FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

They pulled up to the front of the Carcer Contempla, which itself was a building both nondescript and imposing. Modern government buildings seemed to have a penchant for rectangles, and this one was no different, holding up large, stalwart horizontal bars of pure plated gold across the top half while the bottom half appeared to be complete glass, tinted with light purple.

Ricky didn't notice the traffic bollards until they slid up with the van's proximity, but they weren't straight-up metal poles, but rather triangular slices that pointed upward, giving the impression that if a mad vehicle attempted to charge the building, it would fling itself upward, destroy its undercarriage on the inclined bars, and smash into the building's concrete front. Kioga guessed it would only leave an oil splatter.

Proud, imposing, and quietly ostentatious ... that was the Praetorians in a nutshell.

"Hey guys!" rolled up a male bunny in skates and a black and purple bellhop onesie rimmed in gold around the collar, sleeves, and crotch guard. At first glance, Kioga could not discern the diaper bulge at the base of his black uniform, his eyes briefly fooled into thinking the male was merely wearing a one-piece bathing suit. Perhaps it was the onesie's tautness or the brief's avid dispersion of wetness, but in contrast to the rabbit's thigh, it merely looked like a natural male groin contour, minus the trademark ridge of a penis.

And the onesie disguised his underwear. This rabbit was literally skating the line of public fetish indecency.

"So here's your parking pass," he said in a confident, bubbly tone. Kioga frowned; his gaydar wasn't going off. The guy was just pure energy. "And on a purchase of fifty dollars or more in the gift shop, we validate your parking and you get out free-free-free."

"What's the hourly rate?" asked Ricky, his eyes molesting the bunny.

"Fifteen! And we have a museum, so by the time you get to the end, you'd beeeeeeetter just purchase something," he said with a wink.

"How much for you?"

"Ah-haha," he returned with a giggle and a quick spin on his skates, rotating like doner kebab meat. "If you gotta ask--"

"I can't afford it?"

He leaned on the window. "I hate declining people, but let's just say I'm a real pawful. Just being honest!"

"Well all right; maybe we'll put some money together and--"

Duke slapped his bicep. "I'm goddamn insulted that your gang can't satisfy you. Maybe if you'd open your heart and your diaper to us more often--"

"Shh-shh-shh!" Ricky hissed in response, slapping at Duke with both paws. He stabbed himself on one of the deer's antlers and moaned in pain. "Shit, shit, shit..."

The bunny grinned at the exchange, then bumped the van door with the side of his fist. "Make me laugh, and I'll getcha a discount."

"Now Goddammit," said Ricky, massaging his scraped palm, "are we talking sex work or a date?"

"Sex work?!" gasped the bunny, putting a paw to his lean chest, which stuck out just about as little as his restrained lower pouch. "Now do I look like a prostitute? I was thinking you were a nice guy!"

"I, uh, yeah you sounded like one," said the mongoose, quirking a brow. "I mean a nice guy. You sound like a nice guy."

"Yeah, uhuh, that's what you said to me. I think you think that guys just can't have feelings."

"Damn, you can have all the feelings; Jesus Christ," said Ricky, then drove away.

They saw in the rear view mirror that the rabbit poutily stomped his skate, then wobbled as he briefly lost balance. Ricky bit his finger. "He gon' make some guy or girl really happy; just needs to stop mainlining energy drinks or he gon' wreck someone's butthole."

"I think he's just really happy. Maybe this is a job you guys could consider," said Ceylon.

"I'm getting a hangover from his buzz," said Mort.

"But you'd look real cute in the uniform," said Duke.

"Fuck yeah I would!" the iguana protested.

Beatrice chuckled. "I'm not feeding you a bottle."

"Not with those nice teats you got," said Mort, reaching for her chest. Beatrice took the groping in stride, but when the iguana pulled them out into the free air she slapped him away. The rat seemed to take her time in tucking her plump breasts back into her shirt, eyeballing Kioga and Ceylon with beckoning eyes.

The two gave her a polite nod and nothing more.

