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Here lay Ferris-Chalmpers, making yet another genius commercial slowly subverting the already decrepit state of moral America. While it had been an excellent step for furry kind to give equal opportunity to all species and genders, eliminating injustice, the first world was now rewarding itself with vice, becoming the equivalent of fat, alcoholic ex-celebrities.

"You either die a hero, or live long enough to become your own villain," grumbled Patterson Peters, a beige-brown-white otter who, through careful self-grooming, had managed to curate his coat into pleasant blended swirls, like cream stirred into coffee. He was in his early twenties and had witnessed the rise and fall of internet Commies V. Nazis, and had grown so fucking tired of it all.

On one side of the sunny beach island of Tabb-Steyel Reef just off the coast of South Carolina, palm trees whispered in the cool breeze under a sky as blue as melted sapphires while a huge single gem, the sun, bathed its kingdom in warm light. In this paradise environment, where warm, soft sand squished between the toes and ocean waves gently hushed upon the shore, Director L. P. Davis presided over the filming of a volleyball game surrounded by a tiki bar, teak lounge chairs and umbrellas, and an inlet spring made into a hot tub with a little engineering.

Patterson Peters sat off to the side in a pair of netted swim trunks and his chin in his paw, working as catering staff for the one, the only, the dreaded Ferris-Chalmpers LLC.

It was the only job he could get, and he could feel his conscience's moral bank account bleeding out day by day.

A virile and energetic young male, this volleyball game should have entered all the launch codes so he could go Defcon-5 in his trunks: ladies of all sorts of predator and prey species were smoking hot, with firm torsos and thighs, firm butts and friendly faces, and a lot of thick hips and big, bouncing breasts in bikinis.

There were even a few males in the crowd, some attractive, happy, and aggressive boys and men that he admired, though didn't desire: the speedos were full and the chests were firm, and they even had a couple of token "husky" males to appeal to the average viewer.

The place should have been humid with sex: he should have been wagging his back-tail while he tried to keep his "front tail" from springing up and ripping his shorts off. The problem, however, wasn't in his shorts: it was in theirs.

Almost every actor at the volleyball game, at the tiki bar, at the hotspring, anywhere the camera was pointed, moving their hot, tight bodies, their energetic smiles, should have been a fantasy and an emergency situation for handsome, horny, and lonely Patterson Peters. With everyone in swimsuits, there should have been less than an eighth-inch of fabric on any given person between their soft, sensitive labia or their thick, meaty cock and the fresh air: bulges and camel-toe, bouncing and running.

The problem, however, was that there was a quarter-inch between genitals and the gentle breeze; the bikinis and speedos were a little too thick. Patterson cringed as he saw one of the actors, a broad-chested male cobra, pause off the side of the volleyball field and stare off into space. The otter frowned as he watched the front of the speedo swell and smooth out, erasing any contours of a penis resting over two testes.

"Urinating on yourself like a toddler; why would you ever ..." grumbled Patterson, but he didn't want to finish the sentence. The world was full of subversions and vice, sliding slowly but surely like a glacier toward an ocean of fire.

The commercial itself wasn't even for any sort of incontinence wear but for a cleansing lifestyle drink with Chinese vitamins older than China and minerals of the Earth just-recently discovered. It was a ploy to sell flavored water at eight dollars a bottle, and the powers-that-be used Ferris-Chalmpers to take it one step further, sneaking lightweight swim diapers onto everyone involved. This wasn't to spread the message of incontinence--four percent in the USA was a small minority--but to normalize the act of pissing yourself with your friends. Or worse.

Then there was the Director, Mr. L. Perry-Davis, an imposing muscular wolf in his mid-thirties that had hired the otter in the first place. He was an excellent boss, very intelligent, but he wore his horrible fetish with such casual ease that it didn't even seem like a kink to him anymore, or even a lifestyle ... just a life.

Mr. Davis wasn't in a faux-speedo like every other male, but rather a set of khaki shorts and a polo-shirt over his enormous chest. He carried himself as a professional, asked about a person's day with a combination of interest and detachment that left the recipient totally free to answer. They could give him the blithe and impersonal answer, "fine, yours?"; they could blather on and on about the newest superhero movie; or they could even open up their heart and dump every gallon of blood out on the table in front of him. With any of the three ways, Mr. Davis would cry, smile, or chuckle with them and them wish them a good day.

He was perfect, which made Patterson all the more wary of that white, pleated waistband sticking out the back of his shorts.

The otter stood up and started restocking the food, making sure the coffee was fresh, the salmon sashimi was cool, and the pineapple pizza was hot. A few furs came by his table, including that cobra with the diaper-speedo among a few females.

As they picked at the food, nodding with smiles that it was fresh and delicious, Patterson wagged and opened his mouth to speak to a female rabbit with flowing blonde hair and breasts bigger than his paws.

"Funny how much effort goes into a sports drink comm--" he started, then his eyes flashed down at her bikini bottom. He saw it was swollen and soft between her thighs, a moist bulge where there should have been just a slip of fabric.

She looked up, meeting him with shimmering green eyes and a mouth full of pizza. The rabbit hurriedly chewed her food and swallowed, smiling with pizza sauce. "Sorry, what's up?" she asked. She was leaning toward him, face bright with interest, nipples forming points on her bikini.

His sheath stirred in his shorts, but he could smell her moist, miniature protection from here. Perfume of lilacs and piss. "Nothing; I was talking to myself," he said.

The rabbit's buck teeth were big and white as she grinned, glowing with the sun and the warmth of a good day. "You were talking pretty loud; must have been interesting. Share some for the rest of us!" she said, then with a giggle ran back out to the film scene with the rest of her crew.

The otter's eyes widened and he shook his head as he watched her run, the back of her swimsuit a mere strap that went up the middle of two thick, bouncy rump cheeks and an adorable fluffy tail.

He didn't know whether people were legitimately flirting with him or teasing him. They knew he had never worn a diaper in twenty years ... aside from that one time. They knew he was only doing this for the paycheck. They knew that if he got his mouth going, he could be a bit of a dick.

But they also knew he was healthy, young, and too intelligent to be a catering boy. He would be a great catch, once he got a good job.

"They know I'm pure," he told himself, "But do they want to despoil me or enjoy me?"

Pat got to work on the next set of pizza and sushi, then made sure the margarita blender had plenty of ice. "They're having plenty of fun; what harm would it be if you joined..."

The otter happened to look over at the game as that rabbit moved off to the sideline, holding her flat white stomach. He told himself to look away right now, post-haste, but he instead stared straight on.

Originally just a strap that went between her cheeks, her bikini tented beneath her tail, exactly in the wrong area, exactly in the wrong way, and then it stretched more and more, forming beneath her pert, exposed cheeks from a tiny purse into a solid, lumpy pouch. Then, as if nothing happened, she leapt back into the volleyball game and the cameras rolled once more, that pouch swinging between her thighs as she jumped and frolicked.

Patterson frowned, watching those athletic bodies of the rabbit and the cobra cavort with thickening speedos and bulging bikinis.

"Hanging in there, bud?" asked a familiar voice.

"Oh, hey Mr. Perry-Davis," said Patterson.

The wolf put a heavy paw on his shoulder, smiling. He was about twice as thick as Patterson in every direction and towered a head taller than him. Patterson wanted to admire him, but when he walked, Patterson could hear the rustle of his undergarments. The otter wondered if it was his paranoia that amplified the sound, or if his ... briefs ... were just so cumbersome.

The otter couldn't help but get his nose pulsing as the wolf got close. Mr. Perry-Davis smelled all right, a hint of masculine cologne that blended well with a clean, inexpensive shampoo, but Patterson had been fooled before: he would be enjoying the wolf's company, making sure the food and drink table was dressed-to-impress actors and executives alike as a casual snack, yet be within the budget, and then bam, there'd be the stink of the raw, wet excrement the wolf was hiding in the back of his pants.

Patterson found his eyes searching down Lugo's defined abs to his shorts, trying to trace out the undeniable outline of something huge, bulky, and only one moment, one movement away from a nasty surprise.

A breeze came by and teased his undercarriage, reminding him that he was just a thin pair of swimwear and its mesh supportive liner from the naked world. Part of him said he was underdressed, absolutely naked since there was a clear route straight to his sheath and testes, but that was exactly this commercial's subliminal propaganda. Submit to the hedonisticlife: no bladder control, no bowel control, no brain control. Everything relaxes and leaks out.

First these actors, and then all of America and Europe sucking up this filth, would accept the ... adult diaper ... as an acceptable recreational catch-all for their bathroom inconveniences. They would become nose-blind to the piles of feces in each other's pants, but what about the bacteria?

Then comes another medicine, something that immunize against progressively-strengthening microbes while having the side-effect of drowsiness and anal seepage. The first world becomes sleepy and lazy, and in twenty years they are all helpless children, walking or crawling to their next convenience with soiled diapers only the bravest would change. Changing themselves would be as a drug addict sobering himself enough to enter public and get to their next fix.

Third world immigrants, those seeking fortune and/or conquest, would move into this brainless, baby America. The hard-working members, their brains unfogged from childish comforts and their bodies not weighed down by their own waste, would shoot through the ranks and take over the jobs as best as they could learn. Perhaps even a few CEOs for the especially industrious, able to learn the language and the systems and the culture their business needed to serve. And horror be to the diapered Americans and Europeans when the thugs seeking conquest arrived at their shore. Unfettered by the sewer stench not-unfamiliar from the poorest sections of their home countries, they would rob the people blind.

And it all starts with this handsome wolf, in khaki shorts and a stretched polo t-shirt, softly smiling at him while his actors ran about behind him with steadily thickening swimsuits. The one person who would actually hire him, whose eyes briefly glazed over as a liquid hissing sound hit Patterson's ears, and the front of his shorts slowly expanded into a thick, smooth, telltale mound.

This was the world Patterson Peters was inheriting. A world that would not end with a bang, but with a lullaby.

Patterson glared at Lugo. "Just take a shit and get it over with."

