FSE

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Kyrie and Wesley met outside a cafe during their lunch break. Ever since the magic disaster at Anal Londo, Wes had decided to shy away from those ravenous, delicious males of Lugo, Kioga, and Evanstrom.

Not that he didn't like a series of cocks in his face, paws, and anus, but Kyrie Danvers, former intern and now full-on marketing agent, just seemed more delicate and sensible.

She was coy and cute, but had a lusty side of her own.

God bless her, she also loved diapers.

So he met with his new girlfriend outside of "Big Joey's Coffee Extravaganza," a place that renamed itself after one famous Kioga C. Davis and his explicit fetish commercials aired in Asian and Eastern European countries.

"Can't believe they named this place after Key's laxatives," Wes said, the coyote spinning his mug of black, steaming, rich, high-caff liquid.

"I mean, it gets us all going," Kyrie the fennec said with a chuckle. "Whether we wanted it or not, we have stepped into a war with our bowels."

She wore a fetching beige suit which blended with her fur perfectly. From some angles, she looked naked, but the sharp lines of the suit made her look like she was a few polygons short of a modern video game character.

Her skirt almost reached her knees. From his angle--and hers--Wes could see right up the cream-white insides of her thighs to the shiny, bright white diaper girding her loins.

Wes cleared his throat, his sheath stirring in his tighty-white briefs under his trousers, the tip rustling against a padded male guard not too different than panty-liners.

He saw her tail wag and heard her clear her throat. Then she crossed her legs; when he looked up at her she was grinning.

Caught in the act.

Wes shivered as he felt warmth spread across his crotch, the male guard soaking up his urine and swelling to make a nice bulge in the front of his pants.

His sheath was right behind it, and as Kyrie's smile grew to show her teeth, her eyes staring right through the mesh cafe table at the coyote's crotch, so did Wes's sheath swell until he was sporting a prominent tent right in public.

She uncrossed her legs, then her footpaw snuck out of its black high-heeled shoe and went to his shin. Her toes slid up under his trouser's cuff, scritching as it slid his black sock down. "You poor boys. Having two systems to regularly empty."

"That, um," Wes gulped, feeling a hot wet heat as his cock emerged from its sheath right into the soaked confines of his wetness guard. "I think you're completely forgetting the female--"

"What, estrus n' menstrual?"

Now that Wes's sock was piled around his ankle, her footpaw moved north. The bright white strip of her diaper flashed from under her skirt. It was so thick, and Wes didn't know if it was just super absorbent, or if she'd wet it.

He'd love to know.

"Y-yeah, I mean don't you have a monthly monster?"

Kyrie shrugged, and then her foot was resting on his chair, right between his legs. "Eh. A couple of pills, some pharmaceutical voodoo, and even the cramps are as manageable as a, well ... morning constitutional after a huge dinner."

Wes felt pressure against his groin as her foot, naked and warm, squished against his tented trousers. He had no choice but to hump back, his soaked male guard caressing and squeezing his cock, saturating his sheath in urine.

"If it's that easy, those pills have to be messing with your hormones," Wes said. His own hormones were taking over.

There were some titters from the tables around them. One fur packed up his laptop and left; another readjusted her chair so she could watch over the screen.

The public scandal of it just drove him on. The coyote whimpered as the fennec's toes squished into his swollen bulge, making him hump his wet protective padding all the more quickly and blatantly.

The front door of the cafe flew open with a prey-fur in an apron. Wes heard a "God damn it," and then the door slammed again.

The manager would either ban them or, seeing as they were Kioga's coworkers, maybe name a drink after them.

"I can stop," Kyrie said, rubbing the black padded plane of her foot up and down Wes's tent.

"No, don't," Wes gasped. Precum was leaking into his guard, and, failing to be absorbed, pooled in the base of his briefs. A dark spot formed at the base of his trousers.

