{ "submission_id": "3065474", "keywords": [ { "keyword_id": "2726", "keyword_name": "arctic fox", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "7840" }, { "keyword_id": "1911", "keyword_name": "badger", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "7349" }, { "keyword_id": "2036", "keyword_name": "cheetah", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "15939" }, { "keyword_id": "37", "keyword_name": "cub", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "285395" }, { "keyword_id": "3902", "keyword_name": "cumshot", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "22997" }, { "keyword_id": "744", "keyword_name": "diapers", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "22264" }, { "keyword_id": "56589", "keyword_name": "diaper use", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "546" }, { "keyword_id": "123", "keyword_name": "female", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "1104053" }, { "keyword_id": "511", "keyword_name": "hyena", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "19577" }, { "keyword_id": "165", "keyword_name": "male", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "1214488" }, { "keyword_id": "690", "keyword_name": "masturbation", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "48268" }, { "keyword_id": "28542", "keyword_name": "messy diaper", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "7022" }, { "keyword_id": "36311", "keyword_name": "pull-ups", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "760" }, { "keyword_id": "1699", "keyword_name": "punishment", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "4740" }, { "keyword_id": "42267", "keyword_name": "reward", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "3170" }, { "keyword_id": "30", "keyword_name": "scat", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "15197" }, { "keyword_id": "449", "keyword_name": "school", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "9100" }, { "keyword_id": "106095", "keyword_name": "toilet play", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "223" }, { "keyword_id": "25553", "keyword_name": "toilet training", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "50" }, { "keyword_id": "1888", "keyword_name": "vibrator", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "9314" }, { "keyword_id": "1135", "keyword_name": "watersports", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "18570" }, { "keyword_id": "28949", "keyword_name": "wet diaper", "contributed": "f", "submissions_count": "5932" } ], "hidden": "f", "scraps": "f", "favorite": "f", "favorites_count": "25", "create_datetime": "2023-07-13 21:12:45.102434+00", "create_datetime_usertime": "13 Jul 2023 23:12 CEST", "last_file_update_datetime": "2023-07-13 20:53:11.295256+00", "last_file_update_datetime_usertime": "13 Jul 2023 22:53 CEST", "username": "Mironde", "user_id": "204789", "user_icon_file_name": "62879_Mironde_ibsf_avatar.gif", "user_icon_url_large": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/large/62/62879_Mironde_ibsf_avatar.gif", "user_icon_url_medium": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/medium/62/62879_Mironde_ibsf_avatar.gif", "user_icon_url_small": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/usericons/small/62/62879_Mironde_ibsf_avatar.gif", "file_name": "4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_full": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/full/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_screen": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_preview": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "files": [ { "file_id": "4589762", "file_name": "4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_full": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/full/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_screen": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/screen/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "file_url_preview": "https://nl1.ib.metapix.net/files/preview/4589/4589762_Mironde_his_place_among_the_stars.doc", "mimetype": "application/msword", "submission_id": "3065474", "user_id": "204789", "submission_file_order": "0", "full_size_x": null, "full_size_y": null, "screen_size_x": null, "screen_size_y": null, "preview_size_x": null, "preview_size_y": null, "initial_file_md5": "81951d3dc1db19ba41dc493fb896405a", "full_file_md5": "81951d3dc1db19ba41dc493fb896405a", "large_file_md5": "", "small_file_md5": "", "thumbnail_md5": "", "deleted": "f", "create_datetime": "2023-07-13 20:53:11.295256+00", "create_datetime_usertime": "13 Jul 2023 22:53 CEST" } ], "pools": [], "description": "In Mister Dunn's third grade class, potty training is a privilege the students must earn back—and failure, as one boy understands all too well, has rather disproportionate consequences.", "description_bbcode_parsed": "In Mister Dunn's third grade class, potty training is a privilege the students must earn back—and failure, as one boy understands all too well, has rather disproportionate consequences.", "writing": "[center][t][b]His Place Among the Stars[/b][/t]\n[b]A story by Mironde\n\nCONTENT WARNING: This story depicts child characters in sexually explicit scenarios.[/b][/center]\n\n\nIt was a perfect, picturesque morning at Sunridge Elementary School—the sky a beautiful blue, the temperature pleasant, the grassy, fenced-in fields green and trim and full of rustling. Students of every grade, from first to fifth, hurried about in play without pants. They romped with diapers exposed—a lucky few, training pants—as they swayed on swings, climbed on jungle gyms, punted red rubber balls, fled from each other in games of tag, enjoying recess to the fullest. The adults, their teachers, their minders, meanwhile, stood on the outskirts, keeping diligent watch over the fledglings.\n\nSuddenly, a yellow streak swept across the fields like a gale: a young, lean cheetah with a short patch of wiry black hair, whose bounding strides hurried from one end of the campus to the other. Like his peers, he had skipped shorts for the simple freedom of a white-blue shirt and blue disposable pull-ups. Unlike his peers, he had no time for games. He spared no pleasantries while he cut straight through, disturbing a kickball match, darting around classmates, bark chips kicked up in his wake. His face appeared grave—his teeth clenched, his snout scrunched, pained and urgent. His arms, rather than swing loose at his side, hugged his gut with the delicacy of a vice. At each stomp in the sod and dirt, his light-up sneakers flashed.\n\nBy the time he had made it back to the school proper, the pressure had soared to new, unbearable heights. Cramps struck his belly, growling as would a beast. His tail convulsed, rapidly twitched, bending at odd angles. He fought off the growing urge, half-jogged, half-hobbled the rest of the way toward a sheltered strip, an outside hallway of classrooms at one end of the school. There, he hustled toward the open door of his homeroom distinguished by the plaque above its door. Smiling suns and vibrant rainbows painted it, alongside a name drawn in big, blocky letters: “Mister Dunn – 3rd Grade”.\n\nThe space inside sprawled, a patchwork quilt of carpets and linoleum floors, divided between the clustered desks in the center and the many themed nooks around the perimeter. Third-graders bustled about while enjoying their free period inside. Alongside them hovered a much older girl, a teenage barn owl, who fluttered from place to place, checking up on her younger peers as a mother her chicks. All of the cheetah’s classmates were similarly dressed as he was, lacking bottoms to cover their derrieres. Many wore disposable training pants, adorned in colorful cartoon characters with tearaway sides, albeit slightly thicker than the supermarket variety. Some, whether by choice or by need, remained in diapers bulky and big enough to fit their age group with ease. Even the teacher’s aide, the teen, abided by the same dress code, hobbled by the obvious curve of a mottled pink diaper sagging under her short-cut skirt. Not a single kid, however, was cotton-clad—no briefs, no panties to be found. Underwear was simply one privilege of several they had given up when enrolling in the school.\n\nNone of this was of any help to the feline, of course. He lumbered inside and ran to the center, snapping his sight in every direction, looking high and low, trying to parse his surroundings. The longer he lingered, the more jittery, the more distressed his motions grew.\n\nMercifully, his frantic search reached its end in short order. In the arts and crafts corner, he spotted the only adult in the room, and the only one who could help him: a slim and well-dressed hyena sporting a tan vest over a plain white button-up, beige slacks and tan business shoes. From his neck hung a navy-blue tie. On the bridge of his muzzle, a pair of square-rimmed glasses sat. Evidently, he had been crouched down all along, chatting with a young bat whose paper had been enthusiastically presented to him—a crayon drawing of none other than himself. Seeing it, the teacher’s face glowed with joy. He sang its praises as adults do, and with it in hand, he stood slow on aged knees. Carefully, he traipsed past his students sitting crisscross on the floor, over to a nearby corkboard, where he pinned the art with the rest of the projects. The wall was a mishmash of glue and glitter, color and chaos—and Mister Dunn, gazing upon it all with hands on his hips, could not have looked prouder.\n\nSuddenly, the canine felt a paw tugging his shirt, heard an antsy rustling and a trembly mewl of a voice.\n\n“Mister Dunn? M-Mister Dunn, um…”\n\nThe man’s ears perked, and his head swiveled to find the lean little cheetah at his side, pale-faced and squirming in place. His tail flickered to and fro with a mind of its own. His legs squeezed together, clearly bothered.\n\n“Hey there, champ!” Mister Dunn greeted him warmly. “What’s—”\n\n“I gotta potty!” the cub blurted out. “Like, [i]real[/i] bad!”\n\nThat outburst nearly startled the adult, full of such urgency that he could only pull away while his mouth fell open. “…Oh!” he chirped. “Well, that’s a problem. Do you know which one?”\n\nThe kitten bit his lip. “N-Number two…a-and, um, maybe number one? I dunno, but I gotta go now. Like, [i]now[/i] now—like, [i]now now[/i] now!”\n\n“Goodness, okay, I hear you.” Full of patience and sympathy, a smile crept to the hyena’s muzzle. “C’mon, then. Let’s go find where the potty’s run off to. Better take care of that before you pop.”\n\nBy the hand Mister Dunn chaperoned his charge, the cat anxiously tailing behind. His eyes were fixed forward, his feet sure of their step as they walked, around the desks, through the river of rambunctious tots coming in and running out of the room. Most would have struggled to keep tabs of thirty-odd children under their care, but not Mister Dunn. To his students’ continued amazement, he always knew, inexplicably, where each and every one of them were at all times—just as he knew where their wayward latrine had scampered.\n\nAnd it was this uncanny instinct that brought them both to the other side of the room. Here, an arctic fox sat crisscross on the ground, piecing together a set of Legos on the carpet in front of him into the towers of a magnificent, medieval castle. In his muzzle, an oversized, baby blue pacifier lay planted, with a peculiar design, an ink-black padlock, adorning its shield. Its soft rubber nipple bulged his cheeks ever-so-slightly, enough to fill his entire maw and then some. And it was not the only infantile thing about him. Between his plain purple tee and purple-white sneakers, he was entirely bottomless save for a thick white diaper with golden star prints swaddling him—comfortably sized for a tyke his age. Its bulk wedged his legs apart, propped his rear up on a pillow of poof. Its tapes, a pastel blue, bore the same design of padlocks as his pacifier. Imprinted on its cloth-backed front lay another odd flourish: rounded shapes forming the black, shadowy silhouette of a person. And beneath it, in neat typeface, a single word: “Restroom”.\n\n“There you are, Lynn!”\n\nUpon hearing that familiar voice, the kit, Lynn, perked up from his project, turned to its source, spied the teacher’s friendly face. It set his fluffy tail in motion, each sweep rustling his diaper. He hobbled to his feet, gait thrown wide by his Pampers, and smiled behind his pacifier at the approaching adult—at least, until he saw the cheetah at the flank, squirming and jittering. Instantly, his expression sank, his skin grew icy, and a stone of worry dropped into his stomach. He knew what was to come.\n\nNoticing the chilly reception on their arrival, the teacher knelt to the boy’s level and scritched at his chin. “Rory here needs a place to poop,” said Mister Dunn, blunt but sweet. “We need to get you unlocked so he can use you. You’ll help him out, right?”\n\nDespite the adult’s ministrations, still the eight-year-old eased away, a smear of scorching red on his face. He knew exactly what was being asked of him—knew exactly what was expected of him. With hesitance, he glanced to the cat, swallowed his nerves down with the small pool of spittle that had gathered around his binky’s bulb.\n\n“Ooooooh! Ooh, ooh! H-Hurry!” pleaded his classmate. Rory’s feet bounced, staggered, practically danced as he shifted his weight side to side. His claws clutched his padded seat so desperately, they threatened to shred it.\n\nFor a moment, Lynn’s soft blue eyes flittered about in turmoil. He wanted to speak, to argue, to bargain, yet the words failed to form—not that they would have made it beyond the bulbous nub in his mouth, stifling his speech. No matter how he pushed it with his tongue, the invisible force holding it in place refused to budge. The only choice left to him was to relent. And with a timid nod, he took those tentative few steps back into his teacher’s reach.