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Kioga C. Davis, MTA, SO, IHC, stood at his kitchen sink in a moist diaper and dry bathrobe, looking out through the window above the sink while the scent of mint tea--no sugar, no milk, just tea--wafted up to his nose. It was strange, he thought as he shifted from one leg to the other, feeling the cold bloated plastic brush against his thighs: he could go to work with the briefs he had on_right now_, the garment bulging his butt out into a smooth, pillow-plump rustling rump, and be just fine. The diaper would be obvious, even to non-AB's and continent persons, but no one would question him.

He was very good at his job and he was safe otherwise: everyone in his Corporate America environment was too "polite" to bring it up. Passive-aggression was the vice of the middle-class: it was easier for his acquaintances to spread rumors than to confront him. Sure, they'd whisper behind his back at Ferris-Chalmpers, but none of their complaints were actionable because one, he was semi-incontinent and two, it was documented with HR, and three, they were more obsessed about his homosexuality as that gave them firmer, more universal grounds for gossip. They'd congratulated him about last year's Supreme Court ruling and he just shrugged, saying, "Shoulda been a long time ago."

"Christ, I'm bitter," the cheetah laughed as he leaned over the counter, grunting in pleasure as urine burbled from his sheath and spilled into the crotch of his diaper, cutting wet lines through his pubic area.

He'd done a little soul-searching, especially in light of romancing Lugo, the muscular wolf he'd converted to a diaper-cub and then romanced. Kioga found himself embarrassed at his own non-masculine form and his medical inconveniences, neither of which were beneficial outside of specific circles, and in the creative corners of his mind he'd fantasized being a supervillain from time to time. The world had forgotten him and he'd make them pay! Or, failing that, he could be an office snitch and make life a technical hell for people who, for the most part, were simply naïve, ignorant, and compensating for respective shortcomings with bigotry and a refuge in normalcy. It was a revenge fantasy that, in light of rational forethought, Kioga knew he'd regret. The first law of morality was "keep your paws to yourself." It was kindergarten and common sense. Last year, the Supreme Court had officiated that.

"I'm just arming myself for a war that'll never happen," he said to himself, shaking his head and then sipping his tea. He cradled the cup against his wrinkled, tired waistband. "But the supervillains are always the disadvantaged, aren't they? Joker, Victor Fries, Loki, Green- and Hob-goblin ... Die a hero or become the villain, though both of those are terrible options." Kioga chuckled, then relaxed, flattening a paw against the front of his diaper as more piss rushed into the plastic, swelling the front with a warm, dark stain. The waistband sagged down his hips, the tapes straining. "I'm just different and the world doesn't readily accept me. I'm a special snowflake and I should let it go."

His boyfriend Lugo had left early, needing to be at work a couple hours before their normal shifts, leaving Kioga with an empty apartment and his own thoughts. The cheetah waved a paw; he'd overthink himself this morning. It wasn't like he wasn't doing well--he had a good mate, a good job, was in relatively good health--but it'd all quickly become the status quo, and any deviation from it was suddenly distressing. His gifts had become expectations instead of boons.

Kioga felt the urge to defecate, but a look at the time told him to use the big-boy potty instead of the seat of his pants.

But he didn't want to use the potty. So instead, the cheetah ripped his diaper off and wadded it into a ball. The musky scent of urine--bright yellow urine, too; he should hydrate more-- levitated with a poof of powder before his face like a glen of fairies. Kioga tossed the garment at his bathroom door, slamming it shut. The diaper hit the floor with a wet splat.

"Guess I can't make it to the potty," he said with a grin, then pulled himself up onto the sink, turned around, and grunted as he gave a big push.

There was no water, no dishes, anything but a steel tub as his tailhole bulged outward and disgorged a slithering, pungent coil of scat that hit the metal with a dull squish as it flopped across in the drain and lay like sour Play-Doh. His body ended the grotesque display with soggy flatulence that the sink's metal basin amplified like the sunny shout of a trombone. The cheetah's cock was rock hard and a few squirts of piss sprayed over his legs. Kioga shook his hips twice to break off a second log, then hopped back down to the kitchen floor.

In the same way this biological requirement hit him with a sudden force of here, and soon, so did the cheetah's guilt as a rank bathroom smell, unfettered by any immersion in water, hit Kioga's sensitive nose.

"I just took a shit in the sink," he said with a flustered giggle, paw flying to his forehead. The food disposal was in the _other_basin. A madman's cackle burst out of him like a flurry of fireworks, then Kioga settled down as he braced himself against the counter and grimaced at the two crossed cables of cack. "Time to get my paws dirty," he giggled and whimpered.