"I thought you said my hormones--"

"Pills yes, foot no, oh God!" Wes yelped, then fell back in his chair as his crotch pulsed and cock lurched, spurting hot thick splats of coyote seed into his padding, then his briefs and a spackle on the inside of his trousers.

The female at the laptop gave a little golf clap.

Kyrie scraped her footpaw against the brick of the patio, then slipped it back into her shoe.

"Okie doke," she said with a shrug, letting him writhe in his own mess. The fennec's ears and grin went wide, fangs flashing, as post-orgasm sobriety set in and his cum started clinging to his sheath and balls. "I'll wean off them, but you're gonna have to stock up on Gatorade and Goat Weed; I'll be fixin' to show you the meaning of 'vixen.'"

The wet spot at the bottom of his pants formed a single pearly white cumsicle that drooped, then plopped on the ground.

"Sure, babe," he said through labored breaths.

"Puppy need a change?" Kyrie asked, digging in her bag. Her skirt had slid up as she'd stroked him off; now anyone in a 45-degree viewing angle could see that fat white diaper with a yellow color-strip that was turning blue.

Wes nodded.

She pulled out a white plastic square big as a set of folded bed sheets.

The patrons around them had either left, or were now staring, silent, with tented bottoms or a paw down their skirts.

"Come on, into the bathroom," Kyrie said, standing with an audible crinkle.

They went into the female bathroom because Kyrie was the "parent" now. The changing table had been augmented, rated up to three hundred pounds because the cafe was across the street from Kioga's place of work with the not-so-secret diaper fetish.

She got him onto the changing table, belted him down, then removed his shoes and trousers.

The trousers snagged around Wes's feet, then tore on his footclaws.

"Wes, sweetie," she said, staring at Wes's crotch, at that messy little disaster composing of soaked tighty-whities and a soiled male guard, "you really have to stop buying trousers from third-world bootleg-bootleg companies."

"They come in packs of ten!"

"Well, here's the value you get from them," she said, then grabbed the trousers by each leg and ripped them in half like a pro wrestler.

"And that guard," she said with a laugh, "isn't that meant just for piddles?"

Wes wasn't incontinent, but around Kyrie, things changed.

"I, um," Wes started with a blush, his ears folded back, "Packs of twenty."

Kyrie rolled her eyes, took off his briefs and padding, rolled those up and threw them away.

Then she diapered the young male up, an act so automatic she could do it in the middle of the night and/or an evening full of vodka.

She often did, as did he in return.

She was usually more ceremonial about it, but they had none of their baby clothes, plushies, pacifiers, powder, wipes, and they were on their lunch break.

She unbelted him and helped him back into his shoes, then helped him to the floor.

Wesley the coyote, short of thirty years old, stood in the women's bathroom in shoes, socks, a collared shirt, his tie, his watch, and a fat white diaper that crinkled even when standing still.

"Looks like you're finishing the workday bottomless," Kyrie said.

"What about you?" Wes said, reaching for Kyrie's skirt.

She smacked his paws away.

"I am a responsible adult," she said. "So even if I am a soaky messy droopy puppy-pants, I do not have to look like a soaky messy droopy puppy-pants."

Wes wagged as he felt his sheath stir again. "Messy?"

Kyrie grinned. "I went before work."

Wes felt his stomach grumble, then his intestines rumble. "...I didn't."

"Well, we're not having you ruin a diaper this quickly," Kyrie said, then pushed him back into a stall, locked the door behind them, and yanked the diaper to his ankles.

She folded her arms and stared at him.

"Go like a good puppy," she said.

Wes whined. "Not when you're watching."

"I have to make sure you don't fall in."

"Lunch break."

"Oh, fine."

As a courtesy, Kyrie hiked up her skirt and let him nuzzle her diaper, which was a bit firm in the front. She'd already piddled. Crinkles echoed throughout the place, and Wes could smell her sweet, musky heat through the firm padding.

That heat grew as a new discolored spot formed and spread at the crotch of her diaper.