\n\n“Hn-khn…” he sounded out, dejected.\n\nHis surrender pleased the hyena. “Good toilet. Paws up.”\n\nAs instructed, he held his hands out of the way where Mister Dunn could see them. The teacher’s, conversely, came down to the child’s waist, to his exposed diaper. A strange vibration tickled Lynn’s sides as he approached, as though his bloomers were humming against his skin. Expectedly, though, they did not shift an inch—could not, rather. The same intangible aura keeping his pacifier in his mouth had squeezed itself around his diaper, locking its various openings flush with his stomach, his legs, his tail. But the canine’s presence resonated with it—for as the one who cast the curse, so too was he the key to removing it.\n\nOvertop the boy’s diaper-tapes, the dog swiped his hands across both sides. Suddenly, sparks of purple light wisped from his fingers, whisked along the clothy shell, coalescing around the adhesives pinning the wings to the front. Then, in an instant, the light snapped apart, and with it, the buzzing ceased. With the magic dispelled, the padlock icons fizzled slowly away akin to parchment set aflame, until only four, entirely normal yet decidedly durable tapes remained. With their absence, the kit felt his pants slacken—his waist and thighs and tail-base freed. His skin could breathe again.\n\nBut this was no cause for celebration; this was his call to action. Needing no further prompting, the fox pushed his fingers into his waistband and pulled it open as far as it would yield, managing a considerable few inches. There, he kept it outstretched. Mister Dunn grinned his approval, then craned to address Rory.\n\n“There you go! All yours, kiddo.”\n\n“Rrf! Th-Thank you!”\n\nNary a moment to spare, the cheetah hurried into position—pivoting on his feet, backing himself up, fumbling to hook his paws into his pull-up. Nervous as he was, his fingers wrestled to unlatch the strip in back securing his tail through its hole. He nearly bit a gash into his lip.\n\n“Ah! C’mon, c’mon, c’mooooooon!”\n\nAfter a brief struggle, he yanked his trainers down below his bottom and pushed his way closer to the fox’s stomach, until his rump settled in place, hovered forebodingly above the gap. The way the feline perched himself on the rim, it was almost as if he were sitting, his lower cheeks grazed by the commode’s cottony softness. His slender tail, meanwhile, bristled in the young fox’s face, twitched erratically as the spasms grew sharper, the ominous gurgling in his stomach louder.\n\nSoon, the cub’s grunts began in earnest, with enough effort to redden his face. Shriveling, Lynn splayed his ears, shut his eyes, braced for the inevitable.\n\nBut it was that very first push that sent Rory’s bowels toppling over the edge. It was less a drop than a splatter—a low trumpet, a mucky explosion, as waves of soft, sludgy heat poured down the front of the kit’s diaper. Under that veritable avalanche, his crotch was buried in filth. He felt every contour of the swamp cradling his fuzzy sack and sheath, felt its gooey texture clinging to his fur, sinking through every crack and crevice it could go like a formless mass seeking shape. Instantly, the tyke swung his head away, whined his protest, though the seal of his pacifier let only the faintest murmur of his displeasure through. There was a wrongness to it, that heavy warmth settling in the wrong end of his shorts. Its overwhelming odor was no better, a bouquet of fetid fragrances—familiar, like baby powder and dirty diapers; foreign, like sniffing the air of another cub’s nursery. He wanted to thrust his paws over his nostrils, to stop them from burning and his stomach from churning. Yet all he could do was stand and wait, peek and watch, hands holding open his Pampers while layers of secondhand silt cemented his privates.\n\nIn stark contrast, the cheetah looked as though he were in Heaven. Gone was the pressure in his gut. As the reservoir emptied, his posture relaxed, appended by a long, rapturous sigh. His shoulders slumped. His chin lifted. In strain—in relief—his legs, his tail, his breath all trembled in ecstasy. Nothing short of bliss, that big, goofy smile. He was so entranced, he hardly noticed the dribble escaping him, a trickle of piddle narrowly caught by his training pants before it could hit the classroom carpet.\n\nMinutes passed with no end in sight to the mudslide, only a slow shift from solid to liquid waste. It was a bizarre sight, the two entwined—the kitten, pushing and pushing, taking his time to get everything out; the kit, body still as porcelain, grip rigid as iron. But to the rest of the room, the two of them may as well have been invisible. The laughter, the chatter, it continued without them, some twenty children clamoring in camaraderie. Right as the noise of the cheetah relieving himself hit its crescendo, a trio of kids playing with action figures ran past, continued on. In any other classroom, one might imagine they would have stopped to gawk or jeer or tease. But not here—not for an everyday spectacle.\n\nFinally, the flume tapered. Rory gave one last grunt to clear his passage, finding it well and truly evacuated. He gave his rear a cute little waggle over the chasm, happy to be done, or maybe shaking loose any stragglers still stuck to his rump-fuzz. Now several pounds lighter, he stood up straight with his trainers still halfway to his knees, stretching his legs and heaving a massive, euphoric breath. Not one to forget his debts, though, he twisted back to the kit, and from a polite distance, he leaned in to squeeze his arms around him. The fox, more modest in his affection, simply nuzzled himself awkwardly into the feline’s neck.\n\n“Thanks for the save! I feel [i]way[/i] better.” Satisfied, he broke the hug after a moment, when next he turned to their superior supervising from the sideline. “Finished!”\n\n“Way to go, Rory!” cheered Mister Dunn. He held his paws flat and up to the tyke, who gave them both an enthusiastic high-five. “That one deserves a star.”\n\nImmediately, the spotty cat’s countenance plummeted along with his shoulders. “Awww, what? Just [i]one[/i]? But that’s s’posed to be worth two!”\n\nBut the teacher merely chuckled. “Sorry, sport. ‘Fraid you lost a point.”\n\nThough slowly at first, the young athlete soon pieced together the implication. His face began to glow, both out of recognition and embarrassment. He peered beneath him at his exposed pull-up, at the small, damp strip of gold on the inside. On the outside, its rocketship designs—the wetness indicators—had faded entirely under a urine yellow haze.\n\n“Aw, man… And I was doin’ so good…” sulked the cheetah. He slanted his mouth, huffed his annoyance. But lest he pout forever, Mister Dunn playfully tapped his nose, once again bringing his attention front and center.\n\n“And [i]that’s[/i] why you’re still in them. Now hold still a sec’.”\n\nWith scant warning, and before Rory could register it, the adult had pressed into the crack of his bottom with a large baby wipe. Its cool touch shocked the kitten, jumping in his skin and shuddering as that sudsy cloth, carried by a single finger, probed into his hole. Inside and out, deep and shallow, the teacher cleaned through flesh and fur until the wipe’s center was but a brown, grimy splotch. Satisfied, Mister Dunn helped the stripling back into his trainers, short tugs bringing the garment up his legs, secure and snug around his waist. The feline thought briefly to gripe about the wetness on his bum—thought better of it, after a moment’s pause. At the end of the day, that soggy warmth abrading his posterior was a small price to pay for a clean, comfy bottom.\n\n“There! You’re all set,” announced the hyena. “Next change is at noon, kiddo. In the meantime, go snag yourself a star for the board. Oh, and don’t—”\n\nHis promised reward, his gold star—ere the teacher could finish speaking, the tyke’s whole person lit up at those words. His feet kicked off the carpet, sent him and his light-up sneakers bounding away. He did not make it far before the man’s voice called him right back.\n\n“Rory, don’t forget to flush!”\n\nThe cheetah almost tripped as he screeched to a stop. “Ooh. Right, right, sorry!”\n\nQuickly as he had departed, he came racing back to the fox’s side, where he gently grasped the kit’s ear, tugged it flat, pulled downward as one would a toilet’s handle. A hiss of air, pushed through the kitten’s teeth, accompanied the gesture for dramatic effect. “Pshhhh!”\n\nMortified, Lynn winced and wagged his fluffy brush between his legs. That was the signal he had been awaiting—permission. With his duties fulfilled, the toilet tot released his hold on his diaper’s band to let it snap gently back into place along his waistline. In doing so, his pants sounded off an audible splut, a gross plap, a lewd smush, the muck splatting in every direction it could creep. His ears drooped and his stomach curdled. A sickening shudder slithered along his spine. By the end of his classmate’s session, his diaper-front was swollen, stained, and stuffed full to bursting with a slurry of filth. Perhaps the worst was knowing it could fit more—and would need to, later, when the next desperate cub came calling.\n\nRory was off again in a flash to the far end of the classroom. His destination: the nursery corner, where the class changing table stood along the wall. All the toiletries a grade of potty-untrained kids would ever need were stacked beside and beneath it—locked cubbies packed with clean diapers and pull-ups; shelves lined with powders and creams, wipes and suppositories; a diaper pail half-full of the morning’s changes, its contents kept warm and soft and squidgy by mystical means.\n\nBut it was the short, plastic play stairs nearby that were the kitten’s real goal. On the wall above the steps, a great, big chart bearing every student’s name lay stretched. A lined table organized them, with the space to the right dedicated to stickers—row upon row of gold stars serving as trophies. Above the poster, the words “POTTY ALL-STARS!” were written; under it, a simple key:\n\n[center][u]#1: +/- 1 star\n#2: +/- 2 stars\n#3: +/- 1 star[/u][/center]\n\nThe cheetah cub was eager to get to the board, practically jumping the stairs to reach the chart. From a sticker sheet at the bottom, he peeled off a glittery star and, finding his name on the list, stuck it at the end of his row, smoothing down the edges to keep it in place. Rory’s was an impressive pedigree—fifteen stars in total. Compared to the rest of the class, ranging from as high as twenty to as low as two, it was a streak worthy of celebrating for the competitive little tyke. A handful of his classmates’ rows were absent of stars, those stuck in—or perhaps relegated to—diapers. Only one was different from all the rest: Lynn, whose name had been crossed out, replaced with the word “Toilet” scribbled in the space beside. Five blue frowning face stickers took the place of stars in the row. It would be some time before they were removed.\n\nMeanwhile, Mister Dunn resumed the routine, setting his sights now on the arctic fox patiently waiting for attention. That same wipe he had used to clean the cat’s rear, he folded in half, reusing it to scrub the boy’s fur of dirty streaks. Though most of the mess stayed contained, some had slathered his stomach, his fingers, and even the rim of his padded undies. Nothing some touching up could not solve, though. And with Lynn’s coat shimmering mostly like new, the hyena tossed the spent wipe into a nearby wastebin.\n\n“That should do ‘er! Clean and sweet and oh-so neat. And what a good job you did, little guy, taking that load like a champ,” praised the canine. His digits took to the boy’s ears, rubbing circles, scratching the grooves. While flustered, still the pup leaned into the adult’s ministrations, eyes closed, gentle purrs seeping out from behind his binky.\n\n“‘Scuse me, Mister Dunn?” squeaked a small voice from out of sight.\n\nThe teacher’s strokes came to an abrupt stop. Under his breath, the kit whined frustration, pulled so rudely from his daze by their uninvited guest. Both of them swiveled to spot the source of the voice idling nearby: a girl almost half his size, a diminutive badger with braided red hair, caramel eyes, and a pink bow on one of her pitch-black ears. From her butterfly-patterned shirt to her rainbow-striped stockings, all the way down to her red Mary Janes, she was a gaudy mess of color, sporting a wavy skirt too small to completely cover her pink pull-ups. Unlike the cheetah, however, her pants were far short of pristine—already sullied, in fact, judging by the soft sag, the rounded curve to her bottom. Behind the frilly pink leg-cuffs lurked a dark brown ooze, barely contained in its prison. Enough of it had seeped through the wick that the floral prints on her seat were practically wilting.\n\n“Can I have a turn with him before you close him back up? I need to tinkle.”\n\n“Of course you can, Abby,” beamed Mister Dunn pleasantly. “Here, lemme get you something to stand on so you can use the big girl potty—give those poopy pull-ups a break.”\n\nThe back of her skirt swished about, her full pants squishing in tandem, ruffled up by the wag of her nubby tail underneath the fabric. Briskly, the teacher hopped away to grab her a platform, which left the two students, the tyke and the toilet, alone in each other’s silent company. Understandably mum about his predicament, Lynn kept to himself. He shuffled his feet, fidgeted awkwardly in place with his shirt hem, his eyes downcast at the floor—at the pudgy, puffy, pottied-in pants glued to his waist by pounds of fresh mulch. Not even he could resist the pull of morbid curiosity, though. His fingers approached the front, pressed tentatively into his diaper’s clothy exterior, to find it pliant and squidgy and, grossest of all, still warm with the cheetah’s deed. Its snow-white shell had blurred into a murkier off-white, now stripped of the starry prints of which he was so fond. Disappointingly, the restroom decal remained.