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Patterson Preston Peters, the handsome, young, hung, bisexually married, kink-loving otter with a latte swirl brown-cream coat, stood stock still in the middle of the family living room with a controller in his paw, a gaming headset on his head, and a half-wet diaper around his hips. There was also a quarter-cup of his semen in his protective briefs, but that didn't add much to its volume as much as it did make his sheath, sac, and the base of his buttcheeks perniciously sticky. It was a good thing he hadn't also crapped them: diapers were marvelously adept at wicking away moisture, but the thickness of semen and feces didn't translate through the protective layer.

He stood staring the harbinger of his fate. Deep in his passionate, curious, and greedy mind, Patterson realized that one of the great paradoxes of man, lay upon a kopis sword made of alloy gold. That was the Greek golden mean, and it was as precarious to stand atop it as it was to slide off either side or worse: have a foot slide either way.

His headset chattered away, the usual suspects of his friends and coworkers laughing and arguing at Patterson having just yelped in surprise. The otter had to have tripped over a jumpscare in his video game, Clowns and Castles, which for its generic name made great use of medieval and circus imagery.

None of that really mattered, because his twelve-year-old cobra step-son Fortnight Kensington stared at him from the hallway, right at that bright white undergarment that glowed all the brighter in the light of the 8.1K OWOLED super-TV that the Kensingtons had. The boy himself also wore a diaper, a set of pull-ups: Fortnight had admitted to Patterson earlier that night that he was having problems with overnight secretions. In his own words, "My dick is shitting ... gross, white stuff."

The nineteen-year-old Patterson, in his limited wisdom, gave him overnight protection for his nightly emissions. This had seemed a genius move at the time--Patterson even chastely stated that anthropoids made mistakes both in the brain and in the body. It was perfectly normal to have occasional abnormalities. That mistakes were merely prototype successes.

So why was Fortnight's stepfather "indulging" in his mistakes by wearing an adult diaper?

The otter yelped, losing his headset and standing up. "Fortnight, are you okay?"

The thin cobra covered himself out of modesty, which in the low light put silhouettes over his own protection. The boy was already eerie in the difference of animal kingdoms: as a snake he didn't have eyelids, his facial expressions were next to zero, and he didn't move unless he needed to. He didn't shift weight from foot to foot, he just stood on them. "Do you have to wear them too?" He asked.

Pat's heart fell into his stomach, then probably out the back door into his diaper.

If he could startle the poor boy, perhaps he would bite, ending this terrible situation. Then again, come morning, the boy's biological father Clark would do it on purpose, which would mean a lot less trauma. Or he could elope, start a romantic relationship with ...

Patterson, your brain is literally going to the worst corners of anthro existence. Stand upon the point of action and claim glory. Our ancestors came from the dirt and tamed its very atoms, making diapers, cars, and video games. You can take the crude elements of a complicated situation and make it coherent. Bring peace and affirmation.

"I, uh ..." Patterson stammered.

"Mom said you were perfectly healthy. It was a weird thing to say, but she really likes you. Dad, too. Me too, but ... are you having problems?"

Fortnight stared right at him, at them, and Patterson desperately hoped it was just a trick of his non-moving eyes.

"I, um ... see, adults get special privileges because we earned them ... with hard work and money," Patterson said. He wouldn't dare describe the special privileges, of Fortnight's rabbit mother Susan going into heat, then squatting over husbands Patterson and Clark and spraying estrus urine on them, thus driving the otter and the cobra into such a frenzy that both of them defecated into their diapers as a sort of territory-marking and then mated with her until all three of her holes drooled with the thick, viscous life-making liquid. He wouldn't go into detail how afterwards, ignoring the stink of the lumpy bulge hanging from both her husband's diapered behinds, she'd squat down between them, holding Patterson's thick and floppy monster of an otter cock and Clark's reasonable, multi-use cobra cock and have them piss all over her face and her pendulous, squishy breasts as she pushed a long, wet, semen-infused log of shit onto a gigantic puppy pad.

He couldn't even brag, in a reassuring way, about how the three of them showered together in their massive master bathroom and cleaned each other up, how they'd installed a sprayer hose and a changing table in the vast tiled area. There was even an enema attachment for the hose for a deep and intimate clean: so warm and affirming was their bond that they made sure each of them was cleaned and soothed. If the kids were gone to school, they might work from home in the nude, or in diapers, and if one of them needed a bathroom break, especially for the messy stuff, the other two would follow.

The cobra may sit on the toilet, or squat in his diaper, and push out his solid waste while he pushed his forked tongue into Susan's wet slit. Patterson might stand on a stepladder while Susan sucked off his fat ten-inch shaft, all to the sounds of Clark's moans as he farted and pushed out a couple thick turds into the potty or his diaper. Then they'd pause, have Clark turn around so they could clean him, and then the three would be at it until climax ... then they'd get back to work and write down what they did for their company's next dirty commercial.

No, he couldn't tell step-son any of that, even though it was all consensual, all passionate, and a lot of times it kept the three of them working long hours at Ferris-Chalmpers LLC. For another passionate night after another wholesome day with the kids. He just had to carefully explain what the fuck he was doing in an adult diaper.

Patterson held his paws, not covering up his diaper as some act of shame. He just wore it, openly. "Let's just say it's a mode of ... convenience. Comfort just in case something happens."

"I haven't had an accident in nine years," Fortnight countered. "Not until ... you know."

Usually, when Fortnight was embarrassed, his hood retracted and he stared into nothingness. But the hood remained flared, and the cobra's head seemed to follow his diapered step-father.

As the otter's eyes adjusted to the dark--or perhaps, his ears were burning so hot that the room was daylight again--he saw that the stripe on the front of Fortnight's pull-ups had turned a deep, full blue. He'd used them, holy shit ... Patterson cleared his throat, fearing he'd just started the boy down an expressway to diaperville. Fortnight would start buying them at the store, wearing them all the time, perhaps even using them during and after school: #1 during school, and #2 if he was walking home. As a teenager, he'd be jacking off all the time, too. Susan, Clark, and him would be finding soiled, cummy diapers under his bed, and Fortnight would flat-out deny it even as another white fluffy waistband poked out from his jeans.

Then, of course, somebody would catch him at school. With Ferris-Chalmpers normalizing adult diapers as a convenience item--same way mobile ordering and coffee delivery worked--all the kids at school would know what a diaper looked like. They'd yank the poor kid's pants down and not let him go until he shit himself. Then they'd laugh at him for that.

Were the bullies wrong? Patterson thought, then frowned. He remembered spitting on a kid whose buttplug fell out. It was slimy, too: covered in anal mucus and a few specks of shit. Only somewhat. If used as a fetish item, it's a fetish item. Fetishes are not for the public.

"So how's it comfortable to be sitting in your own piss?" demanded Fortnight.

Patterson folded his arms, looking down at the blue stripe, then quickly looked away. God damn it; the kid had a boner. "You tell me," said Pat.

Fortnight gasped and hissed, stumbling back some and covering himself. Then he realized he had a boner and crouched down around it, practically forming a ball. "I was just curious! It's nasty. Like I'm sitting in a rowboat and my shorts are soaked."

The otter shook his head. "Things cost money, or they cost heart," Patterson said, trying to nobly stare at some ceiling light. "Neither is infinite."

"Heart?"

"You ever get really sad, or really angry, and it just drains you?"

"Okay. Yeah. Yeah..."

