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What luck, what resplendence should an otter cry about in thankfulness for when he should find a partner (or two) that not only tolerates his idiosyncrasies, but is fascinated by and pursues his intricacies.

Patterson married Clark and Susan Kensington in a small, intimate, and kinky ceremony on a half-day of shooting at the Tabb-Styel Reef beach along the coast of South Carolina, inviting all cast and crew that was off that day and offering video links for those that wanted to go, but could not find substitutes.

The groom-to-be had a big breakfast on his own, sweet blackberry pancakes and a steamed lemon tilapia with a tall latte coffee, the art on top matching his swirled brown-white-beige coat exactly, along with a little pill that came in a silver-wrapped box with a tag noting the exact time in which to take the pill.

Instructions past that said, "Either end."

Wanting to do this right, Patterson paused his breakfast, a latte-mustache gracing his muzzle, and slipped off from the portable cabana in which he ate breakfast to one of the rented outhouses that F-C had specially commissioned. Half of them were marked "Business as Normal" and were 150% as large as a normal outhouse. They had an extra-large sink and a water reservoir for particularly dirty paws, and few people could miss the drains in the floor and a tall bottle of cleaner hanging from the door.

"Just in case you 'miss'" said a note on the bottle, which was half-empty.

"Special Business" were the other outhouses, which were double-wide and featured a conspicuous plastic table with fastening straps, along with a metal dispensing box that offered not paper towels, but F-C corporate American Apogee adult diapers. Sundry supplies were kept in a nearby cabinet.

Patterson snuck into one of the "Normal" outhouses and dropped his groom's trousers and a pair of silk briefs to his knees, a pair he hoped would make it to the honeymoon, then raising his tail and giggling to himself that he had to use something as banal and embarrassing as a bathroom aide on the day of his wedding, he raised his tail and put the pill behind him.

Feeling as clean and free as a virgin--though last week's reverie rebutted him as nothing of the sort--the otter found his tailhole, his anus, as an innocent, unfortunate slit that all people had. Furs and scalies alike, as beautiful as they were, were also animated structures of meat and bone, and to feed that animation required nutrients ... not all of which the body fully processed.

Therefore, every living body had built into it a chute through which the excess was moved, ultimately terminating in a wrinkled slit that opened to let it pass.

Everybody pooped.

So, staggering with his slacks and underwear around his knees, Patterson relaxed this narrow vent and pushed into his body a little module. He did not know what it did, but his fiancé and fiancée had told him, "It'll make you feel lovely at the wedding; it'll smooth everything out."

"What, like anti-anxiety?"

"Just a pinch," Clark had said, and Susan had giggled at that. "So you don't have to pinch."

"Pinch what?"

"Oh!" giggled Susan, the white rabbit. They had been talking while in mid-tailor, all three of them in their underwear, lovingly looking at each others' bodies and imagining what beauty ... and what mess ... each of them could create. Her conspiracy with Clark, the golden cobra, would be fairly evident to anyone in a collected state of mind. It was all lost on Pat, however, as he watched the slit in the bottom of Susan's panties grow and become a proper cleft, the fabric slightly darkening.

The tailor, in the middle of measuring Clark, his practiced eyes avoiding contact with his customers' erogenous zones, did not notice that nor the hose-shaped bend in the front of Clark's underwear straighten out into a tent.

Susan merely said to their young spouse-to-be, "So you don't have to pinch yourself and our wonderful dream life!"

