FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"I gotta say, you really got your life together, Wesley," said the shark Lasmo in the front passenger seat of Wes's luxury Furoti Testawoossa sedan. He patted the coyote on the thigh, which was only covered by a pair of cowboy chaps, then traced his paw up north over a red adult diaper printed with a cowboy bandana pattern, then up to the coyote's furry stomach which was starting to show the bulges of abdominal muscles. "Got your body together, too. You work out?"

"Heh. Every day until I'm wobbling like my bones have been broke. God, I go through a farm's worth of chicken every day. If I'm not talking, I'm eating."

The shark himself looked good in a basketball jersey that just barely covered the bottom of his two white jockstrap bulges, each holding one hemipenis and one testicle. Lasmo wore a third, extra-long jockstrap under his tail, and an hour ago, before they had all showered, he had filled the last one with some hot, fish-stinking shark dirt.

The coyote murred as Lasmo groped his red, bandana-printed diaper, sending out noisy crinkles to the entire car, including the two females in the back, one of which being Wes's fiancée.

Wes had done a good couple of numbers on the diaper he had to change out of: while blowing his friend, the super-hung, super-muscular wolf Lugo, he'd pissed in the front until it swelled nice and round between thighs, and he'd messed in the back until it was lumpy, firm, and fat enough to keep his tail slightly raised.

The coyote grunted as his cock went hard in his new, dry and powdered diaper, working on concentrating on the road. Crashing a high-powered, high-dollar sports car would already be a decent sensation in the rich city of Puerto Panuela, and stepping out in a fetish cowboy outfit and a big red diaper regardless of its soaked or soiled level would light up everyone's Trampstergram social app.

Two paws came over the back of the driver seat, spreading his cowboy vest and tweaking the coyote's nipples. "Wes has been kicking a lot of ass at work lately," his fiancée said as she watched the shark stroke her future husband's tented diaper, "I think the car is an extravagant waste of money, but here we all are blowing our bank accounts on fetish wear and fetish clubs. I mean seriously, we're spending one-to-four dollars to crap in plastic underwear, then carry that crap around with us, trying to ignore that warm sticky lump as the smell sneaks out of the leg holes, then eventually we gotta take that plastic sack off and wipe everything below the tail, and probably take a shower, and properly dispose of the sack ... all that instead of using a toilet. "

"Shit, fuck, that's really hot," Wesley groaned, crinkling as Lasmo's paw made his diaper stand straight up in the front and Kyrie twisted and teased his nipples.

Kyrie the fennec wore a body-tight, red latex suit with zippered flaps over her tits and crotch, zipping all the way from the clit to the anus. She'd been cycling in and out of heat ever since she realized how much she loved Wes her diaper puppy, and just an hour ago had pissed hot, estrus-infused urine all over her her own pussy, thighs, and footpaws.

This had driven the wolf Lugo mad with lust and almost got him into a non-consensual situation with Kyrie, but then Lugo bravely tunneled his way through a layer of scat and fucked Wesley's dirty rectum while Wesley pounded at her wet pussy.

Kyrie sat back in the sports sedan and rubbed her stomach, paw squeaking over the fetish fabric. If she got pregnant, man: that'd be more diapers to change, but at least it didn't take a wet wipe the size of a beach towel to clean a coyote or fox kit.

It made her nipples hard and leaky.

Sahasrahla, a pink female skink from HR, joined the three in the car on their way to USDABCD Steakhouse, an ABDL-friendly restaurant, which was a block away from their next destination, A Beady Hell: Fetish Dance Club. Sahasrahla was new to the whole ABDL/kinkplay fetish, but they got her up to speed right quick. She wore her cheerleading outfit from high school (how quaint) and the current Crew had fitted with her with a big, thick crinkly blue diaper printed with the local football team's logo. They were called The Cracklers,like fireworks, but with Ferris-Chalmpers LLC located in Puerto Panuela, opposing teams called them The Crinklers. The Crew had helped the skink hem up her skirt, to make sure that her diaper was always just a little bit visible under her skirt, and very visible if she jumped or bent over.

An hour ago, Lasmo had double-penetrated her cloaca with his two dicks, then filled his rear jockstrap with shark shit as he double-climaxed into her, and then he climaxed again as he felt his hot new turd sock swinging between his legs and his tail. Sahasrahla wasn't particularly interested in shark-skink babies, but who knew. She'd already breached the rules about interoffice romances.

Her long reptile tongue licked her smooth lips as she watched the coyote hump the shark's paw. She'd known Wesley for a long time from his indecency and harassment complaint reports, but to see the depraved pup in action was transcendent.

Wes easily navigated the Furoti into city night traffic as Lasmo got more aggressive with jerking him through his diaper, the coyote letting out a few yips as he squirted pre into his dry, crinkling, ready padding.

Sahasrahla licked her lips again, grinding her sports diaper against her seat as Lasmo's cum leaked out of her cloaca. She slipped a paw down the front to stroke its sensitive lips, heat radiating as shark spunk slimed over her fingers.

"Yep, been kicking a lot of ass at work," said Wes, taking the car onto the highway. The engine roared and they were matching speed within seconds. He spread his legs wide and pumped his diaper into the paw. "Some of our clients may be complete depraved bastards, but people will pay a ransom for their vices. Fuck!"

The Furoti increased speed, cars zipping past them at a faster and faster rate. Kyrie cupped Wesley's chest and groped, licking the side of his head. Wesley's hips humped the paw faster and faster until he let out a loud yip and then groan. "Fuck, fuck, there it goes!" he said. The tip of the diaper pulsed as his cock seized up and dumped spunk into the padding, cum pouring all over his hard dick and his furry balls.

"Hoooh, yeah," he murred, then put the car back down to a more sensible speed.

Kyrie massaged Wes's shoulders and kissed the side of his head. "Good puppy," she said, then grinned as Sahasrahla moaned, clenched her legs, and squirted skink spunk into her own diaper, all over her concealed fingers. "Goodness, you too?" Kyrie asked.

The two females giggled in the back seat.

"So how far to A Beady Hell?" asked Sahasrahla.

Wes, drunk on the afterglow, merely drove the supercar. Lasmo, both jockstraps sticking straight out eight inches with quarter-sized wet spots at the tips, cleared his throat and looked at the highway signs.

"Restaurant first. I'd say about thirty minutes," he said, then turned to the back and grinned at the girls. "Ten if I jerk Wes off again."

There hadn't been any gender war nor reversal of chivalry: Lasmo had stuck with Wesley, who owned the car, and the ladies were happy to pal around together in the back. The men could deal with all the bothersome stuff such as navigation, and should the radio or temperature be unsatisfactory, Kyrie and Sahasrahlacould shout at them to change it.

"That ain't bad," said Kyrie, shifting around as her nipples brushed against the fetish rubber, "I just wanna get drunk before I piss myself."

The shark's teeth flashed. "Oh? Why do you get to be the only one that pisses yourself?"

Kyrie shrugged, her fennec ears bent in half against the car's ceiling. "The night is young and we're all aiming to get younger."

The three passengers looked up and they were already halfway across the city. The traffic wasn't standstill; there was just a lot of it. The way Wesley drove, all the other cars moved around them like gnats or snowflakes, all jumbling around as he ducked and dodged around.

"This is a really nice car, Wes," Lasmo said again.

Kyrie yawned. "Yup. The toysiest toy for the boysiest boy."

