It was July 2006, the kind of humid summer night that made even the dark wood walls of the Irish-themed bar sweat. The place was packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies swaying, pint glasses clinking in uneven rhythms as the whole room half-sang, half-shouted along to The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” crackling over the radio. It was the sort of song that made strangers feel briefly united, like everyone had survived the same bad romance and come out laughing.
At the bar, three longtime friends had abandoned all dignity.
Travis, a broad-shouldered lion with a mane already sticking out at odd angles, stood on the rung of his stool and raised his pint like it was a microphone. He leaned into the chorus with theatrical intensity, eyes closed, one paw pressed to his chest as if he were auditioning for an arena tour instead of singing off-key in a pub that smelled like beer and fried onions.
Beside him, Hugh the panda spun in a clumsy circle, arms out, nearly toppling over a cluster of chairs behind them. Travis caught him just in time, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink. Hugh grinned, breathless, his cheeks flushed beneath his black-and-white fur.
Brandon, the jackal, had stood up too — at least at first. He’d swayed, watched Travis and Hugh carry on like idiots, and then flicked his paw dismissively, as if to say absolutely not. He dropped back onto his stool, took a long pull from his beer, and decided he’d much rather observe the chaos than become part of it. Brandon had always been the composed one, or at least the one who liked to pretend he was. That illusion cracked as the night wore on. He leaned forward over the bar, resting his chin in his paw, and started flirting with Mark, the bartender — an otter with a quick smile and the practiced patience of someone who’d seen every flavor of drunk imaginable.
Mark misread it at first, assuming Brandon was angling for another round. He shook his head gently and slid Brandon a glass of water instead. “I think you’re done for tonight,” he said, amused rather than stern.
Brandon pulled an exaggerated grimace, ears flattening in mock offense. Mark laughed, grabbed a towel, and turned away to dry glasses.
That was when everything went sideways.
Brandon, far drunker than he’d realized, froze. There was a spreading warmth in his pants he couldn’t quite process at first, his body betraying him before his mind caught up. By the time he looked down, it was already too late. The floor beneath his stool darkened, and a quiet, mortifying truth settled in.
Travis noticed when his paw slid slightly as he stepped back toward the bar. He looked down at the piss puddle on the floor, then up at Brandon, comprehension dawning through the haze of alcohol. “Oh. Oh no,” he said, not unkindly.
Brandon’s ears burned. The drunken bravado vanished in an instant, replaced by sharp, humiliating clarity. He stood abruptly, knocking his stool back, eyes wide with shame. For a heartbeat, the moment teetered on the edge of cruelty — on laughter, on stares, on a memory that could have followed Brandon for years.
Then Travis did something unexpected.
He snorted, shrugged exaggeratedly, and said, “Guess we’re really committing to the night, huh?” Before Brandon could protest, Travis let out a bark of laughter, deliberately relaxed and wet his pants, making a spectacle of himself. Hugh stared at him in disbelief, then burst out laughing too, the tension breaking like glass.
“Don’t leave me out,” Hugh said, slurring slightly, solidarity shining through the fog of booze as a wet patch began to blossom around his own pant crotch.
It was ridiculous. It was messy. It was exactly the kind of thing only old friends would do for one another.
Travis threw an arm around both of them and declared, far too loudly, that they were now officially the “Piss Pants Club,” founders and sole members, bonded forever by poor decisions and excellent timing.
Mark reappeared just in time to see the aftermath. He took one look at the floor, then at the three of them huddled together — sheepish, laughing, leaning on each other — and sighed fondly. “Alright, heroes,” he said, steering them toward the door. “Let’s get you some fresh air before you declare yourselves a fraternity.”
Outside, the night air was cool and forgiving. The embarrassment lingered, but it was softened by laughter and the familiar comfort of standing shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t just the end of a messy night — it was the beginning of something else. A reminder that when things fell apart, they’d fall apart together. And years later, when they’d look back on the night everything changed, this would be the story they told first — the one where friendship won, dignity lost, and the real club was the three of them against the world.
Present Day
The laminate floor still made that same hollow sound, but now it echoed more sharply in the quiet.