They entered the parking garage and passed an array of diverse cars, from beaters to elite luxury, and Ricky had to smirk at the vast array of visitors that shared their, as it were, special fetish.

"It's real nice; it's like it's universal or something."

"Everyone poops," said Duke "Shitdeer."

Kioga sighed. Duke was right, but the act itself was biologically crass enough.

Kioga grabbed his leather messenger bag (full of very thick "envelopes") and they got out, making their way to the lobby. The gangbangers were only slightly fazed by the building's lush and generally understated luxury. Kioga inferred that this "cash business" that Mort was dealing with was perhaps a delivery or connections service of his own, and so these roustabouts living in the slightly squalorous development of Padridge rubbed elbows with all sorts of people.

In the lobby they met a receptionist, a female lion with a purple mohawk with pearls spiked on the base, lending a sort of tiara look on her brow, and she was chatting with a very huffy rabbit on roller skates.

"These are the men!" he accused.

She smiled, and the pinches at the corner of her eyes indicated that she didn't enjoy as many coffee enemas as he seemed to. "I see you've met Lucio," she said to the bangers. "He's the face of the Contempla, but his training conflicts with his love of kinky spanking."

"I'm a lover, not a fighter."

She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Because your business is our pleasure and vice-versa!" Lucio enthusiastically announced. "If you're nice, of course," he added, then blew a raspberry against his prominent buck teeth.

"Yeah," Ricky said with a blush, shoving his paws in his pockets and playing with the leg boundaries of his fresh diaper's front bulge, "We have a friend here arrested for a Code Y."

"And we'd like to see the gift shop," said Ceylon. Kioga nodded and Ricky flashed his parking pass. "We had such a great salesman that we couldn't just change and leave."

Lucio beamed once more, and he hit his fist on the top of the desk. "See, Geneva, I do fill the world with sunshine and rainbows!"

"Mmhmm, and I'm pretty sure that's why we named that enema fragrance after you."

"Excuuuuse me?"

"Well, if sunshine and rainbows is one of our products, and the world is a colon--"

"Oh, I'm sorry I'm enthusiastic about my job!"

"You should do PSAs as the 'Don't' actor for Pendrael's Stupid Laws."

"Oh!" he shouted, then skated away in a huff to greet the next customer.

The lioness smiled. "I do love him, but he's one step away from using Joker Gas to spray a smile on everyone's face. All thrust, no foreplay. Got the job of outside parking attendant after he pranked the break room with a can of PassThru balanced on the door."

"I take it that the sudden incontinence wasn't universally well-received, despite the garments?" asked Ceylon.

"Worse," said Geneva, "It was before work and half the morning crew hadn't even diapered up. Had puddles on the floor and piles in underpants. Lucio's first job was laundry, though," the lioness paused with a warm, secretive grin, "it wasn't the worst way to start the day. You know the way you have to peel the cloth from ... anyway. We made sure to clap his ass."

"Glory be," said Kioga. He cleared his throat. He was surprised at how the two teased quite unprofessional lines. But he liked the spirit, aside from any malicious pranks; it was a bit more appealing than stuffy mansion butlers. "So to get Mark Tarjay, do the guys need to sign for anything?"

Geneva rattled her fingers across her keyboard. "Funny that he's been brought here; we usually do in-person sales. Oooooh," she said, finding the file. The lioness leaned around her desk and looked through a clear, purple-tinted glass door marked, "Offenders and Offendees Only," which apparently included their employees.

"Melinda, this your Padridge boy?" she called out.

There was a familiar weasel leaning against the wall on the other side of the door. Her hat was under her arm, as well as a familiar folded diaper, and her pants were off, revealing another perfectly-contoured onesie.The weasel perked her ears, looked, then put her hat back on and walked out the door.

"Are the onesies permissible in a semi-public building?" asked Ceylon.

The weasel smiled and winked. "Private police, for your druthers and your nethers," she said, waving Kioga's autographed diaper. "You guys here for the naughty boy?"

"I'll get him," said Ricky, standing free of the counter. "You guys check out the gift shop or the museum or whatever."