"Not to show off his big dick energy?" Lasmo said with a sneer. "I mean, puppy, you have a good-sized dick, but you ain't exactly gonna be towing any trailers with it."

"It's because," Wes said with a frown, dodging an old Blumpferwulf luxury SUV, "oh shit, there's Lugo," Wes said, then honked the horn as he blasted by him. The BWV flashed its lights. "It's because, as Kyrie said, I wanted a toy. I don't know how you in Legal play it, but I'm not here to impress anyone."

"Well, you are," Lasmo said, cracking the knuckles of the paw he'd used on Wes, "You're a real good boy."

The compliment made Wes's tail wag.

"Hey Ky, the hubby ever let you try it?" he asked the fennec.

"I mean, it's just a shinier and fancier thing to crash," Kyrie said, eyeballing Lasmo's erect jockstraps. She made eyes to the skink, then to Lasmo's lap, but the skink shook her head.

Sahasrahla and Kyrie traded seats, then the fennec reached around Lasmo's seat and lifted his basketball jersey, stroking his stomach just above the elastic bands. "So it's Wes's headache only."

"Mmm, you dirty girl," said Lasmo, and Wes found himself getting hard in his spunky diaper as his wife-to-be started stroking off the sexy shark lawyer.

When he first bought the car, Wes had indeed offered for Kyrie to drive his 900 cavalli vapore thoroughbred, an 888-horsepower beast, but the fennec said no: "I'd just crash it and then it'd be my mess," she had said, pausing a messy diaper change on the coyote to pinch his cheek, "Jesus, how do you get it on the front of your balls? Anyway, you men can have all the headaches, ok? I just like the way it vibrates at high speed." Then she wiped his ass, the whole ass, perplexed how a coyote could basically paint a "diaper region" graph on his whole undercarriage with poo. He'd glued his balls to his taint, there was so much poo.

"I mean, you're not that far behind our CEO with this thing," said Lasmo, grunting as Kyrie's paws moved up and down each of his tented jockstraps. "Mmm, you're gonna make me make a mess," the shark moaned, thrusting his hips up as Kyrie started pumping him like a cow's udders. "Given, our CEO has a Furoti and a McAllistaire and a Spagoli Vurrfast and a BWV: Electrique-8 and an Awoodi for each of his ten children."

"Yeah, but the CEO is always in his office," said Kyrie, milking Lasmo, watching as each dark spot at the tips grew larger and larger. "Rumor has it he wears diapers because he's all but forgotten what a real toilet is."

"Glad our CEO actually does something besides suck off Washington Lobbyists," grumbled Wesley.

"I don't entertain rumors," said Sahasrahla, stewing in her moist femspunk diaper, "but they say his wife is his nanny. Feeds him, burps him, changes him, anything to keep him glued to his computer screens."

"I feel bad for his kids," said Kyrie, paws moving faster and faster, drawing the shark's ass out of the seat as he chased that luxurious grip with his cocks.

"Oh God, oh God, fuck you, you dirty slut," groaned Lasmo, then pearly white cum bubbled up from the shark's two cotton pouches, drooling down the length, over his taut balls, and onto the floorboards. After the shark calmed down, readjusting his white, warm, soiled double-jockstrap lap, he patted the coyote on the thigh.

"Random fact," said Wesley, "did you know what they never mention the one million diaper lovers killed in the Holocaust? It's only the vanilla homosexuals anyone gives a fuck about."

The back of Lasmo's head hit the headrest. "That's a random fact."

"Wesley, I'd check your sources," said Sahasrahla, frowning.

"Wesley Ashford, you're being a naughty boy," Kyrie said, "We are going to an ABDL-friendly steakhouse, MEAT AND HIGH CHAIRS, num num num, so let's keep it a good time, okay? Adult-baby means that while we are babies," she said, reaching caddy-corner and shaking Wes's diapered hip, "we are still very much adult!" the fennec finished, tapping her forehead with her forefinger.

The car murmured its agreement, and Sahasrahla gave her a thumbs up. "HR could use more mediators like you." The fennec smiled.

"Thanks a lot!" she said.

The car went over a bump and Kyrie gasped, feeling her seat grow warm. She looked down to find the crotch-zipper of her latex suit wet. "How far to the restaurant? I could use a diaper or a bathroom."

Wes sighed, waving his nose as his cock and Lasmo's cocks went erect from that faint musky smell. "Just go; I'll have to get the car detailed anyway."

"What, just piss myself in your car?"

The coyote smirked in the rearview mirror. "Duh."

The shark looked up in that mirror, then borrowed it and aimed it right at Kyrie's lap. "Better get going, you dirty girl." The cum-soaked pouches of his jockstraps stuck against veiny, erect cocks.

Her heart beating faster and faster, Kyrie fumbled with the zipper of her tight suit, but a claw caught and it felt like a foot was against her bladder. "Shit, shit, shit," she said, then moaned as she dribbled more, spritzing into her suit and dampening her crotch as the flood gates strained.

Sahasrahla snapped a photo and Kyrie glared directly at her, enormous ears glowing red.

"Get going, girl," the skink said, "Don't you have to? Think about waterfalls, and water fountains, squirt guns, a warm shower,"

"Shit!" the fennec moaned, then spread her legs and fell back in her seat.

Her crotch zipper leaked, failing to hold perfectly firm. She looked down and moaned, seeing the beads of pee on the brass teeth, a tiny puddle on the seat right under her. Kyrie's heart was beating in her ears, and the scent of estrus-infused piss teased her nostrils. Even though it was just a spritz, she'd just wet herself... so there was no point in holding it back.

Her bladder released without her consent, and the fennec sprayed the watertight crotch of her suit, the noise in the quiet interior sounding like a hose hitting a tarp. With the zipper holding mostly firm, the crotch of her suit swelled as tiny streams spritzed between the teeth. Kyrie's nipples grew hard as she submerged her pubic mound, her taint, and her anus in hot fox piss. The crotch of her suit swelled out less like a thick diaper and more like a water balloon.

The shark's cocks grew hard in his lap and he licked his lips, stroking off his spunky hard jockstraps as he watched and smelled and heard Kyrie wet her watertight suit.

It couldn't hold fast, she thought as the zipper continued to spritz against the back of Lasmo's seat, crotch bulged around her like she'd stepped into a beach ball.

"Shit, wow, oh shit," she whispered, wondering just how much piss was in her vagina, how much of it might sneak into her rectum. If she crapped, she'd be giving her turd an aquarium.

Uncaring of her strange curiosity, the tight legs of her suit gave way, and Kyrie let out a loud, roaring moan as hot piss rushed down each watertight leg of her suit, pooling in her boots, washing her footpaws and filling up to the middle of her shins.

Lasmo grunted and he tapped Wes on the shoulder, bucking as a smaller, second orgasm bubbled up each of the tips of his spunked-up jocks. "Hey, buddy, I think I might--"

"Just go!" growled the coyote, watching as Kyrie's zipper leaked acrid heat-piss onto his fine leather seats, pooling around her ass in a puddle. He wiped his own brow as he felt his own cock stand rock-hard in his spunk-sticky red diaper.

"Mmm, fuck yeah," sighed the shark, and then both tents of his jockstraps turned yellow, then spread to the whole pouch. The shark laid back and then two yellow streams cut through the tops and arced into the open air of the car like twin fountains. The twin streams landed with splatters on the floorboards, and kept on splattering as Lasmo wet himself. In the back, Kyrie fanned herself, her boots full of piss.

