Timothy Two
By Musuko

Eat, sleep, sex, repeat.
	The demarcation of days meant nothing to Timothy. He had no way to measure them, and no incentive to count their passing even if he could. Time was divided by the activities in his life.
	Sleep, sex, eat, repeat.
	Sometimes they varied. Sometimes the gap between them was longer than normal. Sometimes shorter. There was only one constant; the General.
	Sex, sleep, eat, sex, repeat.
	There was a kind of bliss in losing himself to the fugue of not thinking. It would be a stretch to say he allowed this to happen to him; that would imply he had a choice. He was the General's baby. He existed only for what the General wanted from him.
	Eating, sleeping, sex...
	One day, however...or perhaps it was night...the baby woke up.

It started as a new smell. Subtle, at first, but growing stronger as he noticed it and sought it out. Past the ever-present and comforting scents of diapers and baby powder and frustrated arousal (his own), and the powerful musk of the General, pervading everything, was the tinge of something new. The smell of clean, feline fur.
	With the bleary fog of semi-wakefulness, Timothy sat up in his crib and reached for the bars. His cotton-clad, mittened fingers found the bars. He gripped them, as best as his weakened body would allow, and strained to rise up until his head brushed the horizontal bars that formed the lid of the crib. He pushed his nose between the bars and inhaled deeply.
	Diapers, baby powder, his own precum leaking from his chastity tube and into his diaper, the smell of the General's body...and, yes, definitely a feline, somewhere in the room.
	He made a soft, gurgling, cooing noise; a baby's gentle call for attention, then turned his ear to listen. Somewhere nearby was the soft sound of somebody breathing. Timothy rattled the bars and made a louder squealing noise. This was strange. This was new. Dormant parts of his mind were being made to wake up to deal with this new thing. He was being made to think. And his mind had had very good reason to switch those parts of itself off. His lip started to quiver, and he felt tears in his eyes.
	He moved his attention around his mental map of the room, just as a sighted person might look with their eyes. He pinpointed the breathing as coming from the changing table, over next to the rocking horse and the shelves full of diapers and toys. He shook the bars again, tears flowing now. A wail spilled past his lips.
	The sound of creaking wood told him the door was opening. He went quiet and still. Heavy hooves clumped across the floor towards him, and the scent of the General grew stronger, bringing with it the stink of alcohol and cigars.
	“What's the matter, little one?” said the General, his voice slurred. Timothy shrank back from the bars and sat on his heels, his diaper making a papery crinkling noise as it compressed. He lowered his head and stifled a small whimper. The General was scary when he smelled like this.
	“Come on,” he said. “Let's go get you something to eat.”
	The crib's lid clicked and thumped as it opened. Timothy raised his heavy, weak arms with a soft grunt of effort, and smiled as the General's strong hands lifted him up into the warm embrace of his arms. He pressed his cheek against the starched uniform and mumbled wordlessly.
	“Some nice warm milk, I think,” said the General. “I have some friends over.”
	Timothy buried his head in closer. That meant a special kind of milk. The kind that made him squirm and try to fill the chastity tube. As the General walked with him out of the room, Timothy's mental map shifted. And there on the changing table was the sound of breathing and the scent of feline fur, growing stronger as they approached.
	“We'll let your little brother sleep for a little longer,” said the General. Timothy tensed and wailed into his chest.

Eat, sleep, repeat.
	Timothy was noticing the passage of time, now. The periods of sleep and eating fell into a predictable rhythm. He couldn't know if that was new, or if he was just noticing it now.
	Sex with the General was absent. For Timothy, at least.
	He spent long, miserable hours in the nursery, listlessly poking at his toys. When the General came to visit him, there were fewer cuddles. The meals were rushed, his bottle snatched away almost before he'd even finished drinking. He'd be dropped back amongst the toys, sometimes even without a word from the General. Often, there was the feline's scent on the General's body.
	Eat, sleep, repeat.