Kioga got to work on time with musky paws that looked clean, but the scent lingered. His brazen stunt jolted him out of his morning blues and he walked in with a swagger and a form-fitting diaper completely invisible beneath his slacks, one that should last until lunch on a bad day and most of the day on a good one. He waved at the receptionist and took the elevator all the way to his floor, slipping into his cubicle after the normal volley of "Good morning," "How's it going?" and "Working hard or hardly working?" rhetoric he shared with his coworkers.

There was a strange leather presenter on the corner of his desk, which was soon reclaimed by a sprightly fennec vixen as she dragged a chair over to sit beside him.

"Hi, Mr. Davis? I'm Kyrie Danvers, the new marketing intern," she said as they shook paws, Kioga nodding as he organized his desk with the other paw. "Wesley set me up with you for a job shadow. I hope that's okay?"

The cheetah smiled as he flipped through his emails. "That rapscallion sent the message right after I left," he said to himself, chuckling at the coyote's brazenness. The message read "5:05 pm" as the send time. Wesley was, despite a cruel prank-streak that would show now and again, an enjoyable fellow--he'd sometimes join Lugo and Kioga in their fetishistic hijinks. He'd been the one to switch Kioga's coffee, making the cheetah's impertinent, urgent ejection exceed his diaper and soil his pants with a violent gush of ex-sandwiches during a web conference. Wesley'd got his comeuppance, however, in a most felicitous end.

"No, that's completely fine; thank you," Kioga said politely. "I'll show you the ropes after ... "

"Should I get us some coffee?"

"Yes!" the cheetah said excitedly, "but please. Half-caff and watered down, black."

"I know; Wesley told me," the fennec said with a strange smile, leaving quickly afterwards. A curious rustle followed her, and Kioga's ear traced it. He turned his head: the fennec wore a black business skirt with a slight flare and a hem hanging upwards of mid-thigh. Her feminine gait was a little wider than her frame would suggest. The cheetah blushed at why that could be, then returned to his computer.

"You bastard, Wes," the cheetah mumbled with a grin, reading over the email. "Where did you find her? What did you tell her?"

With a jolt and a squirt of piss that warmed the inside of his diaper, Kioga read the final line of Wesley's correspondence.

"I'm sure you two will have loads of fun together ;)" it read.

"What are you getting me into, you derelict?" he mumbled, then looked over his cube wall to see Lugo watching him, the wolf leaning on thick, muscular arms. Lugo burst out in chuckles.

"You could just call him an asshole. Don't use so many the big words; they sound weird coming out of a cute little kitten," he said with a gay sneer: his tone wasn't too condescending, but the jab was straight and true.

Kioga shook his head, returning to his work before his ears got too red. "That was a one-time present, 'Oliver.' Daddy Cheetah likes being Daddy."

"Valentine's Day is coming soon."

"Fine. A two-time thing."

"Make sure to eat lots of fiber."

Kioga's ears folded and he reached up, taking Lugo's paw. His green eyes sparkled and Lugo returned his quiet, effervescent look of passion. "I really love you," Kioga whispered.

"I as well share our passion, faw-ther," Lugo whispered, pulling out his "Oliver" Cockney accent. "So what did Wes want?" Lugo asked, switching back to his normal 25 year-old American self, an Ohioan wolf raised on corn-fed beef and having played football through college. Perry was his last name, but he wouldn't mind switching it to "Davis" should their propitious events continue. Paradoxically, or perhaps most appropriately, Lugo Perry was not a fan of Journey, but as the Fates would be most perverted, "Don't Stop Believin'," was his nickname as Wide Receiver. Perhaps that's why he loathed the band. He much preferred Billy Joel, and had long wished that "Why Should I Worry?" be his football nickname, and even his nickname here at Ferris-Chalmpers.

With a choppy "ping," Lugo Perry received an email on his flip-phone and broke away from Kioga's embrace. He observing his phone's tiny screen with great interest.

"Wesley wants us at an offsite; it's marked on our schedules. Evan's coming."

Lugo rolled his eyes as he snapped his phone closed and clipped it to his waist. It was a cheap substitute while the company got him a new phablet the size of a cutting board. Those were his favorite.

"I hope you're ready for a real load, love."

Kioga's face was knotted, mangled as he mentally beheld the absurd possibilities before him and feared that his wilder imaginations would be right. "I ... guess I'll eat a big lunch," he said, his left paw trembling. "We're getting paid for this? How is Evan faking this?"

Lugo's ears folded flat down the back of his furry skull, and the wolf looked at Kioga with a dreadful visage of resignation and acceptance. Kioga felt a hot rush of piss well up between his legs and up the leg-guards: his diaper was running out of room. The cheetah looked down and saw the crotch of his pants bulging in a smooth, pronounced mound around his swollen plastic undies.