"Well, hope you're both happy," grumbled Wes.

Soon Lasmo's jockstraps were completely soaked, tinted a light yellow, and the tops of his thighs were sprinkled with the stuff, not to mention the pool around his own ass. The shark squeezed one, then the other, then patted Wes's chaps with a wet hand.

"You betcha, buddy. You've really come a long way to hang out with depraved people like us."

The coyote's stomach rumbled. "I owe it to myself, just amazing."

The skink cleared her throat and put away her phone. "Wesley and Kyrie, I'm glad both of you are back from your extended illness. I, um, hope you got the flowers that HR sent you while you two were in the hospital."

"Why's it called HR?" the coyote asked, rising from his seat as he navigated the city. "What's the H stand for?" he asked, grunting.

"I, um, am not quite sure," said the skink, "I guess it's a corporate relic."

The car was treated to a sound of crinkling and grunting as the coyote pushed, filling out the back of his diaper. One long, sticky turd slithered out of Wesley, bulging out the seat of the garment and then settling at the bottom, forming a full lump in the seat. It pushed back against the coyote's rump as a second log stretched his ring and collided with the first. Kyrie's nose pulsed as she detected Wesley's dirty diaper.

"Mmmh," moaned Wes, then nodded, sitting back down in his seat and murring as his rump mashed his mess, spreading scat up his buttcrack and across his rear end. They were entering into the more glitzy, gala, and gay portion of town: the inside of the car lit up like a Pride parade at a paintball fight with all the neon going off on all the buildings. "Yes, Sahasrahla, we got the flowers. That was ... a bad commercial for a bad client and while it made a lot, a lot, a lot of money, Ky and I feel that it was blood money."

"While um," Sahasrahla said, fidgeting with the jewelry studs she had placed near her ear holes, "while I only recently approved ... I meanunderstood the type of fetish commercials that F-C does, I can tell you that having watched a few ... having watched all of them ... you and your fiancée put yourselves into your work 110%. F-C is very lucky to have you."

It was the best apology they'd get from the skink. There were times Sahasrahla demonstrated the rigid, stiff, spinster personality of a stereotypical HR employee, even at a company that made advertisements featuring diaper and scat porn. They wondered if it would be only a matter of time before she recommended that any future Wesley/Kyrie commercials force one of them to respectively wear a fake cunt or fake cock for fear of being too "heteronormative."

"I appreciate it," said Wes in a subdued tone, sitting in his warm, soft mess.

Wes and Kyrie had just recently gotten over a case of dysentery, and their three-week stay in the hospital had temporarily soiled their love of decadent diaper play.

Certainly, it had put a hold on bedpans during nurse play.

The commercial in question started out with good intentions, with a new fetish to keep their audience--mostly millionaires and billionaires with intensely decadent, gratuitous, degenerative tastes--on their toes and the edge of their computer chairs as they cranked or schlicked one off.

Kyrie was driving a nondescript car, wearing a soccer mom sweater and mom jeans. Wes was in the back in full baby attire, bonnet, bib, binkie, booties, and of course a big white diaper, strapped into an oversized baby seat.

Wesley, on cue, would lift up his legs and the camera would show the back of his diaper expanding and drooping among audible poots, crackles, and squishes. He would then lose his pacifier and start crying.

Kyrie would be trapped on the highway in bumper-to-bumper traffic, so there was not really any good way to help her stinky puppy, even though she very much wanted to.

"Your mother instincts are on 24/7," the narrator would say, "Will you be ready when they crank into high gear?"

At that point, Kyrie's bust would swell inside her sweater until the knitted fabric was stretched out between her breasts, showing the cleavage through its spread-out threads. Milk would start leaking from them, forming spots on the sweater and then drooling down to her jeans.

Kyrie would hurriedly pull over, stumbling as her breasts grew to the size of basketballs, ripping the sweater altogether, and then she'd nurse her puppy on the highway with the other nipple constantly dribbling, splattering on her shoe. Wes would be kneeling and sucking on her enormous breast, gulping down as much milk as he could. His belly would gently expand as milk ran over his muzzle, bib, chest, belly, and his diaper.

"We work hard for ourselves," the narrator said, "whether it's children, a personal project, or an enterprise."

With the help of a hidden hose and a load of locally-sourced horse manure, Wes would grunt and moan while sucking on his mother's teat on the side of the highway. There would be stares and shouts of derision from the passersby, and then with muffled squelches and farts, his diaper would continue to expand, drooping past his knees to the asphalt, swelling and swelling until it was out past his footpaws, raising him off the ground with the rear waistband stretched out and scat leaking out of the leg guards. The diaper was so big, it looked like the coyote was sitting inside of a beanbag chair.

"Let The International Cabal of Corporatized Bankers help you on your endeavor," the narrator concluded, and then for comedy Kyrie would stumble, unable to support her enormous leaking breasts, and fall face-first over Wesley's head and splat right into the back of his enormous diaper.

That was how Kyrie got her strain of dysentery. How Wesley caught it was in commercial two.

Commercial two was the same premise. This time, Wesley-pup wets his diaper and it swells until it's bending against his thighs, spreading his legs, growing yellow and heavy.

Kyrie's nose catches it at first, then her breasts swell. The sweater stretches and rips only once: there's a false alarm. She relaxes, and then sits up rigid in her car as the camera zooms in between her knees. A wet spot the size of a quarter forms in the crotch of her pants. She fans herself and starts squirming in the driver seat

Traffic is heavy and no one will let her out. She squirms a little more, then whines as the camera shows that spot grow on each thigh to the size of a golfball. It's subtle, but the fennec female is clearly in a lot of discomfort. Some omorashi for the Japanese viewers. As Wesley whimpers in the back, diaper warm and completely smooth for how swollen it is, Kyrie finally can't hold out any longer and moans as her bladder releases.

Over an audible hiss and a money-shot of the fox's jeans going completely dark in the crotch, the spot spreading over the whole bottom of the front, the inside of both her thighs, pooling under her thighs and the car seat, the narrator says, "We work hard for ourselves, bearing not only our successes but our accidents."

But then the dark spot stops, and Kyrie, ears blushing as she sits in a hot puddle of her own mess, starts to squirm as her nipples go erect, breasts swelling and ripping her sweater just a little more. Wesley, as soaked and fat as his diaper is, is clearly in a cleaner more comfortable state, while his mother clearly had an accident of her own while already dealing with her own lactation.

But maybe the mother's not so troubled; she'll enjoy herself a little bit. Make some lemonade, like she already did in the seat of her jeans. Looking around in traffic, she reaches down and squeezes her soaked crotch, murring as her body responds, legs clenching around that invading paw. The fox's middle finger presses against the slit of her anatomy, showing a hint of puffy labia through wet denim.

As she moans, there's a muddy, muffled rasp in the back, and the coyote's legs go up on their own as he makes a sludgy mess in the back of his diaper, which swells out from the car seat and makes him rise up a few inches.

"But, with a creative will," says the narrator, "we can turn any accident into a pleasurable new opportunity."

Then Kyrie's finger is pushed out. The fox looks down, half-curious, half-panicking, and there's a bulge the size of a softball between her legs.

"But do we know which way it's going?"

Kyrie gropes this decent bulge and finds it squishy. In the background there's the coyote's yips, and a few more crackling sounds of flatulence. One can see in the rearview mirror that the coyote's diaper is swollen and hanging like a giant white, yellow, and light-brown beach ball.