The wolf's eyes refocused and he smirked. "You first."

~~~

In his optimistic, post-eighteen life, Patterson Peters had gotten a degree in mechanical engineering; he was clean, quick, and smart with his designs. Engineering was pure: it was the creation of material objects to further the abilities of the furry race. There were no politics or social concerns, just structures and devices which the braver or more reckless could use to deal with those murkier, more ambiguous topics.

He was making the guns, not fighting the war.

However, his first internship had been cut short when he strode into a gaggle of coworkers fussing over a design system, unable to marry an elegant, lithe structure to the necessary cooling components. They'd been squabbling for half the morning, and he highlighted the whole area and deleted it.

"If it doesn't make sense, don't fucking use it."

They showed him the door.

His austere personality barred him from several jobs. He'd show up to interviews with his resume: had graduated with honors, had freelanced for banks, hospitals, factories, streamlining all sorts of systems, but when he opened his mouth, they opened the door.

"But I'm an engineer. I'm supposed to cut through the bullshit!"

Slam.

In another interview, "Mr. Peters, we're admittedly over-represented with handsome male otters at the moment, but a resume like this doesn't come around too often. Just one question, sort of a character test. The personality defines the person, you know! If you cannot work with society, then how can you create items for society's use? Function follows form."

"That's backwards."

"So. If the female is alone in a shared workspace, how would you avoid initiating eye contact with your fellow, equal coworker, Mr. Peters?"

"I ... I don't know how to answer that," he said, pawpads on his resume, his eyes glancing down at his lists of accomplishments. "Th-hat's like asking me how I move my bowels; it just happens. On my command, of course. But how do you initiate eye contact? Doesn't that require two parties? If I ask her a question, she'll probably look at me."

"Do you think that could create an intimidating work environment?"

His resume crinkled as his paw flinched.

"Not in the scenario I outlined."

"Well, we're in disagreement, there. Just because you are not acting in an intimidating manner doesn't mean that your actions are not intimidating. Add to the scenario that you're male, and intelligent, and physically fit, and straight, and speak in a cold, emotionless manner, and women could shy away from all of that."

A bullet clicked into the chamber, and the hammer struck the pin.

"Are there not company-sponsored therapists?" asked Patterson, his ears burning.

The interviewer sat up in her seat. "Of course! Would you like to see--"

"Are there not health programs that pay for counseling?"

"Of course, included with full-time employment."

"Good, good!" said Patterson with a chuckle. "I was worried there for a moment."

The interviewer smiled. "I'm glad you're satisfied. They're at your convenience whenever you need them."

"Oh, not for me, but for her," he said, and the interviewer's smile dropped. "If my coworker is intimidated by eye contact, then she has far more pressing mental problems."

The interviewer struck the desk.

"Some of these female and female-identified employees do not engage with the pressure of a project-oriented career! They would rather be at home raising children or pursuing hobbies!"

Patterson crumpled up his resume.

"If they'd rather be at home, they'd better do it," snarled Patterson, "And decrease the surplus workforce!"

He threw his resume in the trash and kicked the bin, sending it bouncing against two walls.

Now he was blacklisted as "Testy," and all the subsequent interviews began with, "Now, Mr. Peters, are you seeking therapy or taking hormone blockers for your gonad-induced mania?"

Trash cans flew.

He wound back at home, which was no good for his parents or his brothers and sisters because they all had jobs, and they were all successful.

"He got the Mark of the T," was whispered more than once.

"I just want to build," whispered Patterson one night, rattling through an experimental design on one screen while playing an adventure game on the other. "I just want to ..." and he broke down crying on his keyboard; his forehead ruined the concept.

His accident, however, did help him figure out how to fix Windows Vista, making it the truly beautiful way to operate a PC. He didn't know much programming, but fiddling enough with his drafting programs gave him a little mobility when under-the-hood. He tried to sell the idea to Microsoft, but Windows 8.8.8 was just soooooo innovative, they'd beat Apple for sure.

Windows 8.8.8 was indeed good, but then Apple doubled the price on their Thiccbook and it was just too trendy to pass up. The Thiccbook was the size of a briefcase and weighed twenty pounds. At Apple's annual presentation, the new Apple CEO Jim Clean, even skinnier than Tim Cook and Steve Jobs, had it wheeled out on a dolly.

"What if ..." said Jim Clean, opening up the world's first compact Cathrode-Ray screen, "your pictures, your documents, your webpages, your spreadsheets, your life ... was in black and green?"

"This is the way the world ends," said Patterson, watching it on his paw-pilot, a holographic smartphone from MyBM. He was in his parent's house in the hip Puerto Panuela suburb of Absorban Couer and was sitting on the same bed he'd wet when he was seven and lost his virginity on when he was fifteen.

That was a funny story. Funny as in terrible, not funny ha-ha. He'd popped an erection in the locker room, and maybe it was a trick of the mirrors or maybe he was well-endowed for his short otter size, and the rumors got him the attention of the Cheer Captain, a filly with unbelievable hips.

It started with her on her knees and an awkward handjob, then when she pushed her breasts against his knees he fired off prematurely with an embarrassing amount of fluid, getting some in both nostrils and both her eyes, which gave him the nickname "The Firehose" for the rest of High School. This attracted the most sexual of students and he refused them all, earning a worse nickname: "BOB, the Big Otter Bigot."

"C'mon, let me see that big dick! Betcha it won't make it all the way through my tits."

"What's the matter, Patter? Don't wanna lacquer my tight ass with your hot cummies?"

Patterson growled, "Have you ever thought it's an applicator for reproduction, you semen-soaked tissues, you waste of furrykind?"

In the locker room, his groin turned away from everyone, a folded adult diaper hit the back of his head. "Might need something to catch that load!"

"Don't donate it! The sperm economy will crash."

"He'll form an otter master race! Ottzis!" and then the fucking arms and finger mustaches came out.

Patterson whipped the diaper back at them, his dick half-out and smacking against his thigh. "Get in the showers!"

"Ya wohl, mein frankfurter!"

"God damn, what do you feed that thing?"

"Not the pussy of sinners, that's for sure. Fuckin' pussy fascist."

"This is the way the world ends," Patterson said as Apple's stock price ballooned and flat screen 8K monitors went on clearance, then off the market. "Not with a bang, but with incoherent speech, uneven facial expressions, and a stroke," he said, using his paw to mime an explosion out the side of his skull.

From school to the adulthood that had just begun, Patterson Peters was vilified as an unpleasant person, even a bigot, and so he continued his freelancing with half his effort spent shielding his soiled reputation with his immaculate work. Outbursts became worse, however, and at the peak of his prowess the calls stopped coming altogether. He was a genius, but "Testy."

The nail in his live-burial coffin: "Can you design on an Apple Thiccbook?" Asked the interviewer. He was a thin, well-groomed golden retriever with six rainbow rings in his ear and, since the company advertised itself as "trendy and free-spirited," wasn't wearing business slacks but business slack chaps and a bulging red nylon thong that matched his tie.

Patterson didn't throw the trashcan. Rather, he felt a grumble within his bowels, so he merely stood up and said, "You best be hiring feral monkeys for those antiquated typewriters," and then pulled his pants and his underwear down to his ankles.

The interviewer stared at the dick hanging between the otter's legs, blinded by its majesty for a moment too long as Patterson squat down over the wire mesh trashcan and flexed his abdomen.

"Now, we are all for the delightful self-expression of the sensual and the inspired here at Markum-Chalkham," the thin, well-groomed male golden retriever said, "but is this some sort of--"

First was a short, wet blast of air, then the slimy, slick sound of moving bowels as Patterson pushed the first long, thick, and winding turd out of his body. The retriever gasped, then the otter's anus flexed around the second, which slithered out and piled in the bottom of the wire mesh can. The fecal stink filled the room and lingered as its own humidity.

The dog shrieked, but this audacity, maybe a hidden fetish in seeing a well-hung otter openly defecate before him, stretched his thong tight and had his erection drooling.

"Oh God, you're an avant-garde visionary. When can you start?"

"Fuck you and your monkeys on typewriters," said Patterson, then grabbed his resume and wiped his ass, cringing as the corners scraped his anus. He crumpled it up and threw it on top of the nasty pile, then pointed at the wire mesh can holding his fecal pyramid. "I'm glad that you have appropriate facilities for your potential new hires."

As he stormed out of the office, he caught an unfortunate reflection from a nearby drinking glass: the retriever was leaning over the waste bin, panting and groping his erection as he sniffed at Patterson's leavings.

Twatter prematurely banned him before he ever registered an account.

Patterson languished for a year at his family's suburban home in the pricey, fancy, gentrified, and hip suburb-on-the-hills Absorban Coeur, getting in the way of their maid services and lawn maintenance by trying to do chores for a fistful of bills.

He was good, but much, much slower than the experienced laborers, so he quit soon after he joined. He joined and then quit online forums, and eventually resigned himself to reading old fantasy and romance novels, stories of heroes and villains, swords and sorcery, love and labor lost ... something far removed from the muddled, maudlin modern world, stories pure as a diamond and passionate as a song.

He uninstalled all his internet browsers, only using the connection for online games. He started jogging, ears plugged from public conversations by listening to music, and eyes fixed on the road ahead. One day, a police officer stopped him and handed him a letter.

Patterson pulled his earbud out. "I'm not being served, am I? Don't tell me it's something offensive or 'racist' I said."

The police officer, a male german shepherd annoyed and hardened by years of idiots and thugs, his badge reading Barbrady, rolled his eyes and handed over the envelope. "I should never have transferred here; I'm more of a meter maid than a crime deterrent. Like Zootrovania, 'member? Nope, I was hired to hand-deliver this to you because previous emails and letters have gone unanswered."

"Wait, what?! How does ... who, what, me?"

Barbrady shrugged. "No idea, Mr. Peters. Just sign here so we can end this charade."

The otter saw the logo in the corner: Ferris-Chalmpers, a beneficiary of FreDilecte Fortunes.

Patterson signed for it, then the officer left.

He sat on the street corner, his sweat cooling on his back and groin, his heart beating and his body buzzing from exertion.

Everything went very cold once he read the text.

"Patterson Peters, you're going to become an intellectual incel if you hide away like this. I hate to see the slow suicide of self-sequestration. I've read over your forum posts for my own curiosity, and have browsed the scores of exit interviews in which you've been called insults via a fusillade of polysyllabic and meaningless words. Sad, really: our scientists of the material world are so humble, genuflecting in the way of new information, and yet our psychologists and sociologists claim to know every last mystical property of sex, love, society, and intellect.

They're the modern witch doctors and they have sentenced you, marked with T, to an island full of similarly-afflicted lepers. You are not poisoned by testosterone, but with talent and temerity.

Your brain has a raging erection with nowhere to cum.

I get that. I used to be a fancy French girl in the Swiss Alps, being handled with kid gloves, treated within inches of an invalid adult child. Because bathrooms afforded me privacy, I was not allowed to relieve myself except in chamber pots held by servants, or of course in those adult garments you so rightfully spurn. Not one second in my pre-adult life was I unattended by at least one pair of eyes.

All thoughts and decisions were allowed besides my own, which themselves were neutered by blockers up top and butchery down below. I do not remember my original sex; that slot in my identification is presently marked "X."

I had to break free, and I may have founded a multi-billion dollar corporation along the way. At least my brain could still cum.

We don't have any designing or drafting positions open for you as-of-yet, but I would like to induct you into a work culture of free, lively, ... if a bit decadent ... fellowship founded only toward the end goal of making an obscene of money.

It is an acquired taste, however, and so you may struggle with your Holier-Than-Thou mindset (it is inspiring, just impractical), but we are a truly tolerant company. Not tolerant because people will suck any cock that has "love, peace, and understanding" tattooed across the shaft, but tolerant because we've seen a lot of shit.

It's still a work in progress, because unfortunately people can be so short-sighed in their passions. They worship diapers as not the key to enlightenment, but the destination itself, and so it turns into a dead piece of plastic like every other dead piece of plastic. Summarily, they worship death. But the love of diapers is not the root of all evil: they are an element that can lead to comfort, security, safety, tranquility, and titillation once your spirit is secure. But they will not bring you glory if you did not have glory to begin with.

The root of all evil is the love of evil: of vice, sloth, and empty gratification.

Worshipping a sack of crap leads to a crapsack world.

Also, here's two-thousand dollars because you desperately need a new motherboard and graphics card. You are laggy as fucc, bro, and I saw you on Leaky Legends, you closet pervert.

See you at the interview!

• Xian"

~~~

So the price of his dignity was two thousand dollars. Fine, fine. Better than his parents, brothers, sisters, and their extended family treating him like he had "testosterone cancer."

