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And go right through it did, Kioga remembered as he cleaned their kitchen island, naked in their apartment. Round and round the cloth went on the finished wood surface, and only in latent sensations did he feel a pressure beneath his tail, a muscular contraction at the base of his tail, the spread of a ring, and then a warm, moist movement of matter. Kioga went up on his toes and shivered as he felt a steady pressure stretching his ass and slithering out. The scent of a lingering fart pervaded the kitchen. When he heard the soft, solid thud and splat behind his heels, he sighed, rolled his eyes, and then exchanged his rag for a paper towel and scooped up his poop. He wrapped it up a few times, then rolled his log into the toilet.

Back to cleaning, the naked cheetah luxuriated in the fresh, austere honesty of being down to just his body, enjoying the slight movement of everything--including his testes--as he went about a day of chores, casting a slight breeze on the skin beneath his fur.

Really, it was all a pleasant return to fundamentals, to imagine, for a second, a simpler, more "chaste" society in which people did not violate others' personal spaces or egos. Where nudity and sexuality had their exact times and places, and so everyone dynamically flowed in and out of social situations with the right cues, an ever-evolving synchronous dance.

Or even simpler than that, he was naked as his animal counterpart, and that just was the way it was. Clothes were merely an arbitrary complication, as long as fur was involved. And then sphynx cats, with their funny, bald, wrinkly selves: Kioga supposed that this was existence on even a simpler level, since skin itself was generally a good protector. He was just him, Kioga, and it was neat: it simplified life so he could focus on other things. He shrugged off the synthetic augmentations that were supposedly needed to live a more ideal (and temperate, for some) life. But there was a funny, nagging fake feeling to all of it, sometimes like a bad plastic surgery, which itself could border on taxidermy.

So entranced Kioga was in this magical symphony that he automatically did more of his chores, almost always catching the need to urinate with the nearest sink, toilet, or oops, water cup. He folded laundry, he swept the game room, he went to get the mail.

Outside, the gangbangers were on their lawn, all of them bottomless except for bright white triangles over their hips. Even their girlfriend/gang-mom/hood-rat Beatrice, an actual rat, was out there as well, though she hadn't exactly warmed up on wearing a diaper herself. But boys will be boys, and at least now they kept their pesky, perky and/or peeing pork sticks safe and sound. The bathroom was far cleaner too, given their insistence on using their phones while urinating standing up, sabotaging their aim to the point that wagging their pissing dicks might get more in the bowl.

The conflict, however, came with their completely exposed bottom sections. They were blatantly wearing diapers in public view, and while Kioga agreed that this sort of nudity, too, was immensely refreshing--he'd gone "bottomless hiking" with his boyfriend on a few occasions, which led to much easier diaper changes when the garment was in full sight--the general public was comprised of an immense variety of individuals with different worldviews. And as proud an item as diversity is, one does not throw their entire spice rack into a single, unified stew.

As such, somebody had picked up their phone and dialed DPR.

And now they were arguing with Pendrael's "Polypropylene" Praetorians. The Wetness Inquisitors, where "wetness" meant, "amount of public offense and/or stupidity."

"Aw, come on!" complained the mongoose, Ricky the "King Scatfag." He shuffled and crinkled around on the lawn, a half-empty magnum bottle of beer in one paw and a cigarette in the other. He was obviously rather loaded, both in his BAC and his MAG.

It was an excellent diaper, too, Kioga realized with a quick lap of his lips from his velcro tongue. The diaper mostly kept its form, except it was now bigger, fatter, and smoother, with the exception of a prodigious under-lump hanging below the mongoose's tail like a wonderfully sculpted chin.

Damn, it was a thing to nuzzle. It was so firm and heavy, Kioga bet it'd nuzzle back. Forget a massage wand; Ricky could give him a lap dance with that stiff lump, diaper-to-diaper, and Kioga would pop off with a gooey mess in his pamps.