\n\nWith a meek whine, he turned his gaze elsewhere, to the badger girl swaying back and forth on her heels, her arms crossed behind her back. It seemed, though, he had caught her staring at him. For a moment, they locked eyes in recognition of the other, when the corners of her smile drooped just the slightest. Her expression was stuck somewhere betwixt a smile and a frown—less of judgment and more of sympathy, or perhaps guilt, for what she was soon to do.\n\n“Sorry about this,” Abby told him. “I’d pee my panties if I could, but then we’d both be in trouble. Promise I’ll be quick.”\n\nEmbarrassment warmed the boy’s cheeks. He hunched his shoulders up, twisted timidly away as he gave an affirmative nod, a reflexive suckle of his soother. “Mnh hn-khn…” he mumbled with understanding. He did not resent her, or any of his classmates, for degrading him. After all, he could hardly blame their unwillingness to share his fate.\n\nShortly after, then, the hyena returned, lugging in one hand a small stepstool for the height-challenged badger. In his other paw, there was another object, and one more flustering to the fox’s wandering eyes: a narrowed, orange rubber cone, open-ended at its base and tip—a funnel.\n\n“Here you are!” announced Mister Dunn, setting the squat stool directly behind the boy. While barely as tall as the back of his knees, for the badger’s purposes it was plenty. The adult gestured to it almost theatrically, with a prim, proper bow. “Your potty podium, m’lady.”\n\nShe let out a tinkly giggle and wasted no time skipping over, stepping up, mounting the pedestal. There, her waistline loomed just slightly above the fox’s own. And now that she was in position, he played his role and took his own, albeit with a whimper, a sigh, as his fingers snatched out the back waistband of his diaper far as he could. The teacher passed his little darling her funnel. Graciously, she accepted it, shifting it under her skirt, but not before worming her fingers past her bloomers’ leak-guards, gently pulling the hourglass of her glorified diaper off to the side. Her loins were exposed for but a short second as she quickly covered her vent with the cone. On the pads of her feet she leaned forward, until the funnel’s tip brushed past the fox’s tail and waistband—pointed threateningly into the depths of his diaper-seat.\n\nWorryingly, nothing happened at first. The boy held his breath, adjusted his grip, fidgeted in place, anxious to fulfill his role. The girl, however, was positively serene, as if concentrating on which muscles to loosen. Calm, relaxed, her head listed upward, and her nostrils flared, and her spine jolted as the spigot turned.\n\nLong and pleasant, her sigh—the signal that she was going. She was slow to start, temperate droplets hitting the dry trough, like those first few plinks of rain on glass. Then, it grew to the trickle of a leaky faucet; then, the shower of a sprinkler; then, the spate of a garden hose on full blast. From her vent poured a torrent, a hot, hissing river flooding into the basin of its new container. The funnel proved just the hardware the badger needed to keep the stream focused, easily aiming into the bowl as her male counterparts could. Still, even her urinary aid struggled to direct such a downpour as anything more than a haphazard spritz. It went everywhere inside, drenched every surface, saturated the garment in wet warmth while wicking its way from bottom to top, seat to waistline. All that her fluids touched, they stained—whether mottling the entire back of his diaper, or turning his wintry rump to yellow snow. But no matter how great her output, the class toilet drank every drop, leaving her free to focus on the simple joy of letting go.\n\nLess pleasant, however, the experience for Lynn. Naturally, the sensation of his rear end growing moist renewed his whining, flattened his ears, tucked his tail. The way those rivulets tickled his downy-furred cheeks on their way into the trench, his stomach practically fluttered with disgust. He could feel his seat swelling, gaping his legs wider, dragging his waistband down. Worst, perhaps, was the splashback, spraying up and out of his pants like a fine mist until dark blotches soaked his shirt-hem.\n\nBut then, as much as he hated to admit it, he preferred this treatment to the alternative—the acts reserved exclusively for the front of his diaper. Compared to the foulness of the cheetah’s leavings still wafting around him, the badger’s pee smelled almost sweet—wet talcum, rather than earthy mulch. Neither did he mind sharing in a softer warmth as her fluids swirled through the drain and into his underwear. If nothing else, the afterglow made being a little girl’s urinal somewhat more bearable.\n\nTrue to her word, Abby’s piddle break was blissfully brief—as brief as thirty seconds spent pissing another kid’s pants could be. With a slight wince, a quiver to her legs, she pushed out the last few spurts from her slit, bounced lightly on her feet to shake off whatever dew remained, tapped the cone on the edge of the toilet as she let her muddy training pants snap back into place.\n\n“All done, Mister Dunn! And look! I didn’t get my clothes dirty,” she said, flashing her pearly teeth up at the hyena with pride. Then, from her perch, she reached for her classmate’s ear, tugged it down and sounded off. “Pshhhh!”\n\n“Atta girl!”\n\nOnce more, taking his cue, Lynn loosened his hold of his waistband, though not before lifting it by the sides, higher upon his back. Its balmy heat snuggled his tush like a humid, rainy summer’s day—not altogether unpleasant, but distinctly viscid and gross. While the kit wrestled with his sagging pants, the badger handed her funnel over to her guardian, who confiscated it to a nearby shelf, out of even the tallest of his students’ reach. He returned with nothing but cheer for the runty mustelid.\n\n“You did very well, using him like you’re supposed to,” he lauded. “Still—”\n\nOne paw reached behind the tyke to cup her bulbous bottom, gently squeezing and stroking the full breadth of that tepid muck against her. The girl yipped, jumping at his touch; his smile only brightened.\n\n“—I’ll have to take a star off your chart for this little slip. I don’t think I need to tell you that puts you one away from a bad time, sweetie. Any more, and you’ll be joining Lynn in timeout. Understand?”\n\nAbby’s eyes drew wide. She cleared her throat and stammered, “Y-Yes, s-sir…”\n\n“Good girl.” Closer the adult leaned, giving her forehead a peck. “Now, go take down a point and enjoy the rest of your free time, ‘kay? When class starts again, we’ll get’cha a new pull-up—from the pail this time.”\n\nThe slightest sliver of scarlet shimmered through the girl’s black-masked face. Unnerved, she gulped. Off she went, then, hopping down from the platform, her bearing rigid and nervous. She followed his instructions as she meekly toddled over to the potty chart near the changing table and up the steps, her saggy bum bouncing and shifting and tickling her parts the whole way. There, she reached up on her tiptoes to peel a sticker away from her row, leaving her with a single, solitary star—the only thing standing between her using the potty and [i]being[/i] the potty.\n\nTeacher and student, alone again. The arctic fox kept himself put as Mister Dunn retrieved the girl’s stepstool, shuffled it elsewhere, returned anon to stand in front of him. A strong, steady paw settled on the youth’s shoulder. His guardian bent down to his height.\n\n“How’s it feeling, kiddo?” he asked. “Comfy?”\n\nThe child tipped his head down and folded his ears back, peering bashfully up at him with a nuk of his soother. “Nngh gwlnn…”\n\nUnderstanding, the canine chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bet it’s a bit gross. Who knew little kids could make such big messes!” He grinned with such pride, he could light up the sun. “But that’s okay. We’ll let’cha enjoy your potty-pants a few more hours. Can’t have ‘em go to waste ‘til you’re good and used, can we? Besides, you’ve still got another customer lined up!”\n\nAt those words, Lynn perked to stare at him with innocent, albeit dreading curiosity. His teacher spoke nothing more—simply rubbed his shoulder, smiled in silence. Suddenly, the implication struck the schoolboy as though square in the dome. He shrank backwards, wide-eyed and shy, his heart skipping a beat. Up his spine, a nervous shudder.\n\nAgain Mister Dunn laughed, amused, but perhaps a smidge apologetic for provoking the reaction he had. He took up Lynn’s hand. “C’mere. Let’s go grab a seat in storyland. I think it’s time to christen my favorite little chamber pot.”\n\nThey made their trek across the classroom aisle—a short walk hampered by Lynn’s awkward toddle, fighting not only his humiliation but his bloated underwear’s bulk every inch of the way. The hyena’s patience, however, was nothing short of saintly. He let the fox pup set their pace as he ushered him gently on, a palm on his back encouraging, calming him.\n\nBefore long, they had passed the desks, left the tiles for the familiar safety of the carpet, and arrived at the far-back reach of the classroom: the story corner. Bookshelves upon bookshelves stood bolted to the wall and stocked with children’s literature for all grades and ages, from the short pop-up toddler tales to the long, challenging novellas. A number of plush beanbags and squat cushions lay haphazardly spread out on the ground, a couple of which were already occupied by a young otter and dingo, the two pups reading books for fourth-graders. Against the wall, a veritable mountain of stuffed animals sat piled—so many species, so many colors, each one soft and snuggly and thoroughly loved from years of storytime cuddling. In the backmost corner, the centerpiece: a grand, cushy, felt-upholstered armchair—Mister Dunn’s reading chair, from which he regaled the class with stories daily, of fantastical adventures, mythical beasts, and tales of bravery meant to inspire their imaginations.\n\nToday, however, the storyteller’s seat held no such magic; it was simply the place Mister Dunn had chosen to do his business.\n\nOn the very edge of his recliner he perched himself, and with his legs spread apart, he invited his charge, motioned him closer. The snowy kit complied, stepping in without fuss to stand between his knees—not that he had much say in the matter. When he was near enough, the hyena swirled his finger in the air, tracing the shape of a circle, gesturing him to turn around. Once more he complied, with some reluctance this time, waddling around until his back faced him. For this part, at least, he required no further instruction. He took the initiative, hooked his thumbs into his waistband behind him, and tugged it taut, as wide as it would go—presenting his bare back and bottom for his teacher to sully.\n\nThe toilet ready, Mister Dunn straightened himself. His imposing figure loomed over his student even when sitting. Down came the zipper to his trousers, and into his boxers he rummaged, fishing free his circumcised member through the front hole, an impressive six inches flaccid. As he took it in hand, he began to caress his girth from stem to tip, slow and steady, long and languid, coaxing its full, fleshy length from its sheath outside Lynn’s sight. The boy’s ears heard all, though—the sounds of shifting fabric, friction on skin, deep sighs and quiet moans. He felt the heat on his nape when the adult leaned in and, soon, the tip of something rigid poke at his back, mere inches away from the opening of his diaper. A viscous glob was left behind where it touched him, of a fluid he was well acquainted with by now. As ever, he could but whinge past his pacifier, keep his bottom exposed, and wait to catch the results.\n\nThe hyena’s pace hastened soon enough. Those sensual strokes became smooth glides, brisk pumps with his full paw. His breathing turned labored, gasps drawing air through his nostrils, until he was practically panting. At the peak his pleasure, he broke into a feverish sprint to the finish line—heavy thuds of his hand against his crotch, the plap of his fuzzy sack hitting his legs, his neck craned to the ceiling in sheer bliss.\n\nAnd then, suddenly, stillness. The rubbing came to an abrupt stop, with a harsh rasp—of air sucked through gritted teeth.\n\nLynn winced his eyes shut the moment he heard that telltale sound of climax. Slick, sticky strands of seed battered the small of his back, his buttocks, his tail. Round after round they came spurting out, a hot, heavy, heady tincture plastering his fur. Some of the shots strayed, draped themselves over the rim of his waistband as they leaked down both sides, inside and out; others fell short, landed in his tail or on the story nook’s carpet. Whatever the case, the adult continued to stroke, pump, drain his pent-up love into the kit’s diaper, even long after the last drops were spent. By the end, Lynn [i]reeked[/i] of hyena musk. There was practically a puddle in the boy’s seat, below the curve of his bottom, joining the half-pint of lukewarm badger piss as it seeped slowly into the sap.\n\nShame, as always, burned the tyke’s skin. He was no stranger to the sensation—the violation of having his infantile underwear used as a glorified cum-rag. But that too was merely a part of his duties: to soak up everything he was given.