"Part of me worries that he's not faking it. Remember how easily your temporary office was ignored? 'Just a chlorine leak' and everyone bought it? Ferris-Chalmpers doesn't have a pool."

"There was shit everywhere..." Kioga whispered, grasping his desk tightly as his diaper leaked, wet spots forming inside his thighs. His vision began to cloud.

"Collectively, there was roughly the 'tonnage of an adult male elephant's daily _excrement'_in that room."

"Only cost us six hundred dollars to clean up ... no mob blackmail, no corporate reprimand, and no felony charges."

The realization crept upon Kioga that their "felicitous end" was more akin to an evanescent aristocracy dependent upon their inflated egos. Instead of upon solid rock, Kioga, Lugo, and Wesley had built their house upon sand--rather, upon scat.

"Ky, careful!" Lugo hissed. He left the cubicle wall, ran around to the cheetah and shook him by the shoulders. Kioga came to, and when he did the first sensation he felt was a warm wetness beneath the arches of his feet, in his shoes: the young male had fully exceeded his diaper's limits and soaked his pants, the outline of his protective briefs highlighted in dark stripes of urine, and the insides of his thighs trailed hot liquid into his shoes. Drops of it cascaded from the hem of his chinos, tapping a slow rhythm into dark puddles they'd formed in the carpet.

People around them looked at the two, but raised no alarms.

"Guess who did what?" one woman whispered.

"I didn't even see the ... it under his slacks this morning. Don't they make bigger ones?" a man asked.

"Evan's going to have to buy him a new chair."

"I'm not sure Evan would mind."

"Do all homosexuals wear diapers? Doesn't ... you know ... loosen it up after a while?"

"Kinda hard to work with your thumbs up your asses," Lugo spoke out, helping Kioga up. He suppressed a sharp grimace as the tapes of Kioga's diaper snapped and the soggy brief fell slack, forming a confusing contusion, a lopsided bulge, in the front of Kioga's soiled and streaked trousers. The cheetah was in tears. "Or should I start calling all of _you_out?" Lugo said, "No one's a saint!"

"I don't want a civil war," Kioga whispered as he let his bladder loose again, filling out the unblotched center of his pants and spilling down the legs with a loud hiss. His open diaper flopped over one thigh and hung down the pantleg like a fat earthworm.

Lugo's ears burned; all he could do was throw his boyfriend over his shoulders, grab Kioga's diaper bag, and fireman-carry him to the bathroom with the pissing cheetah soaking his crisp starched shirt, spreading a large yellow puddle on the wolf's perfect white shoulder.

Lugo returned to the family bathroom he'd left Kioga and his shirt in, his undershirt moist and sticking to his muscular chest. Under his arm was the cheetah's supply bag. Kioga was bottomless and sitting on the toilet, tapping his bare paws against the tile as his shoes hung face-down in the sink to dry. He was texting their manager to let him know of the emergency, though office chatter had likely found its way there already.

"I know the chlorine leak excuse was bullshit, but apparently it actually happened at a car-lover's convention," Lugo said.

"I saw it on Buzzfeed," Kioga remarked, exiting the stall as Lugo spread a blanket out on the tile. He nicked the pacifier Lugo held out to him and, pulling his shirt and undershirt up to his chest, suckled on it as he lay on his back. Lugo took to wiping Kioga, running one wipe after another up the insides of the cheetah's powder-white legs, around his fuzzy sac, and then down the cleft to tickle Kioga's tailhole.

"You should wipe better," the wolf chuckled, holding his paw up. Hanging over his index finger, the wipe looked like a ghost in a brown wig.

Kioga sniffed his fingers, his Velcro tongue working the nipple of his pacifier. His fingers were still musky.

Receiving no response, Lugo shrugged and picked out a thicker diaper, two steps below a European Ultra but much easier to conceal. Kioga growled at him, and Lugo tut-tutted back, flicking the cheetah's thigh near his balls. Kioga yipped around his pacifier.

"You keep picking these tissue-thin briefs and spraying like you're marking territory and I will hook you up to a catheter ... and hook that up to a Camelbak. The water backpacks used in the Marines? A Serendipity will work fine, and if it's not soaked by the time we leave work, then ... "

Lugo sighed, blush running hot under his fur. There was this one fucked-up idea Kioga posed to him after a stupid amount of vodka, after the Camelbak. At least Kioga'd been wearing a European Ultra that night, because it wasn't just the diaper's bulk that made him waddle...