The otter smiled in that outhouse, happily having inserted the pill as if it were a ceremonial gem. He replaced his silk briefs, tucking his unusually long anatomy into the front, then buttoned up his perfectly-tailored slacks and marched out, his heart full of warmth, his stomach of butterflies, and a tingle in his bowels. Surely, some of the butterflies were merely exploring.

~~~

"We are gathered here on this blessed day to celebrate a union perhaps not venerated by tradition," said the smiling pastor, a female bandicoot in her fifties, smoothed by the sands of time and by quiet, constant conversations with her Lord, "But certainly one to be honored in its robustness. Clark and Susan Kensington have found a new acolyte for their temple of love, a charming young male I've had the pleasure, myself, of chatting with at-length at a lunch that was supposed to be thirty minutes. The smart boy arrested me for two hours. I'm surprised the wine didn't make it through you, Patterson!"

There was a general giggle among the congregation. Pastor Jonesboro did not know anything about Ferris-Chalmpers nor this depraved beach-shoot; she merely was the head of Clark's church and had been stealthily, cunningly, escorted to the pop-up chapel without seeing any of their filthy, lusty practices.

Patterson blushed; he remembered the lunch well. They started out on the huge, if banal, question of the existence of God, and eventually settled into an agreement of, "If you are pursuing virtue, might that merely be God by another name?" and from there talked about everything from a society having banned gay marriage ("but Prohibition! That forced drinkers underground!") to an out-and-out society of casual nudity ("Think of the children!" "I said casual nudity, not erotic displays.").

A lot of brainteasers, and while Patterson did not usually agree with Pastor Jonesboro, he was so happy that she bore every question with a smile, instead of a stonewall approach of clobbering him with bible verses and sin, sin, sin.

And still, he felt ashamed, for during that two-bottle lunch, the Pastor had gotten up several times to relieve herself. Patterson wore a diaper, and by the end of lunch his lap was so swollen and heavy that his jeans produced a perfect dome in his crotch. He had to get up to go to the taxi, and while she didn't look down while she walked him to it, she had to have noticed his distinct waddle.

The otter's diaper was so big and soaked that when he was in the taxi, he pulled his shirt over his lap and opened the front of his jeans, producing a huge white triangle that flung the flaps of his pants open like barn doors in a windstorm.

Then the bottle of wine had him forget all about it, and Pat stepped out of the taxi, toward his temporary apartment, completely unaware until his pants fell to his ankles, flashing an enormous, puffy, swollen, soaked, glowing white diaper to everyone on his block.

Most people forced themselves to ignore it, but a group of teens pointed to it and laughed to themselves, running away before the weird "otter incel" from apartment 3C struck out at them.

Patterson was so glad he was moving.

"I'd love another chat soon," said Pat at the altar, and the older bandicoot smiled.

Clark was dressed in a fine black suit with a golden tie, while Susan wore a puffy, lacy white wedding gown with a beautiful veil. They looked at their future husband and smiled. The otter giggled and waved back, and the Pastor went back into her speech.

Patterson's stomach gurgled and his guts down below continued to pulse and twitch. He was so nervous, flooding his mind with insane redoubts and doom scenarios of being locked in a basement, or brutally murdered, or worse, dedicating ten years to a marriage that, with the passing years as whiskey drinks, got more flaccid and numb with each shot.

Pat looked back at the audience, and saw that the beautiful fennec Kyrie was there with, apparently, a coyote husband. Both of them were well dressed, but Kyrie's skirt was a little too fluffy, and the coyote's suit ended in boyshorts. Respectively, a silver and gold pacifier hung from their necks, fairly well hidden among Kyrie's cleavage and behind the coyote's tie. They were definitely wearing diapers under those youthful clothes.

Then there was the fabled boss of the department, Evanstrom. The tiger was rumored to have put on fifty pounds last year, ending in a big potbelly that caused the department to call him "Daddy," but currently the forty-something tiger was handsomely trim with a little bit of muscle.

This figure of perfect health made the being next to him all the more sepulchral: there again sat the legendary cheetah Kioga C. Davis, now notorious, sitting as a taxidermy whose stuffing had been forcibly vacuumed out, sucking the fur to the bone, the contours thus formed distorting his beautiful cheetah spots into a swarm of chaotic splotches.

