing against his back and her nipples poking his ribs. Wesley heard her panties rip, then saw them fly over him and Kioga, then felt all of the fennec's weight against his body as the shark lifted her up into position. He could feel the warmth of her naked cunt right above his own asshole, tail pinned between them. That shark was clever. One of the fennec's legs went right past Wesley and hung in front of Kioga's face.

The cheetah let out a whimper and licked his girlfriend's bare footpaw, wincing as the coyote's cock stretched his messy ass right in front of her, packing the ugly stuff back in. He heard a pleasured squeal from her, and an uncomfortable grunt from Wesley right behind him, and felt the entire car rock as the shark made bitches of them both. In desperation of the moment, of Wesley fucking his shitty ass, of the shark fucking his friend and_his girlfriend on top of him, in the mounting emergency that there was soon to be _two things in his rectum that it didn't currently need, the cheetah licked at his girlfriend's footpaw again, angling to suckle on one of her toes.

The shark thrust his dicks deep into both of them, making Wesley yip directly into Kioga's ear and making Kyrie's toes grab his tongue. Wesley's eyes watered, but everything below the waist burned with either discomfort or outright pleasure.

"Too fucking hot, oh my God fuck ..." he sighed into Kioga's ear. The cheetah nuzzled Wesley with the back of his head, and the coyote pushed his hips tight against Kioga, sticky scat adhering to his previously clean groin as his cock throbbed deep within Kioga's contorting bowels. His sac tapped against Kioga's and stuck there, a film of filth clinging to them both. He'd be happy with just this, fucking this ripped-diaper faggot in this private parking garage or even better yet, a bed, but there was so much more going on. More than his conscious mind could actively track at one time.

The shark was hung, because why stop at two dicks when two thick monsters were on the table. He pounded into Wesley and he pounded into Kyrie, forcing Kyrie against Wesley and Wesley that much deeper into Kioga. His heavy sac banged against Wesley's and that banged against Kioga's, ensuring the cheetah and coyote may need to chip themselves out if the shit dried. When the shark fucked Kyrie, the fennec rode up on Wesley, stretching his tail up and high, helping the coyote fit the other massive dick inside his own slutty cunt as the first one stretched the fennec wide open.

Wesley couldn't process it. His body needed release, and needed it soon, from both his southern ports. He felt one with Kyrie almost as he did Kioga, whining like a bitch in time with Kyrie those twin cocks slid in and out of them both, tying them together as fucktoys as they plumbed their inner depths, humiliating them all in front of their audience.

Kioga was nearing the limit of coherence, girlfriend and friend moaning into his ear, lurching in their own sexual trance as a fat, lovely coyote cock stretched his slimy, aching asshole, rubbing his prostate and massaging the walls as his body prepared for a couple more movements. His own cock, nearly forgotten in its soggy padded prison, slapped against the sodden walls with every powerful thrust the three bodies behind him provided in unison.

Wesley saw the effects of their depravity on the bodies around them. While a few had left, the more discerning types that just couldn't handle something of this manic magnitude, there were others involved in their own depraved acts. The otter had now dropped to his knees, full-on blowing this husky he'd maybe seen twice in his life. There was a panther by the elevator, a handsome young female, who had dropped her panties and hiked up her skirt so she could piss in the mouth of a male lion whose mane was starting to grey, her labia pink and spread wide with her fingers for that golden stream to fly.

They were amateurs, but they'd soon learn the horrific brilliance of F-C's pet project.

Then there was a skinny skunk intern, the boy couldn't have been one hundred pounds wet or past twenty years of age, laying under a muscular, middle-aged buck from the next building over who was squatting over the skunk's face with his pants down. His tailhole quivered and stretched, then a long vegetarian log crossed the space between them and landed in the teen's mouth.

Wesley saw the brief image of a tiny ball of scat making its way down an entire mountain of it, gaining mass as it rolled, but that quickly faded from his mind as all parties pressed against him. As the shark thrust in and out of the bitch on his back, he felt a trickle from Kyrie's cunt make it way down his ass, onto the shark's other cock, and then slide up inside him. The fennec was scratching at his biceps, breasts dragging his shirt up and down his back, and he could hear in her voice ... and feel by the wetness making its way his crack ... that she was close.