It wasn't the mysterious weirdo Xian that greeted him in the enormous glass and stone lobby of Ferris-Chalmpers, but rather a handsome, tall, and professional wolf named Lugo that escorted him into a large office with comfortable chairs and a small table to the side of them.

Patterson picked up on a strange, crackling plasticky sound as Lugo walked, and assumed it to be the new-looking shoes the wolf wore.

"Can I get you a drink or a snack, Mr. Peters?" Lugo asked as he sat across from the otter. "Water, a banana, Tennessee whiskey, salmon sushi?"

Patterson blurted, "Whiskey and salmon don't go together."

The older wolf politely smiled, though his shoulders were flexed. "They ... do if you order them together. I was just offering."

Patterson seethed, but he took a few slow breaths. The wolf across from him was reclined, leaning his head on his fingers and watching him. His resume was in Lugo's other paw, held erect and occasionally glanced upon.

"I mean, if you want some Jack and Soosh, all yours, bud."

"In the middle of the day?"

"You're welcome," he said, ears folding.

"Fine."

Lugo waved a fennec over. She was beautiful and had slight curves, amazing for a naturally thin desert species. Patterson chastised himself for wearing regular briefs that day; he felt them tighten as her clothes hugged her body with every move. In heels and a professional blouse and skirt combo, and that strange swishing plasticky sound, she walked to the wolf and leaned a large ear toward Lugo where he said in a calm voice. "East-West Special for our guest."

Lugo's mood was relaxed yet professional, even though the otter had already been pissy with him: shame on Patterson. He blushed in his cheeks and ears, and he put his paws over the tent stretching out his underwear. Everyone was being so nice to him.

The fennec was wonderful, carrying herself in an easy and happy manner, smelling of delicate feminine fox musk and lilac, with a hint of talcum powder. Her thin, curvy body moved with grace, dressed like an executive's assistant, and the skirt against her legs--

Patterson jumped as, when she leaned over to pick up Patterson's resume, the otter saw under her skirt. The fennec's underwear was bleach white and thick, enveloping her groin with a smooth, shiny material without any form besides being poofy and plastic. He tried not to stare but it was huge, eclipsing her bottom, looking like a pair of bloomers or...

The fennec left, and Patterson heard that same ... crinkle... that he'd heard from the wolf.

He cleared his throat, feeling a little cold on the forehead and hot in the trousers. "Was she in a car crash or something?"

Lugo knitted his brow. "Not to my knowledge, no. Did you hit a black Awoodi and your insurance rates went up?"

Patterson fumbled with his lap, attempting to divert the enormous spike driving up the front of his pants, stretching the material between his legs until it cut his balls in two. He knew Lugo could see it: the wolf just wasn't commenting on it.

"No, no, I ... I mean I've heard of people getting into disabling accidents," he stammered, that big blooming plastic marshmallow filling his vision, the garment wrapped around her crotch and hips, staring at him. "B-but was she wearing a diap--"

Lugo snapped the resume and looked back down at it. "Now here it says you assisted with a redesign of Walmart's HVAC system. Just like the self-checkout, you invented self-climate by way of ... insulated shopping ponchos. If the timing's correct, their sudden jump in stock price was your doing. Don't tell me you did the job for a flat fee."

Patterson's ears fell. He thought the cold sweat was all his, but when he looked down he saw the fly of his trousers, and nearly the silhouette of the slit of his cock, staring angrily at him. He squeaked and covered it up. Then imagined himself in a diaper. Just a collared shirt and tie and a big white diaper staring Lugo in the face. He thought of himself relaxing, and then wetting that diaper.

Then Lugo would professionally summon the fennec back, who wouldn't be wearing her skirt anymore, but just her diaper and a collared shirt, and she'd clear off Lugo's desk and say, "Our apologies, Mr. Peters. I guess the interview ran long. Let's go ahead and take a change break, then we can keep going."

She'd lay him up on the desk, then open her shirt, letting her warm, plump desert fox breasts fall out into the cool air, then she would kiss him on the lips and open up his diaper, saying "Oh, what a big, wet boy."

He'd grope her breasts as she stroked up and down his cock, lips pressed against hers and tongues sliding against each other...

"Mr. Peters?" asked Lugo.

"What? Shit! I guess I did." said Patterson, snapping back to the real world. His groin felt oddly hot, and his cock was pulsing, sheath feeling a bit moist. He attributed it to sweat, sitting for a long time. "You'd think I'd make thousands. Or millions. Freelancing is a bitch. "

Lugo's eyes briefly widened when he glanced down. "I'll have my husband help you with that. He's a math whiz, but if Kyrie's undies ... set you off ... then you'd better have a couple drinks before you hang with Kioga. My husband has a couple of disabilities, and yes, he wears diapers."

The otter's heart jumped, and he looked below Lugo's waist. His work slacks were bulged around the crotch with a tell-tale outline. Everyone was a pervert here, and now there was a strange musk in the room: like a freshly sweaty gym sock, or day-old jogging shorts ... warmth continued to spread around his groin, sinking down to his balls and seemingly pooling at the bottom of his thighs.

"Oh, you're gay?" Patterson asked.

"Mr. Peters," said Lugo, holding up a paw. "Before we get into that, um. Did you spill something?"

"What? No, I ..." he started, then he looked down and gasped. His erection was gone, but in its place was an enormous dark spot spanning from the top of his fly, to the width of his groin, all the way down to the center seam between the legs. Mostly dark, it had a thin white film. His underwear clung to his sheath and balls, and he recognized that heavy, sticky stink.

His heart plunged, and his back and forehead went cold with sweat.

"Interview's over, huh?" asked Patterson. "Guess I'll, um, see your boss Xian online and tell him how much I--"

Lugo was buried in Pat's resume and another document, almost theatrically. "No, I still have a few more questions. Go ahead and take care of that spill and be back in fifteen."

"But ..."

"Time is money, chief. Chop-chop."

He felt assured, though his head was spinning as he stood up and his pants stuck to his crotch, squishing and schlicking with every step. Patterson grabbed a newspaper and held it over to his groin, waddling out into the hallway, the beautiful new carpet, the shining glass windows, the white walls, the people milling back and forth, completely in their element.

His underwear was a big, sticky, dripping wad shifting from thigh to thigh. He had sprayed a load of semen all over the inside of his underwear and trousers. Plain as day, he erupted, he jizzed in his pants, in his job interview, and he was being excused just to go change? What bizarro world was this?

And worse, he thought as he pushed into the men's restroom, the stalls and urinals and, cringe, an enormous changing table in the back, how could his own brain betray him like that? A diaper fantasy; what the hell kind of porn was he watching late at night?

Patterson stepped into a stall, shaking his head, pulled his trousers down and sat on the toilet, relaxing. His abdomen rumbled as his sheath tingled, then released urine.

The otter sighed and laid back against the toilet tank, enjoying the soothing buzz of relief as his bladder emptied. His groin still felt very warm, and it was actually getting warmer, but he chalked that up to interview stress. He was actually succeeding with an employer, could actually have a job soon.

The trickle of urine into the bowl seemed to come a lot later than the feeling of release, as if it was stalling somewhere, and the stream seemed to flow from behind his balls, not directly from the tip of his cock. Brain tricks, whatever. The otter stared up at the ceiling of the bathroom, admiring the black marble tiling, the chrome lighting, and admired how the bathroom of this business was more expensive than ... half ... of his parents' suburban house.

"Fucking so cool," he said as he continued to piss, his sheath and balls continuing to feel hot, swampy, and strange, the smell of his urine a lot more pungent than usual. Geez, how much coffee did he have this morning? Whatever. That semen stink was also super sharp, like he'd cum in his paw and smeared it all over his face.

He knew the crotch of his pants were soaked in it, a big white goopy pool between his ankles as his trousers sat there, but he was almost getting drunk off his very male, very territorial body-fluid cologne. Hopefully the bathroom would have a musk-muter by the door.

Then his bowels grumbled again, rectum feeling full, so Patterson let his ring relax and the other waste product flow. It was a big meal, and so Patterson spread his legs, his piss stream pausing, his entire groin still dripping wet, and tried to relax as a thick, solid mass of his stool slid to his anus and pushed.

He felt his ring spread and go warm, then his bowels undulated, eliminating ounce by ounce of scat. The otter felt a weird back pressure, as if his rectum was hesitating, but shook his head and continued staring at the ceiling as he let his bowels give a firmer push. His rump felt warm like his groin did, which was strange, but Pat shrugged it off as stress and continued squeezing. His urine stream picked back up, and again there was a delay in which he felt the liquid flowing and heard it trickling into the water, but almost as two streams. He felt the sides of his rump go wet, where his legs met his undercarriage and where the bands of his briefs sat. Again, this was strange, and coupled with a continuous, tiny back pressure as he disposed of his feces, it gave his brain pause.

It came to him as a latent thought that he'd not heard one splash in the bowl. He thought it possible that it was just one long, continuous rope of feces, but then the smell hit his nose. The pungent stink of his scat was powerful, unmuted, and felt awfully close, much like the time he'd shit into that interviewer's waste bin.

Patterson tried to think what he had for breakfast, but couldn't quite place it. He shifted on the seat, and that's when he felt a weight clinging to the back of his rump, when he felt soaked cotton rubbing against his sheath. Patterson looked down and gasped.