Patterson shivered: he'd lost his virginity to Kioga's husband, who apparently did not have permission to fucking the shit-covered asses of random twenty year-olds.

Kioga's eyes, however enormous in their bony sockets, remained clear, and when the otter made eye contact with the skeletal male the cheetah merely nodded at him.

There was an empty seat next to the cheetah, only occupied by a gold band.

"We all know that God works in mysterious ways," continued Jonesboro, "but who's to say we cannot move in mysterious ways, too? We are here to explore God's world, to reap of the joys of our heart, to trust our gut, to resonate deep within our bowels."

"Move." "Bowels."

These words teased Patterson in not-so mysterious ways, and what started as a juvenile giggle sank fast in his body, landing in his guts and his bowels as something solid, thick, and moving fast.

Clark and Susan must have seen the way that Patterson's eyes popped, because both of them grinned in ways that made Clark's fangs look hellish, and even Susan's buckteeth oddly menacing.

That buzz in his guts got worse, and as the Pastor continued to speak with pleasantly beautiful, genuine, and happy affirmation for this half-gay trio, the otter felt two invisible paws grip his rear end and start to spread it.

Whatever Clark and Susan had given him was incredibly effective, but Pat knew he could control his own body. He had to! This was just some sort of test, he thought, but then blew a long, focused stream of air through his lips as he felt the solid content pile up at the end of its proper tube and his rectum pulse with preliminary tremors.

His heart thumping in his chest, Patterson stood as still as he could, deaf to the Pastor's speech for the pulsing in his ears. He clenched his undercarriage's muscles and kept his tail down, trying to ignore the quietly amused sneers from his future spouses, trying to seem as natural as possible before his new friends and family and this preacher who knew nothing of the filth he was getting into.

Holy Father, please forgive him.

The throbbing of his heart seemed to resonate in his bowels, echoing until the entire system was convulsing to the rhythm. In his colon he felt the deadly clench of an organ ready to move, with plenty of content backed up in the chamber triggering every synapse that this had to happen soon, or there would be a compulsory emergency override.

Clark and Susan watched him with the same mischievous grins, endless warmth in their eyes for their new partner but their brains--and genitals, surely--buzzing with impish excitement for their little setup.

The Pastor continued, "And with the addition of a third partner, we see a household inevitably benefit, not only in care for each of the other two, love and support readily available, but for also the children, of which I hear has--a little premature for God's taste, but we try our best--already been cemented in another fashion; I hear that we have a little otter-bun in the oven?" asked the bandicoot, and the crowd let out quiet cheers and applause.

Patterson's heart beamed. "What?" he asked, looking to Susan, and in his surprise his bowels released. His tail went horizontal, enough to be out of the way, and his ring relaxed, stretching as his rectum involuntarily pushed a thick log into his silk underwear, the material firm and warming his rump cheeks as it pinched off at an entire twelve inches and hung in the hammock of his honeymoon shorts. His tail remained raised as the earthy, lemony smell of digested fish drifted to his nose, and the otter could do nothing but remain standing still as another load, wider than the last, spread his ring again and crept out of him with the pace and inevitability of a glacier. He felt the head poke out, and its body caressed his bowels and his prostate as this brown python saw its brother in the bottom of his silk underwear and slowly, slowly crept its way out. His stomach butterflies had turned into dung beetles.

Hearing the slow, wet crackle with an occasional blurt, Patterson could feel the head of the first turd shift against the back of his balls, and in the insanity and the flagrance of the moment, the otter helplessly shitting himself before his spouses-to-be, a Pastor, and an entire congregation, he also felt the long fleshy tube of his penis grow in his silk undies. This luxurious silk, permanently fouled and stained in the back and tenting under his tail as the second turd emerged, wasn't stretchy in the slightest, and so as the colossal monster grew in the front, the back and understrap drew tight against his undercarriage, pressing that hot log against his taint.

The crowd knew what was going on, but the bandicoot didn't quite catch the nature of their reaction, a collective leaning-forward as the perverse thrill of their kinky corporate culture kicked in. Her nose, however, twitched, and she politely waved a paw in front of her muzzle.