The young cobra, whose hood was lined with naturally-growing rabbit fur, had maneuvered behind a chair, hiding his pull-ups.

"Hello?" came from his headset. The otter moved over to it, every crinkle sending shocks to his head, and whispered, "Got a family thing here. Be right back."

"We're just about to start the raid," growled Kioga, "We can't wait all night."

"Then too bad. Find another boyfriend to lose."

Screams came from the headset, mostly joyful, with even Kioga unable to say "God damn you," without a deep chuckle.

Patterson set the headset back down. His middle finger pressed against his thumb.

"Let's just finish my analogy quickly," he said, "I'm supposed to be your role model and right now, I'm not performing that duty. Just like you saw your mom really drunk last New Year's, sometimes we adults recharge ourselves, recharge our hearts, by taking special indulgences that may or may not be actually good for us."

"Are you being bad?"

"No. More like ... a great mediocrity."

"I don't see what you're doing wrong. You, um, don't have to stop gaming to go to the bathroom. I really like video games," he said, his thick snake tail somehow wagging.

Patterson wondered how loud a family of rattlesnakes was. He stared out into space, holding a finger up. "Let me think, Forty," he said.

The role of adults, of parents, were to usher the kids into the world they were creating: a future they were sculpting, maintaining, and working, hopefully for those very children. Always build a nest. Always rear your young. Help with the rearing of others in your "den." Every act of an adult was the extrapolation of the values they were instilling into their children, and in general the children of the society they lived in.

In the presence of kids, therefore, an adult was to act in a way that he would want his children and his neighbors' children to act. So if Pat was peeing and ejaculating into an adult diaper, then did it not follow that in six years time, if not right now, that this B-average student--his husband and wife's son--would be in front of a TV, in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a diaper and urinating in it or worse, shifting up onto his knees so he could defecate into his pull-ups and then passively ignore the swirling stink and the drastic, debauched knowledge that he was sitting in his own feces?

Between Ferris-Chalmpers, European Ultra, and the United Amirites at Dia-Pai, the world was moving toward a diaper-centric mode of convenience and luxury. Why shackle oneself to the cruelty of finding a restroom? Just as smartphones replaced phone booths, Patterson saw a future where diapers replaced restrooms. Forgetting the environmentalists, who were already in a tizzy about a one-thousand percent increase in additional diapers in landfills, but already the mass clothing manufacturers were readjusting the dimensions of their clothing to accommodate the extra thickness. Fabric became more flexible and soft, and bottom fittings included snaps in the crotch to allow for swift changes.

Forget the trans-activists, too: a diaper was every-gender's bathroom!

Department stores, coffee shops, fast food stores, all were placing secondary changing tables within the handicap stalls, or building another stall altogether that had nothing but a changing table, a large bin, and poor 1-ply wet wipes. With the worst of generics, people were finding it easier just to soak their paws in the sanitary fluid, then get to scooping the scat from their buttcrack. Patterson saw people avoid shaking left-handed paws: everyone knew that if they used a public changing room, there was a chance they'd scooped a fistful of poo from under their tails.

This was the world, the culture, that Fortnight was inheriting. "Come out of the water closet" was a huge stroke of marketing genius by Lugo, of all people. That brilliant slogan inspired, a month later, a Pride-style ABDL march down city streets that, ironically, got in the way of the actual Pride parade. The conflict came when adult babies insisted that LGBTQA+ was largely sexual, and babies shouldn't be having sex.

"You have enough damn letters!" shouted a certain muscular tiger, a big silver diaper embracing his hips and a pacifier in the corner of his muzzle.

"Homophobe!"

"My sexual preferences and experiences are none of your goddamn business," said Evan, pushing past a couple twinks and giving the stink-eye to a couple of bears. "In fact, with this aggressive cultural corporate takeover, you're a FOMOphiliac! You gotta have it all, doncha?"

Evan got in trouble again, but Mr. Pendrael himself had a global announcement where he was sponsoring the anthropoid rights movement. Despite all the best lighting equipment in the world, they could not capture his face--the liquid shine of his eyes, shaped like sideways teardrops, was the only thing the camera caught of his head, as well as the nubs on his head serving as "ears." They managed to capture his hands, which were interwoven with perfectly manicured teardrop-shaped claws.

"Forget the rainbow and of course, the flags of religious and statist objectors," he said. "For we anthroids are all beings that take private relish in ourselves: and if you do not love yourself, then who the hell will? Now then, self-love is an appropriate term for masturbation, and while we might enjoy mono-amorous pleasure for so long, it does ring out as empty because we do desire to stretch across. If we have a profusion of love, be it emotional, mental, or sexual, don't we wish to dump it out upon another? Reach out and touch faith, as the old song goes.

"With our good love, we desire good people, the same way we desire quality products--such as my diapers and my marketing services. Many of we, the desperately lonely people, are unable to find a steady mate because it is the most unsteady of us that are the loudest. These people who have spun off their axis must, in turn, find their axis again: but it will not be done by rewarding their tantrums.

"Thus, I am sponsoring a global movement, starting here in our fair city as a crucible. We all know in our yearning hearts that Anthroid Dream of Eclectic Sheen. We all want to shine. Where we return the people to themselves, stop the madness by having a strict daytime decibel threshold as well as an outdoor capacity code. Am I restricting your right to speak freely and congregate? Why yes, the same way a pair of skinny jeans restricts a particularly unruly waistline," he said with a flash of his eyes, which for a moment stamped themselves on everyone's phone, computer, and TV screen as if a flash bulb went off before their eyes.

"This bill has already made it through city council, and it's had no objections because it had a pretty flag, a frowning foreign woman on the front, and my name on it. But I promise it's good. Anything above a peaceful protest or an orderly parade is hereby banned. If your special interest group cannot speak its mind without screaming, then perhaps it doesn't have a place in this city. Therefore, like the way of the cotton gin, like the way of the telegraph, like the way of the four humors and draining bad blood, I don't want to hear any more about your special interest groups, your protest marches, your religious holidays, your pride parades. I respect their right to exist: I just don't care. It's not my responsibility to care. It's yours. I'm handing it back to you.

"We are all anthroids. We are all people that want to live. We are people that want to link up: not butt up against each other. Puerto Panuela is a prosperous city, and yes, we do love our diapers. You love my diapers," he said with a flat-toothed grin that seemed to float beneath his eyes. "Which is why I'm running for Mayor next year as well. But that's beside the point.

"As part of the Anthroid Dream of Eclectic Sheen, Puerto Panuela is enacting a Stupidity Curfew during the day. Six to six; let's keep it simple. If it's my--ahem--if it is city property," said Pendrael, "then please: as before, go about your business. Be gay. Be Hindu. Be Kheskherrekist. Be a reptile supremacist. Be a heroin addict. Be an adult baby. I am not silencing any of you: I'm just turning you down. If you are to communicate your ideas to others, you can do so as an adult. Use your words, not the brute violence of some catchphrase hammering our skulls over and over. Communicate through your actions, and through the satisfaction of the practice your culture brings you. You have the right to be smart. You have the right to be stupid. You have the right to transmit your stupidity, like an STD, to the brains of others.

"Others, in turn, have the right to embrace you or shoot you down. This is a marketplace of ideas: not a screaming bazaar in Arabia or the chaotic fiat exchange in Wall Street. We do not haggle our ideas: we negotiate and we trade. So please: for the sake of civility, shut the fuck up and respect each other. Perhaps not for their ideas, but merely for the fact that once the heart stops pumping and the bowels stop pushing, that's the end of the game. Stay out of each other's pockets, stay out of each other's asses, unless invited.