The coyote curled himself over Kioga, licking the back of his ear as he thrust up inside of him, their balls sticking and then peeling apart. Wesley's eyes widened as the shark's cock rattled something loose, so he lurched forward against Kioga and felt the pop of his knot inside Kioga's asshole as he passionately kissed him, the shark and Kyrie losing their minds as they wailed with orgasm. The coyote's rectum ballooned as the shark filled it with cum, but this only acted as lubricant, a semen enema that worked with vehement efficacy.

Wesley jolted and he came, feeling the strange sensation of his seed reflecting back at him, like ejaculating into a diaper, as his cum ran into a wall of feces and instead painted his length from the tip down, running back against the knot quicker than usual. When he kissed Kioga he felt the cheetah buck underneath him, and Wesley reached down to stroke the front of Kioga's ruined diaper as it smack-smack-smacked with the jets of the spotted cat's spunk. As he filled Kioga, Wesley emptied out.

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion, Wesley's eyes rolling to the back of his head as his body gave a fierce push. Kyrie's moans echoed out into the parking garage, her foot dangling in midair, and the coyote's swollen bowels bore down on the shark's cock until it popped out entirely, spraying down the shark's crotch and a splayed, skewered fennec's diaper area with murky, musky brown-tinged semen before long, turgid turds spooled out of him. Nuggets, chunks, and logs bounced against the shark's muscular thighs and tumbled down into the basket of his slacks caught between his ankles.

As Wesley relieved himself, blushing, groaning with relief, he heard the shark's other cock pop out of Kyrie and felt the thick liquid jettisoned inside of her splatter out against his gaping tailhole and smudged cheeks.

The shark waddled as he set the fennec down, mumbling out incoherent curses and astonished inquiries as the coyote's piled muck between his legs weighed him down. His twin hefty cocks, erect and filthy, drooling and sticky, bounced in mid-air before him. He shuffled forward and wiped them on whatever clean patch he could find on the coyote's backside.

Kyrie slumped against the windshield, her breasts squishing against the glass, and when Kioga looked up at her, his juvenile collared shirt wrinkled with sweat, his ravaged diaper hanging from his waist, and a coyote tied deep inside him amidst pockets of offal, he smiled and waved. Exhausted, she planted a kiss against the windshield.

His gut rumbled again, and his eyes bugged.

"Hey, Wes?"

The coyote grunted, spent, still panting from his emergency evacuation, cringing as his tailhole continued to find things to leak out and down his balls, the stuff trickling down the insides of his thighs.

"Yeah, chief."

Camera phones were still going off, and a few gasps in the audience indicated many were finishing their own sordid chores.

"I love this, but--"

"Yeah, me too. I really like you, kitty."

"That's great, let's put a pin on that. But I really need to go."

The coyote rustled, standing up as best he could. He fit inside Kioga like a glove, wondering what it'd be like to wake up like this, with him. "Hey, what? Again? Just piss in ... whatever padding you have left."

"Actually, you're blocking my exit."

"Ah, shit."

"That's the one," Kioga said, raising him from the car seats. Sweat broke anew against his forehead, and his stomach bulged out. On his skinny frame, he virtually looked pregnant. The cheetah's heart began to race; he saw in the distance the advent of a panic attack. "It's gotta be now, Wesley. Critical levels, now means now; I'm not joking!"

Wesley picked up on his friend's urgency and got to work, his own heartbeat picking up right with Kioga's. He had to breathe, he had to relax. His slimy thighs rubbed together as he stood up straight and put his fingers gingerly around Kioga's dilated anus. That knot was in there tight; nobody wanted to lose a penis or a few feet of bowels today.

Careful, careful ... Wesley heard a few hurried steps behind him, but thought nothing of it as he uniformly stretched the cheetah's ring around him, then backed out with the steadiness of a jewel thief.

His knot popped out and Wesley was forcefully thrown aside by a strong arm. He stumbled into Kyrie and rebounded off her, falling face-first in the toilet he made in the shark's pants.

Huh, shawarma tasted better the second time around. Maybe this was how to enjoy DiaPai cuisine.

Kioga's body worked in overdrive, and he didn't as much have to push as to just stand back and hope it wouldn't shatter his pelvis. He felt himself bodily lifted and sat down on a plastic seat, and as his DEFCON 5 defecation coiled out in the bowl beneath him, the requisite trumpet and baritone honks echoing in the chamber pot's acoustic chamber, Kioga realized he was sitting on, shitting in, a training potty.

There were two bodies around him.