The Praetorians did not seem to share that analysis, as they started circling and closing in on the group of haggard roustabouts. They kept their "armaments" at their chests and pointed downward, but they were clearly unfazed and a bit tired of blatant indecency. Have a diaper blowout in public? Fine; let's help you to a booth. Lay out in deck chairs with your diapered crotch spread to the public and the Heavens?

"Get inside or put on some pants," said a weasel to her fellow mustelid.

That was when the rabbit Mark, a.k.a. Sir Shitepaw of the Brown Table, started shouting, "I did not kill her; it's not true!" and, as self-defense or perhaps simply out of fright, seemed ready to spill his beans. These would be metaphorical beans out of his mouth, or more literal beans out of his ass into his already full and saturated padding, which was grandly hanging off-white between his legs and fat against both thighs.

Baby soaked his diaper.

"Sir?" asked a koala, holstering a Pass-Thru dart gun and resting a paw on the sheath of his Virga Pacifer, which was a stun-rod coated in concentrated Pass-Thru and bear mace. Debate continued on whether it was the violent subsequent bowel evacuation, or the high capsaicin concentrations, that temporarily incapacitated its victims.

Their two other colleagues, a kookaburra and a muscular panda, leaned on long launcher tubes as the koala challenged the suspect. Painted on the side was the label: ONE-Z.

Beatrice, usually the voice of reason, was a bit too sauced, and secretly wished for a diaper as her panties, then thighs and ankles and the grass below, flooded and splattered with easy, continuous, hot piss. "Mmmf, he's just being retarded."

The weasel cop shook her head as the rat began publicly urinating on the lawn.

"Sir, who did you kill?" repeated the koala. He took his Virga Pacifer halfway out of its sheath: its rod glowed with a halo of purple as if it were eclipsing a dim, spectral black light. The color alone was enough to dissuade many perpetrators, as it was associated with eldritch keskin magic which--as the rumors had it--could make a person literally evacuate their actual bowels.

Really, it was just chemicals and presentation. The keskin species and their eldritch magic were just rumors.

Kioga realized he was naked before shouting that it was a stupid movie reference. Wanting to help the gangbangers out, he turned to reenter his apartment ... and the handle didn't turn.

"Mother fffffff--" he hissed, naked as a pornstar in the free, public air. His sheath sprang with liquid, and he shrugged as he turned back to watch the show, pissing off the balcony.

The splattering noise of urine on concrete--public urination was as familiar a sound to them as their alarm clocks--attracted the attention of the Praetorians, who briefly turned their gaze towards it. "Tertiary target on our six, Code Y!" was all it took for one of the tube-laden officers to aim in Kioga's direction. The kookaburra was faster and said, "Target locked!"

"Take the shot!"

FOOMP

The back-blast knocked Beatrice on her ass, flinging her legs wide and flashing her clingy soaked panties to every innocent and lecherous eye on the block. The buff panda turned about and shot her with his launcher. Out of both flew a purple and white sphere of cloth and plastic. The first hit Kioga square in the collarbone, and with a rustling and whoosh of fabric and disposable sheeting the cheetah flew back against the door with a sudden onesie that was lined with absorbent material in the crotch. The panda had aimed wrong, and so the rat instead had a collar hole around her clothed groin and a diaper wrapped about her face.

Kioga frowned as he realized, of course, the onesie was striped purple and white in the style of an old prisoner uniform, and that his urination was uninterrupted as the groin of the garment swelled out and grew warm. He pulled himself up from the door, a bit winded by the sudden violation of his nudist rights, and went back to the railing.

"It's a dumb movie reference!" he shouted.

The kookaburra started crossing the street, tossing another onesie pod in his launcher. "Repeat?"

Kioga cracked his shoulders, his bowels leaking into his new diaper with rather pleasant, wet, and hot lubrication, though robust in stink. "It's this movie from 2003. Hey Mark!" the cheetah shouted across the way as the material contained his own back-blast. "You ever kill someone?"