"When and if, however, it gets unbearably stupid, inconveniently stupid, unavoidably stupid: if it gets loud, you will be relocated to the first place that will tolerate you. Your home, or perhaps a community center where your kind congregates. A specialty club or bar. There are two certainties in Puerto Panuela, death and my taxis--and my taxis are not cheap. Call me a fascist against stupidity, and I'll willingly submit that I'm Adolf Einstein. This is Prometheus Pendrael, your iron cock in a velvet diaper."

Then the camera shuddered and there was a weird moan from behind it. The broadcast kept rolling, and across the airwaves was heard a long trumpeting fart, an unceremonious blurt, and then a wetter, slimier sound as the cameraman tried to hold steady, with more grunts on the way.

"Is there a problem, Caddle?" asked Mr. Pendrael.

"Oof, can we go to break?"

"I'm finished; why are you still rolling? Cut the feed, if you would."

"Yeah, which button ... oh God!" gasped the faceless cameraman, and American and the world watched as he dropped his camera, which landed to face him, and saw a young, naïve zebra of about twenty-four pull his pants and underwear down to his knees. His long black zebra cock flopped out, nearly to the floor. People watched it dribble. There was already a smear and a long, smooshed turd in the strap of his formerly white cotton briefs. The zebra stumbled around, trying to hover his tailhole out of the way of his clothes. People saw his wrinkled, shiny, puffy donut-shaped asshole already spread around another log as wide as a baseball bat. Then the dribbles from his dick turned to a splattering yellow stream. With the sudden surprise, he shit himself, dropping long cables of scat right back into the underwear he tried to save.

A pair of legs came into the shot, with no footsteps heard over the zebra's moaning and farting. The angle didn't show the bottom of his shoes, either, but the lights coming from the zebra's camera equipment made it seem as though there were shadows cast beneath Pendrael's heels.

This was a year ago, and until Patterson had seen Mr. Pendrael on the Executive Plane--and mystically wet and shit himself right in front of him--it had been the clearest look the general public had gotten of Prometheus "Prociev" Omega Pendrael. Under the Chief Executive Order, Puerto Panuela became as quiet as a library during the day. People dressed as they liked, acted as they liked, but as soon as their group became too big, a policeman in a black uniform lined with silver and purple accents would come up and kindly disperse them. Sometimes, Patterson remembered, a protestor or proselytizer said it was their right, how dare they--this was just like Slavery and Prohibition and Stonewall--and then the officer would poke them in the gut with a black and purple baton, and then the protester would double over.

It wasn't in pain; the officer hadn't struck him or her that hard: it was that they were having an immediate bladder and bowel emergency, and they were so preoccupied in holding it in that they were frozen in place. Of course, this eventually failed, and the person's bladder and bowels would release, flooding their pants and loading up their underwear. Then they'd get a ride to the nearest police station, a lecture, a mandatory diaper change, and would be released back into the wild city.

This was oddly attractive to the diaper fetishists, and to them the punishment was confiscation of their pants. They'd wander around with a loaded diaper, then the uncomfortable stares from everyone else would cause them to follow the police back to the station for a change and to reclaim their pants.

Patterson continued to stand in the middle of his living room, in a wet diaper sticky with cum, and by the strange, foreign combination of scents in the air, Fortnight's pull-ups were in the exact same condition. Diapers were already quietly accepted in Puerto Panuela, especially due to Kioga's fame and Pendrael's strange curfew. Everyone was polite, so people were more ready to engage across cultural lines. People didn't know whether it was because Pendrael's Chief Executive Order was some sort of monopolistic "anti-trust" measure, or simply a noise ordinance.

During the night, however, that "Stupidity Curfew" was lifted. And while it wasn't a purge, the societal equivalent of taking liquid and suppository laxatives along with fiber muffins and powerful antioxidants, people did enjoy a tolerance of 40 more decibels. Increased night life lead to increased tax revenue, which led to more of Pendrael's Praetorian Police to ensure the insanity was kept fun, not harsh.

Nowadays, people didn't even notice Pendrael's Praetorians. Most of them were in plain-clothes, but seemed to have a desaturated, darker hue about them: like they were stickers printed incorrectly. But they were always there when someone got stupid. Puerto Panuela was a strange, but orderly place. Diaper tolerance was up, too: If somebody had soiled themselves, a Praetorian would emerge from the crowd and point them to the nearest changing booth. "Hey, buddy. You're infringing on people's rights," the officer would say, tapping his nose.

In ten years, it may not even matter whether or not that diapers were secret garments: they would be a household commodity such as paper towels, deodorant, toothpaste, and toilet paper, a monthly purchase that, if depleted, would cause the homeowner acute discomfort and/or poor hygiene. And they were thick enough, especially the F-C brand thanks to its CEO P. Pendrael and their R&D department, that they could count as normal clothing. With less toilet paper required, since wet wipes were made of polyester, perhaps diapers would, in fact, save the rainforest.

"Dad, it's whatever," said Fortnight, interrupting Patterson's reverie. "I'll wear them for what I need, you wear them for ... whatever you need; I don't care."

Patterson knew he did care, however: Fortnight was already snaking back to his room, trying to scoot the pull-ups off his hip with one hand while the other traced the wall. He was ashamed; he was grossed-out. But was it his stepdad or himself that grossed him out?

"Then throw them out if you don't like them," said Pat.

"Wh-what?" stammered Fortnight.

"Throw them away and go to bed."

The cobra promptly slipped them back up to his bony hips. "No, just in case."

Were they falling into a land of excess, of acceleration? Was this the point where people were biting off more than they could chew, and then, as a result, using diapers heavier than they could hold? He remembered Xian talking about a weird short story he was working on, something about the world's waste overcoming its absorbency. Rather, it was the world's culture: expecting so much gratification, it leaked and spilled everywhere ... Was this the world he wanted Fortnight to inherit? Should Fortnight be a part of it, actively indulge in the masses, or should he, as a sort of reverse-diaper, wrap himself in a protective film to keep the filth out?

In that case, what good would it do Fortnight to be the last chaste, pure man on earth?

"Dad?"

Patterson cleared his throat. He was still standing in his living room wearing a half-wet diaper in front of his twelve-year-old step-son.

"Hold on," said Patterson.

"I need to go," insisted Fortnight, and Pat heard the telltale grumble of bowels chambering a round.

"You're ..." Patterson stopped himself. "You're wearing the bathroom" was a quote reserved for spousal diaper time. "You know where it is."

The boy seemed to get more confrontational, his fur-lined hood flaring around his head. "I'm wearing the bathroom."

Patterson's heart skipped. Where the hell did he hear that from? "No, Fortnight," he said. He moved forward to escort Fortnight to the toilet one way or another. The diaper crinkling between his own legs sent electric shocks through his body.

"Why?" Said Fortnight, backing up. His fangs were half-erect. "You tell me right now," he hissed, his voice getting quieter as he moved back toward the staircase to the bedrooms, but his words got sharper. His finger jabbed down at the ground, his forked tongue lashed. As his body had begun flourishing into adulthood, so apparently did his mind. "You adults tell me 'I'm not ready for it, wait until you're older; it'll stunt your development.' What kind of product," he said, making a drinking motion with one hand while he snapped his pull-up's waistband with the other, "is poison for kids yet somehow amazing for adults?! Don't you think that if it wasn't good for a kid, that it's no good for adults? That maybe adults have built up resistance--or numbness--so they can just withstand the poison?"