The intimacy soothed him, and soon the low crinkles and whimpers were overtaken by normal bathroom sounds as he did his business.

"Better?" she asked, noting the bright red rod sticking out from between his thighs.

"Can you wipe me?"

~~~

They waddled out of the bathroom, Kyrie's skirt bulging with her wet, swollen undergarment as they went back to work.

Wes was in too much a romantic daze to notice the sneers and jibes cast his way, his big fat white diaperbutt on display from every angle.

He didn't bother hiding it; anyone with a hearing ability above "deaf with their ears sealed with silicone" could hear the swish and crinkle.

The manager came out and blocked the front door.

The prey-fur, a goat, glared at them while chewing on a cud of coffee beans.

"I don't care that F-C and its thousands of employees are putting my kids through management school at the ... American Apogee Protective Shield Plant," he mumbled, "but I am not going to tolerate this sort of ribald depravity in full daylight!"

Wesley straightened his tie and crinkled forward, fists on his hips, diaper shining in the sun. "Look, pal, as a private business you are full at liberty to select your clientele, and while it may not be terribly bigoted to ban public licentiousness and/or public defecation--"

The goat's hoof flew to Wes's mouth. Wes stopped, ready to speechify this censorious monster into the ground, but then the goat leaned forward.

"Save it for the night crowd, m'kay? We even have Turbo Joey for those who really want to let loose."

Wes lifted his chin, feeling like a damn freedom fighter or superhero.

Diaper-Yote: protecting the world from the incontinence of intolerants.

#diapergate would wait.

Kyrie rolled her eyes and grabbed Wes by the tie. "Wes, it's not smart to butt heads with a goat; we're already late to work."

~~~

The work-day was rife with ribbings directed at Wes, who went the rest of the day bottomless, flashing his bright white diaper that grew bigger and saggier until Kyrie pulled him aside and changed him.

It was such a big bulge, too: most of it was soaked padding, but sometimes a firm erection would push it out even further.

Wes had plenty of back-up slacks in his desk drawer, but the marketing floor where he worked had all but given up on stressing its dress code against visible incontinence garments.

Kioga, the incontinent Account Representative, was far too important in the company, People that hated diapers had left long ago, and now that F-C LLC was making a significant chunk of money from its offshore fetish commercials, the general agreement in the office was,

Diapers are okay, just don't be shitty about it.

They did, however, limit productivity because they were so distracting, and if Evanstrom the burly boss tiger caught an employee flashing their crinkly-whites, they'd be his personal urinal for the rest of the day.

This was sexy, but Evan always had acrid catnip coffee-piss, and being a personal urinal did for productivity what the stomach flu did to white trousers.

Fortunately, Evan was on vacation.

Kyrie and Wes finished their day, got into Wes's car and went to their mutual home in the suburbs. It was Wes's home, but Kyrie had terminated her apartment lease.

"We're shacking up in our cub-house!" Wes said, swishing his crinkle-butt against the black leather driver's seat.

The coyote kept wagging all the way there; he loved bottomless diaper-driving.