\n\nHaving polished himself to a shine, Mister Dunn finished with a long inhale, a sharp exhale. His chest still rose and fell in controlled, panting breaths. His head listed upward. His eyes closed. He sank into his cushion. “Muhhhhh… Haaaaa… Sooooo much better than a tissue. Can’t beat the convenience of a porta-pup…”\n\n[i]Porta-pup[/i]. The kit grimaced, whimpered anew at the nickname—a popular one among his classmates, less so with him. From his cheeks to his splayed ear-tips, he could feel the heat, the humiliation migrating.\n\nRelieved at last, the teacher withdrew his cock-tip from the lip. His eyelids fluttered open, giving him his chance to admire his work—and cringe at his shoddy aim. The canine loosed an awkward laugh.\n\n“A-Ahhhh, whoops… Sorry, Lynn. Didn’t mean to get that, uh…everywhere.”\n\nHe paused in thought, drummed his fingers on his knees. Moments later, inspiration struck him. He leaned down, grabbed the tot’s tucked tail, took it in hand as he dabbed it against whatever globs he could find glistening in the light. The chair, the floor, the diaper—he sponged it up, every stray bullet. The boy was unenthused to mop up someone else’s mess; the man, conversely, seemed almost proud of his ingenuity.\n\n“Well! Good thing this restroom’s got a built-in hand towel, huh?”\n\nSplayed ears, narrowed eyes, an annoyed whine—the kit pouted at his minder, or perhaps gave his closest approximation of one. Whatever disgrace he felt, though, it all fizzled the instant his teacher tousled his head-fluff, mussing it about. Two fingers pinched his ear, squeezed it gently before they folded it down—flushing him.\n\n“Pshhhh!”\n\nOn cue, the fox freed his hands from his stretchy waistband. His diaper was a mixed bag of unpleasantries now—more damp than warm, cooled by the air, and uncomfortably clingy as if glued in place by that slimy gunk. His ears soon picked up the sound of shuffling fabric, a package stowed, a zipper rising. Then, from the corner of his eyes, the adult’s palms emerged on both sides of his waist, awash in purple light. As they waved in front of his diaper’s wings, the tapes began to glow, matching with the hyena’s magic. And on the faces of those four adhesive strips, a design familiar and dreadful sizzled back into existence: black padlock sigils—the teacher’s favorite hex.\n\nSuddenly, the bands and gathers of his diaper all tightened. They snapped around his tummy, his thighs, his tail-base, bringing the garment—and all the sewage inside—flush with his skin, snugly, securely, sickeningly close to his privates. Much as Lynn wanted to, he had learned from experience what a futile struggle it was trying to pull apart the muck from his fur. There would be no leaks, and no escape—not until he was fully used, and his teacher was fully satisfied.\n\nAnd Mister Dunn, as he well knew, was far from finished with him. Effortlessly, and with no warning, the adult snatched up the tyke under his arms, hefted him into his lap, plunked his pampered bottom down with a plop, a squish—right in that pool of hyena spunk still puddling in his diaper-seat. Its cold, slick texture made the kit squick. But ere he could squirm, his minder had an arm wrapped around him, pinning his limbs, squeezing him safe to his chest with the kit’s head tucked under his chin. The fox awkwardly scrunched himself in his teacher’s hold. Not entirely unpleasant, this feeling—sharing in another’s warmth, made to feel safe and needed, and not degraded. He much preferred this side of toilet duty, compared to the other.\n\nThe canine, his kiddo confined, proceeded promptly to the next step. From the chairside end table, sitting atop the latest fantasy novel he had been narrating for the class, he grabbed hold of a familiar device: a cordless massage wand, a long white handle with a spherical head. Seeing it drift into view, Lynn swallowed down the butterflies in his chest—felt a stir in his loins, growing, pressing, straining slowly against his undies. Given time, the tiniest of bumps surfaced on the outside, the tension betraying his excitement.\n\n“D’awwwww… Someone’s excited for Mister Buzzy!” teased Mister Dunn. “You want him to make you all tingly? Get those mushy pants rubbing you in all the right ways?”\n\nThe pup could hardly keep his tail from swishing, or his cheeks from glowing, or his heart from racing. Of all of Mister Dunn’s many odd practices, this was perhaps the only one he would admit enjoying without shame. Certainly, it was every student’s favorite, the teacher’s as well. His gaze firmly locked on it, he mewled past his pacifier, small and meek and full of overwhelming need. “Mmn-hmmn…”\n\nWith a kiss ‘tween the snowy peaks on the kid’s head, the teacher grinned. “Of course you do. Well, don’t you worry, baby boy. Even toilets get to use themselves—and you’ve been a [i]very[/i] good toilet this week.”\n\nAs the hyena settled his thumb on the trigger, purple streaks hummed from his hand through the machine, resonating with his signature—a precaution to keep mischievous cubs from sneaking in unsupervised time with the wand. He flipped the switch to its highest setting; it buzzed to life, its head thrumming and pulsing and vibrating. Slowly, tantalizingly, and with a pleasant smirk, he eased it down toward the kit’s crotch, near the tent in his diaper, hovering closer and closer. The boy, bracing for the inevitable, gripped his tiny paws along the adult’s arm pinning his chest and took a deep breath.\n\nIt touched down with all the satisfaction of claws scraping through satin. The color of that thrumming sound changed—from the listless din of a motor, to the whir of friction against his diaper’s clothlike covering. Instantly, the kit felt its vibrations travel like tremors through his dirty diaper, wriggling through the lukewarm mire. His fingers tightened their hold on the teacher. His toes curled inward. His visage twisted and tumbled between agony and ecstasy, as if struggling to comprehend a pleasure his body was years too early to recognize. From his chest, a low, muffled moan rose.\n\n“Mmmnnnghhhhh…”\n\nHis reaction only emboldened the hyena to press deeper, pushing past the resistance of the boy’s privates, now painfully stiff at full mast. All around the little kit’s loins, the slush shifted in constant, fluid motion. It cradled his sack and sheath, caressed his little erection with such sublime softness that he scarce had the energy to consider how repulsively wrong it was. The longer Mister Dunn held the buzzer to him, the more intensely he felt every single wrinkle of the experience—every inch of mush coating his crotch, every ounce of pee drenching his bottom, every drop of cum marking him as another man’s possession; every single bit of it, vibrating inside a big, bulky baby diaper he was too old to still need.\n\nIn time, his breaths turned to sputtering through his nose, shorter gasps with uneven meter. Closer and closer he came to the edge, and the nearer he drew, the firmer his guardian nudged the wand into his padded parts. It was impossible to concentrate now—to think of anything except how good it felt, how much he needed relief.\n\nAnd after two whole delirious minutes, the kit had had enough.\n\n“Mmrf… Nghmrfuhn… Nngh! [i]Nngh! Nngh-nngh-NNGHHHHHH![/i]”\n\nAt last, the tsunami crashed into him. Waves of pleasure too big for his small body to process swept him away. That wand buzzing against his filth-caked loins nudged him over, sent him humping, pumping, spurting, spiraling, in the throes of a proper, big kid orgasm—only his fourth ever, after joining class that year. His lungs rasped for air through his nostrils. His teeth bit into his soother’s bulb. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his lids clamped over them, fluttering along with the spasms racking every other muscle in his body. All the while, strands of slick, watery, prepubescent lust blasted the inside of the eight-year-old’s full Pampers, with enough force to dent the many layers of mud encasing his bits.\n\nThe sensation of release overwhelmed him, as it always did—indescribably so. It was as if all his senses were set alight, burning out of control, exploding every fuse. He was swimming against the current, yet all he could do in the end was let it take him while his frame twitched and trembled and teetered in violent rapture. It was so overwhelming, he nearly slid right out of Mister Dunn’s lap had the hyena’s arm-bar not caught him, squeezing him safe and close to his protector’s chest. Though his whole world was a blur of chaos and confusion, there at least he was grounded, guarded—cherished. His teacher’s natural musk, for once, was a comfort—despite knowing that very same scent painted his bottom, claimed him with ownership. He felt the canine’s snout snuffling between his ears, into the tuft of fluff between them, kissing and nuzzling. All this, while the vibrator continued to whir away at his trickling bits.\n\n“Good boy…” the adult whispered, rocking his baby to and fro. “Good, good boy…”\n\n“Mghghfnn…”\n\nGiven time, his orgasm’s aftershocks petered away, from powerful shudders all the way down to infrequent, rumbling jolts. His little package continued to throb against its mushy confines, leaking kit cum all over a pile of kitten mulch. But after straight minutes of dribbling, he was well and truly spent, collapsing fully into the teacher’s embrace. And after a minute more spent idly buzzing his dirty diaper, teasing the head along the shell, savoring the youth’s afterglow, Mister Dunn finally switched off the wand and set it aside. His hand grasped the kit’s paw, a tender touch guiding it, lifting it to his temple, working those tiny fingers to wedge his ear inside them.\n\n“A’right, buddy. This one’s all yours. Give us a flush and send us home!”\n\nPink heat simmered in Lynn’s cheeks at the thought of enacting the ritual. Gentle, timid, and tired, he crimped his ear, hissing air quietly past the seal of his pacifier bulb. “Ffshhhh…”\n\n“Thaaaat’s my boy.”\n\nCarefully, the hyena eased the tuckered tyke off his lap and back onto his feet. The moment his shoes sank into the plush rug, his knees buckled, gave out from under him as he staggered, stumbled, tripped forward. He was spared from harm, however, by Mister Dunn’s quick reflexes—by his paws shooting out, catching him under the armpits. There, he steadied the fox until he could stand unaided. With his charge stable, his paws offered a different kind of support, one reaching forward, the other hanging back, cupping both ends of his diaper together at once. The boy startled at the sudden intrusion, pushed to his tiptoes. He quivered while that firm grip rubbed him up and down, fondling, caressing, squooshing the muck into every crevice. Each squeeze gushed its own tawdry blend of fluids against him. His pants sloshed and slushed, smushed and sloughed, with an unbelievable silkiness now that their contents had been sufficiently stirred.\n\n“Not too bad for the first couple kids,” observed the teacher, casual. Once, twice, thrice, he patted the child’s rump to a carol of squishing crinkles. “Some more wettings, a few more messes, and maybe a good cup of spoo or two, and I’d say we can call this one done and dusted!”\n\nAgainst Lynn’s disapproving whines, Mister Dunn coaxed the kit to spin ‘round, patient of his hobbled legs and only-partly-full pants. Now face to face, he held his head low, his eyes to the ground, his visage aflame and ashamed. Yet all it took to raise his spirits was a single finger to raise his chin. Their eyes met—shy blue pools reflecting the hyena’s, kind with the luster and warmth of embers.\n\n“You’ve been a good toilet this morning.” He leaned in, punctuated his praise with a smooch to the fox’s snoot. “Keep this up and you’ll get your big boy ‘undies’ back in no time. Sixth try’s gotta be the charm, right?”\n\nThat much, between the kiss and the promise, set Lynn’s tail-tip to wagging between his legs, widening his eyes with hope. His student’s mood lifted, Mister Dunn turned him back, patted his tush off in the other direction—dismissing him, at last.\n\n“That’s all for now. You run along and play. We’ll come find you when it’s pottytime again.”\n\nAnd like that, he was released back to recess, only now with a palm-print sunken into his swollen seat. Behind him, the teacher stood and meandered to a new corner of the classroom, a new gaggle of children in need of his supervision, poking plastic swords into each other’s padded rumps.\n\nWith Mister Dunn gone, a loneliness crept up on the kit, settled over him as if the reality of his world was shifting back into focus. The back of his diaper felt soaked and sticky; the front, gooey and gross; his whole being, defiled and dirty. The secondhand warmth that once enveloped him had dulled, leaving behind the cold clamminess of evening mud. And by the time all was said and done, nearly all of his diaper’s prints had vanished—its stars faded beneath clouds of yellow and brown. A wistful sigh escaped his nose, pensive and humbled. This was simply his life now, he knew: stuck at the bottom, catching the leavings of others, while his own dreams of potty training seemed sky-high, forever out of reach. Five times he had tried to break the cycle and earn his pull-up privileges; five times he had failed. That anyone could keep their trainers for months at a time, when his longest streak was one week—he was envious of them.\n\nBut perhaps it was better this way that he accepted his place. If he could not have stars of his own, at least he could help others earn theirs. That was his one solace as the class latrine—knowing his friends would shine all the brighter, should he be there to help wipe up their grime.\n\nFor now, though, he was content to waddle back to his Legos.", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "
His Place Among the Stars
A story by Mironde