His eyes gleamed like his fangs, and the curvature of his raised cheeks brought a look of contempt in his eyes. "I've seen alcoholics, bloated and incoherent: no memory. I've seen smokers, hacking and groaning: no energy. I've seen ... sluts," Fortnight hissed, venom squirting onto the floor, "transient and abandoned, slipping off every relationship with cum-covered hands: no association. Tell me, dad," said the cobra, framing the wet cloth-covered bulb between his skinny legs. "Is this poison?"

The more proud of the boy Patterson was, the more ashamed he was of himself. Pat was confused, lost for words, feeling not like a hypocrite of his actions, but that a hypocrite of existence: it was reality, somehow, that contradicted itself. No, Goddamnit, Patterson thought, don't be a fucking sophist, making up conditions of reality as is convenient. It's okay when we suppress this group of people, because it's for the greater good of those types of people. Pendrael was right: we need to shut the fuck up and respect each other. We need to shut the fuck up and acknowledge existence for all its complexities. Existence isn't contradictory: people are.

"The reason you're not ready for them right now," said Patterson, "and I can smell that you've been playing with them--"

"I've heard enough," Fortnight hissed, "You and every other fucking adult, every politician."

"Language, Forty."

"Fuck you, dad!" the snake growled, "All this exceptionalism. Whether it be the 1% with their fake businesses, bleeding heart celebrities with their ivory towers, or the jocks at school, the nerds at school, every little special group in their snowflake safe spaces that I can't get in ..." the boy ranted, his fangs leaking as much as his eyes. "Well this is my safe space. This is my ivory tower," he said, pointing at his rounded, swollen pull-up brief that stank of piss and semen.

Patterson stood at him, dumbstruck, his mind spinning in his skull, having been lectured by a twelve year-old. Did the cobra spend all day on podcasts? Philosophy books? Patterson knew he'd made some grandiose speeches in his time, but most of them were with a sack of turds hanging from his tail. With his cock crammed into one of the boy's biological parents. Patterson shook his head, more in his brain than outside of it. He, Susan, and Clark, got into some very messy entanglements. But it always felt righteous, even after the sexual afterglow, even during the revolting revelation that one of them had three stool samples in one diaper. Across one pair of tits, smothered across two cocks. It was three adults that, with respect to their health, enjoyed intimacy in proportion to its intensity. Patterson felt so connected to Susan and Clark when the cobra was balls deep in her slit, the rabbit groaning with delight, and Patterson was snuggled up behind them. He would pull the front of his diaper open behind Clark, kissing the cobra on the cheek and the side of his lips as the snake pushed a long, warm, moist turd into the otter's briefs. Then Patterson would push a couple fingers into Clark's dirty hole and finger-fuck him to a glorious climax all over the rabbit's insides.

It was a game for the three of them: whoever the bitch in the middle was, the other two had a deliciously predatory mission to get them in the most embarrassing state of release. Bonus points if they orgasmed while messing themselves, and a nice multiplier if, during afterglow, they insensately released their bladder and flooded whatever they were wearing and/or whoever they were inside.

Fortnight folded his arms. "It's okay if you, mom, and dad are a bunch of hypocrites," the boy said, his hood flaring and his jaw trembling as he realized how confrontational the statement was. "Just make sure I get to college, or trade school. Whatever my brain does best besides figuring out how childish adults can be." Fortnight pointed at Patterson's wet diaper.

Patterson wasn't going to pull the parental card of, "How dare you speak to your elders like that. Go to your room, and I'm cancelling your phone for a month." He was going to figure this out with logic.

"Forty, we're here to support you."

"I know that."

"Just, as before--"

"You want me to be careful with this."

"Exactly. Just like a microwave oven or a car, there's a right way and a dangerous way to use that."

"Not alcohol or cigarettes anymore?"

"I don't even know about coffee anymore," Patterson sighed. "It's all chemicals to artificially stimulate the glands. But y'know, medicine is good for you! We obviously beat the Black Plague and rabies somehow..."

"What's so bad about a diaper?" sighed Fortnight.

"It's a sexual thing and you're not ready for sex," argued the otter.

"My body is," said the cobra.

Patterson grit his teeth. "Then I hope you find a nice girl or boy who also likes diapers."

"They're becoming more popular, dad."

A lump formed in the otter's throat. "I know they are, son."

"So if you'll excuse me..." said Fortnight, grunting as he grabbed his knees.

"Oh my God, don't!" Patterson hissed. In slow motion, he wondered what he could do to stop a person in this act. He couldn't exactly clap his paw under Fortnight's tail, or plug it like the Holland boy with the crack in the dam, or try to push it back in: he could just stare in abject terror as the young cobra put his hands on his thighs, squat down, and pushed.

Sure enough, there was a blurt, a splurtch, and then a long crackling squish.

God fucking damn it; his step-son had shit his underpants right in front of him, regardless of their protective nature. As an act of defiance. What could Patterson do in return? Shit his (plastic) pants to establish dominance? How would future conversations go?

"Son, you crashed the car. I'm taking the keys!"

"No!" SCHPTHHHT

Patterson took a slow, shallow breath. Perhaps the last one before the scent started drifting. He merely folded his arms, then leaned his shoulder against the wall. He was in a diaper, just like Fortnight, but at least his didn't have a fat nasty load of shit in the back. Clutching at the buttocks. Warm and sticky like fudge out of the oven. A raw, slimy, fetid stink unhidden by a bowl of toilet water. Rotten and intense.

Fortnight continued to scowl, but the edges of his cheeks began to twitch. Patterson could already smell him from here; he could only wonder what miasma Fortnight was going through. A giant wad of feces caking up his buttcheeks. This was the child they wanted to send to med school.

By degrees, Fortnight's glower turned to a grimace, then a shattered cringe. Patterson swallowed, breathing through his mouth. The stench was ripe, turning rotten.

Then, Fortnight began to cry. "It's gross, it's really gross," he whimpered.

There was a tinny complaint from his video game. Pat rushed to the headset. "Guys, I have a diaper to take care of. Dad gamer, what can you do, eh?"

Kyrie came back on the line, then dropped her controller. Wes spoke in the background. "Wipe your hands before you touch that!"

"I told you blood or scat, not both," said the fennec. "Septic shock will kill us sooner than domestic murder. Patterson, didn't you say your kids were eight through twe..."

"Oh, Jesus," said Kioga.

"I'll figure it out," said Patterson, with his stepson quietly whimpering in the background. The kid stared down at his pull-up diaper, paws hovering as if it was covered in barbed wire.

"Or you'll burn the family down, bucko," said Lugo.

"Guys, I got this, I got this," said Pat.

His heart fumbled, and his stomach roiled with nausea that increased not by proximity to Fortnight's accident, but to his own evaluation. Suddenly, he was doing things all wrong. He was aggressively failing at life. It all started when he gave that boy a diaper. What the fuck was he thinking? How did normal parents handle the "I'm spewing white slime in my pants; help what's going on?" question?

Fortnight was still standing in the same place, yelping with every breath, staring down at his diaper and daring not to touch it, as if some horrible accident had happened to his lower half.

Pat checked himself: some horrible accident had happened to his lower half.

"Okay, buddy, what do you need?" Pat asked, and the snake didn't hear. "Fortnight," Pat said louder. "Do you need any help?"

"It's so gross, it's so gross..." he said, his voice getting higher and higher.