Travis walked at an unhurried pace through the Buzz store closest to his home, his stride measured, his posture careful in a way it hadn’t been when he was younger. The suit he wore was immaculate — tailored to accommodate a broader chest and a mane streaked unmistakably with gray. He looked every inch the seasoned executive, but his eyes kept moving, taking in what wasn’t there as much as what was.
Empty aisles. Perfectly aligned shelves. Demo units looping the same cheerful footage for no one.
Beside him walked Paul, tablet tucked under the snow leopard’s arm, steps light and efficient. Paul had learned when to speak and when to let silence do its work.
Travis stopped near the television wall, the glow washing over his muzzle. ““”Where is everyone?””” he asked at last, his voice low, edged with disbelief rather than anger.
Paul didn’t miss a beat. “At home,” he said, dry as ever. “They’re shopping online.”
Travis huffed softly, tail flicking once behind him. “They’re ten minutes from here. Fifteen, tops. They could drive over, see what they’re buying, talk to a real person.” He gestured vaguely at the store around them. “Our prices are still competitive. We’ve made sure of that.”
Paul nodded, already anticipating where this was going. “It’s not just price. It’s the perception of choice. Endless tabs. Algorithms telling them they might get a better deal if they wait five more minutes.” He shrugged. “The thrill of the hunt, even when the numbers barely differ.”
Travis turned away from the screens, his reflection briefly catching in the glass — older, heavier with responsibility than he remembered feeling at forty. “What about price matching?” he asked. “We used to swear by it.”
Paul winced, just slightly. “It worked when your father ran things. Back when competition meant the store across town.” He glanced down at his tablet. “Once the internet matured, it turned into a mess. People printed listings from sites no one had ever heard of, prices below minimum advertised cost. We honored them anyway. Competitors accused us of market manipulation. Vendors weren’t thrilled either.”
“So we’d have to bring it back with… rules,” Travis said, already knowing the answer. “Pages of fine print. Conditions. Exceptions.”
“Pretty much,” Paul replied.
They continued walking, passing a young employee straightening boxes that didn’t need straightening. Travis offered a warm and familiar nod. The employee returned it with visible relief.
“This place used to buzz,” Travis said quietly, almost to himself. “People came here even when they didn’t need anything. They asked questions. They argued. They lingered.”
Paul slowed to match him. “You took over at the worst possible moment,” he said gently. “Economic contraction, cultural shift, logistics upheaval. Anyone would’ve struggled.”
“I know,” Travis said. “But knowing doesn’t make it easier to watch.” He paused near the entrance, automatic doors whispering open and closed to an empty parking lot. “I didn’t inherit a company frozen in time. I inherited one that had to change faster than it knew how.”
He straightened, the weight settling back into resolve. “We can’t just sell objects anymore,” he said. “We have to give people a reason to step inside. Knowledge. Service. Community.” A beat. “Connection.”
Paul’s mouth curved into a small smile. “That’s the first hopeful thing you’ve said all morning.”
Travis exhaled, slow and steady. “Hope’s a strategy,” he said. “Or at least the start of one.”
They turned toward the exit together, the lights of the store still glowing behind them — waiting, patient, like something that hadn’t quite decided to give up yet.
Travis pushed through the automatic doors into the vestibule, the sudden rush of cooler air hitting him like a rebuke. He paused there, just shy of the parking lot, and raked a paw through his mane — longer now in his later years, unruly strands escaping the neat professional trim he favored for board meetings. With an exasperated huff, he brushed it all back from his face, muttering under his breath, “Should’ve tied the damn thing into a ponytail before I left the house this morning.” The words carried the weight of a dozen small frustrations piling up: the empty store, the relentless online tide eroding his legacy, the subtle ache in his joints that reminded him time wasn’t on his side anymore.
Out here, away from the fluorescent hum, his tensions began to boil over properly — shoulders hunching, tail lashing once against the glass door. Paul, ever perceptive, sensed the storm brewing in the lion’s rigid posture. He lifted a paw instinctively, ready to offer a reassuring pat on the shoulder, the kind of familiar touch that had bridged tougher days before. But one glance at Travis’s narrowed eyes, the subtle flare of his nostrils, told him otherwise. The lion wasn’t in the mood for physical comfort, not when vulnerability already clawed at him from within. Paul let his paw drop, stepping back a respectful half-pace, giving space without retreating entirely.