CONTENT WARNING: This story depicts child characters in sexually explicit scenarios.



It was a perfect, picturesque morning at Sunridge Elementary School—the sky a beautiful blue, the temperature pleasant, the grassy, fenced-in fields green and trim and full of rustling. Students of every grade, from first to fifth, hurried about in play without pants. They romped with diapers exposed—a lucky few, training pants—as they swayed on swings, climbed on jungle gyms, punted red rubber balls, fled from each other in games of tag, enjoying recess to the fullest. The adults, their teachers, their minders, meanwhile, stood on the outskirts, keeping diligent watch over the fledglings.

Suddenly, a yellow streak swept across the fields like a gale: a young, lean cheetah with a short patch of wiry black hair, whose bounding strides hurried from one end of the campus to the other. Like his peers, he had skipped shorts for the simple freedom of a white-blue shirt and blue disposable pull-ups. Unlike his peers, he had no time for games. He spared no pleasantries while he cut straight through, disturbing a kickball match, darting around classmates, bark chips kicked up in his wake. His face appeared grave—his teeth clenched, his snout scrunched, pained and urgent. His arms, rather than swing loose at his side, hugged his gut with the delicacy of a vice. At each stomp in the sod and dirt, his light-up sneakers flashed.

By the time he had made it back to the school proper, the pressure had soared to new, unbearable heights. Cramps struck his belly, growling as would a beast. His tail convulsed, rapidly twitched, bending at odd angles. He fought off the growing urge, half-jogged, half-hobbled the rest of the way toward a sheltered strip, an outside hallway of classrooms at one end of the school. There, he hustled toward the open door of his homeroom distinguished by the plaque above its door. Smiling suns and vibrant rainbows painted it, alongside a name drawn in big, blocky letters: “Mister Dunn – 3rd Grade”.

The space inside sprawled, a patchwork quilt of carpets and linoleum floors, divided between the clustered desks in the center and the many themed nooks around the perimeter. Third-graders bustled about while enjoying their free period inside. Alongside them hovered a much older girl, a teenage barn owl, who fluttered from place to place, checking up on her younger peers as a mother her chicks. All of the cheetah’s classmates were similarly dressed as he was, lacking bottoms to cover their derrieres. Many wore disposable training pants, adorned in colorful cartoon characters with tearaway sides, albeit slightly thicker than the supermarket variety. Some, whether by choice or by need, remained in diapers bulky and big enough to fit their age group with ease. Even the teacher’s aide, the teen, abided by the same dress code, hobbled by the obvious curve of a mottled pink diaper sagging under her short-cut skirt. Not a single kid, however, was cotton-clad—no briefs, no panties to be found. Underwear was simply one privilege of several they had given up when enrolling in the school.

None of this was of any help to the feline, of course. He lumbered inside and ran to the center, snapping his sight in every direction, looking high and low, trying to parse his surroundings. The longer he lingered, the more jittery, the more distressed his motions grew.

Mercifully, his frantic search reached its end in short order. In the arts and crafts corner, he spotted the only adult in the room, and the only one who could help him: a slim and well-dressed hyena sporting a tan vest over a plain white button-up, beige slacks and tan business shoes. From his neck hung a navy-blue tie. On the bridge of his muzzle, a pair of square-rimmed glasses sat. Evidently, he had been crouched down all along, chatting with a young bat whose paper had been enthusiastically presented to him—a crayon drawing of none other than himself. Seeing it, the teacher’s face glowed with joy. He sang its praises as adults do, and with it in hand, he stood slow on aged knees. Carefully, he traipsed past his students sitting crisscross on the floor, over to a nearby corkboard, where he pinned the art with the rest of the projects. The wall was a mishmash of glue and glitter, color and chaos—and Mister Dunn, gazing upon it all with hands on his hips, could not have looked prouder.

Suddenly, the canine felt a paw tugging his shirt, heard an antsy rustling and a trembly mewl of a voice.

“Mister Dunn? M-Mister Dunn, um…”

The man’s ears perked, and his head swiveled to find the lean little cheetah at his side, pale-faced and squirming in place. His tail flickered to and fro with a mind of its own. His legs squeezed together, clearly bothered.

“Hey there, champ!” Mister Dunn greeted him warmly. “What’s—”

“I gotta potty!” the cub blurted out. “Like, real bad!”

That outburst nearly startled the adult, full of such urgency that he could only pull away while his mouth fell open. “…Oh!” he chirped. “Well, that’s a problem. Do you know which one?”

The kitten bit his lip. “N-Number two…a-and, um, maybe number one? I dunno, but I gotta go now. Like, now now—like, now now now!”

“Goodness, okay, I hear you.” Full of patience and sympathy, a smile crept to the hyena’s muzzle. “C’mon, then. Let’s go find where the potty’s run off to. Better take care of that before you pop.”

By the hand Mister Dunn chaperoned his charge, the cat anxiously tailing behind. His eyes were fixed forward, his feet sure of their step as they walked, around the desks, through the river of rambunctious tots coming in and running out of the room. Most would have struggled to keep tabs of thirty-odd children under their care, but not Mister Dunn. To his students’ continued amazement, he always knew, inexplicably, where each and every one of them were at all times—just as he knew where their wayward latrine had scampered.

And it was this uncanny instinct that brought them both to the other side of the room. Here, an arctic fox sat crisscross on the ground, piecing together a set of Legos on the carpet in front of him into the towers of a magnificent, medieval castle. In his muzzle, an oversized, baby blue pacifier lay planted, with a peculiar design, an ink-black padlock, adorning its shield. Its soft rubber nipple bulged his cheeks ever-so-slightly, enough to fill his entire maw and then some. And it was not the only infantile thing about him. Between his plain purple tee and purple-white sneakers, he was entirely bottomless save for a thick white diaper with golden star prints swaddling him—comfortably sized for a tyke his age. Its bulk wedged his legs apart, propped his rear up on a pillow of poof. Its tapes, a pastel blue, bore the same design of padlocks as his pacifier. Imprinted on its cloth-backed front lay another odd flourish: rounded shapes forming the black, shadowy silhouette of a person. And beneath it, in neat typeface, a single word: “Restroom”.

“There you are, Lynn!”

Upon hearing that familiar voice, the kit, Lynn, perked up from his project, turned to its source, spied the teacher’s friendly face. It set his fluffy tail in motion, each sweep rustling his diaper. He hobbled to his feet, gait thrown wide by his Pampers, and smiled behind his pacifier at the approaching adult—at least, until he saw the cheetah at the flank, squirming and jittering. Instantly, his expression sank, his skin grew icy, and a stone of worry dropped into his stomach. He knew what was to come.

Noticing the chilly reception on their arrival, the teacher knelt to the boy’s level and scritched at his chin. “Rory here needs a place to poop,” said Mister Dunn, blunt but sweet. “We need to get you unlocked so he can use you. You’ll help him out, right?”

Despite the adult’s ministrations, still the eight-year-old eased away, a smear of scorching red on his face. He knew exactly what was being asked of him—knew exactly what was expected of him. With hesitance, he glanced to the cat, swallowed his nerves down with the small pool of spittle that had gathered around his binky’s bulb.

“Ooooooh! Ooh, ooh! H-Hurry!” pleaded his classmate. Rory’s feet bounced, staggered, practically danced as he shifted his weight side to side. His claws clutched his padded seat so desperately, they threatened to shred it.

For a moment, Lynn’s soft blue eyes flittered about in turmoil. He wanted to speak, to argue, to bargain, yet the words failed to form—not that they would have made it beyond the bulbous nub in his mouth, stifling his speech. No matter how he pushed it with his tongue, the invisible force holding it in place refused to budge. The only choice left to him was to relent. And with a timid nod, he took those tentative few steps back into his teacher’s reach.

“Hn-khn…” he sounded out, dejected.

His surrender pleased the hyena. “Good toilet. Paws up.”

As instructed, he held his hands out of the way where Mister Dunn could see them. The teacher’s, conversely, came down to the child’s waist, to his exposed diaper. A strange vibration tickled Lynn’s sides as he approached, as though his bloomers were humming against his skin. Expectedly, though, they did not shift an inch—could not, rather. The same intangible aura keeping his pacifier in his mouth had squeezed itself around his diaper, locking its various openings flush with his stomach, his legs, his tail. But the canine’s presence resonated with it—for as the one who cast the curse, so too was he the key to removing it.

Overtop the boy’s diaper-tapes, the dog swiped his hands across both sides. Suddenly, sparks of purple light wisped from his fingers, whisked along the clothy shell, coalescing around the adhesives pinning the wings to the front. Then, in an instant, the light snapped apart, and with it, the buzzing ceased. With the magic dispelled, the padlock icons fizzled slowly away akin to parchment set aflame, until only four, entirely normal yet decidedly durable tapes remained. With their absence, the kit felt his pants slacken—his waist and thighs and tail-base freed. His skin could breathe again.