"No, retard," he answered in surprising sobriety. The gangbangers Ricky, Mark, Mort the iguana, and Duke the deer, looked so pretty in their tank tops, t-shirts, and their gorgeous, free, and brilliant somewhat-white diapers. But it was still public indecency because they lived in a society of prudes and degenerates, the only golden mean to be found in the front of a swollen adult diaper.

The kookaburra sighed and returned to the group. "I kinda believe you, but because you've said it, we're required to search the apartment."

"Actually, let's have the real police do it," said the panda.

"We are the real police," said the female weasel. "But yes, the L.G.P.D. can take care of it."

"Don't they have a parade every June?" asked Ricky, scratching the crack between his heavy, wet plastic bulge and his naked leg.

Many sighed, but Kioga was pinching his chin in thought, latently noticing that his tail-ring was also pinching, growing moist and hot as it dropped a firm load into his new padding. "Mmph. Hate to see it go, but love to feel it leave ... Come to think of it, the Leakguard Police do, but I don't think we're talking about the same thing here."

"Yeah, let's get this show on the road," flexed the panda, then pulled a pacifier out of his pocket, stuck it in his lips, and blew. A beautiful, clean whistle, like the warble of a morning bird, issued from the device, and a purple SUV--the general populace called these the "padded wagons"--auto-drove itself into the parking area and opened its rear gate, where under its canopy extended a long, cushioned tray with belts affixed up and down its length. On the walls of the vehicle's rear area were, of course, the requisite supplies.

Kioga had to snort and then cover his own muzzle as he read the vehicle's driver side door. Under the city's name and various golden filigree--which of course was all nursery elements done up in staggering United States federal regalia--was the Wetness Inquisitors' singular motto:

Don't.

"That's not enough to take all of us," slurred Mark, the rabbit's tongue tripping more than usual on his gold-plated buck teeth. Kioga smirked, crossing his arms across his chest. With glee, he found that his arrest-issued onesie had a pacifier attached by lanyard to the chest. He popped it in his mouth and soothingly sucked. The way that Sir Shitepaw staggered about, and the way he was only clad in a shirt and his diaper, looked very much like a troublesome toddler who was grumpy and exhausted, but too stubborn to take a nap.

"Is annoying the cops a hobby of yours? Are you just trying to earn your arrest?" said the perturbed weasel.

"Oh hai Mark!" the rabbit grumbled to himself, waddling and rustling and throwing the cutest toddler tantrum. "We are here to stop you from having fun! From living."

The weasel growled and the kookaburra put an arm across her chest. "Let's wrap this up," he said, and she nodded. "Sir, you are going to stop moving right now. Everyone we're giving five minutes to get back in the apartment, and you, Mark, are a very fussy boy and are getting a change. Don't make us come back or you are all getting a very big time-out."

Kioga's cheeks flushed. It almost sounded like a good time, being put under house arrest with a Praetorian nanny. They even bolted the toilets shut and used training potties. And while this was neat and the bill for labor/supplies was reasonable, it could very much sober a non-incontinent person up being in close, intermittent contact with one's leavings--either in the training potty or against one's diapered buttocks--for a full seventy-two hours.

Thus why Kioga liked being naked from time to time. He still wanted to love diapers.

"Oh, then ground me!" protested Mark, which produced a visceral rattle and rustle from his gangbanger compatriots, who crinkled up to him with, "Shh, shh, shh," and, "Dude, calm down."

The kookaburra waved his wing and the rest of them stepped back. By now, there was a decent commotion among the neighborhood, with many popping their heads and phones out of windows to film the disturbance. Kioga knew there were two rather lusty and voyeuristic neighbors, male and female, who owned telephoto lenses and got rather self-indulgent whenever there was a diaper disturbance. They didn't own diapers themselves, but loved their naughty acquaintances. It was why Kioga ... sometimes ... kept the shades drawn in his own flat.