"What about us?" asked Kioga.

Ricky shrugged. "I 'on't fuckin' care. Just be ready in an hour or we're leaving your ass."

"Would you really?" asked the cheetah.

The mongoose smirked. "Maybe," he said, then went with the weasel Melinda to pay for Mark's fines and wait for his release.

"I'll wait in the van," said Duke. "Gonna work on my fiction."

"You're a writer?" exclaimed Kioga.

"Yeah, I'm dark and mysterious."

"Your stool is dark and mysterious," growled Beatrice. The deer shrugged. "I guess Mort and me will get an education," said Beatrice, taking the Iguana along with her.

"Now hold on," said Melinda, stopping Ricky right at the door. "This is a rehabilitation center, a holistic nursery if you will, so the pants have to come off."

The mongoose hopped back a couple steps. "Now hold on; I ain't fucking a cop."

The weasel, who seemed to always be in a state of world-weariness--similar to their receptionist Geneva and to boot, a little bit of Beatrice--rolled her eyes and smirked.

"Boys will be boys," she sighed, then shook her head. "I mean that this wing uses AB techniques to soothe the mind and allow the perpetrator to reset him or herself. A factory reset, so we want the aesthetic to be consistent."

"Brainwashing?!" Ricky gasped.

"Call it voluntary indoctrination if you want. It's a spa," she said. "We do not use any chemicals unless requested, and to that effect it's a minor spritz of SootheBlurt and M.I.L.K. But that's enough exposition. Pants off; do you need a onesie and diaper?"

Ricky blushed and saw that Mort and Beatrice had poked their heads back through the door, giggling and snickering.

"Uh, nah; I actually am, um ..." Ricky said with red ears and a lump in his throat, "wearing," he said with a conciliatory cough, in the same way he would admit to "holding" drugs.

Melinda snapped her fingers. "Pants."

Ricky nodded his head and rushed through the glass door, immediately forgetting the portal's transparency to drop his trousers and reveal a thick, semi-gloss black diaper. Apparently they appreciated the Merchant's stash and had switched to something a little less blatant.

Mort and Beatrice snickered just the same, and Ricky spun around and banged on the door. "Oh come on! We see each other in diapers all the time! You changed me this morning!"

"And wiped your wittle peepee," laughed Trish. Indeed, part of humor was irony--more specifically, hypocrisy--and blatantly leaning against the double standard.

"Uuuugh!" he growled, then crinkled away with his jeans over his arm, and an officer who was similarly bottomless and padded beneath a sleek black and purple onesie.

"You know, I see a lot of aggrieved females," observed Ceylon. "Between Beatrice, Geneva, and Officer Melinda putting up with male shenanigans. Do you think that ABDL is a boy's world?"

"Hmm?" asked Kioga.

"I wouldn't worry about it," chuckled Geneva, pulling on a spike of her mohawk. "Perhaps ABDL, for some people, resets them to their childhood tendencies, where many boys will become brash and reckless, and girls may become uptight and dainty. Don't blame us; blame the company we keep. I have Lucio, the lady over here has you lively and..." she looked at her computer, "familiar suspects, and Prae Barnyardt back there has ... Criminals of Stupidity."

"I suppose my recent data samples have been rather coincidental," answered Ceylon. "Perhaps I, too, might be in that position with the ... oh hi, sweetie!" the gryphon said, interrupting himself as he saw the cheetah give a leering grin.

"I believe we've taken turns parenting each other," said Kioga. "Off to the gift shop? The, um, Mercutio Mercedes?"

"Mercatio Munerum," corrected Geneva. "Which roughly means 'gift shop,' but could also mean 'the burden of commerce.' A happy duty, so I'm told. Or then again," she said, interrupting herself, "could also be interpreted as the buying and selling of burdens, of which our diapers are magnificent pack mules."

"Actually," said Ceylon, "I'm curious what kind of museum a diaper police force might curate."

"Nerd," Kioga jibed.

"You only have yourself to blame for the company you keep."

"Clapped," said Geneva, who herself received the clapback of a burden when Lucio came skating back.