But this was no cause for celebration; this was his call to action. Needing no further prompting, the fox pushed his fingers into his waistband and pulled it open as far as it would yield, managing a considerable few inches. There, he kept it outstretched. Mister Dunn grinned his approval, then craned to address Rory.

“There you go! All yours, kiddo.”

“Rrf! Th-Thank you!”

Nary a moment to spare, the cheetah hurried into position—pivoting on his feet, backing himself up, fumbling to hook his paws into his pull-up. Nervous as he was, his fingers wrestled to unlatch the strip in back securing his tail through its hole. He nearly bit a gash into his lip.

“Ah! C’mon, c’mon, c’mooooooon!”

After a brief struggle, he yanked his trainers down below his bottom and pushed his way closer to the fox’s stomach, until his rump settled in place, hovered forebodingly above the gap. The way the feline perched himself on the rim, it was almost as if he were sitting, his lower cheeks grazed by the commode’s cottony softness. His slender tail, meanwhile, bristled in the young fox’s face, twitched erratically as the spasms grew sharper, the ominous gurgling in his stomach louder.

Soon, the cub’s grunts began in earnest, with enough effort to redden his face. Shriveling, Lynn splayed his ears, shut his eyes, braced for the inevitable.

But it was that very first push that sent Rory’s bowels toppling over the edge. It was less a drop than a splatter—a low trumpet, a mucky explosion, as waves of soft, sludgy heat poured down the front of the kit’s diaper. Under that veritable avalanche, his crotch was buried in filth. He felt every contour of the swamp cradling his fuzzy sack and sheath, felt its gooey texture clinging to his fur, sinking through every crack and crevice it could go like a formless mass seeking shape. Instantly, the tyke swung his head away, whined his protest, though the seal of his pacifier let only the faintest murmur of his displeasure through. There was a wrongness to it, that heavy warmth settling in the wrong end of his shorts. Its overwhelming odor was no better, a bouquet of fetid fragrances—familiar, like baby powder and dirty diapers; foreign, like sniffing the air of another cub’s nursery. He wanted to thrust his paws over his nostrils, to stop them from burning and his stomach from churning. Yet all he could do was stand and wait, peek and watch, hands holding open his Pampers while layers of secondhand silt cemented his privates.

In stark contrast, the cheetah looked as though he were in Heaven. Gone was the pressure in his gut. As the reservoir emptied, his posture relaxed, appended by a long, rapturous sigh. His shoulders slumped. His chin lifted. In strain—in relief—his legs, his tail, his breath all trembled in ecstasy. Nothing short of bliss, that big, goofy smile. He was so entranced, he hardly noticed the dribble escaping him, a trickle of piddle narrowly caught by his training pants before it could hit the classroom carpet.

Minutes passed with no end in sight to the mudslide, only a slow shift from solid to liquid waste. It was a bizarre sight, the two entwined—the kitten, pushing and pushing, taking his time to get everything out; the kit, body still as porcelain, grip rigid as iron. But to the rest of the room, the two of them may as well have been invisible. The laughter, the chatter, it continued without them, some twenty children clamoring in camaraderie. Right as the noise of the cheetah relieving himself hit its crescendo, a trio of kids playing with action figures ran past, continued on. In any other classroom, one might imagine they would have stopped to gawk or jeer or tease. But not here—not for an everyday spectacle.

Finally, the flume tapered. Rory gave one last grunt to clear his passage, finding it well and truly evacuated. He gave his rear a cute little waggle over the chasm, happy to be done, or maybe shaking loose any stragglers still stuck to his rump-fuzz. Now several pounds lighter, he stood up straight with his trainers still halfway to his knees, stretching his legs and heaving a massive, euphoric breath. Not one to forget his debts, though, he twisted back to the kit, and from a polite distance, he leaned in to squeeze his arms around him. The fox, more modest in his affection, simply nuzzled himself awkwardly into the feline’s neck.

“Thanks for the save! I feel way better.” Satisfied, he broke the hug after a moment, when next he turned to their superior supervising from the sideline. “Finished!”

“Way to go, Rory!” cheered Mister Dunn. He held his paws flat and up to the tyke, who gave them both an enthusiastic high-five. “That one deserves a star.”

Immediately, the spotty cat’s countenance plummeted along with his shoulders. “Awww, what? Just one? But that’s s’posed to be worth two!”

But the teacher merely chuckled. “Sorry, sport. ‘Fraid you lost a point.”

Though slowly at first, the young athlete soon pieced together the implication. His face began to glow, both out of recognition and embarrassment. He peered beneath him at his exposed pull-up, at the small, damp strip of gold on the inside. On the outside, its rocketship designs—the wetness indicators—had faded entirely under a urine yellow haze.

“Aw, man… And I was doin’ so good…” sulked the cheetah. He slanted his mouth, huffed his annoyance. But lest he pout forever, Mister Dunn playfully tapped his nose, once again bringing his attention front and center.

“And that’s why you’re still in them. Now hold still a sec’.”

With scant warning, and before Rory could register it, the adult had pressed into the crack of his bottom with a large baby wipe. Its cool touch shocked the kitten, jumping in his skin and shuddering as that sudsy cloth, carried by a single finger, probed into his hole. Inside and out, deep and shallow, the teacher cleaned through flesh and fur until the wipe’s center was but a brown, grimy splotch. Satisfied, Mister Dunn helped the stripling back into his trainers, short tugs bringing the garment up his legs, secure and snug around his waist. The feline thought briefly to gripe about the wetness on his bum—thought better of it, after a moment’s pause. At the end of the day, that soggy warmth abrading his posterior was a small price to pay for a clean, comfy bottom.

“There! You’re all set,” announced the hyena. “Next change is at noon, kiddo. In the meantime, go snag yourself a star for the board. Oh, and don’t—”

His promised reward, his gold star—ere the teacher could finish speaking, the tyke’s whole person lit up at those words. His feet kicked off the carpet, sent him and his light-up sneakers bounding away. He did not make it far before the man’s voice called him right back.

“Rory, don’t forget to flush!”

The cheetah almost tripped as he screeched to a stop. “Ooh. Right, right, sorry!”

Quickly as he had departed, he came racing back to the fox’s side, where he gently grasped the kit’s ear, tugged it flat, pulled downward as one would a toilet’s handle. A hiss of air, pushed through the kitten’s teeth, accompanied the gesture for dramatic effect. “Pshhhh!”

Mortified, Lynn winced and wagged his fluffy brush between his legs. That was the signal he had been awaiting—permission. With his duties fulfilled, the toilet tot released his hold on his diaper’s band to let it snap gently back into place along his waistline. In doing so, his pants sounded off an audible splut, a gross plap, a lewd smush, the muck splatting in every direction it could creep. His ears drooped and his stomach curdled. A sickening shudder slithered along his spine. By the end of his classmate’s session, his diaper-front was swollen, stained, and stuffed full to bursting with a slurry of filth. Perhaps the worst was knowing it could fit more—and would need to, later, when the next desperate cub came calling.

Rory was off again in a flash to the far end of the classroom. His destination: the nursery corner, where the class changing table stood along the wall. All the toiletries a grade of potty-untrained kids would ever need were stacked beside and beneath it—locked cubbies packed with clean diapers and pull-ups; shelves lined with powders and creams, wipes and suppositories; a diaper pail half-full of the morning’s changes, its contents kept warm and soft and squidgy by mystical means.

But it was the short, plastic play stairs nearby that were the kitten’s real goal. On the wall above the steps, a great, big chart bearing every student’s name lay stretched. A lined table organized them, with the space to the right dedicated to stickers—row upon row of gold stars serving as trophies. Above the poster, the words “POTTY ALL-STARS!” were written; under it, a simple key:

#1: +/- 1 star
#2: +/- 2 stars
#3: +/- 1 star


The cheetah cub was eager to get to the board, practically jumping the stairs to reach the chart. From a sticker sheet at the bottom, he peeled off a glittery star and, finding his name on the list, stuck it at the end of his row, smoothing down the edges to keep it in place. Rory’s was an impressive pedigree—fifteen stars in total. Compared to the rest of the class, ranging from as high as twenty to as low as two, it was a streak worthy of celebrating for the competitive little tyke. A handful of his classmates’ rows were absent of stars, those stuck in—or perhaps relegated to—diapers. Only one was different from all the rest: Lynn, whose name had been crossed out, replaced with the word “Toilet” scribbled in the space beside. Five blue frowning face stickers took the place of stars in the row. It would be some time before they were removed.

Meanwhile, Mister Dunn resumed the routine, setting his sights now on the arctic fox patiently waiting for attention. That same wipe he had used to clean the cat’s rear, he folded in half, reusing it to scrub the boy’s fur of dirty streaks. Though most of the mess stayed contained, some had slathered his stomach, his fingers, and even the rim of his padded undies. Nothing some touching up could not solve, though. And with Lynn’s coat shimmering mostly like new, the hyena tossed the spent wipe into a nearby wastebin.

“That should do ‘er! Clean and sweet and oh-so neat. And what a good job you did, little guy, taking that load like a champ,” praised the canine. His digits took to the boy’s ears, rubbing circles, scratching the grooves. While flustered, still the pup leaned into the adult’s ministrations, eyes closed, gentle purrs seeping out from behind his binky.

“‘Scuse me, Mister Dunn?” squeaked a small voice from out of sight.

The teacher’s strokes came to an abrupt stop. Under his breath, the kit whined frustration, pulled so rudely from his daze by their uninvited guest. Both of them swiveled to spot the source of the voice idling nearby: a girl almost half his size, a diminutive badger with braided red hair, caramel eyes, and a pink bow on one of her pitch-black ears. From her butterfly-patterned shirt to her rainbow-striped stockings, all the way down to her red Mary Janes, she was a gaudy mess of color, sporting a wavy skirt too small to completely cover her pink pull-ups. Unlike the cheetah, however, her pants were far short of pristine—already sullied, in fact, judging by the soft sag, the rounded curve to her bottom. Behind the frilly pink leg-cuffs lurked a dark brown ooze, barely contained in its prison. Enough of it had seeped through the wick that the floral prints on her seat were practically wilting.

“Can I have a turn with him before you close him back up? I need to tinkle.”

“Of course you can, Abby,” beamed Mister Dunn pleasantly. “Here, lemme get you something to stand on so you can use the big girl potty—give those poopy pull-ups a break.”

The back of her skirt swished about, her full pants squishing in tandem, ruffled up by the wag of her nubby tail underneath the fabric. Briskly, the teacher hopped away to grab her a platform, which left the two students, the tyke and the toilet, alone in each other’s silent company. Understandably mum about his predicament, Lynn kept to himself. He shuffled his feet, fidgeted awkwardly in place with his shirt hem, his eyes downcast at the floor—at the pudgy, puffy, pottied-in pants glued to his waist by pounds of fresh mulch. Not even he could resist the pull of morbid curiosity, though. His fingers approached the front, pressed tentatively into his diaper’s clothy exterior, to find it pliant and squidgy and, grossest of all, still warm with the cheetah’s deed. Its snow-white shell had blurred into a murkier off-white, now stripped of the starry prints of which he was so fond. Disappointingly, the restroom decal remained.

With a meek whine, he turned his gaze elsewhere, to the badger girl swaying back and forth on her heels, her arms crossed behind her back. It seemed, though, he had caught her staring at him. For a moment, they locked eyes in recognition of the other, when the corners of her smile drooped just the slightest. Her expression was stuck somewhere betwixt a smile and a frown—less of judgment and more of sympathy, or perhaps guilt, for what she was soon to do.

“Sorry about this,” Abby told him. “I’d pee my panties if I could, but then we’d both be in trouble. Promise I’ll be quick.”