They lingered there, the vestibule a liminal space between the store’s sterile quiet and the vast, sun-baked parking lot beyond. Travis froze mid-step, just before crossing the threshold. A rogue gust swept in from the open doors, carrying the faint salt tang of the nearby coast — it brushed his face, teasing his whiskers with an almost intimate tickle that made them quiver.
Paul caught the shift immediately: the subtle widening of Travis’s stance, the faint relaxation in his hips. A snicker escaped the assistant before he could stifle it, low and knowing. “Peeing?” he ventured, voice pitched just for them.
“Yep,” Travis replied curtly, his tone clipped but not defensive, eyes fixed on some distant point across the asphalt.
Paul leaned in a fraction closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that carried a thread of affectionate teasing. “And to think this big baby uses diapers like it solves all his problems.”
A flush crept beneath Travis’s tawny fur, warming his cheeks even as another sensation bloomed lower —warmth unfurling steadily inside the thick padding hidden beneath his slacks, soaking in with a soft, insistent hiss only he could feel. “Don’t make me blush,” he grumbled, though the corner of his muzzle twitched upward despite himself. He shifted his weight deliberately, widening his stance a touch more to let the flood distribute evenly, the diaper swelling comfortably against him, cradling the release with practiced efficiency.
Paul’s eyes sparkled with that mix of amusement and quiet admiration he’d never quite shaken. “You really had to go, didn’t you?”
Travis exhaled slowly through his nostrils, the last trickles of release mingling with a profound, spreading warmth that seeped into the diaper’s absorbent core, easing muscles he hadn’t realized were clenched so tight. The sensation was both relieving and intimate, a private ritual amid the public facade. “I’ve been holding it since that endless conference call,” he admitted, voice roughened by the day’s strain. “Back-to-back meetings bleeding into this store walk. Figured I’d make it to the car.”
Paul let out a sharp snort, his eyes shining sharp-witted mischief that always cut through Travis’s defenses. “That’s just it, though — you can’t hold it anymore, not reliably. But hey, silver lining: we could snap a photo right here, splash it across a press release. Caption it ‘CEO pauses dramatically to take care of business in the vestibule.’ Instant viral legend. Stock might even tick up on the sheer audacity.”
Travis slid him a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing playfully beneath heavy brows, but the look held no real fire — just the weary camaraderie of two souls who’d weathered corporate storms and personal ones alike. Another gust swept in from the parking lot, salty and insistent, snagging at his mane once more. Stray tawny strands whipped across his vision, clinging to his whiskers like insistent lovers. He swatted them away with an impatient swipe of his paw, broader and callused now from years gripping steering wheels and signing ledgers. Finally, he reached back, gathering the thick length in fistfuls, twisting it into a hasty ponytail and cinching it tight with a plain black elastic he’d stashed in his suit pocket for exactly these moments.
“There,” he grumbled, the word half-satisfied, half-resigned, as the weight lifted from his neck. “One problem solved. Small victories.”
Paul’s grin turned impish. Without warning, he stepped in close — close enough for Travis to catch the faint cedarwood of his cologne — and delivered a light, deliberate pat to the lion’s backside. His paw lingered just a beat too long, pressing firmly against the subtle bulk hidden beneath the tailored wool slacks, feeling the telltale sag of a well-used diaper. “And another one created,” Paul murmured, voice dropping to a husky tease that vibrated between them.
Heat bloomed low in Travis’s belly, chasing the warmth already there, stirring his sheath with unwelcome insistence. He bit back a giggle that bubbled up unbidden, ears flicking flat against his skull as he squirmed subtly. “I’d appreciate you not making me horny right now,” he managed, the words laced with mock sternness, though his tail betrayed him with a lazy sway. The giggle escaped anyway, light and boyish, cracking the executive armor for a stolen second.