Below him, wrapped around his groin, were his cotton-white briefs turned light yellow, saturated in piss. With his heart beating faster, he looked down past his wet bulge into the urine-tinged water, where not a single piece of his stool sank or floated.

His back and forehead went cold as he slowly stood. Panting, trying not to breathe in as a fresh, raw stink enveloped him, the otter reached back, felt his underwear clinging to his waist, then traced his paw down until he felt a warm, squishy lump hanging under his tail. Shaking his head in disbelief, his other paw snuck back there as well, and the two of them clutched a heavy, sagging pouch full of his scat, hanging off the back of his rump.

Not only had he came in his pants, but he'd accidentally wet himself ... and he'd shit himself.

"Oh, fuck, no," he whispered, trapped in a stall, staring down at his soiled underwear.

There was a knock on the stall next to him. "Hey, buddy, can we get a courtesy flush?"

"Y-yeah, one moment, oh fuck..." said the otter, looking back at the toilet, then squatting over it. He tried to remove his briefs, but as soon as he felt the back of them clinging to his rear end, he let go. He could usually disregard a bad fart, get used to the stink and wave it on, but this kept coming, all wrapped up in a moist sack of poop potpurri.

"God damnit, one sec..."

A set of shoes outside the door stopped, the employee about to leave, then he saw the motions of a phone going up to the fur's ear. "We might have a Code K, Clark."

"A code what? Oh. Oh Jesus," the fur in the stall next to him coughed, then grumbled, then quickly wiped, pulled his pants up, and left.

There was a scuffle in the stalls around Patterson, then a sudden exodus, one employee heard muttering, "I hate this company," and then the door shut.

Patterson heard nothing around him, only the beating of his pulse in his ears and the steady drip of urine from his briefs into the toilet. He felt their weight, the leg bands and waistband pulling as the back drooped, heavy with stool, and the smell kept coming. He felt the skin of his rump crawl, covered in crap, its natural reaction telling his brain over and over that he was filthy and he had to clean himself.

The otter reached for the toilet paper, and his other paw reached for his briefs, then both stopped. He saw his wiping paw coming back covered in muck, and his disrobing paw coming up with a huge, sagging, dripping, wet sack of cotton and crap ready to overturn and drop its load all over the floor.

Then the interview was over. Then he'd be black listed as "Testy" and as ... "Incontinent?" No: as a "Sexual Deviant." He was so poisoned with testosterone he was shitting his pants and loving it.

Patterson pulled his cock out of the front of his underwear, and with the other paw reached behind his balls to hold the mess hanging from his rump, feeling its filthy, fetid weight. If he was going to be a dirty animal, he was going to love it. His cock filled out in his paw, the shaft swelling and the length growing until his piss-soaked penis was long, thick, and ready.

Then the bathroom door opened and a familiar set of shoes clacked into the room, the distinct crinkle-swish of secret underwear accompanying it.

"Time's a-wasting, buddy!" called Lugo in a cheerful voice. "Phew, you all right in there? Looks like you cleared the room."

"Y-yeah," the otter said, shivering in his soiled briefs, cringing as he attempted to tuck his shaft into the soggy pouch, piss squishing all over his paws as he stretched the fabric over his long cock. "You know what they say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I went a little overboard."

Every little twitch made the filthy bulge under his tail twitch, shit clinging to his rump. He flinched and then unclenched, adding another pellet to the pile.

The wolf, visible only by his shoes on the other side of the stall, chuckled as he shifted from hip to hip, crinkling. "Buddy, I know what a Code K is, and yeah, it's named after my husband. You shit yourself in non-protective briefs."

The otter's ears fell. "Yeah."

"How about you come on out and I get you cleaned up?"

Then his ears went red. "I can do it myself!" the otter squeaked, then he stood up and started to wiggle out of his underwear... and it wiggled back... but he tripped on his trouser-shackles and fell forward, blasting through the stall door and into Lugo's arms.

The wolf looked down, frowning as he saw the otter's tightie-whities gone rust brown, a royal, stinking, lumpy mess hanging off Patterson's rear-end.

"Look, bud. Here at Ferris-Chalmpers we go through massive loads every day. You're not even through the interview, and there is already a huge pile of crap you gotta take care of. Let me help. Team environment: let's put our heads together, and dump this load."

"That is a lot of fucking puns."

"Let me help you."

"No homo?"

The wolf rolled his eyes and took a long breath, then coughed as fishy otter shit punched him in the nose.