But the Praetorians did not throw up a smoke-and-mirror screen as they had recently with a Mr. Parker Peters and a Schitzwaffel, Wesley Q. A "Code Y" was permissible to be viewed by the public, as it produced an example of what not to do. It enforced the force's motto: Don't. A "Code K," when everything went pear-shaped (such as a purposeful diaper blowout or worse, a pair of cotton briefs), was when they hid the public from the offenders.

"Five seconds; freeze," said the kookaburra, pulling a yellow and green ray gun that looked quite similar to a child's squirt pistol. "Don't move."

Mark froze, but his friends all knew he was coming up with some smart-ass remark. Beatrice by this point had already gone to the SUV with the panda and had her soaked panties changed and her wet vulva cleaned and encased in a fresh, dry, fluffy pink diaper. The rat was rustling back over with a resigned eye roll. "He ain't gonna," she told the officer, who nodded and slipped her a citation.

"Everybody betrayed me," lamented Mark, his diaper visibly rounding out and darkening as he wet himself, "I'm fed up with this world."

"Don't. Move," reiterated the kookaburra. The koala and weasel were busy handing out their own citations to the others, which really just amounted to a sales receipt for two bags of diapers colored black, like their shirts, with the interest of making them look like normal underwear if they insisted on hanging out on the lawn without pants. Such was still a misdemeanor, but less strictly enforced. After all, it didn't seem like many people minded seeing Beatrice with her panties out.

Mort the iguana smiled at the benevolent fine. "Hey, yeah, cool;" he said after the weasel explained the order. "You guys are all right."

"Changing the community one diaper at a time," the koala said with a droll snap of chewing gum.

Mark wasn't so receptive, continually reciting lines of The Room because his name was in it and therefore it was the greatest movie ever. "Chicken, cop; you're just a little chicken. Cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep cheep..."

The kookaburra ignored the racial implications of being called a chicken--birds didn't like being called chickens--and reiterated his order.

"Don't. Move," said the kookaburra. The panda officer watched the situation with his hand on his Third Eye device, while the other two shared arrest stories and flyers--one educational and one advertising--with the gangbangers. Kioga rustled down the stairs, smiling as he looked down at his crotch and watched the way his thighs squished the round, clothed, soiled padding, and joined the bangers to shoot the shit.

Ricky the mongoose passed his beer and pack of smokes and the cheetah enjoyed both.

"'nother Tuesday for you boys?" asked Kioga.

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Mark usually passes out before he gets the cops called on us."

"Oh shit, you are Kioga Davis," said the weasel, then hurried to the van.

The cheetah smugly grinned, cracking his thin knuckles. The gangbangers weren't impressed; they just knew him as Kioga. At first, he looked somewhat like that cheetah in the commercials that showed in between breaks of that stoner trailer park comedy show. Then they realized he was the cheetah in the ribald commercials of anthroid canines, felines, reptiles, and more freezing in place as their pants swelled and firmed, then went about the rest of their day. The commercials followed the same format as toothpaste and hair care advertisements, but for adult diapers. In fact, with Ferris-Chalmpers's size and outreach, it was hard to predict what was being advertised, because F-C also did many hair and toothpaste commercials.

Compounding on top of that, Pendrael, Davis, and Co. sold all three of the above products, and F-C used the same actors and actresses across those products, and so when Kyrie Danvers-Schitzwaffel appeared on the screen, it was unknown whether she'd do her hair, brush her teeth, soil herself, or all three.

After the gangbangers realized it was the same person, and that he was also a Senior Account Something at Ferris-Chalmpers LLC, a marketing/financial/diaper manufacturing company teasing its own space program, there was about a week of asking Kioga how rich he was, then after the cheetah bought them a spare freezer and filled it with microwavable food, they went back to, "that weird cheetah with the awesome fetish." Awesome not because they were self-denying their own enjoyment, no-no; awesome because obviously the fetish played into his awesomeness which was his generosity. And it was generosity, of course; it wasn't just occasional tithes to keep them off his ass.