Paul pulled back, but his gaze held steady—that quiet, unwavering attentiveness that had elevated him from assistant to confidant, from colleague to something deeper over the years. The kind of look that saw through boardroom bluster to the lion beneath. “You know,” he said, pitching his tone carefully casual, like he was discussing quarterly projections instead of the ache in Travis’s chest, “you don’t have to carry all of it alone. Not the company. Not your father’s legacy weighing on you like a ghost. Not—” his paw gestured loosely between their bodies, encompassing the unspoken us, the tangled history of late nights and shared secrets, “—the rest.”
Travis’s broad shoulders hitched tight, muscles coiling under his shirt, then gradually unwound as the words sank in. He turned his gaze outward, fixing on the parking lot’s vast emptiness: row after row of sun-glared asphalt, heat shimmering off the pavement like a mirage of better days. “I know,” he rumbled softly, the admission heavy with old regrets. “I just forget, sometimes. Dad never let the strain show — not to me, anyway. Or maybe he did, and I was too young, too busy chasing my own tail to notice the cracks.”
They lingered in the vestibule’s limbo a moment longer, the automatic doors exhaling soft pneumatic sighs behind them, sealing the store away like an unfinished thought Travis wasn’t ready to revisit. The world outside hummed faintly — distant traffic, a gull’s cry — but here, it was just them, suspended.
“Alright,” Travis said finally, rolling his neck with a low crackle of joints, straightening his jacket with paws that suddenly felt steadier. He squared his shoulders, mane now tamed, diaper discreetly sagging but secure. “Enough brooding in doorways. Let’s get back to the office before I convince myself this store tour was all a terrible idea.”
Paul’s muzzle split into a relieved smile, chasing the shadows from his own features. “That’s the spirit, boss.”
The water’s surface parted with a serene ripple, sunlight fracturing into a thousand diamonds as Brandon surfaced. The older jackal — lean and silver-flecked at the muzzle now, his once-jet fur threaded with the subtle frost of forty hard-earned years — emerged like a sleek predator reclaiming territory. He shook his head vigorously, droplets flying from his pointed ears and the damp ruff of his neck, scattering across the pool deck in a shimmering arc. Water sluiced down his toned chest and thighs, clinging to the contours of muscle honed by decades of stunt work and personal trainers.
He was clad only in tight red swim briefs, the fabric a bold slash of color that hugged his hips and strained valiantly against the generous swell of his sheath and balls — a plentiful bulge that drew lingering glances from the poolside staff, even if they pretended otherwise. Brandon climbed the steps with deliberate grace, tail swaying low, paws gripping the rail as he savored the sun’s immediate kiss on his wet fur.
His lounge chair waited like a throne, a crisp white towel draped artfully across its cushions. He snatched it up, rubbing vigorously from ears to tail-tip, the terrycloth rasping pleasurably against his skin. A quick pat-down of his crotch ensured everything was snug and dry. Sunglasses slid onto his muzzle next, aviators that shielded his sharp eyes and lent him that untouchable Hollywood cool. He reclined fully, stretching out long limbs to bask in the warm afternoon haze, the chaise creaking faintly under his weight.
Then, intrusion: his smartphone buzzed insistently on the side table, rattling against a half-empty glass of iced tea. Brandon drew a deep, steadying breath — the kind that centered him before auditions or red carpets — before glancing at the screen. Max. His agent, bulldog tenacious and unflappably loyal. A smile tugged at his muzzle as he thumbed the answer, propping the phone to his ear.
“What’s the good word?” Brandon asked, voice smooth as aged whiskey, laced with that easy charisma that had landed him an Oscar a decade back.
Max’s tone came through crisp, New York edge undulled by years in L.A. “I went back and forth with the studio brass all morning. Pushed hard — told ’em you loved the script, saw yourself dead-center in Ace, the whole franchise pinned on your star power. Thought we had momentum, real productive vibe… until —”
“Until what?” Brandon snapped upright, the lounge chair groaning as he swung his legs over the edge, towel pooling forgotten at his feet. His free paw clenched, claws pricking his palm.
Max sighed, the sound heavy with subtext. “They want fresh blood for the lead. Some unknown pretty-boy they can mold. You? They’d slot you as the retired spy mentor. Passing the torch. Grizzled vet stepping aside.”