In a daze, he raised his gaze to the parking garage lights, picking up along the way the open passenger door of Kyrie's car, observing a rocky landside of reeking roughage draped over the passenger seat and sweeping down to the floor, spackled in violent, passionate jets of cum. He saw in his periphery a menagerie of half-clothed animal people stumbling around, cocks and breasts out in the open as they searched for their articles to cover up.

Then Kyrie saw Evanstrom towering over him, the muscular tiger with precision-groomed fur glowering down. Beside him was Xian, the strange arctic fox-otter in a long white silk robe, their agent to DiaPai and the lucrative side of all this depravity. He was holding a box of wet wipes, more cartoon-stamped training pants, and grinning.

Evanstrom cleared his throat.

Kioga pooted.

"Miss Danvers," he called backwards. Kyrie stepped out of her skirt and padded over to him bottomless. Her front looked as if she'd straddled a Boston Cream donut the size of an ottoman. Evan was counting the crowd. A pair of security guards in the same strange white-and-blue uniforms of Xian had shown up at the elevator, barring any escape. "Print out thirty-seven non-disclosure agreements and have everyone relinquish their phone, private or company-issued, to Xian."

"Gone, just like that?" Kyrie asked. She reached down and rubbed her groin--the whole assortment was sore--and flicked her paw to the side when it came back with shark cum and Wesley-chum.

"It was in the latest code of conduct. Fetish play on company time is company property, the capturing of which will be sold for profit exclusively by Ferris-Chalmpers. They'll get refunds on their phones, less any applicable awards payable in royalties. Everyone wants the SuperNova 7 anyway."

Wesley returned to the group, his coated dick bobbing in front of him like a fudgesicle and his face entirely brown, as if he were wearing a resin mask.

Evan's muzzle twitched; Kioga thought he saw a grin.

"It's a good look for you, Wesley. Glad you've returned to it."

The coyote withered.

"Now then, Mr. Davis. Kioga, my diamond-in-the-slough."

The cheetah brought his knees together. Whatever was left of his diaper loincloth squished between his thighs.

"This isn't a request, this is an order. I'm adding new provisional responsibilities to your role and I'll be weighing out a few presently granted. You're a madman and a more volatile financial component to this firm than a werewolf fight-club."

Kioga felt absolutely naked in the middle of that garage, and when he tried to scoot back his potty loudly scraped against the asphalt.

"Y-yessir. Anything for the company."

Evan chuckled. "I'd lose my house if we had to buy out your contract. I'd sooner pay you six figures to be a practice dummy for parents of disabled teenagers than lose you. Grab a long, hot shower in the executive spa and get dressed as you were when you came here. And I mean as you were."

Kioga's ears fell and he pooted again. "Sir?"

"And I mean all of you," Evan called out to Kyrie, Wesley, and their new shark companion. The tiger squinted. "What's your name?"

"Lasmo," he answered, folding his arms behind him. He left his pants at his ankles, a coyote-shaped faceprint in the pile between them. Kioga grit his teeth. That's not fair; that's too close! He thought, realizing he missed ... that one guy. Hugo, or Lupo ... yeah ... that one ... ex ... fiancé of his.

"Lasmo, excellent. Tell your manager you're in a compulsory development role starting today."

Lasmo tilted his head, the brow on his smooth head wrinkling. "All right, I'll bite."

Evan clapped his paws. "Excellent! Good to have you on board, shark boy. I want all of you cleaned up, dressed, and back here around, say ... three-thirty. Plenty of sports drinks, coffee, and fiber bars in the commissary. I suggest you use them."

Kioga moved to stand up, but Xian pushed him back down on the potty and kissed the side of his head. He didn't like where this was going. "Sir, back here, in the parking garage?" he asked.

Evanstrom turned to him with a half-smirk, the tiger's fangs glittering in the industrial light.

"Why of course, Mr. Davis. Xian's going to get proper lighting, sound, and a full film crew out here. You're going to do it again, though you and Wesley are free to switch it up. When's the last time you've been in a diaper, Wes?"

The coyote shook his mucky head, his eyes clean and clear in the swamp.

Xian put a paw under Kioga's arm, signaling him to stand. He turned the cheetah around and bent him over the training toilet, taking out a few wipes to clean his backside.

Kioga didn't care. At this point he was just numb, though his cock seemed to enjoy it, rising against the padding before Xian ripped it off and tossed it away. This was madness...

This wasn't shit hitting the fan. This was a jet turbine in a shit ocean.