"Yeah, no homo."

~~~

Lugo helped Patterson waddle over to the table. Everything below the otter's waist was wrecked: his pants were soaked with a load of cum, his underwear was destroyed with all three ejections, sticking to the front and drooping off the back. The wolf applied some minty lip balm to his nose, working against his tightening throat and rolling stomach. Kioga's diet did include seafood, so Lugo had worked through some intense, strange, fishy diaper changes, but this was another level, as if a tsunami blasted the Kyoto fish market and the sun baked it for a few days. If he found a pearl or a gold doubloon in the otter's scat, Lugo wouldn't be surprised.

The otter had gone silent, avoiding eye contact with Lugo as the wolf helped him step out of his trousers, then helped him step up onto the adult changing table and lie down.

"All right, bud; unless you want to fossilize, let's get rid of those."

Patterson turned his head, eyes going wet. His arms cradled inwards and his knees went up. "Just let me leave and take a shower."

Lugo rolled his eyes, applying more mint as the otter's legs went up and revealed that fetid mass hanging between his legs, flopping over his tail. It squished around, soft and solid, and the pile was tall enough that it almost hid Patterson's testes.

"This isn't the worst interview I've conducted," Lugo sighed, taking Patterson's wallet, pens, notebook, pocket change, belt, phone out of his trousers and then throwing the khakis away. The otter rose from his back, propping himself with his elbows, his head spinning as his mess squished against his rump, a giant filthy burden he dared not touch.

"How's that possible?" he asked.

Lugo dropped his own trousers and folded them up, setting them aside. The otter's eyes went wide as the wolf revealed his giant white diaper, and stared in wonder as the muscular male walked back toward him, dressed in a starched white shirt, clean blue tie, and that enormous, crinkling, clean, shining white garment.

Patterson felt his sheath swell in his soaked, sticky pouch and cursed himself for it.

"For one," said Lugo, "You could have shit yourself during the interview, then played it off as nothing as the obvious stain spreads and the stink fills the room. Worse was this other guy, very attractive rabbit, feminine form ... I know you're not one for guys but anyway ..."

As he spoke, Lugo accessed a cabinet hidden in the sheer black marble wall of the bathroom, then stacked up all sorts of cleaning supplies: wet wipes, disposable combs, dry shampoo, rubber gloves. The rectangular mouth of a disposal chute opened forward from the wall.

"He offered me, instead of his resume, which was ... a major in Volcano Sexuality ... you know what a blumpkin is?"

Patterson tried to smirk, having retired to the cloud of his own filth, feeling as if he'd smeared it all over himself instead of the giant shit-wad hanging from his rear. His anus occasionally clenched, trying to pinch off the load perpetually stuck to it.

"If you'd have been here twenty minutes ago, you could have given me one," the otter said.

Lugo chuckled, pacing back and forth, diaper swishing and shining in the light. Patterson tried not to stare at it, and Lugo tried not to notice that the otter was filling out the front of his underwear with a handsome, thick shaft.

"Yeah, well it was the same concept, except in a diaper. I soil myself while getting sucked off."

"Disgusting, but it probably satisfies all animal desires."

Lugo smirked, shaking his head. "Only try it with someone you never want to see again, or want to see for the rest of your life."

The otter laughed, then cringed as his underwear clutched at him. The back was stretched out with his soft, hot, sticky mess, and now the front was tented with his embarrassingly long shaft. He swore it was a Frankenstein transplant, and his eyes widened as it grew to its full length, stretching the leg holes of his briefs out so that he could see into them, and see his beige-brown sac resting on a pile of wet crap.

The wolf quirked an eyebrow. "No homo, dude, but that's impressive."

The otter shrugged. "Eh. Straight people make fun of it and the sluts scream after it."

"What if I wanted a piece?"

Patterson turned to him. Again: big grey wolf. Muscular and confident. Male, but wearing a diaper over all his bits.

"Considering the way this interview's going," said Patterson, not believing the words out of his mouth, but in further disbelief of the wreckage down south and how his cock was standing proud in all of it, "I'll either never see you again or see you every day for the rest of my life."

Lugo nodded, then moved in, undoing his shirt and grabbing a wet wipe.

Patterson just lay back and let it happen: God, this was fucked. This was the price of his dignity; this was the way society was collapsing. This is the way the world ended: not with a bang, but with a splurtch and a giant load in its pants.

He sighed, hips thrusting as he felt the fly of his briefs opened, then felt the soaked cotton move down the length of his stiff, sensitive shaft. Cool air caressed the skin, then Patterson sucked in air as a cold wipe cleaned the tip and the length. He looked down and saw precum leaking from the head, the slit pulsing.

The wolf's paw advanced to the base, gently pulling one ball, then the other out into the open, then cupped them as Lugo bent down over Patterson's crotch and opened his mouth. His tongue came out, wetting his lips, and then a paw with a wedding ring grasped the base of the otter's tall, thick shaft.

"Wait, wait," said the otter.

The wolf had moved in fast; Pat could see a telltale lump in Lugo's padded midsection. He'd really wanted it. Down around his own crotch, soaked with piss and with a massive load cooling between his thighs, the otter saw a wolf, charming and professional, now ready to suck on his hardened sperm depositor.

"Not like this; I ... I'm kind of a virgin."

Lugo stood up, snapped up a wet wipe, and cleaned his paws. "Damn shame. Not for you; just for me. You're a quirky guy; feisty too. Not dissimilar from my husband, who also has a talent for wrecking his pants. Your feistiness, some may call that bigoted, but ..." the wolf shrugged, gathering up his pants, "those who don't have an opinion will find themselves swept in the lightest current, and with no direction of their own, will follow that stream to its end: to a crashing, rushing ocean, a sunny, sparkling pond, or a muddy, shit-caked festering swamp."

"Yeah, about that last one..." said Patterson, reaching down and squeezing the mound hanging off his rear end. He still couldn't believe how much there was, and how bad it stank. He'd been defecating for 22 years; why the surprise now?

Lugo smiled and nodded, turning around. "If we were on the executive floors, I'd point you to the shower and get you a pair of work pajamas. On this, well," the wolf said, accessing a third panel which opened to a closet stacked with folded diapers of all sorts of sizes, in all sorts of muted professional colors, white to black, blue, red, even beige.

The colors of most modern vehicles.

"We'll get you cleaned up, and you're ... I'm sorry, you're going to have to wear one of these until the interviews over."

Patterson sat up, struggling against his mess and his erect cock. "Do I have to?"

"Look, you don't have to use it, and look, I even found a beige one that matches that cool swirl on your throat. But you did have an accident on company property. Company policy so it doesn't happen again. If you hadn't ruined your pants, well, you'd just wear this thing under your trousers and no one would know."

Patterson laid back down on the changing table, head hitting the surface. "I guess it's better than a pantload of crap."

"Way better, dude. So do you need help with the non-sexual part of the problem below your waist, or do you got it? We have to resolve this Code K within about fifteen minutes; can't keep the restroom closed forever."

The otter shook his head, staring at the ceiling. "You really want to wipe my ass, you go right ahead. If I feel a tongue, however, I'm kicking you in the throat."

The wolf laughed, then set his pants aside, striding and crinkling up to the table. "I don't eat my husband's shit; that's a spoonful of straight bacteria."

Patterson averted his eyes, lifting his hips as he felt his underwear slip from his hips, cringing as it peeled agonizingly from his rump. His cock dribbled pre on his tie; he growled and removed the silk article and threw it away. Lugo caught it and set it aside. "Laundry services can take care of your messes," he said, then with one paw covered his nose as with the other, he held up the soggy, stretched, soiled garment. "Except this; ain't no saving this."

"I wouldn't do this even as a fetish," said Patterson, grimacing and blushing as he heard the muddy, cotton mess thump into the garbage chute.

"You'd be surprised," Lugo said with a shrug, "a quick shower after disposable underwear makes for thirty minutes of fun."

"I have better things to do than shit all over myself and jerk off," said Patterson, then lifted his legs as the wolf spread them. The otter shivered as he felt a cool wipe push between his gluteals, then across his messy hole. He didn't feel violated; rather he was deeply grateful, and confused that a grown male would ever take him up on such disgusting dirty-work. Then again, that male was wearing an adult diaper while wiping his anus, and it was someone he didn't know, and wasn't going to fuck.

"You sure?" asked Lugo with a smirk, tossing the wipe away, "Because I caught you in that stall..."

"I thought I was done for," said Patterson. "Thought I might as well cement my last orgasm as some fucking parody to my failure."

"Disasters happen; failure isn't pretty like it is in the movies. People shit their pants and shit stinks," said the wolf, pulling another wet wipe through the otter's muddy rump, then grabbing a disposable comb and brushing out small clumps. Even when he wiped the otter's balls, cupping the orbs and then cleaning under them, Patterson didn't feel molested. Just somebody cleaning him: an intensely good Samaritan.

"If you do something as humble and generous as wiping someone's ass," blurted Patterson as Lugo wiped the underside of his tail, fighting his gag reflex, "do you automatically get into Heaven?"

The wolf laughed, then coughed as he caught one final wave of stink. "I would think so. The people back then washed each others' bare footpaws, that had to be nasty."

Pat laughed. "So you're one step better than the disciples," he said, then Lugo reached for something and the otter heard the distinct crinkle. "Oh, Jesus." he sighed, feeling his cock go soft. He tucked the pink monster back into its sheath.

"What color?" asked Lugo, "light tan to match your stomach, brown-beige for your chest?"

"White," said the otter. "A diaper is a diaper, no matter what color. A garment with an absorbent core designed with the expectation that its wearer may release his bladder and/or bowels into it. The material will wick away moisture, carrying the user's waste until the user is able to change out of the soiled brief, likely into a new one."

That word thumped across his tongue; Patterson could not believe he'd be wearing a diaper at 22 years old. Next he'd be up on a stripper pole, people shoving money down the front as he took a big nasty shit down the back. There'd be a cock in his mouth and a cock in each paw, with someone kissing the seat of his diaper as he filled it with warm feces.

Lugo opened up a clean white diaper and slid it under Patterson. "Care for powder scent?" he asked.

"It's only cornstarch," said the otter.

"Plain it is," said the wolf.

Lugo went through the motions, tossing powder over the otter's groin, then lifting his sheath and sac to make sure he got some there, too. Patterson stared up at the ceiling, taking some slow breaths. The bathroom was smelling a lot better, and the powder and diaper were like an extra layer of armor. He'd not had an excretory upset for ... almost two decades ... but the extra layer was nice, like an airbag in a car crash. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in a bad accident, but better than not having it.

The wolf was careful with the tapes, making sure the front came up evenly and the brief was secure and snug, but not tight. The door of the bathroom sang out with a couple knocks.

"Almost done!" called Lugo, then looked back to Pat. "You all good, bud?"

The otter sat up, ignoring all the crinkles his crotch made. He slipped off the table, stretched, then washed his paws. He took a step back and looked at himself in the mirror.

Ironed white T-shirt, white diaper, black socks and brown shoes. That was it. Strangely, the flat, wide, white crotch looked better, more complete, than a pair of cotton briefs hugging his thick male bulge. Like he didn't even need pants.

"Yeah, I guess so. Can I go out there like this?"

"Eh, you get about a three-minute tolerance," said Lugo. "After Code K, there's forgiveness, but there's also an expectation to reset yourself."

The otter blushed, seeing the fluffy plastic garment hug his hips, seeing the little extra room in the rear end for ... problems.

"So, uh, yeah, laundry services?"

"Nah," said Lugo, moving toward the door, holding his pants in his arms. The otter blushed, feeling under-dressed, but not indecent, as he crinkled behind the wolf. Just two guys in their protective underwear: nothing sexual, nothing weird. "The interview room goes right out to the garage. We finish up, you go home. You got a garage you can sneak through?"

The otter squeaked. "My ... parents do. I can sneak past them."

"Not with the noise you're making, Padder-son."

They burst out into the main hall, where a line had formed and the furs were angrily fiddling with their smartphones. Many rolled their eyes and grumbled as the two pantsless, diaper-wearing males emerged.

Lugo smirked. "What, you didn't wear your porta-potties today?" he said, smacking his own plastic padding.

None of them argued, merely piled into restroom to relieve themselves.

They went back to the interview room and sat back in their comfy, squishy chairs. Lugo's legs spread out, flashing his diaper, so Patterson tried to relax as well, showing his. This was nice.

The wolf snapped the otter's resume up, then pulled out another sheet of paper. "So, that took long enough, but good getting to know you," said Lugo.

"And the contours of my rear end, and the contents of my diet," mumbled Patterson.

Lugo laughed. "I heard that," he said, then his smile fell. "So, Pat, we live in a world where nobody might as well bother wearing any pants. With the internet," he started, pulling out a tan folder full of printouts covered in little red sticky notes. Patterson's heart started thumping. This was going to hurt. "We know everyone's dirty little secret, and you can butt yourself into any conversation a person's had, a conversation you have no part of and you don't belong in, a conversation where they were in a bad mood or exploring a bad idea, and you can find them to be a thoroughly unpleasant--"

"Incel?" asked Pat. His ears were burning; he couldn't believe that, even after all that, his interview was crashing and burning.

"Not that word. It's a cruel joke on a person to blame their poor behavior on their lack of sex. Like pulling someone's pants down and laughing at their weird underwear, their personal secrets. It's bullying. Rather, you can find a person to be an unpleasant wretch if you catch themselves in a moment of weakness. And everyone shits their pants."

"Okay, sure," said Patterson, shifting in his diaper.

"And I know you don't like gay people."

"I don't like the practice; I..." Patterson leapt up in his seat, knees together. "Then why were you trying to fellate me when you're clearly married?"

The wolf grinned and held up a black-padded finger. The ... same one he'd used to clean Patterson's anus. "Now hold on, Mr. Peters; you're launching into the middle of an argument we haven't yet started."

"I mean if you're going to call me a hypocrite--"

The wolf was imperturbable, merely smiling and crossing one leg over the other, diaper crinkling as he shifted. "Everyone is a hypocrite at one time or another: we are all in a personal fight between instant gratification and long-term satisfaction. People fail." The crotch of his garment darkened; was he wetting himself while they argued?

"Well, I'm not going to!" the otter said, keenly aware of the bright white triangle between his own legs, and the way it wasn't starting to darken, but rise up. He was getting hard inside a bathroom device, feeling the skin of his penis rub up against its soft, absorbent inside. What the Hell?

Lugo sighed, letting his knees drift apart. His diaper had definitely grown, filling out smooth and round. "I like your spirit, Mr. Peters. I'll be honest, this interview wasn't to test your talents: those are in full force," he said, wiggling the resume between two fingers, "but just so Xian could confirm his magic, psychic suspicions to me that you are a much better person than your online persona would suggest. I did not like you when I profiled you."

"Look, I don't hate gay people," stammered the otter, sliding back in his seat. If his bladder had anything in it, he certainly would have emptied it. As of now, it was a big white mountain. The diaper he wore was suddenly the best thing in the room. The otter's heart went into hyperdrive, and images of him dying alone, at fifty years old, in his childhood room flashed before his eyes. "I think that all forms of love--"

"Cut the bullshit. I've read your online posts. Either say 'no comment' or--"

This was the wolf that had wiped his ass. What happened to his charitability? His patience?

"I just feel it's a waste of time!" Pat blurted. "And the sanitation, and the statistical promiscuity..."

"Uh-huh," said Lugo, and at that time Patterson heard, over his thundering heart, the swish-click-crinkle of the fennec's high-heeled footsteps.

Lugo held up a paw and she stopped short in the doorway. Patterson looked behind him and saw a tumbler glowing with amber liquid, tinkling with ice, and a pile of bright pink salmon sashimi beside it. His stomach growled; he'd only had a bowl of cereal at his parents' house, which of course he'd emptied all over his backside. Feesh Flakes, the same cereal he'd eaten since he was a pup.

Patterson snapped up a few pieces and stuffed them in his mouth, then chased it with whiskey.

"Careful, that stuff will go right through you."

"Yeah, whatever," said Patterson, scooping more into his mouth.

"Guys, is this a bad time?" asked the fennec. The otter looked over to her: she was so beautiful, medium-sized breasts filling out her collared shirt, slender hips, lively, intelligent eyes ... but he could see her diaper in the reflection of her shoes.

"Look, I'm sorry, I've just been alone and rejected so many times, I--" the otter sighed, gulping down the last of the sushi. He stood up and saw both pairs of eyes on him; one wet diaper and one dry one, his own dumb baby-butt crinkling, the front flagged out and ready to make a cummy mess. In this awkward situation, backed by a history of failure and loneliness, he approached a crossroads of rage and sorrow. He chose rage. "I don't need your decadent company that hires sluts and man-babies! This world's not cut out for the noble and the pure! I have to cut out my own!"

He ripped the resume from Lugo's fingers and threw it in the trash can. "I know the First World is going to Hell in a handbasket, and I am not going to be in there, weighing it down when the streets run orange and white with cum-laced lava!"

"Oh, so you knew the guy with the Volcano Sex major."

Patterson's teeth bared and his muscles flexed. He hurled that trash can at the smug pervert's face, watching it fly to smash his muzzle or make the giant wolf-baby jump out of the way, probably even shitting himself and crying.

Lugo caught it with one paw.

"Will you stop it with the fucking crusading," said Lugo. His tone was even, but his hackles were up and his shoulders were flexed. "You're just as bad as Antebellum Anti-Ante-Antifa. The Quadruple A instead of Triple K."

Patterson's face was red and his claws were out. The wolf stood there, Patterson's projectile frozen in his paw, and he towered over the impotent otter throwing a tantrum in his baby pants. Patterson didn't see the fennec reaching into her jacket. "Yeah, I know them," he said.

"You're an honorary member."

"I posted one thing!"

"And you made a solid point about homosexuals that, in some circles, would be considered bigoted."

"There's that word, bigoted."

Lugo waved at the fennec, who removed her paw from her jacket, empty. "It's a word ruined by idiots looking to win arguments with name-calling. That accusation's supposed to mean, 'willfully ignorant,' which ironically all those idiots are ... and you are not. You just have a different opinion. Back it up with force, then we have a problem."

"I, um, thanks," said Patterson, sitting down with a wobble. The fennec sat on Lugo's desk, and Patterson could see right up her skirt to her diaper.

"Anti-LGBT in the 21st century, eh?" asked the fennec. "Fancy."

Patterson blushed. "I mean, people can do what they want, but I think it's a big mistake! People fill their lives with fetishes and abnormalities, desperately trying to create a fake world outside the natural order, from the ground up!" he said, shifting and crinkling in his chair. "And it's not a natural order not dictated by pinhead tyrants or priests, mind you, but by logic. It's crossing the Atlantic in a rowboat! It's doable, but a hell of a lot less efficient."

The fennec nodded. "Fair, fair," she said. "I'm Kyrie by the way."

As she moved, smiling and sitting on Lugo's desk, Patterson caught the flash of a brown strap and a black handle in her jacket. Suddenly the bright thick white stripe between her legs wasn't so obvious.

"Um, good to meet you. I'm fired."

Lugo laughed. "We gotta hire you, first."

"I got this one, pup," said Kyrie. "Look, Mr. Peters. I agree with you. We all do. But let's stop biting each other on the nose, okay?"

"Were you going to shoot me?"

Kyrie closed her jacket. "Only if you pulled a knife from your diaper. And you're certainly packing ... Lugo, did you change him?"

The wolf's eyebrows were up. Everyone was staring at the prominent point, the grand white spire protruding from Patterson's thighs. "Yeah, he's packing."

Kyrie let out a low whistle.

Patterson tried to cover it, but his white tent was large enough to hold a Christian revival. "Can we, uh ..."

"Yeah, sorry," said the fennec, tugging at her skirt. Patterson could feel the heat radiating from her kayak-sized ears. "Anyway: people are diverse. Everyone is going to have their preferences, and there is a guarantee that several will not mesh. You're already in a world of weirdness with this company, and we are building a strange fucking reality."

"I don't know if I want in."

"There's the door," said Kyrie, pointing to the parking garage, "and there's the other one. We are not forcing anything on you, or on the world. They buy our product or they do not. I know in our country of prosperity, we risk a culture of excess. It is a moral problem that cannot be solved by force: that makes us no better than savages. Morality comes with choice: gay or straight, Christian or secular. Remove choice, remove morality."

"Look, I don't need the sermon," said Patterson, adjusting himself in his diaper. "There's still something to be said for the ... chocolate-flavored antifreeze you create."

"Chocolate-scented if we're going to continue your metaphor," she said. "People know what they're getting into, and we can only account so much for the idiots. There's diapers you want to change and there's diapers ... people need to change for themselves."

Lugo grinned at the otter as he talked to Kyrie. "You should have seen the stinker we just got through."

Kyrie giggled. "Oh, I know, I know. People were saying 'Code K, Code K,' like it was a real thing."

Patterson launched forward in his seat, his exposed diaper rustling. "What?!"

"You're welcome," said Lugo.

"Wait, hold on," Patterson said, then his legs trembled and a warmth spread across his groin. "What about all those hidden changing supplies, the table. The employees knew that it meant to...oh no...really, right now?"

The otter looked down, and the only garment he was wearing, a dramatically tented fluffy white plastic diaper, was going dark and swelling in the front. Everyone could plainly see he was pissing himself as the bottom rounded out, no matter how flat Patterson could spread his paws.

"That's the executive stash; I must have left it open," Lugo said. "Code K is an epithet, because they know the rumors of what go on in some of the upper offices. Kioga himself is a myth; he hasn't been seen entering or leaving this building since last year."

The otter's body felt numb and warm below the waist, and he couldn't seem to find the sphincter he used to clench things off in the middle of a pee. He just kept pissing and pissing, and the diaper kept growing between his legs, growing darker, slightly yellow, and very, very heavy.

"Oh, so that's even better," said Patterson, wincing as the weight of its wetness pulled against his cock. "I had an accident in front of perfectly normal people, on a perfectly normal day. Why didn't I just do it in the middle of the lobby, with some gay anime soundtrack--"

His stomach rumbled, and Patterson squeaked. His mind and his paws raced, reaching down and back to find that second set of muscles, but the first thing he felt in his warm, numb undercarriage was his ring relax, and then his rump go hot.

Lugo smirked, setting the trash can in his lap. "I told you that salmon would go right through you. Kyrie, did you have to bring the fun stuff?"

Kyrie giggled, but stared wide eyed at Patterson's full body reaction, the way the otter clutched at his diapered rump and stared back at it, as if his paws or his eyes could stop the coming log slide.

"Xian reviewed his file; I thought he was a diapervert," she said.

"No!" the otter gasped, then felt a firm clench on his innards and an absolute, automatic push. His tail raised as a counterbalance, and he felt his legs automatically bending as he squat down and started shoving a very sudden, very quick, very thick load of feces. His heavy diaper crackled as the rear expanded to match the front, stiffening as it grew downwards, clinging to his rear end and stinking.

It was heavy, it was hot, it was sticky, it smeared all over his rump and pushed back against it. Squatting down, Patterson felt his diaper swell until its warm exterior pushed against his ankles and touched the floor. Patterson groaned as his rectum pulsed, remaining unclenched as solid filth piled through it to the outside. Wasn't the first load enough? Was his body burning fat and turning that into feces?.

His cock grew hot, and with a great moan, the otter fell back onto the seat of his diaper, into the hot moist mound he'd made, feeling it squish against him and cradle his rump and balls. With a gasp and a groan, his thick shaft erupted inside his wet, heavy padding, coating the inside and his crotch with warm, sticky seed. He felt it drool over his balls, into his mess, and for a moment he just sat there against the wall, knees spread, with an enormous, thoroughly used diaper wrapped around his groin.

Lugo's diaper was tented, and Kyrie was fanning herself as hers grew dark and swelled.

"Hot damn," she whispered.

"Good show," growled Lugo.

The otter stumbled upright, his anus still gaped, pulsing to eliminate every last bit. His bladder felt like it was connected to a straight pipeline to his diaper; he had to put his paw against the front to make sure he wasn't still going.

And good God, the diaper was huge. Front and back, it felt like a twenty-pound weight hanging from his waist, and looked like he'd hidden a watermelon down the front and a crushed one in the back.

His vision swam and his heart fluttered; his brain floated in his skull and his nose set off another alert. Messy: you are messy. Please seek cleansing.

"I, wow, holy ... now where was I? Who's mad at whom?"

Lugo played with the trash can in his paw, then turned its flat metal side to the otter so he could see himself: collared shirt, very nice, and a thoroughly-used diaper hanging from his waist. Very incompetent, very incon...

Patterson stared at himself in the can, feeling all he'd worked for, all his adulthood draining out of him into that garment bulging and clinging to him. That attractive fennec lady was covering her nose, smiling awkwardly. Her eyes kept flicking to that huge, messy, stinking mound hiding under his tail. His cock, sheath, and balls was mired in a jelly-like shell of urine-soaked padding and cum.

"You are talented, Patterson Peters," Lugo said, "And competence is something feared in the modern age because, like a gun, it can be wielded for effective, permanent results, good or bad. We want your talent. So if you just learn to control your tongue, you can work for us. You are hired."

Patterson's heart leapt and he smiled.

"Oh my God, thank you!" he said, bouncing on his footpaws. Then the rustle and heat and the wobbling weight of his engorged diaper brought him back into reality. Getting it changed by either of these people would be a change of uniform, an induction into his new life. It would be a strange one, but he would manage. "Heh, sorry."

The wolf continued, crossing his legs over his own wet protection. "It's not the content of your mind, but how you unload it that puts us on-edge. We love what you do ..." Lugo crushed the metal pail in his paw. "Just don't piss us off."