Embarrassment warmed the boy’s cheeks. He hunched his shoulders up, twisted timidly away as he gave an affirmative nod, a reflexive suckle of his soother. “Mnh hn-khn…” he mumbled with understanding. He did not resent her, or any of his classmates, for degrading him. After all, he could hardly blame their unwillingness to share his fate.

Shortly after, then, the hyena returned, lugging in one hand a small stepstool for the height-challenged badger. In his other paw, there was another object, and one more flustering to the fox’s wandering eyes: a narrowed, orange rubber cone, open-ended at its base and tip—a funnel.

“Here you are!” announced Mister Dunn, setting the squat stool directly behind the boy. While barely as tall as the back of his knees, for the badger’s purposes it was plenty. The adult gestured to it almost theatrically, with a prim, proper bow. “Your potty podium, m’lady.”

She let out a tinkly giggle and wasted no time skipping over, stepping up, mounting the pedestal. There, her waistline loomed just slightly above the fox’s own. And now that she was in position, he played his role and took his own, albeit with a whimper, a sigh, as his fingers snatched out the back waistband of his diaper far as he could. The teacher passed his little darling her funnel. Graciously, she accepted it, shifting it under her skirt, but not before worming her fingers past her bloomers’ leak-guards, gently pulling the hourglass of her glorified diaper off to the side. Her loins were exposed for but a short second as she quickly covered her vent with the cone. On the pads of her feet she leaned forward, until the funnel’s tip brushed past the fox’s tail and waistband—pointed threateningly into the depths of his diaper-seat.

Worryingly, nothing happened at first. The boy held his breath, adjusted his grip, fidgeted in place, anxious to fulfill his role. The girl, however, was positively serene, as if concentrating on which muscles to loosen. Calm, relaxed, her head listed upward, and her nostrils flared, and her spine jolted as the spigot turned.

Long and pleasant, her sigh—the signal that she was going. She was slow to start, temperate droplets hitting the dry trough, like those first few plinks of rain on glass. Then, it grew to the trickle of a leaky faucet; then, the shower of a sprinkler; then, the spate of a garden hose on full blast. From her vent poured a torrent, a hot, hissing river flooding into the basin of its new container. The funnel proved just the hardware the badger needed to keep the stream focused, easily aiming into the bowl as her male counterparts could. Still, even her urinary aid struggled to direct such a downpour as anything more than a haphazard spritz. It went everywhere inside, drenched every surface, saturated the garment in wet warmth while wicking its way from bottom to top, seat to waistline. All that her fluids touched, they stained—whether mottling the entire back of his diaper, or turning his wintry rump to yellow snow. But no matter how great her output, the class toilet drank every drop, leaving her free to focus on the simple joy of letting go.

Less pleasant, however, the experience for Lynn. Naturally, the sensation of his rear end growing moist renewed his whining, flattened his ears, tucked his tail. The way those rivulets tickled his downy-furred cheeks on their way into the trench, his stomach practically fluttered with disgust. He could feel his seat swelling, gaping his legs wider, dragging his waistband down. Worst, perhaps, was the splashback, spraying up and out of his pants like a fine mist until dark blotches soaked his shirt-hem.

But then, as much as he hated to admit it, he preferred this treatment to the alternative—the acts reserved exclusively for the front of his diaper. Compared to the foulness of the cheetah’s leavings still wafting around him, the badger’s pee smelled almost sweet—wet talcum, rather than earthy mulch. Neither did he mind sharing in a softer warmth as her fluids swirled through the drain and into his underwear. If nothing else, the afterglow made being a little girl’s urinal somewhat more bearable.

True to her word, Abby’s piddle break was blissfully brief—as brief as thirty seconds spent pissing another kid’s pants could be. With a slight wince, a quiver to her legs, she pushed out the last few spurts from her slit, bounced lightly on her feet to shake off whatever dew remained, tapped the cone on the edge of the toilet as she let her muddy training pants snap back into place.

“All done, Mister Dunn! And look! I didn’t get my clothes dirty,” she said, flashing her pearly teeth up at the hyena with pride. Then, from her perch, she reached for her classmate’s ear, tugged it down and sounded off. “Pshhhh!”

“Atta girl!”

Once more, taking his cue, Lynn loosened his hold of his waistband, though not before lifting it by the sides, higher upon his back. Its balmy heat snuggled his tush like a humid, rainy summer’s day—not altogether unpleasant, but distinctly viscid and gross. While the kit wrestled with his sagging pants, the badger handed her funnel over to her guardian, who confiscated it to a nearby shelf, out of even the tallest of his students’ reach. He returned with nothing but cheer for the runty mustelid.

“You did very well, using him like you’re supposed to,” he lauded. “Still—”

One paw reached behind the tyke to cup her bulbous bottom, gently squeezing and stroking the full breadth of that tepid muck against her. The girl yipped, jumping at his touch; his smile only brightened.

“—I’ll have to take a star off your chart for this little slip. I don’t think I need to tell you that puts you one away from a bad time, sweetie. Any more, and you’ll be joining Lynn in timeout. Understand?”

Abby’s eyes drew wide. She cleared her throat and stammered, “Y-Yes, s-sir…”

“Good girl.” Closer the adult leaned, giving her forehead a peck. “Now, go take down a point and enjoy the rest of your free time, ‘kay? When class starts again, we’ll get’cha a new pull-up—from the pail this time.”

The slightest sliver of scarlet shimmered through the girl’s black-masked face. Unnerved, she gulped. Off she went, then, hopping down from the platform, her bearing rigid and nervous. She followed his instructions as she meekly toddled over to the potty chart near the changing table and up the steps, her saggy bum bouncing and shifting and tickling her parts the whole way. There, she reached up on her tiptoes to peel a sticker away from her row, leaving her with a single, solitary star—the only thing standing between her using the potty and being the potty.

Teacher and student, alone again. The arctic fox kept himself put as Mister Dunn retrieved the girl’s stepstool, shuffled it elsewhere, returned anon to stand in front of him. A strong, steady paw settled on the youth’s shoulder. His guardian bent down to his height.

“How’s it feeling, kiddo?” he asked. “Comfy?”

The child tipped his head down and folded his ears back, peering bashfully up at him with a nuk of his soother. “Nngh gwlnn…”

Understanding, the canine chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bet it’s a bit gross. Who knew little kids could make such big messes!” He grinned with such pride, he could light up the sun. “But that’s okay. We’ll let’cha enjoy your potty-pants a few more hours. Can’t have ‘em go to waste ‘til you’re good and used, can we? Besides, you’ve still got another customer lined up!”

At those words, Lynn perked to stare at him with innocent, albeit dreading curiosity. His teacher spoke nothing more—simply rubbed his shoulder, smiled in silence. Suddenly, the implication struck the schoolboy as though square in the dome. He shrank backwards, wide-eyed and shy, his heart skipping a beat. Up his spine, a nervous shudder.

Again Mister Dunn laughed, amused, but perhaps a smidge apologetic for provoking the reaction he had. He took up Lynn’s hand. “C’mere. Let’s go grab a seat in storyland. I think it’s time to christen my favorite little chamber pot.”

They made their trek across the classroom aisle—a short walk hampered by Lynn’s awkward toddle, fighting not only his humiliation but his bloated underwear’s bulk every inch of the way. The hyena’s patience, however, was nothing short of saintly. He let the fox pup set their pace as he ushered him gently on, a palm on his back encouraging, calming him.

Before long, they had passed the desks, left the tiles for the familiar safety of the carpet, and arrived at the far-back reach of the classroom: the story corner. Bookshelves upon bookshelves stood bolted to the wall and stocked with children’s literature for all grades and ages, from the short pop-up toddler tales to the long, challenging novellas. A number of plush beanbags and squat cushions lay haphazardly spread out on the ground, a couple of which were already occupied by a young otter and dingo, the two pups reading books for fourth-graders. Against the wall, a veritable mountain of stuffed animals sat piled—so many species, so many colors, each one soft and snuggly and thoroughly loved from years of storytime cuddling. In the backmost corner, the centerpiece: a grand, cushy, felt-upholstered armchair—Mister Dunn’s reading chair, from which he regaled the class with stories daily, of fantastical adventures, mythical beasts, and tales of bravery meant to inspire their imaginations.

Today, however, the storyteller’s seat held no such magic; it was simply the place Mister Dunn had chosen to do his business.

On the very edge of his recliner he perched himself, and with his legs spread apart, he invited his charge, motioned him closer. The snowy kit complied, stepping in without fuss to stand between his knees—not that he had much say in the matter. When he was near enough, the hyena swirled his finger in the air, tracing the shape of a circle, gesturing him to turn around. Once more he complied, with some reluctance this time, waddling around until his back faced him. For this part, at least, he required no further instruction. He took the initiative, hooked his thumbs into his waistband behind him, and tugged it taut, as wide as it would go—presenting his bare back and bottom for his teacher to sully.

The toilet ready, Mister Dunn straightened himself. His imposing figure loomed over his student even when sitting. Down came the zipper to his trousers, and into his boxers he rummaged, fishing free his circumcised member through the front hole, an impressive six inches flaccid. As he took it in hand, he began to caress his girth from stem to tip, slow and steady, long and languid, coaxing its full, fleshy length from its sheath outside Lynn’s sight. The boy’s ears heard all, though—the sounds of shifting fabric, friction on skin, deep sighs and quiet moans. He felt the heat on his nape when the adult leaned in and, soon, the tip of something rigid poke at his back, mere inches away from the opening of his diaper. A viscous glob was left behind where it touched him, of a fluid he was well acquainted with by now. As ever, he could but whinge past his pacifier, keep his bottom exposed, and wait to catch the results.

The hyena’s pace hastened soon enough. Those sensual strokes became smooth glides, brisk pumps with his full paw. His breathing turned labored, gasps drawing air through his nostrils, until he was practically panting. At the peak his pleasure, he broke into a feverish sprint to the finish line—heavy thuds of his hand against his crotch, the plap of his fuzzy sack hitting his legs, his neck craned to the ceiling in sheer bliss.

And then, suddenly, stillness. The rubbing came to an abrupt stop, with a harsh rasp—of air sucked through gritted teeth.

Lynn winced his eyes shut the moment he heard that telltale sound of climax. Slick, sticky strands of seed battered the small of his back, his buttocks, his tail. Round after round they came spurting out, a hot, heavy, heady tincture plastering his fur. Some of the shots strayed, draped themselves over the rim of his waistband as they leaked down both sides, inside and out; others fell short, landed in his tail or on the story nook’s carpet. Whatever the case, the adult continued to stroke, pump, drain his pent-up love into the kit’s diaper, even long after the last drops were spent. By the end, Lynn reeked of hyena musk. There was practically a puddle in the boy’s seat, below the curve of his bottom, joining the half-pint of lukewarm badger piss as it seeped slowly into the sap.

Shame, as always, burned the tyke’s skin. He was no stranger to the sensation—the violation of having his infantile underwear used as a glorified cum-rag. But that too was merely a part of his duties: to soak up everything he was given.

Having polished himself to a shine, Mister Dunn finished with a long inhale, a sharp exhale. His chest still rose and fell in controlled, panting breaths. His head listed upward. His eyes closed. He sank into his cushion. “Muhhhhh… Haaaaa… Sooooo much better than a tissue. Can’t beat the convenience of a porta-pup…”

Porta-pup. The kit grimaced, whimpered anew at the nickname—a popular one among his classmates, less so with him. From his cheeks to his splayed ear-tips, he could feel the heat, the humiliation migrating.

Relieved at last, the teacher withdrew his cock-tip from the lip. His eyelids fluttered open, giving him his chance to admire his work—and cringe at his shoddy aim. The canine loosed an awkward laugh.