"I'm such a big boy," he would say with a chuckle, then honk the horn of his luxury sedan.

~~~

At home, Kyrie allowed herself to baby up. When she entered Wes's house and the garage door was closed, she immediately slumped and put her thumb in her mouth.

"I'm tired," she complained.

Wes straightened up, his voice deepening. "That's a good girl; let's get you in your jammies."

Wes lead her to their mutual bedroom, which had been a second living room but was converted into a massive nursery playspace with a Queen-size double-crib in the corner.

He took her to the center of the room onto a carpet marked with the whole alphabet, and piece-by-piece stripped her out of her tight, uncomfortable adult clothes.

He even unsnapped her bra on the first try; he was such a good boyfriend.

Wes looked over the fennec's naked shoulder.

Her large, pouty breasts gave him pause, making him go erect in his own diaper.

Her breasts did not produce milk, but Wes loved to suckle on them when he was the cub.

Perhaps if Wes and Kyrie could find a mutual caretaker that--L, G, B, T, or S--did not want to get into their diapers, they could both be cubs for longer times.

"God, those are so beautiful," Wes murmured as he reached around Kyrie's back to caress and squeeze them. His fingers teased at the nipples, growing erect in the cozy nursery air.

Kyrie leaned her head back and murred, tail wagging, then straightened up and cleared her throat.

"Oh, right. Cub," Wes said, then lay Kyrie down on the changing table.

Her plain white diaper was fairly heavy, enough that there was a solid lump that wagged between her thighs and sank from its weight when she lay on the soft baby-printed vinyl of the table.

Her slender, curving female form was so difficult sometimes to ignore, especially as she cooed and wiggled about, staring at him with young innocent eyes.

Wes pulled the tapes of her diaper and opened the garment up, pulling that heavy soaked strap away from her body. The padding sagged, radiating with sweet, humid musk, and Wes lay it down on the table to reveal Kyrie's plush, soft, wet, sensitive feminine sex.

The fennec's slit lips were black but not quite feral-like, Kyrie still sporting the black round nub at the crown of her soft nethers wreathed in a delicate black hood.

Her vulva was a straight slit leading down a few inches, and below that, hidden by the back of plump rump cheeks, was the start of a wrinkled and dark ring.

Kyrie mewled and Wes shook himself out of his daze. He wasn't staring at a mature female's crotch; he was changing a cub!

Wes fetched a green mermaid-printed diaper the size of a decorative couch pillow; the rump even had a little fin-tail in the back that rested above the user's actual tail.

He discarded the old diaper in a pail filled with other rolled-up diapers; the collective weight of the wadded-up waste-sacks rivaled that of a medium-sized pickup truck.

Trash day was always fun.

He returned to his cub, stretched out and relaxed on the padded table, naked as the day she'd arrived on this earth.

The fennec sucked on her thumb and played with a mobile hovering over her head, her enormous ears twitched at the funny crinkle-sounds coming from down below.

Wes undid the new diaper, powdered it, slipped it under her rump, and then powdered her privates, making sure all that nasty wetness and sexy wetness would be wicked away from her cute, sensitive bum.

He taped it up and Kyrie squawked, churring as she reached out with her feet and kneaded Wes's stomach.

"Yes, yes, daddy will take care of you," he said, then got a onesie from the drawer and helped her into that as well, first the top, and then the bottom.

He zipped up the front and snapped the crotch closed, then picked her up in his arms.

Wes carried his cub to the kitchen, who decided to crawl all over him, then fished a bottle from the refrigerator, put it in the microwave, and then screamed as something cold went down the back of his own diaper.

It was nearly frozen, and hard, these little pellets of...

Kyrie giggled. Her mouth was full and there was a crunch.

"Ky," he sternly said, "What do you have in your mouth?"

Crunch.

He held out his paw.

The cub turned her muzzle away, looking far away.

Crunch.

The cold seemed to adhere to Wes's rump, piercing into the muscles in pointed concentrations like bullet wounds.

"Give me that," he said, but her chin stretched further and further away.

Finally Wes looped one arm under her while the other grabbed her snoot. He turned her head back to him, then slipped a finger under her lips.

Her mouth was quite cold, and the desert fox-cub started shivering.

A cold mass shifted south in Wes's diaper, air-conditioning his tailhole.

His cub's teeth had come in quite early, and they were so big! They could crunch through the biggest lizard or the toughest bug.