The otter's heart throbbing, Pat took the boy by the arm and walked him to the bathroom, coughing as that stink invaded his nose and eyes. Slowly, he got used to it. Slowly, which was strange, too: he remembered a nice night at the USDABDL Steakhouse, romantic dinner. He, Clark, and Susan had "dropped lax" before the event, and halfway through dinner, the three of them were making out in public while their bowels loaded their non-diaper underwear. Soon, Pat was going down on Clark as he was shitting his briefs, leaving a big nasty load right under his ballsack. Susan then pulled the back of Pat's pants down; she watched in real time as his cotton briefs stretched out around a massive log, then dropped heavily around his already huge bulge. She spanked him as he was sucking on Clark, the cobra lewdly, grotesquely shitting in his briefs right below Patterson's muzzle. Then Susan pulled down the back of Pat's undies and slipped her fingers inside his dirty asshole, digging turds out of him.

Somehow, this was fucking different.

Patterson pushed Fortnight into the bathroom and closed the door, where the boy was still freaking out about the nasty load sagging down the back of his plastic drawers. The otter put one paw over his nose, crossing the other over his chest.

"Look, the way I do it--"

"You've shit your diaper?!" gasped Fortnight, still bent over like he'd shattered--not sharted--his pelvis.

Patterson felt a hammer strike him between the eyes. "I've done lots of stupid stuff. I can leave if you need me to: what you have to do is get in the shower, slip the diaper off, and carefully--" The otter grabbed a couple plastic grocery bags from under the sink. "Carefully put it in this. I can wrap it up later. Get the diaper off, then shower off all the muck. It's really easy."

"I don't want to touch this," whimpered Fortnight. The twelve-year-old was weeping, tears pouring off the sides of his snout, venom dribbling from his fangs.

"You've wiped your ass before, haven't you?"

"Not like this!" Fortnight shrieked.

There were creaks from upstairs. Patterson closed his eyes tight, fearing death. Then a voice through the vents. "Fortnight, are you okay?" asked Clark.

The snake, frowning fully, looked at the otter. Patterson shrugged. "It's all right, Clark!" Patterson called back. "Fortnight just had a nightmare. We're in the bathroom because we didn't want to talk in the hallway."

"Get him to bed, it's a school night!"

Fortnight crossed his arms over his chest, still staring down at his diaper as if it'd bite him. The smell of shit was getting more intense in the small, echoing room. Patterson made sure not to approach the boy unless needed: this was how molestation cases started.

"Look," whispered Pat. "Just take it off," he said, pantomiming the motion, "and wash the shit off. It's like really smelly mud."

"Help," whimpered Fortnight.

Patterson took a deep breath, then caught himself as he gagged. Boiled eggs, mustard, anchovies, and onions had to be this kid's diet. If he threw that diaper at a skunk veteran, it'd be declared a war crime.

"Help how?" whispered the otter.

The snake, his eyes wide and wet, turned around and pointed at his saggy rear end. Patterson's jaw cracked as, Fortnight not observing him, he rolled his eyes and scowled. "Heaven help me," he whispered.

Patterson performed every step with the complete and tense attention of a knee surgeon: if this was performed wrong, his patient would be crippled for life. First, the otter had the cobra lean over the toilet tank, standing up. Then he slipped the pre-teen's diaper down and split the seams, slipping the flat, soaked, spunky, and shitty strip out from between his ankles and then into the grocery bags. Then, moving the grocery bags under Fortnight, he proceeded to take a few wipes around the boy's buttock area, throw them away, and carefully move inward. Never did he touch the boy without first tapping the wipe on him, letting him know what was going to happen next.

Then I slip a finger across his tight, virgin asshole while whispering it's okay--

REALLY, PATTERSON?!

Look, if I do this wrong, this kid's gonna remember his creepy stepdad grooming him into a state of dependent sexuality--

Concentrate on success, you dumb fuckface asswipe. Do you handle every knife thinking, oh golly, sure would be terrible if I jammed this into my throat?

I mean, sometimes. Not that I'm suicidal, but you gotta be careful.

"Dad, are you done?" asked Fortnight.

Patterson drew a deep breath. He was used to the smell, but it still hit him like a haze. Like pepper spray.

"Forty, we still have a lot under your tail. This next part is just like when you normally go--"

"Can you do it?"

The otter took another long, slow breath, trying not to look at the thick mound of feces under the boy's tail. This literally is where I draw my finger across the boy's virgin asshole and whisper everything's going to be okay. He'd not even accounted for the slit beyond his buttocks, where a thin, pink rod made him look away as if it were radioactive.

Patterson recounted: he would rather be in a gangbang with a bunch of drunken, overweight, fifty-something creeps he knew nothing about, just a bunch of lonely, old gay men that he'd let pour a bottle of vodka and quaaludes down his throat before they started pulling at his nipples and pissing on him. He would rather be in that regrettable situation than this one. He would hate himself less being awkwardly finger-banged by a guy who hadn't had sex in thirty five years, some desperate loner who repeatedly complimented his firm, sexy body and his giant, huge cock, as if compliments were the only thing keeping Patterson from standing up and walking the fuck away.

He would rather be a slut for a bunch of random strangers that had purposely shoveled him full of food, drink, and drugs with the express purpose of stretching his asshole than he would be here, facing the naked, feces-smeared ass of his twelve-year-old step-son, awkwardly asking him to wipe him.

Fortnight, are you this emotionally retarded.

"It's a weird night," said Patterson, then took a wet wipe with one paw, lifted the young cobra's tail with the other, and scooped a big wad of scat from between the kid's buttcheeks and threw it away. With Fortnight's anus exposed, Patterson found it easier, like a detailing job, to clean the whole assortment. There was no lust, there was no sexuality involved: Patterson went into full gear and cleaned him, wipe after wipe. He turned him around, pushed Fortnight's penis up flat against his body, and cleaned the remnants of shit from the snake's slit until the entire fucking assortment shined.

"There," growled the otter, standing up and frowning as his own diaper crinkled. "Take a shower and go to bed," he said in a low tone.

"But I'm clean," said the snake, sitting on the toilet's closed lid. He covered his lap. Because of course he still had a boner.

"Then go to bed," whispered Patterson.

Fortnight stared at the otter's diaper. "Can I have another?"

The otter recoiled as if his forehead, again, was hit by a hammer. "Are you ..." he softly, deeply drew breath. "How are you feeling."

"Confused, but ... thanks."

"Thank God," grumbled Patterson, feeling sweat trickle through his waterproof fur.

"Can I change you?"

Then the hammer hit his ribcage. "Fucking," snarled the otter, then took another breath. "I really think what happened tonight was an emergency situation. Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

The goddamn philosopher. "Look, I might not be old enough to actually be your father. That's not the point. I'm in this position of authority, maybe prematurely," he said while wearing a wet adult diaper, "but if I can help you, I want to."

"Then let me help you."

The boy had a heart of charity, gold, and stupid.

"Look, buddy, I don't need your--"

KNOCKKNOCK KNOCK

Had Patterson been an obese chain smoker and binge drinker about twenty years older, then the burst of adrenaline and blood that went through his heart would have killed him.

"Patterson, Fortnight?" asked Clark, his voice rising. "I need you to open this door right now."

The otter clapped his paw to his mouth as the night's water and animal crackers rose up his gullet. He couldn't throw up in front of his stepson. Patterson did some quick math, which was about as easy as sewing a wound while riding a bucking bronco. He could greet his husband while wearing a wet adult diaper, or completely nude. Both were absolute impossibilities with Fortnight in the room. Certain death. Patterson looked at the towel rack: he could wear a towel. Hide his diaper.