~~~

So Patterson Peters got hired, then after a shower in the executive bathroom, the otter swore off diapers and any sort of sexual contact, including self-sexual contact, for the months that followed. Kyrie had offered to change him on that day, but he took one look at the big white pad between her legs and imagined some horror show where she soiled herself while changing him, then fell into baby mode after he was all taped up, and they'd crawl around and around the floor in some infinite brainless cycle.

Or worse, he'd go into the ladies bathroom and suddenly seven moms would descend upon him, cooing and tickling and pinching him, smothering and kissing and pushing bottles and pacifiers into his face as they changed him, saying "Aww, baby went boom-boom!" and "Let's clean the little stinker up" and he'd drink breast milk from a woman twice his age and then be put in his crib, an office cubicle with a kiddie computer and ...

It was a big mental glitch.

"Nah, I got this one," said Patterson, even as Kyrie unbuttoned her shirt with one paw and slid her other down the otter's stomach, licking her muzzle while imagining his undiapered dick. "Maybe next time."

He pushed past her, waddling against his crinkling burden. Lugo handed him a tablet with a clothing catalogue on it, with "work pajamas" already highlighted, then showed him to a quick-elevator up to the executive floor and told him, "Everyone knows about Code K up there. For real, this time. All you're going to get is applause and jeers."

"Heh, that's all, eh?"

"That's all. They're concentrated on their work, and all you gotta do is keep moving so you don't distract him with ... all that."

"Thanks."

And it was just that easy: he went out, went up, and he blushed as he emerged into another floor full of productive people, catching a few of them in their office chairs, wearing just a diaper below the waist.

"Hey, new guy! Nice one!" called a nearby flamingo.