Brandon’s eyes flared wide behind the shades, ears pinning back flat against his skull. “What the fuck do you mean? Justin — the director —looked me in the eye last week and said, verbatim: ‘Brandon, I want you as Ace. You’re the face of this thing, three pics minimum.’ I’m forty, Max. Prime. Not some has-been has-been. So what the hell flipped between that lunch and now?”
“Studio interference,” Max replied, his voice dropping to that cold, factual clip that meant lawsuits were already percolating in his mind. “Suits upstairs pulling strings. Won’t say more till I confirm.”
Paranoia uncoiled in Brandon’s gut like a serpent, cold and twisting. His mind reeled back three nights—that night. The upscale Italian spot in WeHo, candlelit plates of osso buco shared with his entourage, laughter flowing freer than the Barolo. A couple drinks in, nothing excessive, but enough to blur the edges. He’d stepped out for air, weaving slightly down the boulevard under the flashbulbs.
Paparazzi swarmed like hyenas, lenses hungry. One bold fox shoved through, smirking: “Looks like you pissed your pants there, bud!”
Brandon glanced down — horror blooming as he registered the dark, spreading stain blooming across his slacks, warmth he’d dismissed as sweat now unmistakably guilty. The briefs beneath had held most of it, but not all; incontinence, that silent thief, striking without warning after years of denial and management.
“I spilled something earlier,” he’d shot back, quick as a whip, flashing that million-dollar grin. “It happens to the best of us.”
But the photos hit the feeds like shrapnel: Brandon Black: Washed Up and Wet? Captions cruel, memes merciless — From Ace to Piss? Hollywood’s vultures circled, whispering he was past prime, unreliable, a liability for a tentpole franchise. Part of him had itched to own it then — lean into the mic at the next presser: Yeah, I’m incontinent. Prostate shit from the accident years back. Thousands of guys deal with it quietly. Normalize that. But the headlines would’ve been a bonfire: Oscar Winner’s Dirty Secret. No studio exec wanted that stink on a three-film commitment, not when they could pivot to some twenty-something twink with abs and no baggage.
No, this was payback. Studio interference meant producers spooked by the optics, doubting he could carry the torch without dragging old flames — or wet spots — into the spotlight.
Brandon gripped the phone tighter, jaw set. “Get me Justin on the line. Today. And dig into those suits. I didn’t claw my way here to play second banana.”
Max chuckled darkly. “On it, boss. Stay frosty.”
The call ended. Brandon tossed the phone aside, sinking back into the chair, but the sun felt colder now. Somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, ghosts stirred — old friends, old nights, a pact forged in piss-soaked solidarity. Maybe it was time to call in reinforcements.
The sun crested the jagged ridgeline of the mountains with shy reluctance, spilling golden light across the undulating sea of pines and aspens below, gilding the winding hiking trails like veins of molten amber. It was a crisp present-day morning in the national forest, just far enough from the city’s relentless sprawl to trade the ceaseless freeway drone for the symphony of birdsong — wrens trilling, jays scolding from the branches overhead. A small group of hikers navigated the scenic path, boots crunching over pine needles and loose gravel, their breaths puffing in the thin mountain air.
One among them, a stocky panda in his mid-forties, fur still plush black-and-white but softened at the edges by time and desk work — stumbled slightly when his boot caught a gnarled branch half-buried in the duff. Hugh windmilled his arms for a heartbeat, heart lurching, before planting his paws firmly and recovering with a self-deprecating chuckle. He was dressed for the wilderness like a catalog model: a soft beige t-shirt clinging lightly to his broad belly, cargo shorts in practical khaki sagging just enough to hint at the thick diaper taped snug beneath, thick wool socks peeking above scuffed brown hiking boots laced tight. A bulging waist pack rode his hips, stuffed with energy bars, a full water bottle, wet wipes, spare padding, and the other essentials of a man who’d learned to plan for inevitability. A faded baseball cap shadowed his eyes, aviator sunglasses perched on his muzzle to fend off the climbing glare.