There's pops in the fabric of Kyrie's soaked jeans as her own bulge keeps swelling, forcing her own legs apart. Threads stretch and fabric rips, then two wet spots form halfway down each leg of her jeans.

The fox exclaims her confusion, then helps with the tearing of her jeans until she's met with a pink udder the size of a soccer ball, with four bouncy, leaking teats each the size of an average cock.

"You might find yourself in a situation of, 'what now, how could I have forseen this?'"

"What now," Kyrie asks her new pulsating pink organ, her breasts leaking in solidarity, "how could I have forseen this?"

Kyrie then pulls the car over and gets out in full public, waddling against the weight, leaking all over the side of the road as her udder sways and jiggles like some obscene ballsack.

She helps out her baby boy, whose loaded diaper hangs to his knees as he waddles to her. The same angry shouts are heard in the background, fists being shaken along with the gasps of offended mothers and nervous males.

Wesley drops to his knees again and starts nursing on one of the teats, one paw supporting the heavy udder while the other strokes an unoccupied teat like a cock, spraying milk on his face.

"It's all workable. You're a smart, independent hobbyist or entrepreneur. You can fix anything. But what happens..." the voice trails off, and then suddenly tapes appear at Kyrie's hip. Her udder goes white, then plastic, and the teats squeeze out long, thin ropes of brown clay.

Wes breaks off his nursing and coughs as he spits out a mouthful of scat.

"...when it all goes to shit?"

For realism and a quadrupled paycheck, they'd accepted to use real fecal material for all the portions. Then they blew three-quarters of their payout on intensive care, breaking even were it not for the three weeks of suffering.

"I'm just stunned nobody heard of it," Wes said as they pulled into USDABCD Steakhouse's parking structure. Everyone was holding their noses because the smell of Wes's dirty diaper and Kyrie and Lasmo's piss was clashing with the car's luxurious leather scent. "I thought Kyrie and me were big celebrities at this point."

When they got out, Lasmo smacked Wesley's diapered butt and clutched it, squishing his saggy, sticky seat. "You are, buddy, but nobody's going to admit that they spank it to you filling someone's ass while emptying your own."

"God forbid if this stuff goes mainstream," Sahasrahla said with a nervous chuckle, waddling with her heavy wet diaper.

"But is it a sin, as long as we keep it away from children and more conservative folk?" Wes smiled as they were greeted by the hostess at the USDABCD. "Let me add a shower to our package," he told the hostess.

The hostess was a charming female bunny wearing a pink diaper cover with lacy ruffles and a bib over her breasts strategically covering her nipples. She said, "Of course. Looks like you already had some fun!"

"Plenty," Wes said, "but we need some changes."

"Changing room is to the side," said the bunny. Her plump breasts gave plenty of sideboob and underboob."What's the name?"

"Ashford."

Lasmo whistled, adjusting his jock straps which were starting to cling. "So that's your last name."

"It's my middle name," the coyote said. "Came from my grandfather, who fought in the War."

"Never knew you were so noble," said the shark, licking his lips as he watched Wes's lumpy red butt crinkle past him. "He killed some Nazis, eh?"

"Through friendly fire, maybe."

Sahasrahla gasped and Kyrie smacked her forehead.

"You'll find complimentary diapers, rompers, skirts, and bibs in the changing room," said the hostess.

Sahasrahla looked upon Wes with concern as they moved to a side room filled with changing tables, wet wipes, powder, and a rack of showers to the side.

"On that," the skink said as Kyrie helped Wes up to a changing table and opened his dirty diaper, revealing a mess that traveled all the way up to his balls, "Why would you keep his name if he was evil?"

Kyrie knitted her paws, ears a bit red. "Are we really going there?"

"We're all adults here," said Lasmo, stepping out of his jockstraps and throwing them in the trash. He checked his basketball jersey, found it was somehow clean, and wiped his undercarriage before grabbing a diaper.

"To be honest, Sassie," Wesley started as Kyrie wiped his rear. "can I call you Sassie?"

"We are adults," said the skink, slipping out of her wet Cracklers diaper and grabbing a new white one.

The coyote smiled, then set his cowboy hat to the side, on a diaper pail. "Awesome. I kept Ashford because my grandfather ruined it. It's a beautiful Old English name, and it's mine," he said, throwing a thumb at his chest. Kyrie continued wiping his rear, then threw her paws up and pulled him back up.

"To the shower with you," she said, pushing him into a stall.

Wesley continued, shrugging out of his vest and chaps, "My grandfather wins if I allow the name to be scourged. Bastard UK turncoat," he said with a shake of his fist.

"That's noble," said Sahasrahla, taping herself back up, "but why did your mother, Ashford's daughter, give you that name? Did she know?"

The coyote's lips pursed, and he shook his head. He turned the shower on and washed the remaining muck off his rear end. "I don't know. Mom left when I was still in diapers. Dad raised me, single-parent, and did his best. But lots of feelings of loneliness. Potty training came very late; I remember my dad saying it'd be a failure for both of us if my balls dropped into padding. Then he made a joke about diapers being convenient for wet dreams, which I thought I was already having because I had as much control of my bladder as a bureaucrat has over his own conscience."

Kyrie peeled her latex suit off, the material jiggling with the piss she'd marinated in, and threw it away. She joined Wes in the shower, putting her head against the side of the coyote's and holding him tight, nuzzling him. Lasmo shook his head, slipping into his own shower stall. He leaned out to look into Wes and Kyrie's, saying, "That's a rough time, my man," he said, "You really have come a long way."

"Thanks," said Wes, helping Kyrie wash her back, "Dad says he doesn't know whether it was shame that made mom leave, or if the evil finally caught up with her and she abandoned us. Either way," he said with a cough, "I blame the Nazis for my diaper fetish."

Kyrie's head hit the shower wall; Lasmo laughed in the shower, and Sahasrahla groaned, arms crossed tight over her stomach. "If I put that on an HR psych report, I'm going to get laughed out of the department."

Wes tried stroking Kyrie's head, firmly planted against the shower wall, but she smacked him. He stepped out of the shower and turned to the skink in earnest, toweling himself off. "Sassie. I promise I'm telling the truth. As great as my dad was, in the evenings after work he was dead tired. He was a lawyer like you, Lasmo, but not great. Just public defender. I wanted to help him. I learned how to bring him a beer from the fridge before any sort of potty training; ended up being able to ask for diaper changes in full sentences," he said. "Diapers are a security blanket."

Sahasrahla nodded, her jaw stinging from nervous clenching. "That's fine, Wesley Ashford, just be careful. If you drive your car the same way you drive your mouth, you might find yourself wrapped around a tree."

Wesley beamed as he dried himself off, then slipped back into his cowboy gear. "Aww, you do care!" he said. He couldn't find another bandana diaper, but there was a nice solid red one that he slipped on. Kyrie settled on a bib that covered her breasts and a pink diaper, similar to their hostess.

They went to their table, which was a booth on one side fashioned as an oversized couch, and on the other side were two high chairs requiring stepladders to reach. Their waiter, a handsome kangaroo, pleasantly muscular with a more masculine bib and diaper, showed up right on time, walking on stilts to seem way taller than them.

"Wesley," said Kyrie, dumping out a box of crayons and starting to doodle on her placemat, "I thought your incident with Lugo, Kioga, and Evanstrom started the diaper thing?"