Problem was, they were fast shut.

Wes felt a double-urgency: Kyrie was getting heavy, and one pellet of this wet coldness was now stuck to the back of his balls.

"You are being a very naughty cub," Wes scolded, working his claw between her upper and lower fangs.

"Ow, fuck," Kyrie said, crushed ice flying from her maw as she clutched her head.

Wes quickly bent down to sit her on the floor.

Kyrie held her head and burst into tears, ice chips drooling from her mouth as she writhed on the floor.

Kyrie was such a big cub, sixty-nine inches long and two thousand, three hundred-twenty ounces.

"Ice headache?" Wes asked.

"Desert fox, hate cold, cold pain, head dumb, oh I'm retarded..."

"But you're my retard."

Kyrie dropped her paws and turned to him, ears huge and eyes narrowed. Then she flinched and grabbed her head again. "Ow, why!?"

The microwave beeped.

"How 'bout we take five and then get back into our cub-spaces?" Wes asked, tapping his head.

He stood up and grabbed the bottle. He tested the milk on his wrist: very hot, like the Sahara sands.

He knelt and helped her up, then gave her the bottle. He walked his little cub back to the living room, drying her tears with a cloth, and she leaned against him, the hot milk restoring her.

Wes wrapped both arms around his cub and hugged her tight, their diapers brushing together and crinkling. He nuzzled her neck, licked her head, then joined her in playing with toy cars on the carpet.

They continued into the night, fighting yawns and increasingly heavy diapers.

Finally, when Kyrie froze up and a dark line made its way down both of her thighs, Wes felt a hard hotness fill the front of his own diaper.

He crawled over to Kyrie and popped the snaps on the back of her onesie, revealing her big mermaid-printed butt. The diaper was fat and firm with all that it had soaked up, but there was a warm, bitter trickle sneaking its way out both sides.

"Hey?" Kyrie said around a pacifier.

Wes leaned in low and licked Kyrie's thighs, which made her mewl. His own diaper bulging with his cock as much as it was from his urine, the male coyote mounted up behind the bent-over vixen and started thrusting diaper against diaper.

Kyrie moaned and fell forward, her front half crashing through toy cars against an alphabet-printed carpet.

Plap plap plap went Wes's warm wet diaper against Kyrie's, the padded bulge of his making a deep, padded contour in hers.

The fennec found herself sucking madly at her pacifier as the coyote ground his big diaper bulge against her soaky, diapered nethers, coaxing them both into a lusty, rhythmic trance.

Kyrie unzipped her onesie and let her breasts fall out against the carpet, squishing against the floor, warm against the carpet.

Wes was panting and had his arms wrapped fast around her, his fat, heavy, tented diaper slapping and grinding against hers, humping her like a feral dog.

Kyrie found her paw wandering south and slipping past the front of her pleated waistband, into a humid, hot burrow of thoroughly soaked padding. Her paw rubbed against the wet, squishy inside of her diaper as they traveled to the bottom, to the warmest, wetted place of all.

She slid a digit into her smooth passage, and as her wet diaper squeezed and squished around her arm with Wes's thrusts, so did her cunny clench and clutch at the invading finger.

Wes pulled her onesie's collar back and took her nape into his mouth, suckling at the loose skin as he ground his cock against his hot, swollen padding. Plastic swished and crinkled as it bumped over and over, his balls rolling over a swamp of piss and pre, cock throbbing and leaking.

He grunted into her nape and Kyrie moaned, thrusting her big crinkly butt against him as she stroked her slick netherlips. Her thumb teased her sensitive nub in lusty hunger as her middle finger caressed her inner walls.

The fur clung on her arm and that diaper clung around it. Wesley clung to her hips and her nape, and Kyrie's free paw clung to the carpet as she let out a loud moan.

Kyrie yipped and erupted, the smooth slick walls of her sex clenching around her finger, pulling at it as hot feminine nectar gushed between the digits of her paw and into her diaper, now hanging low between her thighs.

As the fennec jolted, so did Wes, moaning into her nape and nuzzling close as his cock lurched inside his diaper, spurting into padding that could take no more, flooding back over his sheath and balls.

The two lay there in post-orgasmic repose, panting for air.

Finally, Kyrie shifted, popping her back.

"So, ah. We still want to move forward with the pills?"

Wes kissed the side of her head. "Only if you want to. I'll look up the side effects."

"Let's get a shower first," she said, letting him wobble back onto his knees before she lifted herself off the carpet. She slipped her paw out of her diaper, then promptly went for a wet-wipe.