"I'll make you a deal. I'll wear a cloth_diaper and you can depth-charge me. _And I'll do the resulting laundry."

The cheetah sniggered, mouth popping loudly around his pacifier.

Lugo had Kioga all powdered up and was just finishing the tapes on his thicker briefs when the tumbler of the door clacked open. The wolf jumped, only having time to stand up and turn around as the door swung open. Kioga's paws flew down to cover his shame, but the white plastic was wrapped all around him, puffy and obvious.

A tiger in his thirties entered and locked the door behind him. He looked, without a hint of surprise, over the skinny cheetah whose legs were spread wide and bowed around a markedly thick adult diaper, sucking on a Ferris-Chalmpers-branded pacifier. The tiger's striped fur was impeccably groomed; his jaw was tight without any loose skin or a whisker out of place; and he wore a pair of bifocals to disguise his comparatively young age. Evanstrom had, in the last few months, been promoted past them and Wesley all, surprising everyone. He now talked like the company handbook.

"Kioga, you're an intelligent, driven, productive member of the F-C marketing division," Evan said with a sigh, "but an employee's medical protections are only effective if the employee demonstrates a clear effort to accommodate his or herself. You're incontinent, not incompetent, and that's another insurance form altogether if you want to be _legally_incompetent. Now I don't know your financial status aside from the paychecks I sign, but I can see from where I'm standing you have the supplies to prevent it ... our _janitor friend_has been notified, by the way. Your workplace will be clean in an hour. Mr. Davis, this is a written warning."

The tiger had two leather presenters under his arm, and from the first he produced the form he was talking about. Lugo reached for it, but Evan pushed past him, knelt in front of Kioga, and pressed the form against the plastic crotch of his diaper. The cheetah's cock pulsed through the padding, and the tiger's nose seemed to recognize it, as did the pads of his fingers. Their eyes met, and at that moment they recalled the same memory: of Evan defecating into Wesley's gaping mouth while on the other end, Kioga sodomized the coyote using Wesley's own shit as lubricant, lustily ramming through it as if he was trying to force it back in.

The cheetah's ears fell and he signed his disciplinary form against his own diaper, then returned it to the ruthless cat. Evan nodded and stood as he switched binders, opening the second one. He stood straight like an orator.

"Please wear thicker diapers. Anyway," he said, glancing back at the bathroom's deadbolt before continuing, adjusting his bifocals, "the high-level story is this: Kyrie is the new intern, and I'm inviting her to join the pack."

"It's_Wesley's_ pack!" Lugo objected.

"It was Wesley's idea," Evan said. "He's not entirely full of shit. Not usually."

Kioga was standing now, brushing off the tails of his shirt as they hung on either side of the fat plastic sack between them. Evan smirked.

"Sir, I'm puzzled that you're the one telling us all this," Lugo adventured, scratching Kioga's chest as his boyfriend leaned against him, "this isn't just Wesley bringing work home, is it? Gender diversity's great, but our circle is..."

"Work and home are no longer separate," Evan said with a plasticine smile, apologizing with his eyes when his words could not, "but we will discuss that at our offsite meeting. Address is in the email."

"About that address, sir," Kioga interjected, popping his pacifier out and rushing forward with a crinkling waddle, "Magic Mermaid Cove has been closed for years; did Wes mean the diner across the street?"

"Ferris-Chalmpers bought Magic Mermaid Cove last week," Evanstrom said with a jerk of his tail, unbolting the door behind him. "I'll see you then. Take a long, big lunch until then."

Kioga shivered, reaching into his plastic briefs to adjust himself as Evan left and locked the door behind him. Lugo jumped.

"Oh, shit!" the wolf exclaimed, pulling his pants down as his cock sprung to life, spraying the tile before he waddled over to a urinal. Kioga saw a wet spot on the front of Lugo's slacks, now crumpled around his ankles.

"Do you need one, too?"

"Call me crazy," Lugo said as he sprayed the back wall of the urinal, letting out a quick fart, "but I'm thinking there might be diapers at our meeting."

"I hear there's openings at Apophis-Charmings," Kioga said, nose pulsing as the wolf's pungent cloud wafted over. His sheath swelled in its padding.

"Not that I haven't considered it," Lugo said, rocking on his feet, still going, "I guess we'll see what Evan's got for us, eh?"

Kioga crawled up behind him and wrapped his arms around the wolf's bare, muscular leg. A sudden, perverse smile crumpled the cheetah's face, and he looked up the muscular, micturating form of his boyfriend with scintillating green eyes. Lugo looked down with concern.

"I can barely contain myself," Kioga said, shivering as a tingle from his sheath warmed the underside of his scrotum.