(Actually, there was a bit of generosity in there. Kioga loved the warm glow of diapers, and he was going to let shine that little light of his.)

The weasel cop returned with a diaper and a permanent marker, and the cheetah signed its outer shell. He then opened the garment and signed the absorbent landing zone near the back.

"And here, if you ever get mad at me," he said with a wink.

The weasel hid the fact that she turned into a sixteen year-old girl as well as Kioga hid the fact that he'd already soiled himself: poorly on both accounts.

"You think Mark's gonna calm down?" asked Kioga after pulling on his cigarette.

Ricky, King Scatfag, shook his head and allowed a gratified smile as he released his bladder into his white diaper. "He's gonna double down."

"If you just allow me to read your rights," said the kookaburra, "I'll get you signed off and we can be out of here. No nursery time if you just stop moving," he reiterated, while the rabbit continued to pace and drag from his magnum beer bottle.

"You are lying, I never hit you!" frantically continued the rabbit, "I will record everything!"

He threw his bottle, perhaps vaguely in the direction of the Praetorian, though it was hard to tell as it bounced harmlessly on the lawn.

"Fuck off with The Room quotes!" shouted Kioga, imitating the trailer park show the GBs were so fond of. This got him laughs and high fives. "Hey," he flirted with Ricky, tickling the underside of the mongoose's leaden, wet diaper. "Little king needs a changie-poo."

"After a little drinkie-poo," winked Ricky, pulling on his bottle. The way he leaned his hips into the teasing made the rest of the gang and the cops say, "Oooh!" and giggle at the flagrant sexual tension.

"Now we're still under Stupid Edict," said the panda, extending his arm as a barrier, "And so while you're almost properly dressed, Mister Davis, you guys with the bright white diapers are still indecently exposed."

"But it's thicker than regular underwear!" said Ricky.

"Underwear is still indecent," said the panda.

"So when we wrap things up here," said the weasel, flicking her eyes back to the continuing argument, "perhaps quite literally--"

"Oh hey, do you have straitjackets for sale?" asked Kioga. "For ... reasons."

"Sex reasons," said Mort the iguana, starting a round of lecherous chuckles with his compatriots as he elbowed Beatrice.

"Well, yes. Also it's for a friend."

"A sex friend!" continued the witty comedian, and they continued to laugh.

"Yeah, duh," said the cheetah with an incredulous glare. Next they might as well say he messed his diaper, ha ha, because that's what it's there for! Oh, look at the car that drives! "Wouldn't it be weirder if it wasn't a sex thing?"

The gangbangers paused, contemplating the paradigm-shifting, universe-shattering philosophical question. "Yeah, then it'd be like, a serial killer thing."

"Yeah, and like we established, nobody's killed anyone today."

"I'm sorry, what?" asked a crisply-dressed gryphon, wearing normal jeans and a clean sweater under a nice fall jacket. Ceylon-the-(partly sex)-boyfriend had parked his car in the secondary spot for Kioga's apartment. "And why is everyone in ... why is everyone very comfortable right now?"

"Hey, you like straitjackets?" grinned Duke the "Shitdeer." Usually he wore blinged-out jeans, but this time he decided to stick a few plastic jewels on the groin of his fairly-wet, proudly swollen and (somewhat) white diaper.

The gryphon's feathery feline fur fluffed with the lewd question. "Uhm, if you want a truthful answer and this is not just an attempt at simple ribbing--"

"Yes," answered Kioga, avoiding Ceylon's roundabout answer. The cheetah's chest puffed out, while the gryphon felt blood rush to various extremities, including one somewhat lower than was socially permissible.

"So what's going on, here?" asked Ceylon. "And why am I always overdressed?"

The cheetah grinned and reached for the male's belt.