~~~

It was over the course of a month that Kyrie weaned herself off of her birth control, her heat control, her mood control, her anti-psychotic pro-biotic tantric bowel control, her chaos control, all sorts.

Wes had looked up a list for all the above, and to precisely no one's shock but Kyrie's, all the meds were made by the same three pharmaceutical companies that were, themselves, all part of the same board.

"Yeah, you don't need your heat control if you don't take your mood control," Wes said during the first weekend, "They cancel each other out."

"Then why was I prescribed them?!" Kyrie complained from the bathroom.

Even the start of the purge had prompted her body to go on a genocide-level cleansing flush.

That weekend, she needed diapers, and soon their nursery was smelling like a real nursery.

"I dunno," Wes said as he wrapped his nose in a scented rag and brought a tray of snacks and Pedialyte to her. "Seems like crashing two cars together just to fold a piece of paper."

"And chaos control?"

"Anti-psych med," Wes answered, bringing her an iPad, her Nintendo Switch, her work laptop, and a strong vodka-tonic. "Apparently that birth control causes literal hysteria."

Kyrie sobbed into a fistful of fox-treats and washed it down with vodka.

It got better in a week, however, and Kyrie was down only one generic and working faster than ever.

She slept better, even wet the bed once (oops), and during the day was less sarcastic.

At night, when she'd fitted him in a printed diaper and an astronaut shirt that didn't reach his navel, she'd even chuckled and said, "You know, you look real cute. Like, no fooling. I really like how handsome you are, little pup."

A real compliment.

Oh my.

Then Wes started noticing she was playing the "mommy" more and more, and even when she was a cub, she would launch into maternal corrections at a moment's notice.

Wes had her on the floor in a cute poofy pink skirt and was tickling her stomach.

She was laughing and giggling and cuddling her dragon plushie, but then grabbed a wet-wipe and sat up.

"Wes, dear, stoppit. You have something on your face, now hold still."

She licked the wet wipe and cleaned his smudged cheek.

At work, she was going over one of his reports, then gave him a gold star and a kiss on the nose before she could realize.

"I'm proud of my son," she said before the entire office.