As executive at Clear Vision Media — CVM, his boutique ad firm teetering on the edge — Hugh had orchestrated this “company retreat” hike a full month in advance, pitching it as team-building amid nature’s reset button. The truth gnawed deeper: clients were hemorrhaging to faceless multinationals wielding AI like a cheaper paintbrush, churning out ads faster and leaner than his creative team’s sweat-soaked pitches. Morale had cratered, meetings turning tense with whispers of layoffs. And then there was Hugh’s private war—the relentless bladder and bowel that sent him dashing to restrooms a dozen times a day, fracturing focus, stalling brainstorms. Diapers helped, but leaks happened. Out here, he’d calculated, an accident could unfold in open air; he’d hang back, let the forest’s pine resin, wildflowers, and earth mask any telltale odor. Plausible deniability in every breeze.
Up ahead, Ryan — the wiry hyena account exec with a laugh like gravel — gestured animatedly at the trail ahead. “Picture this: we brand Dyce’s sneakers as true limited editions. Stagger drops x pairs in rotating colors, timed releases over months. Builds hype, FOMO, endless engagement loops. Social explodes.”
Hugh nodded, paws swinging loose as he matched the group’s pace. “Solid pitch, Ryan. High-risk, though. Shoe makers love quick hits, one-and-done styles tied to a single athlete drop. Brad Curry’s the face here, yeah? He’d need to commit long-haul, endorsements syncing perfectly. Dyce signs off or it’s DOA. Pressure’s nuclear if we fumble; that account’s our lifeline.”
Stephanie, the sharp-eyed mouse Marketing Research Director, piped up from the rear, her tiny frame belying a voice like tempered steel. “Exactly why we swing big now, Hugh. Fortune favors the bold, right? We’ve got the chops — pressure-tested crew, battle scars from worse.”
“True enough,” Hugh rumbled, a genuine smile cracking his muzzle. But beneath it, pressure brewed — not metaphorical. That pre-hike office coffee churned low in his gut, a familiar insistent gurgle. He scratched his stomach absently through the t-shirt, claws rasping fabric, as the first wave cramped sweetly.
He scanned his team — loyal, fraying but fierce — mustered another warm grin. “Hey, catch you guys in a sec. Gotta shoot a quick text to the missus.”
“Sounds good, boss,” Stephanie called back. “Don’t lag too far — we’ll holler if you vanish.”
“Appreciate it!” Hugh waved them on, watching until their forms crested the next rise, voices fading into birdsong. Heart steady, he veered off-trail, boots sinking into loamy downhill underbrush toward a secluded hollow: firm dirt patch ringed by dense shrubbery, ferns curtaining him from view.
Deep breath. Pine-scented. Freeing. He squatted low, knees splaying wide, cargo shorts tenting over the diaper’s bulk. Muttered to himself, half-resigned, half-defiant: “Time to fill this diaper proper.”
A loud, rumbling puff of gas erupted first, hot and involuntary, shame’s prelude. Then it hit — an uncontrollable, the thick mess surging out in heavy waves, pushing insistently against the padding for long, helpless seconds. His ring clenched futilely as it spread, warm and mushy, ballooning the diaper back and between his thighs. And with it, as always, his bladder followed — second flood in two hours, already saturated gel turning to slush under the fresh torrent. He surrendered to the dual warmth, sighing raggedly even as it peaked.
A glance down: front sagging visibly, a dark wet spot blooming through khaki at the crotch, seeping outward.
“No, no, no!” he whispered fiercely, teeth grinding, paws hovering uselessly. “Stop, damn it — stop!”
But the stream hissed on, defiant, the stain widening into a telltale oval, trickling warm down his inner thigh.
“Shit!” he groaned, low and guttural, slumping forward on his haunches as the last spurts tapered. The forest held its breath around him, indifferent witness to another chapter in the Piss Pants Club’s legacy. But out here, alone? He’d manage. Wipe, change from the pack, catch up. No one the wiser.
Or so he hoped.
Hugh lingered in his squat a beat longer than prudence dictated, the heavy, warm loads sagging heavily in the seat of his diaper — a thick, mushy weight pressing back against his furred cheeks, the sensation both grounding and strangely triumphant. There was an illicit accomplishment in it, this full surrender amid the wild indifference of the forest: the earthy reek mingling with pine sap, his body unapologetic in its untimely release. He wanted to savor it, paws braced on knees, letting the sloshing warmth settle like a secret victory. But voices drifted faintly from the trail above — his team, oblivious, waiting. Duty called.