"Hey, whoa!" cheered a cat, "Pace yourself, bud; you might break under that heavy load!'

"I hope you're not allergic to seafood!" responded Patterson.

He got a few laughs, and it was fantastic; he nearly forgot the outhouse hanging off his ass. So he went on his way and did his business. Work at Ferris-Chalmpers was going to be okay.

He'd sometimes work with the big-wigs, and overall was able to temper his mind against the lukewarm decadence flashing on before him. They had him doing kitchen services, but also janitorial (floors, not bathrooms, thank God) and light IT work. There were no baby parties or scat orgies ... none that he could see ... and if a coworker needed a diaper change, they merely got up from their desks and came back wearing a fresh one fifteen minutes later.

As Patterson predicted, he slowly came to resent his benefactors, but Lugo was graceful enough to occasionally lay down an olive branch.

"You're not drinking, or taking pills, are you?" the wolf asked at Tabb-Steyel Reef, modern day.

The breeze blowing over the beach teased the otter's swim shorts and his headfur. Patterson turned a piece of salmon sushi over in his paw. He'd made sure it wasn't the "magic" stuff from the interview several months ago.

Now Lugo wasn't even the guy who'd wiped his ass or beheld him climaxing in his soiled diaper; he was just his boss. "Only on Fridays, drinks."

The wolf nodded and went to the snack table himself. His shorts were only bulged out one inch in the groin and rump, but they were as obvious to the otter as a rumbling volcano. Patterson had seen way, way too many adult diapers in the last half-year to not know every warning sign.

"Really?" said the wolf, picking up a slice of pizza, then rolling salmon sushi into it and eating it as a hot, cheesy burrito. "I never see you."

"I don't go to your places," said the otter, knowing from a simple glance and a small sniff that the muscular wolf had moderately wet himself.

"I know," said Lugo, pulling a miniature bottle of whiskey out of a serving rack full of them. He cracked it and swallowed half. "Xian says you're always at home on your games."

"Yeah, that's ... my business," said Pat.

"I'll buy your meal if you join us at the USDABDL Steakhouse."

"I ... make enough to buy my own steak, thanks."

"You don't take any drinks or pills, otherwise?"

Patterson knew where this conversation was going. He grabbed a couple slices of pizza and a burrito, then wrapped the pizza around the burrito and took a messy, cheesy bite. "Honestly, it would just delay the emotion. Even if tranquilized, the brain knows when a gun's pointed at it."

"I don't expect you to change your opinion," said Lugo, sitting across from him. He grunted and Patterson freaked, expecting for the seat of Lugo's khaki shorts to crackle, swell, and bulge downwards as a volley of lewd, squishy, slimy muffled farts gave way to the thick squelch of defecation, clouding them in the sick stink of wolf scat and baby powder ... but it was only Lugo's joints and the wolf making old-people noises. "But an opinion, if solid, doesn't come with much emotion. You know you're correct and you hold fast in your ways. You're sulking a lot. When you're not fast at work, you're sighing and leaning your head against your paw. It's as if your brain's got a soiled diaper weighing it down."

"Don't make diaper metaphors..." the otter said. Patterson sighed, moving away from the table to recline in a white wooden beach lounger, taking a mini whiskey bottle for himself and sipping. Off in the distance, actors and actresses threw frisbees and drank beers and laughed and did all other sorts of commercial things in front of cameras and understudy directors with their puffy swimsuit crotches and some saggy rear-ends.

The rabbit from earlier laughed as she fell on a towel in the middle of the volley ball court, then the cobra with a diaper-sized speedo pulled her messy bottoms off, beginning the process of changing her. As the buxom female rolled around, Patterson caught a flash of her crotch: a naked, beautiful pink slit. It was probably the first live nudity he'd ever seen as an adult with sexual interest, but the context was all screwed: there went a cobra, with a loaded speedo, wiping urine off her pretty pink labia lips.

The world ends with a solid "meh."

"I don't think you're okay, Patterson, and if it means quitting with a golden recommendation from us, we can do that," said Lugo. He sat across from the otter in a regular wooden beach chair. "There's lots of kinks inside your brain, things you need to let go."

A small voice in Patterson's head told him to piss his swim trunks so Lugo could change him while he monologued. Patterson shrugged. "I just see all these pictures of happiness, bright office buildings with high windows and the energy of a thousand keyboards and a thousand men and women. I see glowing green parks, families laughing; I see studs and babes cheering and leaping on a beach, faces full of joy. I see the fullness of life and the people living it, chasing their dreams, into a warm, blinding sunset!"

His bladder pulsed, and the swirled beige-brown-white otter let it go. A dark spot formed on the front of his trunks and he felt the stream increase.

"I see all these things; I am there in these scenes in these places and with these people ..."

The otter set his pizza-burrito down on his stomach, and the wet warmth spread all over the crotch of his trunks, then began trickling down between the slats into the sand. Soon there were a few streams dribbling through the chair, and the entire front of his shorts were dark. Lugo watched with widening eyes.

"But how can you enjoy life, embrace all its beauty," Patterson said, staring at Lugo, the trickles going full-stream, "when the world you love smells like an outhouse; that our waste, which we should have thrown away, is instead clutched tight against us?"

His trunks clung to his groin and legs, soaking in musky male otter urine. Slowly, the streams died down, tapering into dribbles before settling into drips. "We used to take photos of the finely-crafted food we were about to enjoy. What now?" Patterson asked, sitting up in his chair, in a puddle, "Do we take selfies with scat? Do we celebrate the world we've chewed up, swallowed, digested, and finally deposited in the back of a baby-printed adult diaper, because we know the value of nothing, we have to devour everything, we cannot grow up, and we cannot let go?"

The wolf was wide-eyed and his ears were back. Lugo did not know he had dropped his food in the sand. "What do you want, Pat?"

The otter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his paws, and he stared forward.

"I just want an end to this life besides suicide," he said.

Lugo sat up in his chair. "Do you need a doctor?"

"It's not the abyss you got to worry about. Not staring into it and not having it stare back at you," the otter said, then grunted as he felt pressure build under his tail. "It's the glimmer of light far in the distance, and realizing you've been deep inside the abyss the whole time."

A cold, violent shiver ran through the wolf, and from below him pooled a wet, tranquil warmth, caught by his diaper.

"Do you need supervision, Pat? I'm serious," said the wolf.

"No, no; I feel better than ever. People are just caught in this sick cycle of having their cake and eating it, too ... but after they've eaten it the first time, that warm brown pile they're holding ain't the beautiful, finely-crafted confectionery they wished for. Today, people consume, never create; the mounds in their diapers progressively growing, progressively weighing them down, until we've consumed so much that we're anchored in place by our own shit," said the otter, feeling a fullness below his stomach. It wasn't the sushi, it was ... just him. "You see how something is supposed to be, and then you see how it is. It's the same product, made of the same material, but it's been processed by acid and bile and bacteria. The pieces are all there ..." he winced, then felt his ring expand. A quick pull could have stopped it there, but the otter pushed, forcing that first long, slimy turd into the mesh lining of his swim trunks, pressing against the netting and stretching it backward, then breaking in two. The second was close behind. "But it's in a big, ugly pile."

He felt a mound grow in the back of his trunks, pushing up against his tail, filling out against his rump and the chair. The smell hit him quick, and the pungent fecal stink did not abate. He kept pushing, holding down a groan as the long, thick procession slithered through his rectum and out his anus. His paws grasping his knees, leaned forward, soon he had a solid, warm, significant bundle in the mesh lining and hugging his rear end. The pile of his filth was hot and sticky, immediate, visceral, surrounding his rump and his senses. Unfettered by soaked padding, but just soaked fabric, his cock stood tall and thick in the front of his shorts.

Lugo massaged his temple as he stared at this braincase, wondering if the otter and Kioga would get along or create a matter/antimatter supernovic explosion. "There's a lot of shit to deal with in this life," he said.

"Yeah..." said Patterson, feeling his trunks sag through the slats in the chair. "there's so much shit."

A silence followed, the otter and wolf staring at each other, Lugo holding onto both armrests while Patterson kept leaning forward, a slight frown on his face ... and a thick, stinking, loaded pair of swim trunks hanging from his rear end, piled high and wide.

Patterson took a long, slow breath, breathing it all in. "So much shit ... could be time for a change."

"What do you mean?" asked Lugo.

The otter winked.

"What do ... oh, fuck you!" Lugo snarled, then picked his pizza-salmon roll from the sand and threw it at Patterson. The burrito splattered against the otter's chest: now he had undigested food sticking to his front, a perfect compliment to the digested food sticking to his rear. Lugo then stood.

"You can change yourself, God damn it."

"You sure?" the otter asked, splaying out, There were brown smears on the chair now, and his trunks were slipping down his backside. With a flash of thick, paw-filling flesh, Patterson pulled his cock from his trunks and squeaked as he stroked it, the massive member gleaming with pre at the tip, musky with urine. "Why don't you blow me?"

"You're drunk, Pat," said the wolf, though the warmth in his own shorts wasn't just the wetness of his diaper. They tented out, crinkling as his cock responded to the decadent mess.

"Only on lust," sighed the otter, grasping his swirled beige chest in one paw as he leaned back, tucking the waistband of his wet trunks under his balls. His finger squished into his hot mess, the pile of stool clumped to his backside: he took that finger and drew a dirty mark down his stomach.

"That's just as bad, man, it ..." his ears turned and he heard a few actors and camera men coming their way. "Patterson, if I don't get a 'no' from you in two minutes, you're gonna be cumming -hard- down this faggot's throat."

The otter hissed and bucked his hips, pre spurting out the tip and landing on his chest. When his rump left the chair, he left a sticky brown streak from the huge pouch hanging from his backside. Lugo's shorts were stretched to the max in the front: the wolf had to unzip and unbutton them to let his big white bulge out. "I trust you," said Pat, "you know my interests and fears. You won't use me and throw me away like your diapers."

Lugo turned around. His shorts fell off his hips, fully revealing his tented padding. The cobra in the used speedo whistled and clapped. The bunny was staring at Patterson, nipples hard, her big white bucktooth smile bright. "You are such a royal mess, snack boy."

Patterson grinned and nodded at her, his dripping cock casting a shadow over his stomach. He sat back down in his mess and murred. "'sup?"

"Guys, get the cameras out of here," said Lugo.

"Doesn't matter: everyone who knows me hates me," said Patterson. "I'll get paid as an actor, right?"

"Yes, you will, but ... Pat, are you fucking sure?" asked Lugo.

The otter leaned back and put his foot paws in the sky, and with two paws started massaging the lumpy mound. "Sure as shit."