"Mom!" Wes said, then covered his own muzzle as his colleagues exploded with laughter.

~~~

"Kyrie," Wes said over a bowl of Froot Loops. She tied a bib over his suit jacket, then reached down his pants for a diaper check.

He was wearing boxer-briefs.

"Now, Kyrie, this could sound fifty ways of misogynistic, so--"

Kyrie popped up. Her breasts had swollen two sizes and stood out prominently in front of her, looking much more in proportion with her broad ears. Her old shirts no longer closed in the front; they would squish her tits together and up, creating a massive tract of cleavage.

Instead, she'd purchased new white collared shirts with secret flaps on the chest.

The fennec hovered over Wes's dry bowl of cereal and undid one of the flaps.

"You're my boyfriend, Wes; I know you wouldn't do anything to sabotage us," she said, exposing her teat. "Boys are so cute with their mistakes, acting like gallant knights not because we're fragile idiots, but you want to save us a little nastiness."

She squirted hot, fragrant fennec milk into his cereal, splattering milk on his new bib.

"You already have it so hard, Kyrie. Everyone does, but I put up with a lot of shit. Literally sometimes, haha. That pizza and your poor diaper," he said, remembering a morning where he was cleaning her bottom with a garden trowel. It was thick as concrete; he could have paved right over her buttcrack. "Therefore, I might as well share the wealth with my best girl."

She pinched his cheek, pulling and wiggling so that his canines were exposed. Wes blushed; it hit him so hard that he relaxed and bladder twinged.

The milk was so much more soothing than cold cow's milk; it put him into a state of bliss.

"Cute with their mistakes," Kyrie said, "and their accidents."

He blushed harder, then felt warm in the crotch. And in the seat of his pants. And his thighs.

Soon there was a trickle over plastic and a splattering on their tile floor.

"Oh my God," Wes sighed, letting his bladder relax completely. The sound of piss hitting fabric grew loud, rattling like it was hitting a plastic tarp.

Kyrie grinned, then offered him her teat directly.

Wes suckled like a pup as he finished wetting himself, swooning with this new soothing glee.

His stomach rumbled and he drank faster, gulping until the bottom of his shirt bulged out.

His pants, shiny and soaked in the crotch, were already tented.

"Ahem," Wes said, releasing Kyrie's swollen nipple. Before he could grab a napkin, Kyrie had the corner of his bib and was dabbing his mouth.

"You really are a different female," Wes said, tail wagging. His abdomen grumbled. "And I don't mean that in a bad way--"

"Honey, don't coat the pill in peanut butter," Kyrie said with a smile. She had already gotten a mop and was sopping up Wes's piddle. "Just give it to me straight."

The milk seemed to go right through him. Wes's wagging turned to a tail flagging. "Uhm, considering those pills, I just think you're so unused to being 'sober' that your body's on overdrive."

"Hah, maybe I have been feeling more intense. But speaking about overdrive, let's get you taken care of," she said, quickly moving his cereal aside, then unlocking the high-chair's tray table.

"I'm not gonna make it," Wes groaned, then leaned forward and braced himself, raising his hind end from his seat, tail high and out of the way.

First came the usual few bursts of gas, filling the room with the classic bathroom stink. Kyrie hovered around him, stroking his head. "Just push, puppy."

Then came a more solid squelch, a fart plugged by thick, slimy matter as scat pushed out into his boxer briefs, bulging out from his bottom and coiling around itself. Wes felt the muck seep into the fur of his buttocks, clinging and smearing it brown.

"Good boy, that's it," Kyrie whispered, then yipped as he pulled her muzzle down and kissed her, his tongue slithering into his mouth as a second slick snake of scat slithered into his seat, anus popping

as the log broke and a third chunk joined the pile. The seam in the bottom of his pants stretched and then tore a few inches, revealing gray boxer-briefs stained brown.

The seat of his pants was one solid bulge, a lump like a football stuffed under his tail. The stink filled the room as Wesley and Kyrie opened and closed their muzzles around each other's, wet tongues rubbing against each other.

The back of Wes's pants grew dark as the sludge leaked through, then tore further, letting emerge a heavy uneven pouch of lumpy gray-brown cotton sagging below his rump.

"We should really buy you better pants," Kyrie moaned, tonguing his mouth. Her nostrils flared with his putrid scat stench. Her skirt was hiked up to her waist and her white, wet-spotted panties bulged in the front with her knuckles, two fingers clutching at the slick, tight velvet walls of her pussy.

She reached for his fly, already straining, but as soon as her fingers touched the wet, musky tent his zipper broke and his soaked wet cock pouch burst through.

Kyrie grunted as her own tail flagged. Her mouth clenched around his, sucking on his tongue as she strained and deposited a fresh hot load of her own into her undies, filling out the back and sagging like a few melted Snickers bars.

Wes moaned and braced himself on his high chair as his wet cotton bulge twitched and then spooled white coyote spunk from the tip, a few ropes springing onto his high chair's tray table.

Kyrie grunted and yipped, reaching under Wes with her free paw to cradle his soggy gray-brown lump, smearing the heavy mess against his rump as her labia flared and her cunny twitched, tossing fennec femme-cum into the sodden strap.

"You are so fucking filthy," Wes groaned, ripping the flaps of Kyrie's shirt down. He grasped her fat, leaky nipples with both paws and tugged in alternation, squirting rhythmic streams of fox-milk onto the floor and the shins of his pants.

"Oh I'm filthy?" Kyrie purred, then took the spoon from his Froot Loops bowl, slipped it down the back of her soiled panties, then offered him a warm scoop of fennec scat.

"Yeah," Wes murred, then took the spoon from her coffee, tore his pants wider, slipped it down the back of his boxer-briefs, then offered her a soft brown lump of his own.

"Here comes the airplane," Kyrie purred.

"Here comes the choo-choo train," murred Wesley.

They put the loaded utensils into each other's muzzles, cringed, smiled, and swallowed.

Kyrie smacked her lips, eyebrows knitted. "Hmm," she said, "No wonder they eat this in the wild."

Wesley responded by licking her cheek.

Kyrie froze, then put her paw to her face.

There was a long stinky streak of her own scat smeared up her cheek.

The fennec vibrated with rage.

"Hey, babe," Wes giggled. He sat back down to strike a cool pose, then cringed as slimy warm mess squished up his crack, over his rump cheeks, and up his tail.

"No need to lose your shit!"

Kyrie glared at him, maintaining a death stare as she bent over and stepped out of her soiled panties. The whole back was filled with mud, with droplets falling from between her legs.

"Why, you want to help me find it?!" she snarled, then took the garment and splattered him right in the face.

It smeared down his forehead and brow, sliming down his muzzle until it hung from the tip of his nose.

The fetid fecal stink was rank, but the pussy juice, that was sublime.

He could feel his cock straining again.

"Um, shower?"

Kyrie tried to hold a horrible grimace, but a smile kept ruining it.

"I should give you a golden shower and send you to work!"

"That's just too far," Wesley said, licking her scat from his muzzle. "You know that we have standards."