"Don't," said both the weasel and Ceylon. This time, two Praetorians high-fived, and the SUV heard the voice command, flashing its lights and chirping with a few notes of a harsh lullaby.

"Nice," remarked Kioga.

"But anyway, that is what's going on," concluded the weasel, throwing his thumb over his shoulder, pointing towards Mark's ongoing antics.

"Do you want us to go inside?" asked Ceylon, noting subconsciously Kioga's new and rather thin onesie. He stopped his finger from running along the inside of the cheetah's leg seam for a diaper check. Not in public. And not without protection, his talons being notoriously ill-adapted for handling thin plastic shells. And Kioga being Kioga.

The koala shrugged. "Do what you want. Just not..." he said with a conceding roll of his eyes, then pulled out a pocket-sized procedures manual. "Any of these, blah blah blah."

"Very good," said Ceylon with a nod, fairly envious of everyone's diapers after a day of work. Sometimes relaxing felt just as productive as a long work day. Especially after the latter.

Mark was not doing so well, and the argument had continued to degrade until the kookaburra reiterated one more time, "Sir, do not move." At least he had no more bottles within reach to throw.

This worked to some extent, and the rabbit did turn around, freeze in place, feet shoulder-length apart and his paws behind his head. "Okay, officer, I'm not moving," he said, slowly gyrating his hips. This further exaggerated the condition of his diaper, which was at this point absolutely soaked with beer-inspired piss and therefore hanging as a fat, bulbous bombshell halfway down to his knees.

The officer decided to ignore the hips, as he was at least 95% static at this point.

"Better read me my rights," he teased, and the officer kept his beak shut so he wouldn't say something else that would ALSO be misinterpreted. "Oh..." Mark said, and the officer could clearly hear a wet gurgling of guts.

"Don't..." warned the cop, accompanied by the SUV's flashing lights.

"Uhhhnnnggghhhh," groaned Mark, and what followed was the expected, unctuous, guttural, grumbling, and squelching sound of wet defecation. He emptied his bowels into his diaper with muffled, splutting splurts, the garment naturally bulging and expanding as he dumped a day's worth of junk food into its seat.

"We have movement!" shouted the kookaburra, jumping back and landing flatly on the lawn as if bracing for an explosion. As he leapt backwards, his hand jumped to his belt and then something flew through the air.

And there was indeed an explosion, purple fog flooding the area where the Praetorian stood just an instant ago.

"Here, hold this," was the last thing Ceylon heard before a launcher tube was shoved into his paws. Duke the deer received one as well, then they all watched as the three Praetorians fled back across the street and dove into the purple mist. In a nearly-synchronous motion, the three pulled rubbery, light purple masks from their belts and pulled them over their variously formed skulls. The masks fit perfectly, giving each two little keskic nubs on the back of their heads, and appropriately, the eyes lit blinding white-violet.

Kioga turned his nose to the smoke curtain and remarked, "Hmm, lavender."

What followed, as the SUV drove itself onto the lawn and into the smoke as the cloud continued to expand, was a cacophony of nursery sounds in fast-forward: the ripping of tapes, the command for wipes--"Lots of wipes!", annoyed groans against a remarkably messy diaper, the protests of a very dirty and bratty adult-boy, and then the command for a new one.

The gangbangers, Kioga, and Ceylon stood in place with their arms folded, exchanging wordless, impressed glances and nodding as the machine of justice processed a very naughty brat.

"I think we should take a training course," said Ceylon, and Kioga shrugged.

"I dunno. I kinda want to enjoy it, not get changed while I'm pouring my coffee."

"It'd save on diaper breaks," said the gryphon, referring to their gaming nights.

"Maybe."

And then it was all done. With a crack, the kookaburra turned the deodorant smoke grenade on "reverse", and it sucked up all of the opaque, deodorized mist back into its canister. What was left was the SUV with two reinforced, adult-sized child seats with one of them occupied by a very fussy rabbit, gagged by a strapped pacifier, bound by a bright pink straitjacket, and diapered by a very puffy, very reinforced purple brief with the gold-font word, "DON'T." written in all caps.