Genius: both of them could wear towels. But they were completely dry.

"He's just helping me with an ingrown toenail," called out Fortnight.

"Then you won't mind me showing you where the good scalpels are. Open this door."

The cobra's fur-lined hood flared. "Dad, you don't have to wipe my ass; I'm almost thirteen!"

Patterson cringed as his heart continued to thump against his chest. The lines of the room were getting fuzzy; was he actually having a heart attack at nineteen? Once his paw landed on the doorknob, a soft clarity came over him: this must be the way suicidal people felt. Those that were in constant pain with an irrevocable disease, or trapped in some dictatorship's prison with endless torture: people who saw every door close and weld itself shut--

Just open the fucking door, Patterson.

The otter's head got heavy. This was the end of his marriage and his life.

The door swung open and Clark saw his young husband in a swollen, wet diaper. His eldest son was in the back, completely nude with his hands over his groin. Clark himself was just wearing a pair of briefs: Patterson himself had admitted that now that the nineties were over--an era he wasn't even alive for--it made sense that people were going back to supportive underwear, instead of dangling all over the place in boxers.

When sitting, Patterson was so hung that, when limp and out of its sheath, his dick might hang so low down his thigh that for a moment, the otter worried if he'd shit himself.

Patterson could only imagine what was going through Clark's head at the moment. It was the keenest adult fear: the precious minds that you raise from birth, your children, who experience the world with a purity and curiosity that is lost to too many adults, may one day be captured by a vile predator. No, scavenger: Like a mongoose cracking a bird's egg, this sexual scavenger cracked open the skulls of the innocent and sucked their sweet brains out. It was not a convenient time for the otter to be in the same animal kingdom family.

Clark's voice was so low, Patterson thought about the tremors before an earthquake.

"Fort, go to bed," he said.

Continuing his rampage of stupid decisions, the boy got up, completely in the buff, and ran to Patterson's side, wrapping his arms around the otter's paw.

Patterson saw the flash of murder in Clark's eyes, a cold, keen instinct unbelievably pure. Clark's fangs were much larger than Fortnight's, and over his years of business meetings and public speaking, the cobra had perfected his control over them. He could talk as fast as an auctioneer and people would stare at his mouth in wonder as those venomous blades of death scissored up and down from the top of his mouth.

The tremors continued. "You have five seconds, Fortnight Kensington."

"You're not always right, dad," he protested.

Patterson didn't feel his heart anymore: perhaps it had already exploded, and his blood was merely circulating by momentum. This was the worst hostage situation. Fortnight may as well have said, "Over Patterson's dead body!" and Clark wouldn't have blinked.

Not that he blinked that often.

"You should really follow him, in this case," said Pat.

"It's not a fucking dictatorship!" the boy said.

Well, there was the testosterone kicking in.

"Please?" asked Pat, then he regretted his next words just as they fell from his mouth. "For me?"

"For you," said Fortnight, then patted Patterson on the back, just above the waistline of his diaper, then went to bed.

"And get some briefs on," Clark called after him. "Regular briefs!"

The cobra shut the bathroom door behind him and locked it.

The line between comedy and horror was a funny one, the otter thought in abstract. He'd been watching himself from the third person for the last ... what was it, five minutes of this interaction? No, no: he'd watched himself clean Fortnight, and before that he'd watched himself get caught in the living room in an adult diaper. Perhaps he was already dead, and he was just watching the blackbox of his life's plane crash.

"Patterson, you're disassociating," said Clark.

The otter blinked and he returned to the room. "What..."

"In the past," said the cobra, taking a long breath, "Sue and I would catch you staring into space. You've told me before that you had dangerous thoughts, that you thought about death on multiple occasions. Not in the context of sui- or murdercide. Damn it: homocide, but in the context that you were so happy in your life with us, that you dreaded potential disasters that would rip it all away. You had it so good, that there had to be a catch. Like you said: perhaps you were worried that at Whither's marriage ceremony, or Thence's induction into law school, that you'd make a nice little speech on the podium, but your fly would be undone. Then your long cock would fall out, and just for good measure it would start pissing all over the stage, at your step-daughter or your step-son's happiest moment."

Patterson audibly gulped, hearing the sound echo about the bathroom, which still carried a faint cloud of Fortnight's dung. He knew Clark smelled it, too, and saw the portentous plastic bag in the trash can. He didn't, however, fully realize that he was wetting his diaper right now, that there was a faint hiss in the air and the faintly yellow front was swelling out and growing into a large round bulb. "Yeah, I ... I don't know how other brains work, but at least for me I want to make sure I've accounted for every contingency. I check my fly at least twice when leaving a public restroom."

Pat saw Clark looking down at his diaper and frowning. The cobra normally loved the sight, and might even kneel down to nuzzle it. Not right now, however. Most definitely not.

Clark continued, "So it comes logically to bear that, while diligence may indeed be prudent as to prevent little disasters here and there--always check your tire pressure and oil before a long trip--one may theorize that--"

"How mad are you right now?"

Clark's eyes flickered with appreciation, at this young man who'd enthusiastically married him asking such a frank and open question. "I think of the sad rage God must have felt when he commanded Saul to destroy the Amalekites down to the last child and animal. These people--who technically were also God's children--had been such a constant enemy of the Israel nation that they'd crossed the final line. Complete genocide," the cobra said, his slitted eyes watching the otter, his fangs opening with the drop of his lower jaw, "that by their own actions, was just as unfortunate an ugly necessity as having to wipe after you've messed."

There was no dignified way to run. Were Clark to attack him, in the interest of injecting deadly venom into his body, Pat didn't know whether the moral thing to do would be to protect his own life, killing Clark, or to accept these blows as punishment.

The essence of the rise and fall of anthropoid civilization lay in this very moment.

"You have ten seconds."

"Until what?"

"Until I get my shotgun."

"But you have venom."

"You're not good enough for my venom, Patterson. Please tell me what you were doing in the bathroom with my naked son."

Patterson accepted his fate. Clark was good enough a gentleman that, in taking death--or perhaps just an arrest--with the last scraps of his honor, Patterson may preserve what little sanctity the Kensington family had left. His mind, however, continued to reel: he had to fight, because what had he done wrong? The diaper?

Yeah, the diaper. Both his diaper and Fortnight's diaper.

He'd fallen into the exact trap he'd warned Fortnight about: indulgence to the point of destruction. Patterson took a deep breath, cringing as he smelled the last of the boy's mess. As a kid himself, he had always married himself to the idea that the truth would set oneself free. And if it did not set one free, at the very least it would preserve the rigidity of reality. And at the moment where the truth is no longer the currency of the world--when convenient lies are exchanged like cashier's checks--then what part could an honest life play in it?

"Fortnight soiled his diaper," Patterson said. The dizzying buzz in his body was abating, and he could feel his heart again. It was moving fast; thank God the otter was young and healthy. Only in the corners of his mind did he realize that his tail had risen, that his tailhole wasn't entirely closed, and that warm, slimy material of his own making was piling into the seat of his diaper.

He hoped that Clark appreciated the amount of fear the cobra imparted: without laxative or kink, Fortnight's father was literally making Patterson shit himself.

Clark pressed the issue. "He was toilet trained nine years ago. Explain."