"Little nervous there, Mr. Peters?" she asked.

He didn't realize that his eyes were almost fully round, nor that his paws trembled at his sides as he steadily crapped his pants. In a cold sweat and a quiet voice, he said, "I'm having an accident." Even as he spoke, his scat continued to slide out, its firm, wrinkled texture teasing his gaping, twitching ring. His cock had grown as hard as it could within its taut confines, bent in a painful curl and propping up the front of his pants in the shape and size of a u-bend pipe.

"Goodness, this is just terrible," said a dragon in the back. He had clean platinum scales and was sipping on a cup of coffee, the other clawed hand daintily holding a saucer. There was a clear, foot-long erection travelling down the right pantleg, with the conical glans tip propping up the thigh.

He was seated right next to Evanstrom, the Senior Marketing Director of F-C, having been invited there as a guest and large investor for the Canadian market, who currently was too polite to call them adult diapers--merely "protection" for "personal incidents." The tiger had his arms tightly folded, and he was glaring death at the obvious filthy ritual taking place.

"We sell diapers, and personalenjoyment within a polite society," he said to the ears around him. Kioga smirked, shaking his head. He hadn't even worn pants to the event, having snuck into the crowd in a jacket, shirt, and a round, firm diaper he'd already wet.

"Some societies aren't so polite," the dragon responded, then sighed as his tail rose through the back of the chair and, with a crackling sound, the seat of his pants tented with an enormous, lewd spire. His audience in the back, which included, Kioga, gave low expressions of approval. "Well, shit," said the cheetah, reaching forward to grope that firm, stinking mound. It turned out that the dragon had snuck in well-disguised track pants, which were indulgently stretchy. With Kioga's grope, the dragon was only happy to oblige to fill them further, pushing out an enormous, unbreaking sequoia-sized log until his pants were stretching down past Kioga's knees.

Evan glowered at the sight. "If any of this reaches our public, we are moving the HQ to Saudi Arabia. Half of it will offer billions of dollars for this filth; the other half will cut your heads off."

"Calm down, it's a free country," said the dragon, his eyes half-lidded as he expelled his stool.

Up front, Clark and Susan both cleared their throats, with Susan subtly shaking her head beneath her veil. Pastor Jonesboro's ears quirked, and she leaned forward, despite her muzzle crumpling against the increasingly evident outhouse stench.

"I'm sorry, you're having a what?"

The cobra coughed again, stepping between the two. Patterson heard a distinct plastic crinkle as Clark walked, the cheating bastard. Assuredly, his bunny fiancee was also diapered beneath that dress.

"He said this might have been an accident," said Clark, "In that perhaps a religious wedding may be a bit of a stretch, unless we're bisexual Mormons."

The bandicoot shook her head, her brow knitted, her nose still twitching.

That turd stretching Patterson's anus was barely budging, and it wasn't breaking, producing a tactile bulge in the back of the otter's pants that his tail could now brush across. He started fantasizing it was Clark's cock inside him, even if the log was bigger, which made the situation in the front even worse, the waistband of his silk briefs now cutting into his sides.

"No, as I said, Mr. Kensington, if this is to further share God's love, I say we follow our interpretation and if we're off the mark, at least we can say we did it with honest intentions!"

"Oh God, I can't take it!" exclaimed Patterson, and with automatic, urgent paws, he ripped off his cummerbund, unzipped his fly, tore off the top clasp, and dropped both his pants and his scat-loaded briefs to his ankles and remained squatting.

As the otter revealed his soiled undergarments, his spread tailhole mid-defecation, and the ten-inch cock that sprang up between his thighs, the crowd gasped and the Pastor shrieked. "Ohhhhhh Gooooood," Patterson moaned as that thick log slid out of him, landing on the steps of the altar as a softer, longer brown snake slithered after it, coiling on top.

The otter could only helplessly stare at Pastor Jonesboro, bottomless and crapping in a chapel, his cock hard as a steel beam and dripping precum. "No, God, no ..." he groaned, his anus remaining open from the laxatives, his colon mysteriously finding additional turdlets to fall out of him, gently thudding on the fuming pile between his legs, which had grown so large it was staining the back of his dropped trousers. Bent over like this, and having properly hydrated for the morning--plus coffee--suddenly his bladder felt like a full balloon squished against his bent-over stomach.