The kookaburra's mask looked much like an eldritch plague doctor's, and he had to unroll it from his beak like a condom. The koala had already taken out his little procedure book and now read:

"You have the right to remain dry. Anything you excrete can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a diaper. If you cannot afford a diaper, one will be appointed for you."

Meanwhile, the panda was halfway to the original spectating group, and of course several other groups had come out of their houses with phones to get a fun video out on social media. This happened almost every time the Puerto Panuela Praetorians came out to make an arrest, especially a contentious one, which itself happened pretty often in Kioga's complex, the Padridge Apartments.

Rumors had it that incidents with these gangbangers, especially when more than one of their alcoholized hangouts ended in enthusiastic (if unfortunately public) defecation, were one of the inciting events that led to the regimentation of the Praetorians. Kioga remembered their particularly brazen first experimentation with feces, where one trusted a fart and ended with a load in his pants--that was Duke the Shitdeer--then Mark "Shitepaw" smacked his ass, siring him with the aforementioned nickname, then Duke did a dung-heavy lapdance on Ricky, the King Scatfag.

Mort the blue iguana had somehow avoided a derogatory coronation, and was even so nice as to apologize to Kioga's then-boyfriend, Lugo, for all the trouble. Mort was just Mort, and he had been the one who dared to ask the weird neighbors upstairs for a bag o' diapers.

"So you guys wanna play video games? After a change of course, and if you wanna help," said Mort, trying to put his blinged-out hands in pockets that weren't there. They simply slipped down the smooth plastic. "'Cause Trish sometimes likes changing us, but it's 50/50 on whether it ends in a handj--"

"Mort?" warned Beatrice.

"Yeah, cool."

"Maybe," said Ceylon, tossing eyes from Kioga to his apartment and back.

Ricky was fiddling with the panda's launcher, and by this point the group was rejoined by the koala and panda, to reclaim their onesie cannons.

"Buddy, you don't wanna play with that," said the panda. The koala wasn't alarmed, but rather trying to hide a snicker as he received his launcher back.

"Nah, hey, not gonna shoot!" chuckled the mongoose, then aimed it around, above everyone's heads, "Pew, pew, we got enemy fighters! Get a diaper on that jet, noxious exhaust fumes; pew!"

And then he pulled the trigger.

The launcher did not deploy, as it did not have the proper RFID chip pairing that the Praetorian gloves had. Sensing it was being misused, a tiny nozzle next to the ladder sight squirted a mist of something distinctly familiar with a discreet pssit, and the mongoose's stomach promptly caved in.

"Oh God," he groaned as he dropped the launcher for the panda to catch. He staggered back a few steps, his already-full diaper wobbling like a chubby grub between his thin weasel thighs, then bent double and throatily groaned as his anus similarly dilated and poured thunderous, splattering mud into the seat of his briefs. And then there was a sudden stop, like someone's headphones disconnecting from their music. Already with a mighty brown dome spread behind his legs as a perfect Pythagorean hemisphere, the mongoose got a little blush as something became stiff and warm amidst the sludge in his brief. "Lord give me strength!" He wiggled around, feeling the turd stuck like a kickstand between his padding and his ass, keeping his twitching tailhole spread and twitching against the intrusion. "G-Goddammit; one sec," he said, then hit the back of his diaper and immediately jumped. His ridged log jabbed up into his rear before breaking apart, and the mongoose doubled over as the rest of it tumbled out in blrrts, crinkles, and moans, filling his brief with pungent, heavy dung. His expansive diaper, swollen and intruding upon the shores of his thighs, took the rear, augmented pile of stink-timber with mighty integrity, looking as though if he sat on it, he would have a perfect symmetric wobble.

The look of profound relief on the mongoose's face was that of seeing God.

The look of annoyance upon the weasel's was that of seeing a spiritual loon. "Be glad we have bigger mudfish to fry."