Patterson sat down, feeling light-headed. The mound of his mess squished and spread across his buttocks. He missed the time in which Clark would then stand over him, then have Pat nuzzle his briefs while he wet them.

"Clark, he and I had the talk," said Pat.

At this, the cobra's eyes opened up and his head reared back, staring off into space. It was only a couple seconds, of a newly-minted father of a teenager. Then he came back angrier than before: this wasn't God killing the Amalekites, this was God yeeting the Earth into the sun.

"In the nude. Had him show you his penis?" the cobra asked, his hood flaring, his neck stretching. "Did you show him a little trick, teach him how to make the white stuff on his own?"

"Clark, this is your son you're talking about!"

"I know," Clark hissed. The snake's neck was so stretched, so erect, that it appeared he was merely a giant cobra coming out of a realistic mannequin.

Patterson's abdomen was permanently flexed: he was glad he was wearing a diaper, but embarrassed at the crackling sounds that echoed throughout the bathroom.

"No, no, he ... let me explain," the otter said as his body lurched and he pinched off a turd. It smeared up the underside of his tail and collapsed against the diaper's pleated ring. "Let me lay out the evidence, and then you can hold your trial. He complained to me about nightly emissions. I gave him protective underwear. And that's what it's there for! Leaks!"

"The three of us have gone through enough diapers that you damn well know that they're for 'bladder and bowel' leaks. You know how poorly these things absorb semen."

Patterson made the infinitely retarded mistake of looking down at his groin as he agreed. "That's for sure."

A fist launched out and seized the otters neck, slamming him backwards against the toilet tank.

"Clarify."

Patterson choked and wheezed. Clark, from his day to day, was a strong man. He idly lifted weights at his desk while dictating his magazine articles, and during their nights of eroticism, he could remain in a handstand for most of it. He didn't have the biggest prick, but given a metal condom he could hump a hole in a concrete wall.

"Kioga and party chat," Patterson coughed, pointing toward the living room. His body pushed more mess into his diaper. "Everybody started fucking."

Clark released him, cracking his knuckles. "Fair. Why'd you give Fortnight a diaper?"

"Pull-ups."

"They're the fucking same. Why not wash the sheets like any other parents?"

The smell was slowly getting to Clark, and the front of his cotton briefs tented. His golden, muscular arms crossed, he still glared at Patterson with full intent to kill him, but with a frustrated boredom that he hadn't allowed himself to do it yet. The otter wondered if Clark would consider fucking him to death.

No, he'd probably do something boring and pragmatic. Wouldn't even trap him in the garage with the car running, because it's bad for the intake and it wastes gas, waah waah.

"He has!" Patterson said.

Clark's golden shoulders sagged and his countenance softened. "... and he hasn't told us? It's not because you sneak into his room at night, is it?

Patterson grew hot at the accusation, but Clark was indeed listening. "Can a lutrine sneak through a house of snakes and rabbits?" he mockingly asked.

The cobra smirked. "You might as well wear pots as shoes and tie crying infants to your paws. But..." then he sagged again, shaking his hooded head. His fangs merely looked like bone-colored jalapeño peppers. "Why you and not his... biological parents?"

"Because I molest him."

Clark's neck straightened.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"I'll laugh tomorrow," said the cobra, his lip twitching.

Patterson's lip started to twitch as well.

Clark took a deep breath, an eerie, strange smile creeping over his face. "You're really scaring the shit out of me, you know that."

Patterson's face reflected his husband's, horribly uneasy but delirious in his anxiety. "You, um, have literally done so." His ass was so warm, coated in a thick layer of biological butt mud, the smell crawling up him and clinging to his fur. Clark's lips grew tight and he frowned, but his body shook with suppressed laughter. "You goddamn bastard," he finally said, and the two laughed in tandem, howling at the ceiling, and then Clark crawled onto Patterson's lap and thrust his forked tongue into the otter's mouth.

The two groped and grasped each other, lips pressed tight and tented briefs--protected and not, soiled and not--ground against each other. The males stroked each other's chests and the backs of their necks, then with a deft flick of the fingers Patterson opened Clark's fly and pulled his cock out, all six, seven beautiful inches of that g-spot splitting, prostrate pounding, diamond and precum-tipped masterpiece.

"Hold on, hold on," Clark gasped, his back arched like a scythe's blade, his paws firmly clasped around Patterson's pectorals, his forked tongue flicking and twinging at the miasma of muck the otter had dropped in his diaper, "Let's just put this to rest so we can live out our lives. All eight of us."

"Eight?" Patterson asked, his heart fluttering, his diaper stretched around his throbbing colossus.

Clark patted the side of Patterson's head, then pecked him on the nose. "You're a father now, remember?"

"I've always been--"

"Damn your semantics."

Then the thought hit him. "Ah, right, right. Baby, are we doing this?" the otter asked, squeezing the cobra's cock. Precum drooled out of the crowned tip, glazing Patterson's navel. The mess in his pants clutched at him, hot and sticky.

Clark softly groaned, his hips instinctively bucking as his husband pulled at him. Five minutes ago, the older male was on the edge of extinguishing him. Now he was teetering closer to orgasm.

Patterson took a deep breath, then cringed as his stink hit him. He was getting near to his fill of feces. But here with Clark, as per usual with him and Susan, it was strangely intimate. Everybody shit: why keep it a dirty secret between lovers? He blushed as he looked down to his right, to the trashcan holding Fortnight's soiled diaper. The kid was brilliant but he was playing with fire, messing around with adult toys. To think that they had four more they might have the same insane conversation with.

The prevalence of Pendrael's socially acceptable adult diapers in Puerto Panuela, along with his edict that every topic was acceptable conversation, as long as it was spoken at reasonable level, was like the yolk of the world's candidness had been cracked.

This was the world that Fortnight, Whither, Thither, Thence, and Patterson's own biological child was inheriting. And in order to be proper shepherds for them, Pat, Clark, and Susan all had to be on the same page.

Patterson leaned up and nuzzled his husband, one paw on the cobra's chest and the other clapped around his brief-wrapped buttocks.

"Look, I don't know why he told me. Maybe it's because I'm the missing link, being both their older brother and their guardian.It's weird, but we got married to weird."

"Why did he shit in the diaper you gave him?" whispered Clark, grinding his hips against the massive padded protrusion beneath him. The cobra's paws wandered over Patterson, stroking his chest, moving around his back, then dropping down to grope at the loaded, lumpy mound spreading out under the otter's tail.

"Rebellion. I told him not to," said the otter, slipping his own fingers into the clean, cotton-wrapped cleft of Clark's cobra buttocks.

"Ah, so he did," said Clark, dragging his cock against Patterson's stretched plastic crotch, grinning as it crinkled like shattering glass. "Same way you hated all this perversion, this filth, so you dove right into it." The cobra leaned in and bit Patterson's neck, pressing the sides of his fangs against the muscle. "You filthy boy," he hissed.

"Yet here you are all clean," whispered Pat, teasing Clark's wrinkled slit through his underwear.

The cobra grinned, then his abdomen clutched down, just like his son's had, and he stared down the otter as a loud crackle portended a slimy, slithering mess that first tented the back of his briefs, then weighed them down. The cotton seat expanded around a mounting pile of dung that rested luxuriously on Patterson's thighs.

The otter's heavy cock throbbed in his diaper, and with one paw softly stroking Clark's chest, the other reached around to grope that big, nasty lump.