Still crouched low, thighs straining, he fumbled one paw to his waist pack, zipper rasping open to reveal the arsenal: fresh diaper folded neat, wipes, powder, disposal bags. Routine as tying a tie, humiliating as stripping bare. He tugged at his shorts’ waistband, ready to —
Rustling. Sharp, too close, from the shrubbery ahead.
Hugh’s eyes snapped wide, heart slamming like a tripwire against his ribs. Parting ferns revealed Ryan’s face — muzzle paling to ashen gray beneath spotted fur, eyes bulging as they locked on the tableau: boss panda mid-potty squat, cargo shorts tented suspiciously, the unmistakable squat-and-grimace of a man mid-relief. Or worse.
The hyena’s cheeks ignited crimson, ears flattening as he recoiled like he’d stumbled into a boardroom orgy. “Sh—!” He vanished backward in a scramble of leaves, gone before Hugh could blink.
“Ryan! Ryan!” Hugh choked out, voice cracking on a tsunami of mortification, face burning hotter than the climbing sun. He froze in place, mess shifting stickily with the spasm, bladder threatening another dribble. “G-give me a minute!”
From the bushes, Ryan’s voice tumbled out muffled, strangled. “I’m so sorry, boss — I just… didn’t know where you were. Thought maybe you fell or… if you were okay. I didn’t know you were — fuck, sorry!”
Solace flickered thin in the humiliation’s blaze: Ryan sounded wrecked, empathy’s mirror to Hugh’s own raw exposure. But the damage etched deep — one of his sharpest execs, spotting the boss in full potty regression, squatting like a cub in the woods, shorts bulging with undeniable evidence. Hugh’s mind spun worst-cases: Ryan bolting uphill, spilling to the group in breathless glee. “Guys, you won’t believe —Hugh’s out here pooping his pants like a damn toddler!” Laughter rippling back, whispers turning to sidelong stares, the firm’s fragile morale shattering on his soiled secret.
Yet amid the panic, a treacherous jolt arced through him — arousal, electric and unbidden, sheath twitching against the sodden padding. The fantasy bloomed vivid, adrenaline fueling it: exposed, diapers outed to the whole team, colleagues’ eyes lingering on his bulk with knowing smirks, murmurs of diaper panda trailing every pitch. Stephanie’s analytical gaze dissecting his leaks, Ryan’s opportunistic grin plotting leverage. Shame twisted hot in his gut, stirring him half-hard as he yanked shorts down in frantic haste, peeling the ruined diaper free — wipes flying in a blur to scrub clean.
Reality proved kinder. Uphill, Ryan rejoined the pack seamless as a pro, fabricating on the fly: “Hugh’s just off-trail, mid-phone call with a client. Spotty service out here, but he’s looping back.” No bars lit his own screen, but his calm delivery — hyena nonchalance honed in client smokescreens — stifled questions. Stephanie shrugged, Ryan dove back into sneaker-drop metrics, trail chatter unbroken.
Two minutes flat: Hugh crested the rise, fresh diaper taped secure under crisp shorts, waist pack zipped innocent, fur smoothed, cap tugged low. Heart hammered like he’d sprinted the whole way, but his muzzle split in easy grins, banter flowing practiced. “Miss anything game-changing?” Quick scans: no funny looks, no stifled snickers — just Ryan’s back ahead, shoulders relaxed.
The hyena glanced over one, muzzle curving in a private, loaded smile. A nod — subtle, loaded: I got your back. Lips sealed. Don’t sweat it.
Hugh nodded back, chest unclenching, a rush of gratitude warming deeper than the mess had. Loyalty like that? Priceless in a cutthroat game.
He drew a deep, pine-laced breath, step syncing confident with the group’s rhythm now, boots sure on the path. Paw dipped to pocket, smartphone emerging slick. Thumb scrolled idle through contacts till “PPC” glowed — a dusty group chat icon, untouched years. Travis. Brandon. Ghosts of pints and piss-soaked solidarity, the club that bound them through folly and forever.
Wonder how they’re holding up, Hugh mused, thumb hovering. Maybe time to ping the old crew.
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