The bandicoot grinned and folded her paws. "Through thick and through thin, through runny and through solid, I now pronounce you husbands and wife."

"Wait, what's this now?" asked Patterson, groaning as a banana-sized turd slid out of him and stuck vertically into his shit mountain.

Jonesboro innocently brushed back her hair, a wistful smile on her face. "Call it a network of blackmail, but it's more of a social pariah. Your Muslim friend Kogari had consulted me and I may be switching churches. Regardless, Clark and Susan? You may fellate the groom!"

A cheer rose from the audience, with several of them with their pants around their ankles and quite a few with large craps weighing down the backs of their panties, briefs and diapers. For those who had boxers and jockstraps, turds fell freely to the floor. Plenty were openly masturbating, pulling on their cocks and fingering their pussies, and a number of partnerships and threesomes formed, with messy asses fingered and fucked, with pussies penetrated and double-penetrated; the male on the backside having a soiled mess trapped between his waist and her tail.

"I cannot fucking believe this!" Evanstrom shouted, standing up in the middle of it. "Aloysius, this is your fault!" he shouted at the platinum dragon, who was now bent over in his seat, the rear waistband of his track pants sliding down his tail as his colossal crap refused to break as it tented his seat down to the floor, with Kioga still playing with it as if it were a cock. The tiger had a prominent erection tenting out the front of his pants, but when Wesley the coyote, waddling in boyish shortalls enormously weighed down in the front and back, attempted to undo his fly the tiger smacked the coyote into the crowd, where he landed face-first in a discarded diaper, under a male-female-female threesome ruthlessly plowing his wife, the fennec fox Kyrie.

He'd given permission beforehand, as had she, and Wesley squinted as droplets of cum dripped from her pussy and little flecks of shit flaked from her asshole as Lasmo the shark plowed her cunt with his two cocks, and Sahasrahla the pink skink drilled her asshole with a knobbed strap-on.

Watching his wife's holes pulsing and grabbing at the cocks relentlessly ramming her, the coyote undid his shortalls and was about to pull his cock out of his diaper, but a random red wolf hiked up her skirt and squatted her naked pussy over his tent, rubbing the wet lips against it until it made squeaking noises. The HR dragoness Sakrasingh came from nowhere and undid the tapes of the coyote's diaper, then when she opened it the red wolf's tailhole bulged and then laid a long, stiff turd right in the crotch.

Satisfied, Sakrasingh started changing him right there, wiping both his and the female wolf's tailhole as she settled down on him, her folds surrounding his cock and squeezing, so hot and moist. Wesley immediately launched into a humping motion, and didn't notice the new diaper being slipped under him. As he undid the red wolf's jacked and shirt and bra, freeing a pair of kickball-sized tits to squeeze, he only faintly felt her body contract as she lay another long, firm log right in his new diaper.

"Well that won't do," scolded the dragoness, and when the red wolf fell on top of him, interlocking muzzles with the coyote to lick tongues and suck face, Sakrasingh taped them both up in the same diaper, face-to-face, where they continued fucking and Wesley deposited a load of his own into their mutual padding.

The platinum dragon that had so thoroughly pissed off Evanstrom with his monster crap stood up, letting the fireplace-sized log fall out the leg of his track pants to the floor with a mighty thud. His tail remained raised, and so Kioga wasted no time, pulling down the back of the dragon's pants to reveal that precious, messy tailhole, whereupon he pulled down the front of his diaper to reveal his modest, spiny cock just long enough for the dragon to lustily back into it, his shit serving as lube. The wire-thin cheetah wrapped his paws around the dragon's waist and hungrily drove his cock into it, fucking his pert, platinum ass with a speed and vigor too-natural for his species.

Kioga was startlingly light, and so the dragon found himself able to stand freely despite the extra weight. Any temptation he had of walking around, however, was clouded by the spiny, spicy cock repeatedly thrust into his asshole, and he could only sigh as his bladder released and he showered his pants in pleasure, the plap-plap-plap of the cheetah's hips against his lusty rear, and of the cheetah's loaded diaper against his own thighs absolute music to his ears.