"It reawakened it," clarified the coyote.

"Can we get a double ... a triple, of a really bang-up bourbon for the puppy?" asked Lasmo of the kangaroo. "We just learned his dark origin story, so he might become a supervillain with an incontinence ray." he said with a wink. The table laughed, with Kyrie massaging her eyes.

"That is so gross," she commented.

"In a sippy cup, sir?" asked the waiter.

The shark put his hand on the kangaroo's stomach, unable to reach his shoulder due to height. While the marsupial was taller and quite sculpted, the shark had teeth that could rip through leather. "As, fun as it would be in keeping with the restaurant's ABDL theme," he said, "I think that would be a grave insult to the liquor."

"Well, um," giggled the kangaroo. Everyone saw the front of his diaper go yellow and swell. Lasmo, his face only a foot from it, growled lustily and wagged his shark tail. "You see, we have crystal tumblers with handles on the sides. Laser-etched alphabet and cute zoo animals."

"That will be fine," said Lasmo. "No lid."

"Right away, sir," said the kangaroo.

Lasmo blew through his lips when he left. Kyrie crossed out a flower she was drawing and tried again. Wes meekly smiled. Sahasrahla sent off an email.

"Well, I didn't expect the night going that way," offered Lasmo.

Wes offered a half-smile. "Well, thank you for listening, but, I dunno. Nobody can say the N-word anymore, even though I am the grandson of an N-word! I'm twenty-five percent Nazi!"

There was a murmur from the tables around them.

The coyote growled and batted a paw at his dissenters, kicking his feet in his high chair. "Blow it out your asses; you got the equipment!" he said, then sighed, massaging his forehead under his cowboy hat. "Oy vey. We live in sensitive times and it pisses me off."

Kyrie rested her paw on Wesley's, then held up a few fingers at the waiter as he dropped off his bourbon. "Martini, please," she asked, then turned to Wesley. "We live in a time of lightning-fast information," she said, "I don't think it's a wonder why fandoms such as ABDL and Brony are exploding: sometimes, we need a retreat away from all the loud, nasty noises."

Wes nodded, then sipped his bourbon. The liquid cut through his tongue and rushed down his throat like a jet stream of vaporized lava. His jaw dropped, he coughed, and he gave Lasmo a thumbs-up.

Lasmo winked at him.

"Oof. Damn, like liquid gold," he said, then turned to his fiancée. "I agree with you, Ky, but it still begs the question," Wes said as the waiter handed out the menus. "I dunno whether I need thicker skin or if the world needs to calm down."

She squeezed his paw. "Just stick with your buddies. Hopefully both will happen without too much pain." They shared a quick kiss, and were glad to do so without the constant, open-sewer stench of their dysenteric hospital beds.

"Speaking of nastiness," said Lasmo, flipping through a menu of gourmet dishes written in crayon and baby-block letters, "How was getting dysentery?"

Wesley laughed, Kyrie groaned. "Really fucking bad," said the coyote. "You sure you want to do this before dinner?"

"I'll just have the salad," said Sahasrahla to the waiter, "Something not the color of feces."

"Good call," said Wes. "Anyway, here's how it went down."

As Wes relayed it, the disease had gotten so bad, it felt like every time they sneezed, there went another wet, fetid gush from their rear ends, hosing down their metal bedpans with loud, humiliating splashes.

At first, the nurses had tried to keep up with them, but then nurses assigned to their section started calling in sick ... because many of them were getting sick.

Wes and Kyrie were refused diapers, as the hospital-issue diapers were pitifully thin, and the doctors insisted that if they were allowed the big diapers, they'd risk stewing in it and therefore, would have terrible diaper rash on top of all that dysentery.

Then came the final time where, upon a charming young bat nurse taking Kyrie's sloshing bedpan away, Kyrie had projectile-sprayed diarrhea up the nurse's wing and all over her white uniform, from collar to bust to skirt.

The nurse screamed, throwing the bedpan, and ran from the room. The bedpan landed on Wesley's crotch, splashing him with Kyrie's septic nightmare, and the coyote rapidly sat up from the testicular pain, then proceeded to directly mess his hospital bed. It bubbled up on either side of his tail, splurting up his back and over his pillow.

The two were moved to intensive care with tubes shoved up their asses and catheters up their urethras.

As for the nurse, conversely as to what is expected from a pornographic vignette, the bat did not find a deep-seated fetish in having liquid feces sprayed on her.

The table's pre-meal salads arrived in cute plastic bowls with colorful forks. Sahasrahla received a cup of soup with letter-shaped noodles.

"And all we sent were flowers," said the skink. "Perhaps we should have done more."

"A hitman would have been great," said Kyrie, doodling away on her placemat.

"At the time, it was tempting," said Wes, then shrugged. "We're alive now, and doing awesome. Everyone is .... well, I hate to bring this up, but especially Lugo; he might be doing the best," said Wes.

The table groaned, nods all around. Wes twirled his pinky finger around a refilled bourbon glass. Kyrie picked under her claws with an empty plastic cocktail spear with a tiny rattle head at the top, martini half-empty. The pre-meal bread arrived in a cute little rocking cradle, and soups had multicolored letter and number bowls. "It puzzles me," said Wes, "Lugo's really come around the last year. He never shows up on any complaint boards, every team he's working under is done a week or two ahead of schedule and always under budget, and he's always the consultant on the commercials that have just a little less edge, are a lot more wholesome: even if they're depraved in kink, they're not morally wicked."

"That's exactly what depraved means," said Sahasrahla.

"I mean conventionally depraved, you Grammar Nazi."

Sahasrahla sat up in her booth seat, grinning primly. Her diaper crinkled under her skirt as she shifted. "Better than being a real Nazi."

"You can fuck the fuck off, you stuck-up politically-correct complaint gestapo," Wes said with a grin.

"Indeed," said the skink with a giggle, and then she stopped with her spoon in her soup. "Why would you hate to bring Lugo's success up?"

"I, oh hold on," the coyote said, then softly sighed. Kyrie's closest ear rotated, aiming down at his diaper as the front swelled, losing its wrinkles.

"Nice," said Lasmo.

"Mmm, that is nice," said Sahasrahla, "but I can do better."

With a smug, superior grin, the skink released her cloaca, gradually pushing a long, hot lizard shit out into her padding. It slid against the absorbent lining and pushed out the front, tenting her diaper and raising her skirt. Kyrie grinned and bounced her eyebrows, stroking the front of Wes's diaper with her paw while stretching her foot out under the table, stroking the skink's soiled crotch.

The skink groaned as her warm, squishy mess smeared against her slit.

"Okay, interruptions aside," said Wes, "Y'all ever seen the car Lugo drives? I mean duh you have, we passed on the way here."

"I'm not a car person, per se," said the skink, gritting her teeth as she pushed a second turd out, right against Kyrie's footpaw. "I just know I drive a Tokyo Priapist because it's better for the environment."

Lasmo laughed, elbowing her. "You work for a company that goes through more diapers than the ten surrounding nursing homes. If you're scared for the environment, might want to post out."

"Nobody pays what Ferris pays." said the skink. "Don't go out of your way to insult me."

"Hey, everyone shits their pants from time to time. It makes us people; we make mistakes," said Wes. "Tiny and insignificant is the scope of a bully's soul, not mine."

Sahasrahla smiled at that. "So what is the car that Lugo drives?" she asked.