"I'm never going to find a girlfriend!" he complained, wiping his eyes with carbon copies of parking receipts.

"Girlfriend?" she asked, and the four were quickly out the door before another kerfuffle could commence.

They entered into a long, oddly austere hallway not unlike that of a grand mansion. It seemed that every classical museum hired the same contractor. Along its oddly high and oddly wide walls were glass cases spaced in orderly intervals, lending the place the air of an attractive warehouse or luxury purse shop. Each case had a collection of items and a plaque, and Kioga had to chuckle at just how fancy and dry the place was.

"I'm thinking Pendrael designed this personally, or hired a contractor as humorless as him."

"What makes you say that?" asked Ceylon.

"I've been to a ton of museums ... well, as many museums as my bowels will allow; they don't have the best ventilation ... that are attractive to walk through. That you don't even need to like the subject matter; it's a nice little tour of stuff. Here it's just ... information."

"Well, that is the point of a museum, isn't it?"

"Just funny that it lacks all style," he commented, then walked to the first display. "Geez; are they saying the Praetorians are this old?"

In the display was a chestplate and helmet unmistakably Ancient Roman, along with a telescoping pole which had a net on the end of it. Alongside was a long shirt which extended easily past the torso. It had tails in the front and rear, one of which had buttons and the other, of course, button holes. Buttons on the chest of the garment, mostly made of leather, suggested that the armor could be affixed to it. There was a drinking horn decorated with flowers and baby rabbits, as well as a wide, aged square of thick fabric labeled, "diaspros."

"Oh, that's Greek, isn't it?" remarked Ceylon.

Kioga shrugged. "Romans stole a lot from 'em."

The plaque read, There are rumors that during the rule of Emperor Antoninus Pius, the man of the common folk and peacekeeper for all of Rome, led about his own Praetorian of Equanimity, so that the common man may enjoy the fruits of his labor, but not let his excesses and excretions tamper the enjoyment of others. This came to pass at the next display.

The next glass case hosted an enormous array of lifestyle paraphernalia, which in this context was indeed fetish gear. Not only were there Roman-era adult diapers and onesies, but rectal plugs fashioned from horn, bronze, marble, and--this one made the entire group flinch--wood.

"Fuck me; I ain't sticking that in my pussy," said Beatrice. Maybe it was a negligent/lower class upbringing and maybe it was defensiveness, but her loud voice echoed and it turned the ears of a few tourists down the way. Kioga and Ceylon giggled, then had to smile when there was a group of portly Northerly-Midwesterners in Hawaiian shirts, then a distinctly stereotypical Chinese or Japanese couple (broken English and photography fetish), and a foursome giggling in French and grinning. They were also taking copious notes.

"Oh boy; that's a shopping list," said Ceylon, catching snippets of their remarks.

"Nah," said the Nor-Westerly person, a fat dragon wearing shorts in Wyoming, "for your lady-parts, you'd want the beads a couple of blocks down. But they're wood too, doncha know, so make sure to sand, primer, polish, clear-coat--"

"Robert, for pete's sake!" said his similarly fat dolphin wife, "Don't need to be airing out our dirty laundry to the whole gosh-darn neighborhood!"

"Don't tell me you wandered into this diaper museum looking for the bathroom," called out Mort. "They have different definitions for that word!"

"Come on, Louise," said Bob the dragon, taking her elbow, "we're all friends here; we all know why everyone's here."

"Great place to dox your friends," said Ceylon, similarly taking Kioga's elbow and turning him back to the sex toy display.

In addition to a splinter-prone sphincter plug (depending on craftsmanship), the case hosted rudimentary pacifiers, bottles, bibs, male and female chastity cages/belts (much kinder than medieval torture devices, more akin to sheaths and briefs with holes for the passage of waste); and the plaque effectively summarized the rule of Caligula, who fully endorsed the decadence of not only diaper play, but ... the contents therein.

"Oh God!" gasped Ceylon, who turned to the next case to see a gigantic white square, titled "Diaper of Bucephalus."