“A-Ahhhh, whoops… Sorry, Lynn. Didn’t mean to get that, uh…everywhere.”

He paused in thought, drummed his fingers on his knees. Moments later, inspiration struck him. He leaned down, grabbed the tot’s tucked tail, took it in hand as he dabbed it against whatever globs he could find glistening in the light. The chair, the floor, the diaper—he sponged it up, every stray bullet. The boy was unenthused to mop up someone else’s mess; the man, conversely, seemed almost proud of his ingenuity.

“Well! Good thing this restroom’s got a built-in hand towel, huh?”

Splayed ears, narrowed eyes, an annoyed whine—the kit pouted at his minder, or perhaps gave his closest approximation of one. Whatever disgrace he felt, though, it all fizzled the instant his teacher tousled his head-fluff, mussing it about. Two fingers pinched his ear, squeezed it gently before they folded it down—flushing him.

“Pshhhh!”

On cue, the fox freed his hands from his stretchy waistband. His diaper was a mixed bag of unpleasantries now—more damp than warm, cooled by the air, and uncomfortably clingy as if glued in place by that slimy gunk. His ears soon picked up the sound of shuffling fabric, a package stowed, a zipper rising. Then, from the corner of his eyes, the adult’s palms emerged on both sides of his waist, awash in purple light. As they waved in front of his diaper’s wings, the tapes began to glow, matching with the hyena’s magic. And on the faces of those four adhesive strips, a design familiar and dreadful sizzled back into existence: black padlock sigils—the teacher’s favorite hex.

Suddenly, the bands and gathers of his diaper all tightened. They snapped around his tummy, his thighs, his tail-base, bringing the garment—and all the sewage inside—flush with his skin, snugly, securely, sickeningly close to his privates. Much as Lynn wanted to, he had learned from experience what a futile struggle it was trying to pull apart the muck from his fur. There would be no leaks, and no escape—not until he was fully used, and his teacher was fully satisfied.

And Mister Dunn, as he well knew, was far from finished with him. Effortlessly, and with no warning, the adult snatched up the tyke under his arms, hefted him into his lap, plunked his pampered bottom down with a plop, a squish—right in that pool of hyena spunk still puddling in his diaper-seat. Its cold, slick texture made the kit squick. But ere he could squirm, his minder had an arm wrapped around him, pinning his limbs, squeezing him safe to his chest with the kit’s head tucked under his chin. The fox awkwardly scrunched himself in his teacher’s hold. Not entirely unpleasant, this feeling—sharing in another’s warmth, made to feel safe and needed, and not degraded. He much preferred this side of toilet duty, compared to the other.

The canine, his kiddo confined, proceeded promptly to the next step. From the chairside end table, sitting atop the latest fantasy novel he had been narrating for the class, he grabbed hold of a familiar device: a cordless massage wand, a long white handle with a spherical head. Seeing it drift into view, Lynn swallowed down the butterflies in his chest—felt a stir in his loins, growing, pressing, straining slowly against his undies. Given time, the tiniest of bumps surfaced on the outside, the tension betraying his excitement.

“D’awwwww… Someone’s excited for Mister Buzzy!” teased Mister Dunn. “You want him to make you all tingly? Get those mushy pants rubbing you in all the right ways?”

The pup could hardly keep his tail from swishing, or his cheeks from glowing, or his heart from racing. Of all of Mister Dunn’s many odd practices, this was perhaps the only one he would admit enjoying without shame. Certainly, it was every student’s favorite, the teacher’s as well. His gaze firmly locked on it, he mewled past his pacifier, small and meek and full of overwhelming need. “Mmn-hmmn…”

With a kiss ‘tween the snowy peaks on the kid’s head, the teacher grinned. “Of course you do. Well, don’t you worry, baby boy. Even toilets get to use themselves—and you’ve been a very good toilet this week.”

As the hyena settled his thumb on the trigger, purple streaks hummed from his hand through the machine, resonating with his signature—a precaution to keep mischievous cubs from sneaking in unsupervised time with the wand. He flipped the switch to its highest setting; it buzzed to life, its head thrumming and pulsing and vibrating. Slowly, tantalizingly, and with a pleasant smirk, he eased it down toward the kit’s crotch, near the tent in his diaper, hovering closer and closer. The boy, bracing for the inevitable, gripped his tiny paws along the adult’s arm pinning his chest and took a deep breath.

It touched down with all the satisfaction of claws scraping through satin. The color of that thrumming sound changed—from the listless din of a motor, to the whir of friction against his diaper’s clothlike covering. Instantly, the kit felt its vibrations travel like tremors through his dirty diaper, wriggling through the lukewarm mire. His fingers tightened their hold on the teacher. His toes curled inward. His visage twisted and tumbled between agony and ecstasy, as if struggling to comprehend a pleasure his body was years too early to recognize. From his chest, a low, muffled moan rose.

“Mmmnnnghhhhh…”

His reaction only emboldened the hyena to press deeper, pushing past the resistance of the boy’s privates, now painfully stiff at full mast. All around the little kit’s loins, the slush shifted in constant, fluid motion. It cradled his sack and sheath, caressed his little erection with such sublime softness that he scarce had the energy to consider how repulsively wrong it was. The longer Mister Dunn held the buzzer to him, the more intensely he felt every single wrinkle of the experience—every inch of mush coating his crotch, every ounce of pee drenching his bottom, every drop of cum marking him as another man’s possession; every single bit of it, vibrating inside a big, bulky baby diaper he was too old to still need.

In time, his breaths turned to sputtering through his nose, shorter gasps with uneven meter. Closer and closer he came to the edge, and the nearer he drew, the firmer his guardian nudged the wand into his padded parts. It was impossible to concentrate now—to think of anything except how good it felt, how much he needed relief.

And after two whole delirious minutes, the kit had had enough.

“Mmrf… Nghmrfuhn… Nngh! Nngh! Nngh-nngh-NNGHHHHHH!”

At last, the tsunami crashed into him. Waves of pleasure too big for his small body to process swept him away. That wand buzzing against his filth-caked loins nudged him over, sent him humping, pumping, spurting, spiraling, in the throes of a proper, big kid orgasm—only his fourth ever, after joining class that year. His lungs rasped for air through his nostrils. His teeth bit into his soother’s bulb. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his lids clamped over them, fluttering along with the spasms racking every other muscle in his body. All the while, strands of slick, watery, prepubescent lust blasted the inside of the eight-year-old’s full Pampers, with enough force to dent the many layers of mud encasing his bits.

The sensation of release overwhelmed him, as it always did—indescribably so. It was as if all his senses were set alight, burning out of control, exploding every fuse. He was swimming against the current, yet all he could do in the end was let it take him while his frame twitched and trembled and teetered in violent rapture. It was so overwhelming, he nearly slid right out of Mister Dunn’s lap had the hyena’s arm-bar not caught him, squeezing him safe and close to his protector’s chest. Though his whole world was a blur of chaos and confusion, there at least he was grounded, guarded—cherished. His teacher’s natural musk, for once, was a comfort—despite knowing that very same scent painted his bottom, claimed him with ownership. He felt the canine’s snout snuffling between his ears, into the tuft of fluff between them, kissing and nuzzling. All this, while the vibrator continued to whir away at his trickling bits.

“Good boy…” the adult whispered, rocking his baby to and fro. “Good, good boy…”

“Mghghfnn…”

Given time, his orgasm’s aftershocks petered away, from powerful shudders all the way down to infrequent, rumbling jolts. His little package continued to throb against its mushy confines, leaking kit cum all over a pile of kitten mulch. But after straight minutes of dribbling, he was well and truly spent, collapsing fully into the teacher’s embrace. And after a minute more spent idly buzzing his dirty diaper, teasing the head along the shell, savoring the youth’s afterglow, Mister Dunn finally switched off the wand and set it aside. His hand grasped the kit’s paw, a tender touch guiding it, lifting it to his temple, working those tiny fingers to wedge his ear inside them.

“A’right, buddy. This one’s all yours. Give us a flush and send us home!”

Pink heat simmered in Lynn’s cheeks at the thought of enacting the ritual. Gentle, timid, and tired, he crimped his ear, hissing air quietly past the seal of his pacifier bulb. “Ffshhhh…”

“Thaaaat’s my boy.”

Carefully, the hyena eased the tuckered tyke off his lap and back onto his feet. The moment his shoes sank into the plush rug, his knees buckled, gave out from under him as he staggered, stumbled, tripped forward. He was spared from harm, however, by Mister Dunn’s quick reflexes—by his paws shooting out, catching him under the armpits. There, he steadied the fox until he could stand unaided. With his charge stable, his paws offered a different kind of support, one reaching forward, the other hanging back, cupping both ends of his diaper together at once. The boy startled at the sudden intrusion, pushed to his tiptoes. He quivered while that firm grip rubbed him up and down, fondling, caressing, squooshing the muck into every crevice. Each squeeze gushed its own tawdry blend of fluids against him. His pants sloshed and slushed, smushed and sloughed, with an unbelievable silkiness now that their contents had been sufficiently stirred.

“Not too bad for the first couple kids,” observed the teacher, casual. Once, twice, thrice, he patted the child’s rump to a carol of squishing crinkles. “Some more wettings, a few more messes, and maybe a good cup of spoo or two, and I’d say we can call this one done and dusted!”

Against Lynn’s disapproving whines, Mister Dunn coaxed the kit to spin ‘round, patient of his hobbled legs and only-partly-full pants. Now face to face, he held his head low, his eyes to the ground, his visage aflame and ashamed. Yet all it took to raise his spirits was a single finger to raise his chin. Their eyes met—shy blue pools reflecting the hyena’s, kind with the luster and warmth of embers.

“You’ve been a good toilet this morning.” He leaned in, punctuated his praise with a smooch to the fox’s snoot. “Keep this up and you’ll get your big boy ‘undies’ back in no time. Sixth try’s gotta be the charm, right?”

That much, between the kiss and the promise, set Lynn’s tail-tip to wagging between his legs, widening his eyes with hope. His student’s mood lifted, Mister Dunn turned him back, patted his tush off in the other direction—dismissing him, at last.

“That’s all for now. You run along and play. We’ll come find you when it’s pottytime again.”

And like that, he was released back to recess, only now with a palm-print sunken into his swollen seat. Behind him, the teacher stood and meandered to a new corner of the classroom, a new gaggle of children in need of his supervision, poking plastic swords into each other’s padded rumps.

With Mister Dunn gone, a loneliness crept up on the kit, settled over him as if the reality of his world was shifting back into focus. The back of his diaper felt soaked and sticky; the front, gooey and gross; his whole being, defiled and dirty. The secondhand warmth that once enveloped him had dulled, leaving behind the cold clamminess of evening mud. And by the time all was said and done, nearly all of his diaper’s prints had vanished—its stars faded beneath clouds of yellow and brown. A wistful sigh escaped his nose, pensive and humbled. This was simply his life now, he knew: stuck at the bottom, catching the leavings of others, while his own dreams of potty training seemed sky-high, forever out of reach. Five times he had tried to break the cycle and earn his pull-up privileges; five times he had failed. That anyone could keep their trainers for months at a time, when his longest streak was one week—he was envious of them.

But perhaps it was better this way that he accepted his place. If he could not have stars of his own, at least he could help others earn theirs. That was his one solace as the class latrine—knowing his friends would shine all the brighter, should he be there to help wipe up their grime.

For now, though, he was content to waddle back to his Legos.", "pools_count": 0, "title": "His Place Among the Stars", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "application/msword", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "6", "views": "1249" }