Up at the altar, the bandicoot blushed and snuck off, a little too much a little too fast, and remaining were Clark and Susan as the cobra and rabbit ripped off their bottoms, revealing respectively a tuxedo diaper and a lacy white wedding diaper, obviously and firmly bulged in the back. They knelt before Patterson, still squatting over his enormous shitpile with his anus gaped, attempting to crap whatever was left within him, and kissed him simultaneously on the mouth before kneeling further, gagging briefly on his stink before starting to make out over the length of his penis, a forked tongue, a rounded tongue, fangs and buckteeth gliding over his throbbing skin, the tip drooling and spurting precum.

"I love you two so much," Patterson groaned as the shit stink of the chapel reached a hypnotizing high, and he put his paws on both his spouses as they sucked up and down on his cock.

"I'm shutting this shit down right now," Evanstrom snarled, marching to the front. But from nowhere, ever-too convenient and clever, the strange foreign financier arctic-fox otter Fredilect sprang from his own chair, wearing a white translucent robe and a clearly-loaded and soaked blue bikini brief, and spritzed the tiger's face with a bottle possessing the graphic of a toilet on the front.

"Xian, God damn it, if you want to buy the company for this depravity, then you ... you ..."

The buff tiger's eyes glazed over for a second, and the room slowed down, just enough that the squishy, slick movement of cocks, mouths, assholes, and pussies were intermittent like crickets. Even Patterson turned his head, the ritual at the front having evolved into frotting his cock against the rump of the cobra's tuxedo diaper while his rabbit wife progressively fit more and more fingers into his gaped rear end.

The gurgle from Evan's stomach sounded like thunder, and the tiger let out a roar as he frantically attempted to undo his pants, his tail flagging on its own, loud farts ripping out as his cock erupted with piss and hosed down his left trouser leg, soaking his shoe and flinging piss drops with every panicked movement.

Evan managed to rip his trousers' waistband and shove them to the floor, revealing a pair of previously pristine white briefs, now stained yellow and spraying piss out through the tip of the tent. This bent-over position pressed on his bowels, which grotesquely, graphically, and resoundingly released with the rapidity of the world's most disgusting tube of toothpaste being run over, feces flying out and filling the seat of his briefs as he helplessly pissed all over the inside of his thighs, pounding and pounding the back of his undies until they sagged, stretched, then hung from his hips with most of the elastic blown out.

Turds fell from the center strap, rolling on the floor, his enormous mess plainly visible in the filthy, exhausted hammock, and the crowd roared with applause.

Blush burned his face, his erection and his tail the only things holding up his sodden undies. "Shut up, all of you!" Evanstrom roared, swiping at the air around him with his claws.

Everyone froze as the tiger wandered to the front, spying Susan with her tapered fist fully inserted into Patterson's ass, her wrist brown with muck, and Clark laying on the ground, the otter having angled his cock toward a hole he'd dug through diaper and dung.

"I need something to fuck," he growled at the three.

Clark and Susan froze, petrified, and Patterson extended a webbed middle finger. "Get it elsewhere, sir. We're exclusive!"

Evanstrom snarled at the insolence, and was about to speak when the sound of crinkling plaps reached his ear, and a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

"Appears romance isn't dead, sir," said Aloysius, his eyes half lidded as the cheetah repeatedly thrust up his ass like a vodka-powered fuck machine, "May I?" he said, gesturing down to his cock, which was naked, erect, a foot long, drooling, and completely alone.

Evanstrom let his underwear drop with a splat and he stepped out of it. The muscular, older tiger ripped off his shirt and jacket like a professional wrestler, revealing his full, carved, musky and masculine body. "Better do it good, boy. I've taken shits bigger than you."

The dragon smirked, stifling a moan as his ass, constantly at a low burn due to the spines, and ringing from pleasure at the fucking and fucking and fucking of that bone-thin cheetah, clouded his thoughts. It was like taking a shit that never ended. "Unnngh," he moaned, then composed himself. That cheetah was keeping him rock-hard. "I'm sure we can work something out. Hopefully it's an orgasm."

And so those three got to work as well, Aloysius stumbling into place, amazed at the sensation of being fucked no matter what his posture, and pressed his tapered tip against the tiger's messy hole with a delirious amount of pleasure, biting his lip as he forced himself not to drive the whole thing in right away, and subsequently get punched through the chapel's tent wall.

He slid in the first couple of inches, the tiger unbelievably tight from apparently very rare anal encounters, and Evan responded in kind, his growl turning into a purr as the dragon penetrated him. Aloysius let out a hot breath. "Gods, are you close back there?"