"Horse diapers, fuck's sake," groaned Kioga.

"Yo, hey, look at this!" called out Mort, who'd moved past the sail-sized cloth to a new plaque.

It is plainly stated in history that the mad Emperor was assassinated by a conspiracy of Senate courtiers, aided by the Praetorian Guard, for the sake of upholding public order and decency.

"Hol' up," said the blue iguana, rubbing his bald, rough chin. "You think these Praetorians are directly related? The ones that arrested Mark?"

"Let's look for a signature of Prometheus Pendrael," chuckled Kioga, and they moved next to Nero's case.

This contained a long ragged robe, the inside of which was printed with what looked to be first-century animal representations all done in a mosaic fashion.

"Geez, when was ABDL invented?" asked Mort.

The gryphon shrugged. "I suppose when babies were invented?"

"When was that?"

Beatrice whacked him on the back of the head.

Ceylon tugged at his lynx goatee with osprey fingers. "I'd say it pans out. Whenever a particle is created, a fetish particle is also created."

"Quantum diaper physics, folding over itself!" said Kioga.

"I think our observations are more jokes than plausible, but it's fun." Ceylon continued, careful not to guillotine his beard with his talon. "I suppose even questionable people can be men of culture. Though how questionable, I do not know. He built theaters, was popular with the common man, but had quite a few critical rumors about him, too."

"Hey, Nero's rattle!" called out Mort.

The classic idiom, "Nero fiddled whilst Rome burned," is mostly a medieval puritan revisionist perspective. There was indeed a pronounced fire about Rome, but Nero was safe in his crib, displayed above.

Everyone looked up as Mort read the text. Displayed was an adult-sized baby's crib with, "Of course," as Kioga commented, Roman-style columns for the posts. The top was rimmed in gold.

"What a playa," Mort commented, then continued. "Gold pacifier because your gums ain't got no teeth for grills. Ballin' like a basketball playaaa."

"That's exactly what basketball players do, Mortimer," hissed Trish.

"And that's why the analogy is so apropossum!"

"Apropos," interjected Ceylon.

"I'mma pronounce the 's' because the little guy needs respect."

"It's French."

"And the French had their peasants! I'mma fight for the unspoken; Tale of Twin Cities!"

"Minnesota?" asked Bob the fat dragon.

"The ... unpronounced?" asked Ceylon.

"Exactly. No one utters their name."

"But it's understood in..." the gryphon started, then brought his fingers against his forehead.

Kioga squeezed Ceylon's shoulders and tapped the plaque. "It's okay, sweetie; you're thinking too hard."

"Make him stawwp," Ceylon chuckle-whined.

Mort continued with the plaque.

Confirmed by other historical sources and historians that were not out to make a quick buck--because keskins did not build the pyramids--it has been shown that Nero played with his rattle whilst Rome burned.

"So is anyone going to confirm the existence of your boss?" asked Ceylon.

"I think his Wiki page says he's mixed-race," Kioga said. "Salamander and dragon, with scorpion from his great-uncle's side."

"Throwing anything that sticks?" Beatrice interjected.

"When the primary source himself cannot be confirmed," said Ceylon, thumbing through his phone to the Wiki page of "Prometheus Omega Pendrael, Founder of Ferris-Chalmpers LLC and Macedonia (Alleged) (Debunked) (Confirmed) (Confirmed to be Debunked)."

The gryphon tapped a couple links and brought up a few news stories, finding articles of legal battles, of landmark successes, of social and moral controversy; it all seemed par for the course. Man invents something, he's castigated for heresy, then society adopts said invention with varying degrees of gratitude or lack thereof. Politician then attempts to take credit for the invention with varying degrees of success. Ceylon's tongue moved around his teeth, idly scraping against sharp carnivore spikes, then he went back to the main page. "Of course, with all the rumors going on about him, there's got to be some arguments about his--"

Then he stopped.

"There's no edit history."

"What's that mean?" asked Kioga, also flipping through Pendrael's page.

"There's supposed to be a log of every change that's been made to a page, but here it's just blank."