~~~

They went through about thirty paper towels getting the muck off of each other, taking turns wiping each other's' butts, feeling like they were scooping Nutella out of couch cushions with how much was stuck in their fur.

Wes teased Kyrie's slippery tailhole and twisted the paper towel in, giggling and saying "butt tampon" before she grabbed him by the tail, turned him around, and scrubbed his muddy butt until the paper towel disintegrated and there were bits of paper sticking to it.

They got clean enough that they weren't going to drip on the carpet, then waddled upstairs to a custom 360-degrees, double-shower Wes had installed after one too many messy, messy nights.

They cleaned off, cleaned each other, and in the steam bumped noses and nuzzled.

Everything was tidy and soft, their fur smelled great, and cleaned and fluffed, the two marveled at how wonderful the other looked completely naked.

Kyrie not only stared at Wes's plump sheath and egg-shaped balls, but also his medium chest, his contoured shoulders, his long and graceful arms.

His smile, when not cocky, was humble and vulnerable. He was thrilled to be nude and open before such a sharp and graceful female.

And what a female that was! Wes couldn't help but look at Kyrie with perky hunger. Her brown-booted footpaws gave way to svelte, cream-colored thighs. Her hips possessed a broad, dynamic curve and the slit of her vulva was so petite and demure at the bottom of her groin.

She held her back as straight as she could despite breasts that had grown to the size of cantaloupes, and her smile, her bright brown eyes, effused a confidence and excitement that inspired him to move mountains.

And those ears, oh what praises he could sing! Those broad, colossal fennec ears stood atop her head like banners on a castle, like wings on a bird of prey, like antlers on the king of the forest.

As if Kyrie couldn't advertise her perfection enough, she had those ears that would scrape the heavens.

"You want to get married?" he said out loud.

His ears went red; she squeaked.

"You know," Kyrie said as a blissful smile spread across her muzzle, "I wondered if you would ask that while you had a load in your pants."

She leaned back against the sink, an absolute goddess, and continued.

"You'd offer me a red plastic ring shaped like a pacifier, a diamond in place of the nipple, and I'd change your diaper with the ring right on my finger. It'd be a silk diaper with our names on the waist, Mister and Missus Wesley..."

She trailed off and straightened up, her eyes and mouth widening as she stared off into the void.

"Wesley, what is your last name?"