Kioga smacked the dragon's bare hip, breathing like a marathon runner. His diaper's tapes were starting to stretch, and his loaded diaper hung off his own ass. "That ain't diarrhea flooding your ass, bitch. I'm on my third O."

"Gods," the dragon said with a smirk, looking up toward Patterson, who now had a rabbit wife forearm deep in his body as he pushed his hips against his cobra husband's diaper, penetrating him fully and rewarded with a hiss. "Quite a few of you have rude mouths around here."

And the dragon had to blush; he now noticed the hot syrup sloshing about his rectum, with more on the way. Without further ado, he pressed into the tight tiger, groaning leisurely, fully, profoundly as the smooth warm walls enfolded him, clasped him, and he went to work, blushing as he felt the cock in his ass pulse again, filling him further. "Gods," said he, "What is your diet?"

"You don't wanna know," said Kioga.

Elsewhere,Sahasrahla, Kyrie, and Lasmo changed places, with the girls pounding the shark's smooth slick ass with strap-ons. The fennec's pussy drooled with the shark's cum, and the pink skink gave herself a release by letting a turd slide right out of her onto the floor. Lasmo was squatting with each foot on a chair, and those two bitches alternated in perfect lumberjack fashion, sliding in and out of his stretched asshole with both his cocks bouncing in the air.

"How do you like two cocks, eh?" Kyrie cheered.

"Please, please," gasped the shark, "I gotta shit."

"Well we gotta fuck!" sneered the skink.

"No, just two minutes, just two, aaaaah!"

The shark cried in sudden release as a turd forced itself out between the two dildos, temporarily stretching him into a triple penetration before it fell out of him and thudded, embarrassingly, on the floor between them. That final stimulation set Lasmo off, and his balls drew up as his cocks erupted into the air, landing in sticky ropes all over Kyrie's cutesy, girly top.

Nearby, the coyote and red wolf continued to make out, Wesley fucking her within the diaper that trapped them together, both of them blushing as their messes clung to their rumps, smooshed against them. The red wolf yipped as her passage clamped around the coyote, moaning as her juices rushed around his cock, pouring into their padding. Wesley sucked in a breath as his cock shuddered and jolted, spurting hot seed deep into her folds, excess drooling out onto his balls and the padding.

The two cuddled each other as Sakrasingh changed them again, this time putting a diaper on each.

The elegant platinum dragon bent over the far muscular male and repeatedly drove himself into the tight, slick passage of the muscular tiger below him, trying to keep up with the rhythm the cheetah on his back was keeping; his brain swirling with feelings of dominance over fucking this larger male, his round, firm, enormous rump cheeks clapping with every thrust, his thick spined penis swinging below him; and that of submission, how an aroused, powerful wave of respect and surrender washed over him as he felt his ass fill even more with cum, and with every thrust inside Evan, more and more of the male juice ran out of his hole and down the back of his balls.

"Gods, oh fuck me, yes!" Aloysius cried out as he hilted inside Evan's messy hole, dumping voluminous spurts of thick dragon cum deep into the tiger's ass, and was further rewarded as the tiger only pumping himself twice before Evan himself roared and made a series of splattering white puddles beneath him.

Kioga finally pulled out, and he crawled up to the dragon's shoulder and deeply kissed him as what seemed like a pint of cheetah spunk squirted out of his tailhole in a long white line, like a bird taking a shit, and was followed by another large turd, soaked in white, that slid out of him, almost to the ground before breaking off.

Up in front, Patterson cried in pleasure and love as he hilted himself against his husband's tuxedo diaper, brown moist mess leaking out of the makeshift hole and the waistband, and as his wife stroked his prostate with all five fingers and her knuckles, her forearm painted in muck and her fist deep enough to feel his tail wag, the otter's plum-shaped balls drew up and he dumped what felt like a hundred tablespoons of cum inside the cobra, spraying and spewing and spurting inside of Clark until his moans turned to gasps, and those turned to rasps. Susan fingered herself to climax with her free paw, then pissed into her lacy diaper with her hand stuck deep inside her otter spouse, feeling his prostate clench and pulse with every spurt inside her other hubby.

The whole room settled to a lull, when Pastor Jonesboro returned with a bottle of champagne.

"So!" she said, popping the cork, "Who's ready for the reception?"

The room groaned in unison.