"It's..." gasped Ricky, feeling like he'd given birth. "It's just thicker underwear..." he trailed off. Maybe his new drug would be laxatives and stool softeners.

"We got movement," the koala snarked, snapping his chewing gum.

"Change your own shit," the panda said, then the two went back to the SUV. Mark protested against his pacifier gag as the vehicle's rear bay swallowed him, then the Praetorians drove off.

"I, uh, ooooof..." Ricky groaned as aftershocks rattled his knees and squeezed remnant, blobby chunks into his diaper.

"You're changing that one yourself," said Beatrice, cupping her paw over her nose.

"I can help, dude," offered Mort the Helpful.

"Just so you can spend twenty minutes staring at my shitty balls?" moaned Ricky. Little light patters upon the asphalt between his toes showed that both his bladder and padding were leaking.

"Let's get you boys inside," said Beatrice. "Coming over for games, Kioga and boyfriend?"

"You mean sex-friend?" Ricky groaned as he laboriously finished emptying his guts. The diaper hung from his hips for dear life, and everybody feared that the leg guards would start drooping away from his body and offering a much more direct stink.

"I'm sorry?" asked Ceylon. "Is there some context there...?"

"You're my friend for sex," Kioga bemusedly said with a smirk. "Because we were talking about sex and straitjackets and you know. Horny person stuff."

"Ah. I... okay. We can talk about that later."

"Not slut-shaming or anything. Just sex, sex, sex. Woo, sex," helped Mort.

"You mean horny male stuff," corrected Beatrice, perhaps a bit too defensively.

"Now hold on," said Duke, looking the most handsome and well-kept with his decently wet, still quite white brief under an edgy-cool-gangster tanktop. "You get pretty loosey-juicy once you've turned a diaper change into a dick dairy, then waddle around dripping to the living room for a sloppy-seconds all-you-can-eat pussy gangbang buffet with all the..."

"Hey!" Beatrice objected, but she didn't have a counter argument. "You don't, uh, mind looking at each others' dicks while you're all--"

"As long as the balls don't touch!" interrupted Mort.

"Bitch, your balls are on the inside!" said Ricky, who managed enough diaphragm pressure to push words out instead of waste. Both still happened.

"And the three of us have attempted to triple-penetrate Trish's double holes down--"

"But for the games, maybe later," Kioga interrupted, "Let's touch base in a bit, and you guys can all touch tips, and I and Ceylon could use a change for different reasons, then ... hey. The Carcer Contempla lets you be diapered inside, right?"

"Yeah!" brightened the deer. "Maybe we can get some more powder," he muttered to Beatrice as if mentioning some highly illicit goods. Like buying single cigarettes instead of a carton, the gangbangers often went to Kioga for quick, emergency transactions of diapers and supplies when they ran out. They always seemed to treat it as some sort of shady deal, perhaps to ensure Kioga wouldn't tell everyone else in the neighborhood. Kioga would just roll his eyes and tell them, over the phone, to meet him at his front door.

But no! This wasn't clandestine enough, and they always asked their only cheetah neighbor, famous actor for an adult diaper company Kioga C. Davis, to meet them at the corner by the entrance of Padridge. Humoring their oh-so-illicit deal, the cheetah would dress in a hood, face bandana, and trenchcoat which he would line with supplies. Kioga's convenience fee was usually based on the interruption of his sleep schedule and the condition of his own briefs.

"Guys, you know that stores exist, right?" Kioga said, pinching the bridge between his eyes. It was hard for him to be distinctly pissed off, because those were usually the times, such as right now, that the lovely warm blush of urine would spread through the front of his diaper, cascading over his loins like a beautiful summer shower. When he was pissed off, he'd also be pissed on.

"It doesn't work like that! Oh shit, are you pissing?"

"Yes!" Kioga snarled, the front of his onesie rounding out into a delightful cloth-covered lump.