"When was the page created?" asked Kioga. "Could be brand new."

"There ... is also no data on that," said the gryphon, then tapped on one of the paragraphs. "See, I can edit it just fine, but ..." A chill came over him. Why would he be the first, ever, to edit the CEO's biography? Would this come back to him? Would he write something into existence, and then would a certain purple-gold force have a strong word and a few soft wipes with him?

The gryphon turned his bright blue eyes up toward the ceiling and the museum had zero objects in it. The walls were no longer lush polished wood, but smooth sheer stone reaching up past the edge of his vision. He couldn't see the roof. His fingers turned cold and a hot bead of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades at the same time as a short, warm trickle of urine poured into the front of his diaper, spreading like a hot blush.

"On second thought, I'd better not," said Ceylon, then exited out of the page.

The gang turned to see Beatrice take an adult wipe out of her purse (she was catching on!) and rub the glass front containing Nero's rattle. "Ah, fuck; it's pressed in. Like somebody fell into the case or something."

The rat put the wipe back in her bag and stepped back. The glass bore a handprint, but not of grease. It was etched into the glass as if by laser. The tips of the fingers had long claws.

Ceylon looked at his own taloned hand and backed away. "Shall we keep going?" he asked, feeling that trickle of sweat hit the base of his tail and then slide along his buttocks into the seat of his padding.

On temptation, he looked back on his phone. The photo of Pendrael, in his Wiki page, had his arms crossed and him smugly smiling directly at the camera. "Look, I'm sorry!" he whispered to his phone.

Mort yawned. "Hey, I know you nerds wanna kiss and have a sexy 1869 Suez Canal reenactment in the bedroom, bein' all fulfill my canal desires and fill my passageway with your boat, baby, oh yeah,' but how 'bout we buy shit, wait for Ricky and Mark, and go home? Hehe," he interrupted himself. "69's the sex number."

"You're talking about them being nerdy; what about that?" asked the rat.

"I watched yesterday on the Book Channel," said Mort. "Like the History Channel but they read from actual books. Anyway guys, if you're not doing anything this afternoon, I got videogames and pizza and cough syrup--"

"No!" gasped Kioga and Ceylon.

The blue iguana grinned. "He-heh. Gawtchah, strangah" he said in a bad cockney.

"You son of a bitch," chuckled the cheetah.

"Eh, heh. Funny night," tiredly said Ceylon. It was weird. Now that Mort was active and happy and engaging with them, and admitting to his screw-up, the gryphon almost trusted him more than a random passerby. It was like they'd gotten through a dangerous situation together ... even though Mort and his drug-haze was the instigator.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand," said the iguana, waving his hand. He turned around faster than his loose pants could keep up, so of course he exposed his diaper, and Ceylon and Kioga were quite proud he was wearing one of the gorgeous blue ones they'd sold him. It looked great on him; hard to believe there could possibly be bodily waste in it.

"Ah, whoops," said Mort, shuffling his pants up and catching bulges of his thick diaper on the hem. "I flash my panties too much and Beatrice might nurse me on her big milkies."

"Lizards aren't mammals," sighed the rat.

"Titties are universal."

"They have their qualities," said Ceylon, making the comment more to toss a few bucks into the conversational pool than to add his own observation, but with it his eyes unconsciously drifted to Beatrice's chest, which made the rat smile.

"Oh, sorry."

She kept smiling.

The group followed Mort, who finally buckled the little tail-snap in the back of his jeans, but then the blue iguana stopped with a squeak of his sneakers at a side door left open.

"Employees and Acolytes Only," said the sign above the door.

"Aw, shit, Disney Magic!" said the iguana, and he ducked into the passage before anyone could stop him.

"Should we...?" asked the gryphon, remembering the handprint.

Kioga rolled his eyes. "I'll take the fall. Technically I'm allowed in all Ferris areas that aren't two or six-dimensional, to quote my employer."

"All right; you're buying if we get caught," said Beatrice, following the iguana.

"'If,' haha; that's a good one," muttered the cheetah.