"He drives a crapbox," says Lasmo. "The exact same you see the gangbangers drive: a luxury car from fifteen years ago. These gangbangers think owning a devalued Blumpferwulf, Mercaderc-Bones, or Awoodi will make them appear successful."

"Lugo drives it because he can't afford a new one," said Wes, dipping his bread into soup, "and it's not like the car makes the man, it's the reverse: the man makes the car. Lugo's awesomeness should make for an awesome car. Like me and my Furoti." The coyote puffed his chest out at that one, proudly muching his bread as he sat high in his high chair.

"Ah, same car that snot-nosed Pawvard Yawp students drive," said Lasmo with a sneer.

Wes's fist smacked his chair's tray, bouncing his bourbon. "Those little bitches have daddy's money, and daddy probably got it from some back-alley bureaucratic blowjob sending nukes to Chad on the taxpayer's dollar. Then the Furoti becomes a symbol incest, theft, and betrayal."

Wes was fluffed up now, his cowboy hat shaking on his head as he said, "It's my car, it's my name, and I make both of them amazing," he said, which got laughter and applause from Lasmo as well as the table behind him. Wesley smiled, fanned himself with his hat, and sipped his burbon.

"I like that," said Sahasrahla, buttering a piece of bread. "then what about Lugo, who as you said, drives a shitbox?" She shifted in her seat; her diaper was starting to cool.

"Lasmo said that, but I'll echo that sentiment," said Wes, "Lugo's too magnificent a wolf to be driving a car with rust in the wheel wells."

"Are we ready to order?" asked the kangaroo. His diaper was even more swollen in the front, tinted light yellow. Lasmo leaned in and nuzzled his warm padded crotch. "Oh, sir!" the kangaroo giggled.

Lasmo said into the diaper, "I'll have mine pureed and put in a tiny jar."

Wes's bread dropped. "This is a four-star establishment. My grandfather may have sent diaper lovers to the gas chambers, but he was not a monster. You do not puree a steak."

Kyrie was face-down in her crayons, banging her forehead against the tray.

The waiter patted Wes on the thigh, urging him to sit down. "Sir, our steak puree is of excellent quality and is made of cuts of meat that are not quite the most appealing to look at. Much like a Furoti sportscar that's past its prime," the waiter said with a smile toward Wesley. "We are not monsters, as, apologies, your grandfather."

The coyote beamed. "Why thank you very much," he said, then readjusted himself in his chair. "Anyway, about Lugo."

"What would you like to have, sir?" asked the waiter.

"Oh, I'll have the pickled bull penis," Wes said.

"I'll have the steak at the steakhouse," said Kyrie, glaring at her fiancé.

"Male or female?" asked the kangaroo.

Kyrie's eyes bugged, her muzzle lip twitching. "Just ... surprise me," she said, picking crayons out from her bangs.

"Right away," said the kangaroo with a bow.

"So Lugo," said Wes, "on the other paw, is being held back. He should be able to afford what I drive. Approximately, maybe the base model. Eh," the coyote said with a shrug. "What I'm saying is he's got a stinker in the trunk and it's weighing him down. Financially, he's waddling."

"Oh God, no," said Kyrie, "you're not saying that Kioga--"

"Is his messy diaper. Everyone knows it," said Wes, "and no one's said it to Lugo except me, tonight. I'm just nervous for the two. They're the first couplemarried; is he gonna be the first one divorced? It's a sloppier mess than beer-shits after St. Patrick's day."

"I really hope they make it," said Sahasrahla, twiddling her thumbs. She fanned herself, spreading her legs as she felt her cloaca relax and spill urine into her soiled briefs.

"They're adults," said Wes, "Either they do or they don't. Reality is not affected by wishfulness."

"They seem like such sweethearts," said the skink.

Kyrie's nose twitched. "Hey, Sassie, how about us girls go powder our noses? Seems like yours could use a refresher," the fennec said, tapping the side of her own muzzle.

"That will be fine," said the skink, then slid from her seat. The two left for the changing room.

Lasmo leaned back in his seat, sipping his drink. The shark spread his legs and then there was a little hiss, which he showed off proudly with the side-by-side wet spots in his diaper, watching Wes in his high chair. The cute cowboy coyote's booted footpaws hung out in empty space, his chaps hung off his naked legs, his vest showed off his bare chest and sculpted tummy, and that sexy red diaper reminded Lasmo of that jack-off session they had in Wes's car.

"Gonna have the valet service clean the car?" Lasmo asked.

Wes was sipping his bourbon from the double-handled crystal sippy. He nodded. "I had the hostess send out for a detailer."

"I think I'm gonna ask her out."

The coyote's ears went back, folding against his hat through the little ear holes. "Who, Sassie? You two are nothing alike."

"That's what I like about her," said the shark, "she's virtuous, and she's still a dirty bitch with those diapers."

"Any political debates will explode into arguments."

"Nah, she seems smarter than that," Lasmo said, rubbing his lower stomach, which rumbled. "I like you too, Wes."

The coyote's tail wagged. "Heh, we've had a lot of fun. Remember the parking garage, where you fucked me and Kyrie in the ass?"

The shark licked his teeth. "That's how we met. But I really, really like you, Wes. You're a smart puppy and a rockstar at work. You're also really sexy."

The shark got up from his booth, showing off his diaper, which was stretched out from his hips on two erect pricks.

"Well, that's what happens when you're at the top," said the coyote with a polite smile. "Everyone seems to want a piece of you."

The shark crawled over the restaurant table, stretched-out diaper shifting from side to side. Wes felt his own cock grow and push out into its padding. "I'm in a lot of trouble, Wesley Ashford. Even if Sahasrahla and I hit it off, sometimes when I'm balls-deep in her cloaca I might be thinking of you."

Wesley nervously clicked his boot heels together as that shark, his dorsal fin sticking up straight, swam right for him. "You'll just have to make due, Lasmo; we made promises to our wives to be--"

The shark put his lips against Wesley's and put his tongue in the coyote's mouth. The coyote murred, his toes curling inside of his boots, and then he relaxed his bladder, wetting his diaper as he made out with Lasmo. Hot urine streamed from his cock into the padding, pouring over its length and his sheath and his balls, and the shark reached down just in time to grope it, feeling that stream through the absorbent garment, feeling the diaper swell.

Wordlessly, Lasmo got up and put his knees on Wesley's high chair tray, pushing the crotch of his semi-wet diaper in Wesley's face. The coyote's tail wagged as he assented, nuzzling and sniffing at Lasmo's crinkly briefs. Lasmo sighed and relaxed, humping at the coyote's muzzle as he let his own bladder go, two streams shooting into the padding and weighing down the front.

The tables around them gave out rumblings and purrs of approval; there was even some applause.

Wesley's cock went rigid in his soaked padding and he humped into it, pistoning his hips in his high chair. With a mischievous and lusty smirk, Wes pulled the front of the shark's diaper down and let those pissing cocks spring free, showering his face and chest with fresh shark urine.

"You naughty boy," groaned Lasmo, waggling his hips to distribute the spray.

"Sorry, sirs, we'll delay your meal!" said a panicked kangaroo, rushing with the bunny hostess to set up a curtain around the two and their public fuck.

"Keep going, woo!" shouted a table two spots away from them.

The kangaroo and bunny gave up, dispersing to other tables. A public spectacle like this would mean lots and lots of drink orders.