The two moved against each other now that they'd moved their bowels, pressing their lips tight to one another as they groped each other's chest, as they grasped the heavy loads under each other's tails, as Clark reached down into Pat's pissy, cummy diaper to stroke his meat monster, as the otter stroked the cobra's naked, exposed cock.

They accelerated against each other, humping and groping and squeezing, hissing and gasping as they clutched at each other. As they escalated, they frotted together. They stroked together. Both of them pushed their paws down the rear waistband of their soiled attire and shoved their hands into the muck, just so they could each push a finger into the other's stretchy, smooth, filthy hole.

Perhaps it was fatigue of the body or brain, a night delicately balanced on disaster and support, but Patterson soon submitted to Clark, and he turned around to brace himself on the toilet tank as Clark finger-fucked his slimy shitter.

The cobra pulled the back of Patterson's nasty diaper down, then with a kiss to the side of his head, he dropped his own soiled briefs and moved behind the submissive, filthy male. Clark's briefs hit the floor with a wet thud, and the cobra pressed his hips against Patterson's mud-caked cheeks, pushing his cock into the otter's silky, shitty slit.

Clark pounded him firmly, quickly, conclusively, his golden hips getting dirty and smeared upon the first slap, and then the two bucked in unison. Patterson whined like a bitch, his ten, twelve-inch cock bouncing in front of him like a lusty lightning rod. The cobra curled around the young male, holding him tight as he drove into his dirty hole over and over. Patterson's shit was all over his rear and Clark's thighs, and he blushed like mad as the cobra took him.

Soon, the pleasure came too much and the otter cried as his cock erupted just like his asshole had, just like his bladder had, dumping more body product and making a royal mess. Cum drooled down the toilet tank and the seat, sticky and thick. Its musk cut through all the dung Clark and himself had dumped on themselves, into their underpants.

Patterson bent his back as he felt Clark's seed pour into him, filling up that rectum he'd evacuated, giving him another load to dump. He submitted fully to the muscular, older male, to his husband, and let himself relax in his arms as a dirty, breeding bitch. Even if it was just for a few minutes, it felt great to be the one held, the one protected.

"Shit," Clark softly said. He rested his chin on Patterson's shoulder, and wrapped his arms around the otter's waist.

"We probably need some showers," whispered Pat.

"Soon, not now," said Clark. He bumped his head against the otter's. "I love you, so much, Patterson," he said, his pauses deliberate. "And I trust you ... with not only my well-being, but that of my wife, and that of my children. That's why we do this. That's why we did this."

Patterson's diaper weighed heavily against his thighs, drooping underneath his groin like some great basket of filth. "I do my best, my love," he said. "And about Fortnight--"

Clark's neck tensed and his fangs came out, each one longer than the otter's snout.

"It's not ideal. Even if it's mostly innocent," he said. "My son's just stumbled upon the wealth that is his sex drive, his reproductive drive, and I'm just so scared he's gonna be some drunkard with the chemicals and the fetishes."

Patterson nuzzled Clark, though when his muzzle brushed against the cobra's tooth he recoiled. If Clark bit him in the arm, it'd just go through his body and spray out the other side. "I know for myself, it was about a month of exploration. Which is such a fucking stupid word," the otter said with sudden contempt.

Clark loosened his grip to allow Patterson to dismount, but the otter remained tight against him, with his cock firmly planted in his bowels. The otter "One of those propagandistic 'softening' words, a nasty euphemism to allow real scavengers to devour the innocent."

"Don't you mean 'deflower?'" asked Clark.

"No."

The cobra nodded. Patterson noticed that his fangs were in their normal positions, just two firm, folding rods used for the pronunciation of words. The snake really did trust him.

Patterson took a breath, then coughed in the miasmic sewer of their bathroom. It was such a weird fetish, now he was in the afterglow: but taking a dump with his husband was queerly as intimate as taking a load. "For myself, it was a month of cranking my giant cock, spraying down all of my good underwear and towels and t-shirts, obliquely not realizing that my mom was doing all my laundry and knew exactly what her little boy was doing in his bedroom. I was cumming on everything. I came on my chest and then smeared it all over myself ..." Patterson said, pausing as his husband chuckled, smirking at him. "I took a good look in the mirror. Fully. Just looked at myself and fully acknowledged what a fucking whore I was in that moment. And you can't take it back. Just like killing a man, you can't take any sin of yours back. None of it ever washes out," the otter said. "I mean figuratively. The permanency of memory."

"You get older, you'll forget things."

"Then I'll build monuments to my sins so I never forget. I will not let war crimes against myself be forgotten. The jihad against my dignity will never be buried."

"My noble crusader, who doth burden his breeches with foul regret, that perhaps he may see salvation in a fortni--" Clark seized up. "Let's not continue that metaphor."

"I'm getting to him," said Pat.

"You already got to him if he's put a load in his drawers."

Patterson growled. "I'm saying that I'll ensure he's self-critical. That whatever he does, he does with at least approximate knowledge of the consequences. That he's agreeing to the terms and conditions of his actions."

"Are we going to allow him to use diapers?"

"I keep coming back to cigarettes and alcohol," said Pat. "I really think he's not ready for that."

"We can't stop him from masturbating."

"And I'm not gonna demonize it, either," said Pat. Now he let Clark pull out from his anus. The cobra turned to run the water, and Patterson stooped down to collect his diaper and Clark's briefs. He threw both in the garbage, then emptied out the can into a large bag which he tied up tight. "What I will say is that--"

"Save it for marriage?"

"If at all possible, good God," sighed Patterson, stepping into the shower with Clark. The cobra slipped behind him and started scooping wads of dung from Pat's back side. "I mean, I was almost a virgin when I met you and Susan. And I'm addicted to you two. I ..." he braced himself as tears came to his eyes, water washing down his back and warming him. "I was so afraid tonight was the end."

The cobra shivered, washing his hands off and turning around, letting Pat wash him off. "I felt like I was in a war," said Clark, "that I'd seen the enemy slaughter my platoon, and so I was going to go out fighting. And even if I survived, what was I surviving for? My platoon, my family, was broken. So I'd just survive to pick up the pieces of my shattered world."

Patterson shook his head, digging under Clark's tail.

"It's like you said, love," reminded the otter. "Life is not ideal, even when it's mostly innocent. It's brilliant, it's chaotic, and we take our sins like we take our blessings. Y'know, people love religion because it promises a pure wholeness, something we're never going to have."

"What do you mean?"

"We're never going to be pure. Life is going to be ups and downs. Wounds and bandages. Always losses, and we have to be responsible for the gains. We gotta fight. We know our innocence is going to be despoiled. Everyone will eventually shit their pants and will have to deal with the muck clinging to their cheeks. All our kids: well, the three that haven't so far, since apparently Whither did back in Elementary School ... all our kids will shit their pants."

Clark turned to him. The cobra watched intensely as Patterson washed his chest and stomach, then moved up to stroke his scaly cheeks. The otter pecked his lips.

"And when they do shit their pants, we have to be ready for them for the strange unpleasantness. We won't encourage them to take the dump, but we're going to be there for the cleanup when, inevitably, the load's too great for them."

"And I thought I was the head of the household," the cobra said with a grin, his slitted eyes shining.

Patterson chuckled, then kissed him on the lips. "We all are; you, me, and Sue. We're like the strangest Cerberus that the bowels of Hades has ever seen. But we're not here to keep the accursed--our children--safe and trapped in the fires of Hell. We're here to be their guard dog for when we unleash them on this poor, unsuspecting Earth."