The wolf growled, pulling his shirt off to reveal his pects and washboard stomach. "Then it's go time."

Lugo hit a thick wall of fecal, fishy stink as he got close to Patterson, but the otter was hung as much as he was and had a brain just as crazy, edgy, and angry as Kioga: maybe moreso. He'd take another frustrated braincase because he was a fantastic babysitter to the first one, his husband.

If this was a big mistake, and it was going to be some fucked-up daddy-son power dynamic, shattering notions of mutuality with dependence, they'd fix it on the other side.

Lugo gagged as he pushed the otter's knees apart and dove into Patterson's crotch. His cock head was tapered, crowned, and circumsized, non-exotic and very streamlined, and so the thick, shiftstick-sized tip slid right over his tongue, the leaking slit contouring into a cleft ending at the bottom of the plush glans.

His cock was so perfectly smooth, and the wolf knew it would choke him as it slid against his tonsils.

"Fuck yeah, you like sucking on my pisser. Dirty bitch," growled Patterson, reaching down to stroke Lugo's face.

Lugo hated to remove his tongue from the fat, throbbing tip. "Strong with the dirty talk, damn," he said, then closed his lips around it and started down on the otter. The wolf's throat flexed as his nose pulsed: he was staring down at a pee-soaked crotch but the pile of Patterson's feces was just below his musky balls, and the stench was potent, thick, humid.

The brown streak on the otter's stomach served as a blatant visual. But the skin was so warm, so sensitive: Lugo forgot the wonderful intimacy of having a trusted male's penis in his mouth, having and holding the center of his pleasure in an intimate place of his own. Patterson said something else dirty and dominant, but it was with a sigh of relief. The otter lay back, and Lugo slid his maw down halfway before he breathed in and coughed.

"Yeah, I'm too much for you," growled Pat.

"No," coughed Lugo, fanning himself as he rose off the otter's cock. The fishy shit was getting to him; his washboard abs pulsed as his throat clenched again. "You literally shit yourself, and I'm obviously a few inches from it, I just..."

Lugo coughed, standing up. "Jesus, I can't."

Patterson stood as well, but stumbled as his filthy rump slid across the chair and he fell to his knees, trunks slapping him in the ass. "Then let me do you," said the otter.

Lugo quirked a brow, suddenly feeling naked wearing nothing but his tented briefs. "You'd suck on a diaper-fag's diaper dick?"

"Look, shut the fuck up with the edgy language," said Patterson. "Let me suck on your penis. If ..." Now the otter blushed, and one paw had to hold up his trunks as they started to slide off his frame. "You have to use your diaper while I'm pleasuring you, y'know... that'd be cool."

The wolf smiled. "No shit."

"Or all the shit," said Pat. His paw left a brown smudge on his hip.

The bunny cheered and the cobra whistled again. "Man, too bad I already took my dump. Keep rolling, guys. We'll get the releases later."

"This isn't suitable for the cleansing drink."

"Director's cut for the outer markets," said Lugo, then walked up to Patterson. "Okay, buddy. Maybe you've seen videos on the internet, maybe you've just heard about it. Do your thing."

Patterson, with zero sexual experience aside from an awkward pawjob and an almost-blowjob, knelt in the sand before an enormous muscular male in a fat, wet, tented diaper. His trunks sagged with material, clinging and stinking. His mind said this was too fucked up, but it also said to keep going: see how fucked up it could get.

He tugged at the pleated plastic waistband, but it was on there snug. "Let me help," said Lugo, then Patterson swatted his paw away.

"I wanna do it," he said, then licked his lips. Carefully, he pulled again, and the material began to stretch. Suddenly he felt awkward pulling the wolf's protection away from him, but this was a necessary concession.

The diaper came down, and a canine cock about as big as his popped out. It was majestic, and it was all his: problem with the porn videos were that the muscle stud was feeding his giant worm to a thousand mouths gaping like baby birds in the nest.

This was all his. Director L. Perry-Davis, Lugo, was all his. Patterson got to work, licking the tip, gripping the shaft. Electricity hummed through the otter, his own cock responding in kind. He didn't know he could be so excited to give a blow--no. He didn't know he could be so excited in pleasuring another person.

So his first experience would be with a male. That was secondary: his first experience would be with someone he trusted, with someone he'd already made a thousand fucking mistakes with. Case in point: yet another fishy, sticky, filthy load hanging from his ass, imposing on everyone like a continuous, vile fart.

Jesus Christ, he was a fucked-up, filthy bitch. He already liked shit spewing out his front end, from his mouth and through his fingertips, getting into online arguments. Might as well let it pour from the rear as well.

The sack of crap swung between the otter's thighs as he took the wolf into his mouth, trying to relax his throat as best he could as Lugo's cock, his erect penis, his pisser and semen depositor, tinged with the wolf's very brusque, very musky urine, filled his maw. He felt Lugo's heartbeat through the skin, making his ears blush, and then came that first warm jolt from the organ: that first warm spurt of liquid.

Patterson swallowed precum, and he grinned. The pleasure, joy, and lust of the moment overtook the constant stink of his mess, which itself had become just an unfortunate side effect to the warm, soft material clinging to his backside. It wasn't so bad anymore. That pleasure also helped him relax his mouth, and he was able to relax his jaw, pulling a lot of the wolf into him, hardly gagging as his tongue caressed the underside.

The wolf's crotch was full in his view, and after a few thrusts, Patterson felt the smooth front of Lugo's diaper against his chin. This was nice, was all he could think as he grasped the male's hips and continued the ritual of the two of them thrusting against each other: the otter around the wolf's cock, the wolf into the otter's mouth.

"Patterson, heh, this is amazing," said Lugo as he watched the otter bob on him, his hips swishing and crinkling, his penis throbbing and leaking. The otter smiled, murred, and nodded best he could, stroking the wolf's side ... leaving a skidmark. Lugo chuckled, and then his own stomach grumbled.

The otter murred louder, and took the tip out to lap it a few times before reaching around back, stroking Lugo's diapered, un-burdened rump.

The cobra had his fangs around his knuckles, watching in wonder. The bunny fanned herself, feeling her groin go warm.

Lugo blushed, his ears back as the two of them made eye contact, feeling suddenly self-conscious and awkward, like all bets were off. He felt intimate with the otter, and so with his cock wet, slick, throbbing, and hot, he let his ring relax and his rectum pulse.

Patterson's vision was full of the wolf's crotch and his mouth was full of his cock, but he made sure to relax his senses in order to get the full feeling he clutched between his paws. There he was, two fists full of diaper, his own shorts full and hanging from him, sticky and sulfurous ... and then he felt the wolf's tail rise.

The otter melted around Lugo's cock, gently suckling as his ears picked up on the wolf's embarrassing bathroom sounds. First there were a couple of burps of flatulence, then a much fuller, thicker, smoother squish as the wolf's body went stiff and the back of his diaper twitched, slowly growing and firming up as it filled with material.

"Oh God, Patterson," Lugo whispered. Their audience watched in amazement. Patterson smiled, blushing, his own cock pulsing, hovering in naked air. He took one paw back and stroked the wolf's cock, caressing the knot, while the other went to the seat of his diaper and felt that hot, heavy filth pile up.

The wolf trembled as he pushed, his diaper crinkling not only for the load filling it up, but also for the paw groping it, massaging his mess as it expanded under him, streaking his rear end. The smell hit him eventually after, assuredly, it had surrounded the otter, but Patterson kept going, gulping and slurping and enveloping his whole length.

"Oh, fuck," Lugo whispered, then as his anus gaped, depositing a third turd into his diaper, hot and hefty for the otter to catch, the wolf felt his cock pulse way past the point of preventability and he fired off, spurting and spraying into the mouth of the young otter as he continued to mess his diaper.

Patterson had never chugged as much as a beer, and so when the organ in his mouth started pouring hot paste into the zero capacity left in his maw, he coughed and choked, spluttered as semen sprayed from his nose, then fell back into his mess as the wolf continued ejaculating.

Hot wolf cum rained down on Patterson's chest and stomach, and the otter could do no more than swab his paw in that mess and stroke his own cock off, watching in hungry, delirious lust as Lugo braced himself, cumming continuously as his diaper hung lumpy between his legs. With a few more ropes jumping from his cock, splattering Patterson as the otter groped his long, cum-covered cock, Lugo pinched another one off into his soiled baby-briefs.

Patterson groaned, Patterson squeaked, and in the stench and heat and spunky piss and musk of everything, the otter also erupted, his penis pulsing a few times before spewing the same type of white stuff all over him. He hit himself in the eye and it felt like a spitwad, then lay back as his balls clenched harder and painted him down.

At the end, the otter lay in the sand completely covered in spunk. His shorts hung off his thighs, smelling faintly of piss, and the crap that clung to his rear end had grown solid and clumpy. "Fuck's sake, dude..." he moaned, cock hanging out in the cool air.

The cobra whistled, shaking his head. A wet fart came out of him, and the bunny complained. "We're getting you changed, Clark. Jesus Christ."

Lugo knelt down beside the otter, who cringed as that full wolf diaper came into smelling distance. "You need a fucking change, dude, holy shit," Pat complained.

Lugo chuckled. "Look at yourself, buddy. Or rather, smell yourself."

"Yeah, maybe I shouldn't."

Lugo helped him sit up. "Man, it feels like I'm pulling a corpse from a strip club's septic tank."

"You didn't cum that much; don't flatter yourself."

"Can I help you clean up?"

"Sure, but if you put your dick in my ass, I'm calling you daddy."

"All right, buddy," Lugo said with a laugh, helping the otter up. Patterson's shorts fell to his ankles; the wolf picked them up and tossed them into a trash can. "Let's just shake things off."

"I regret this."

"Yeah, well I warned ya."

"Does this always happen after gay sex?"

Lugo grumbled, stuffing his cock back into his diaper, cringing as his own mess clung to his rump.

"You really need a girlfriend, dude. Or a boyfriend. Someone to lean on."

"Can I lean on you in the meantime?"

Lugo looked down at the naked otter under his arm. He was young--startlingly young--and he stared up at the wolf with a raw, injured intelligence.

"Dude, I'll change every one of your diapers until you figure yourself out. You jumped in head-first and smacked yourself on the rocks."

The otter nodded, scratching his ass and then cringing as he came back with a paw full of crap. He shook it off, then wiped it on his thigh. "Thanks, Lugo. I ... without wisdom like yours, a person's experimentation can turn into his own mutilation."

"I've been around, bud," Lugo said. "And I'd say you ain't seen nothing yet, but you totally have. What you haven't seen is the calm, attentive mutuality of someone who cares for you. A friend."

The otter looked up at him. "A friend?"

"Yeah. A friend."