Wes pulled the waistband of his own diaper out, letting Lasmo's piss trickle over his sculpted stomach and into his cock's warm, swampy prison. Lasmo responded by putting one of his cocks in Wes's mouth, and now was pissing down his throat and down his chest. The coyote greedily gulped the salty, musky liquid, groaning and humping his hot soggy padding as Lasmo soaked his chest and as his erection grew in his diaper.

He swallowed and Lasmo's cock popped out of his mouth. The coyote burped, rubbing a paw over a stomach swollen with pee. He humped his heavy fat diaper in his high chair, gasping for air.

"I really gotta get off," he groaned.

"Not yet, you sexy little bitch," said the shark, stroking his hardening hemipenes in his lap. Wesley leaned in to take the other one into his mouth, and Lasmo generously assented, sliding the organ over his tongue until he was making sweet love with the length of Wes's maw.

Wesley gulped and gulped as the hot, huge hard organ filled his mouth, Lasmo's stomach and groin pistoning in front of his vision over and over. Wes spread his legs and moaned, feeling the weight of his piss-filled diaper hang from his throbbing erection.

"More," grunted the shark, then he pushed his other cock against the first and shoved both into Wesley's mouth, stretching the coyote's cheeks. The shark let his semi-dry diaper sag down his thighs; it was blocking everything anyway.

Wesley yelped and gasped, feeling his jaw stretch as the double-cocked shark fucked his mouth. It was pure ecstacy, this bigger, stronger, slyer male rolling over him in pure pleasured lust; Wesley didn't know which of them was having more fun.

Pretty damn mutual, either way.

Lasmo hilted his cocks in the back of the coyote's throat, and Wesley gasped through his nose which was scrunched right up against Lasmo's lap. His own cock throbbed in his swollen diaper, and he hoped to God in the middle of all these people it wasn't leaking.

Lasmo's piss was doing that from his fur, anyway.

Lasmo took a few breaths himself, pulling his basketball jersey up to his face to wipe some sweat, then a stomach gurgle led to a fart, blowing right behind the saliva-soaked shark balls that were resting against Wesley's chin.

Wes cringed at the smell, which hovered over him in a humid cloud. He pushed his nose firmer into Lasmo's stomach, snorting musk instead.

"We're gonna make this extra spicy, okay?" said Lasmo, ripping off his own diaper and throwing it away. He stroked Wesley's cheek, feeling his cock through it, "But no cumming until I come."

Wesley gagged, drooling from the corners of his stretched-out muzzle, and managed a "You too," while two swollen shark cocks constantly drooled pre down his throat.

Lasmo grabbed Wesley's cowboy vest and helped him sit up a bit in his high chair. The slick slide of his diaper across the seat told him that thankfully, he'd not leaked.

"Open that bad boy up again, I got some company for that hot doggie dick of yours," said the shark. A gut gurgle from the shark made Wesley groan, but his hard-on beamed in its wet padded oasis.

Taking a loud swallow of the shark precum pooling in his throat, rubbing his bloated, sculpted belly, Wesley fumbled with his pleated plastic waistband and pulled the front open.

"Is this sanitary?" asked one of the other tables.

"Calm down, Janet; that's Wesley Ashford. He survived dysentery; he's an expert!"

Lasmo braced himself, raising his tail and putting his paws on his thighs, careful to keep Wes's head in his lap.

Wesley leaned his head back, letting the shark's cocks pop out of his mouth, spit flying everywhere. "If you're using my diaper, I wanna watch," Wes said. Lasmo nodded, grunting as he let out a wet poot.

The coyote kissed the tip of Lasmo's left cock, then started suckling on the right. One of his paws stroked Lasmo's free cock; the other held the front of his diaper open.

"Just like that, hot stuff," moaned Lasmo, stroking Wesley's hair. The shark farted and then sharted, a jet of liquid feces squirting out and painting Wes's stomach and diaper front with a thick brown gooey streak. Barely a splat made it into the coyote's diaper.

"God damn it, sorry," Lasmo said, blushing in his smooth cheeks and lovingly stroking the coyote's headfur, watching him suckle. Down below, Wes's nose pulsed with the musk of Lasmo's maleness mixed with the rank, fishy stink of shark shit. There was a small splatter on each ofLasmo's thighs, and the underside of his tail had a shiny mocha stripe.

"Try again," said Wesley, taking his paw off Lasmo's cock to reach under his balls. He found the shark's wet, shitty slit and slid a finger in, shark syrup squirting against his knuckles.

His finger found the tapered head of a turd in Lasmo's colon. Cock in mouth, Wesley giggled and then teased that log, tickling the tip and then around the shark's rectum until a loud, thunderous gurgle, like an underwater volcano, blasted its way through Lasmo's bowels and made the shark groan.

"Shit, here we go, Spelunker Sal," Lasmo moaned, then started fucking Wesley's mouth as the coyote removed his paw and wiped it on the shark's slick, muscular leg.

As Wesley serviced one cock, then the other, and then both, he watched in glee as a shiny brown snake burst down from behind the shark's balls and shot like a torpedo down into the diaper, landing alongside Wes's exposed cock and then curling around it.

Wesley whimpered at the new warmth cradling his cock, finding himself twitching to hump it as a second long rope of shit dropped on the first, breaking across Wesley's hard sex. Lasmo's dicks were again drooling with precum, and the coyote couldn't help but keep up his face-fuckingre as the shark shat a third log into his diaper, enveloping his sheath, shaft, and balls in warm, stinking clay.

"That's it, boy," Lasmo groaned, which cued Wesley to let his diaper snap closed and attend to Lasmo's lap full time. Wesley leaned forward to gulp on those two cocks, then gasped himself as he felt how full the front of his diaper was. By the feeling of it pushing against his thighs, Wesley guessed this turgid, turdy mess was nearing the size of a football, just a giant squishy, swollen bulge hanging between his thighs and off the chair like a hyper-cock in a jockstrap.

The feeling inside was sublime: the coyote's cock was surrounded in squishy shark dirt, every thrust a warm muddy mess. With reckless abandon and the crowd around him cheering, Wesley slurped and sucked at those cocks as he fucked Lasmo's shit.

Lasmo was getting close because he was getting quiet, resting his paw on Wesley's head and just keeping in time with the thrusting. Wesley had him, literally, in the palms of his paws, blushing and humping like a sex-crazed robot. With lust and mischief in his head, Wesley stuck a finger back up Lasmo's messy ass, then started alternately digging at his prostate and at any loose chunks.

"Fuck, that's good, wait, what are you doing ... " Lasmo muttered, then gasped as Wesley poked at the wrong place, causing Lasmo's guts to clench, his ring to spread, and then another turd to pop right out and onto the table behind him. Blushing red with humiliation, smelling his own stink as the coyote's relentless mouth continued to luxuriate his cocks, he tried to say, "You are such an assho...oh, oh, oh shit!"

Lasmo gasped and then Wesley pushed him back, falling right onto his own scat as his twin cocks erupted, spraying up into the air and then splattering all over his chest and face. Wesley grinned in reverie and gave his fat, full diaper a few more thrusts, letting his tongue loll out as his own cock spurted that final substance into the stinking clay surrounding it in the fat, wet crapsack hanging from his hips.

Lasmo tried to glare at Wes, but he was drunk in the afterglow. He looked beautiful, bottomless in that basketball jersey, even if his cocks were still drooling paste and his tight, pretty anus had a streaked brown blast radius.

"We're, uh, never getting to A Beady Hell, are we?" asked Lasmo, trying to slide off the table without smearing any more crap on his rump.

Wesley moved to get out of his high chair, then stumbled when five pounds of filth yanked at his hips. "We'll get there eventually," he said. "Just need a change, and a shower, and a steak, and oh man."

He stumbled again, then looked down at his diaper, stunned to see its bulge was wider than his thighs. "I think we'll take a couple more bourbon whiskeys, too."

~~~

"Do those two just fetishize offensiveness or is it just some dominance battle of the alpha-males versus anyone with good sensibilities?" complained Sahasrahla, the pink skink crinkling as she literally powdered her snout.

"I don't know, Sassie," said Kyrie, brushing out her face fur with a tiny comb, "I think it's just in the male genome to be the fiercest and toothiest: protect your friends, protect the tribe. I guarantee Wes or Lasmo would bite the nuts off anyone who actually wanted to hurt you."

The skink rolled her eyes, her nose pulsing. The new perfumed powder had reset her sense of smell, which brought her crappy diaper back to her attention. It had been pure white and it hung under the skirt, which made its faded, soiled front and bottom fairly obvious. She honestly couldn't hold back a blush: this was the first time since infancy she'd been waddling around in a loaded diaper. It felt great, but the stink and the impending rash was bringing the fun to a close.

"You really think I'm their friend?" Sahasrahla asked, paws trembling as she squished her firm, warm crotch, feeling the slime slide against her. "But we hold such different world views."

Kyrie had her bib between her teeth and was examining her plump breasts, seeing how much she could squeeze them until the nipples squirted. She wasn't pregnant, at least not yet, but her biological clock decided to strike high noon. "One, you're fun to be around, even with the different opinions. Two, who knows? They might see you as a valuable perspective to compare their own against. Steel sharpens steel."

The skink smiled, staring at Kyrie through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The fennec fox was absolutely gorgeous, tan-furred, white-hot sex appeal in a frilly pink diaper wrapped around curvy, sensual hips, a bib that rested against the erect nipples of a plump set of breasts, and a bonnet sitting like a lacey tiara between her enormous, fern frond ears. "I'm really glad you think so. It's good to hang out with people who, while sometimes rude, are a little more courageous and snarky than the neurotic spinsters in HR."

Kyrie held out her fist, and Sahasrahla took a few seconds before she realized what it was. The skink bumped her own fist against the fox's. "Welcome to the Crew, intern," said Kyrie.

The skink bounced on her footpaws, skirt hopping up and diaper swinging. "Wow, really?"

"I don't see why not."

One of the toilets flushed and the fennec fox grinned, nodding back at the stall. "Hmm, looks like we got a quitter," she said, then felt her own stomach rumble. "I, on the other paw, will be a VIP at USDABDL. Girls poop too, as I clearly see you've found out."

Sahasrahla felt her own tail wag. "Can I watch?" she asked.

Kyrie shrugged, turning around and bracing herself against the sink. "Sure, I guess so," the fennec said, then grunted as she raised her tail.

"Actually, hold on," said the skink, rushing to the fox and putting her paw against the rump of Kyrie's diaper, as if it'd push the mess back in.

Kyrie lurched, leaning over the sink, bib hanging free of her chest. "Oof, hold on," she said, "I'm prairie-dogging, so let's hear your idea quick."

"Get on the changing table," said Sahasrahla. The skink's heart was beating in her ear-holes, and her cloaca started to tingle not for the mess rubbing against it, but the fantasy she had in mind.

"Doesn't that come later?" asked Kyrie, then yipped as she felt something warm and firm push at her back door, spreading the ring. "Okie doke, okie doke; I'll do it," the fennec said, then waddled to the table as the skink opened it up.

Sassie couldn't control her blush, soon finding herself glowing like a pink neon sign. She stroked the fennec's chin. "There, there, my sweet Venus; we'll get your relief."

The skink lowered the tray of the diaper changing table, then helped Kyrie lay down on it.

"I, what, just like this?" Kyrie asked, bending her knees and spreading them apart.

"No, better," Sahasrahla said, then grasped Kyrie's diaper tapes and pulled.

"What, hey," Kyrie said, but didn't stop the skink as the reptile opened up her diaper and pulled the front, yellow and swollen flap out to lay under her naked buttocks as a landing strip. As another treat, Sahasrahla pushed Kyrie's bib up, revealing her full, swollen breasts. The fennec's pussy, exposed and moist from arousal and her wet diaper, was pink, shiny, and a little puffy, pulsing with need. Underneath, her tailhole clenched and spasmed.

"I'm, uh, not going to last long," the nude fennec said.

Sahasrahla, her cloaca pulsing as she looked on at the fox's labia, smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips touched, then the reptile's blue tongue slipped inside. Kyrie moaned and arched her back as the pink skink put a couple fingers against her piss-wet clit and rubbed.

The traffic in the women's washroom stopped, and a crowd started to form around the public fucking.

Her ears dialing into the murmured sounds of lust and amazement, the insides red with blush as people watched their public exhibition, the fennec whined and humped at the invading fingers, her own tongue sliding against the skink's, breasts dribbling milk, then gasped as Sassie slipped a finger in, teasing the sensitive inner walls. Finally, Kyrie unclenched, and she spurted against the skink's finger as her tailhole pushed out a long, thick log onto the pillow of her open wet diaper.

"That's it, my princess," Sassie whispered, then thumbed Kyrie's clit as she pushed another finger in. The fennec fox whined into the skink's mouth as she squirted into her paw and pushed harder, squeezing out a second turd alongside the first. The skink kept stroking Kyrie's cunt, thumb on the clitoris and two remaining fingers on the lips, fucking her canal to the grunts and whines of the fox.

Sahasrahla broke the kiss and helped the gasping fennec sit up, whispering soothingly into her ear as Kyrie's tailhole opened around a third roll of scat. "Come on, that's it," said Sassie, "breathe and push."

Kyrie could only moan in pleasure and dismay as her entire pelvic region clenched and pushed, her pussy spurting into the skink's paw as if it was pissing as she publically crapped into her open diaper, laying feces as if she was laying eggs.

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck," she moaned as she pushed that third turd out, helplessly watching her body dump everything below the waist. Sahashrahla merely cuddled close and kissed her cheek as she pinched that final one off.

The audience around them applauded, and Kyrie rested her head against the skink's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered, looking down her nude form, warm in the afterglow. She tried not to look past her groin at her wreckage below. The skink and fox remained there for a couple minutes, the skink rocking the fox back and forth as Kyrie cooled down, silently contemplating a second round.

One of the ladies left the restroom, and then in a few minutes their bunny hostess in the pink diaper entered carrying a box of wet wipes. "Can I help you?" she asked, and Kyrie could only nod as the bunny carefully extracted her soiled diaper out from under her and then pushed a cool, wet towel against her anus.

"This is so great," Kyrie sighed, leaning back against Sahasrahla.

wYou're very welcome, Mrs. Danvers-Schitzwaffel."

The fennec barked, shooting upright so fast that she jammed the hostess's thumb. "Oh fuck, that'll be my last name, won't it..."

"It's not the worst."

"Yeah, only because I schitz all over the place," she said, then covered her face, leaning back as the hostess continued to clean her groin and tailhole. "Igotta say, I really got my life together."