Seventeen periods of sleeping passed before Timothy was next carried from the nursery. The General's body stank of the feline. Footsteps moved over carpet and marble and wood. A door swung open and the heat of a familiar room hit him, along with the stink of cigars and sweat. Timothy relaxed in the General's arms. He could hear the laughter and talk of all the General's friends. This was normalcy. He felt the stressful burden of thinking slipping away.
	“Gentlemen,” said the General. “You remember my other little baby boy, don't you?”
	A cheer. Glasses clinking. A blow of hot, smoky air over his face.
	“They make a nice pair, don't they?” said the General, with a laugh that shook Timothy. “A blind baby boy, and a deaf baby boy. Move him over there, that's it...”
	The General lowered Timothy to the floor. Hard wood pressed against his knees, and he sank back onto the padding of his diaper, swaying unsteadily, weak muscles straining to keep him upright. He reached his arms up, trying to feel for the General, but just swiped empty air. Nearby was the smell of the feline, faint under the strength of the other smells. Beside his naked right thigh he could feel the warmth of a nearby body. Tentatively, he reached out and flinched when his mittened fingers brushed against something warm and soft.
	“Aww, isn't that sweet,” slurred a voice that wasn't the General's. “Is this the first time they've met?”
	“I think so,” said the General. “To be honest, I've not been paying much attention! This new boy is so much fun. I mean, look at him!”
	Timothy pulled his hand back. He turned his head around, trying to listen to all parts of the room at once, trying to find the General amongst the group. Where was his guidance? His instruction? The ugly feeling of thinking came back again. Slowly, he reached out again, to press his fingers against the softness beside him. He felt it moving, breathing. With shaky movements, he moved his hand, exploring. A slender, furred stomach. The curve of a ribcage, without an ounce of fat. Up at the neck, his arm straining, he felt the underside of a leather muzzle, which extended further up the feline's face.
	The General's rough hand grabbed his wrist and held it. “Careful, baby boy. You don't want to poke your little brother's eye! Here, feel down here instead.”
	The men laughed as Timothy's mitten bumped against something else. Not soft. The General let go of his wrist, letting him explore again. He felt the curve of a thigh, the softness of a stomach, which flinched under his touch. He heard a soft, muffled moan, beside him. His hand moved down, towards that hardness.
	He gasped.
	His baby brother wasn't locked in a chastity! His mitten curled around an erection. The men around him communicated their approval with jeers and laughter.
	“That's a good baby,” said the General, his voice soothing. “Say hello to your new little brother!”
	The General's hand pressed against the back of his head. Timothy sighed, the tension draining from his body. He didn't need to think now. He just needed to let the General push his head down. He opened his mouth and prepared to take the feline's cock in his mouth.
	He tasted different to the General. He felt different too. Not as big. Not as blunt. Timothy's nose rested easily against his crotch fur. No matter how hard he pushed downwards, he could not get the filling pressure he needed in his throat. A soft whine huffed through his nose. Above the cackles of laughter around him he heard the shaky groans of the feline, muffled by his muzzle.
	“Brotherly love,” said somebody. “Isn't it sweet?”
	“Are you going to put them in the-”
	“Quiet!” snapped the General. “Do you forget yourself? This one can hear, and that one can lip-read. Don't spoil their fun by telling them what's to come! Just let them enjoy themselves, while they can.”
	Timothy bobbed his head the way the General liked him to do. He braced himself against the feline's thighs and felt his muscles tense under the mittens.
	“Where do you keep finding these cute little things?” asked somebody. “I think this one's even cuter than his brother!”
	Timothy tensed. His teeth grazed against the shaft. Above him, the feline hissed into his muzzle.
	“Oh, definitely,” said the General, laughing. “Don't you think so, little one?” The voice now came close by Timothy's ear. “Do you think he's cuter than you?”
	Timothy whined, but didn't stop bobbing his head. He could feel his own drool trickling down his chin. He could taste the feline's strange musk.
	“Like he could tell,” said one of the men. “Can't ask a blind boy whether he thinks another boy is cute!”
	“I can and I did!” said the General. Timothy flinched at an unexpected touch; the General's fingers stroking his ear. “What's the matter, baby boy? Are you upset that I've been taking little Liam to bed every night instead of you?”
	The awful burden of thought came rushing back, and Timothy felt tears rising. The General, laying atop this feline, thrusting deep inside him, coming back to the nursery with the stink of his scent, while Timothy sat alone among his toys. He lifted his head up and off the feline's cock, but the General's hand grabbed the back of his head, fingers curling, wrenching at his hair, and shoved him back down.
	“There there, little Liam,” cooed the General, while Timothy squeaked in pain. “Don't you worry about your brother. He loves you. He doesn't mind that you're taking his place.”
	Timothy's tears stung, as the feline's cum shot into his throat.

Another night, but not alone. This was worse. The crib had been moved. He could smell the General's bedroom through the bars. The potent, mingled scents of equine sweat, clean sheets, slick lube...and the feline. Timothy whimpered and rattled the bars, listening to the cries and moans.

“Is he asleep?”
	The voice was a whisper, but harsh and urgent. Timothy couldn't be sure whose it was. Nor was he really sure that he was awake. He lay still, breathing slowly, arm curled around his plush bear, his diaper swollen with his nightly wetting.
	“They both are,” whispered another voice. This one wasn't the General, but Timothy couldn't recognise it other than that.
	“Where is the General?”
	Timothy shifted, and nearly opened his eyes. He gripped his plush tighter. Maybe if he kept pretending to sleep, they wouldn't snatch him from the crib and do...things. His nose filled with memories; blood and bleach. His ears rang with laughter and gunshots. Horrible memories that he couldn't fight back. The General wasn't here? He wanted to cry out for him. He turned his head away from the voices, making a soft sighing noise to make it look like he was just shifting in his sleep, and bit down hard on his tongue, focussing on the sharp stab of pain.
	“He's at the Almera bunker.”
	“Partisan threat?”
	“Perhaps.”
	“What instructions did he leave for these two?”
	“None. They don't matter.”
	Movement and footsteps. The conversation continued, but drifted away as the voices moved off. Timothy clung to his bear and tried in vain to find sleep.

“Hey...”
	Another voice, whispering again, also harsh and urgent. Something poked his arm. A finger.
	“Are you awake?”
	Timothy feigned sleep again.
	“Are you really blind?”
	Timothy lay still.
	“I'm not really deaf, you know.”
	Timothy lifted his head and opened his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it. He made a soft noise in the back of his throat and tried again, attempting speech for the first time in...how long? He couldn't know.
	“Liam?” he whispered.
	“Yeah. Well, no. Not really. That's what they think my name is, anyway.”
	“Who...who are you?”
	“I'm your little baby brother,” said Liam, with such venom that it made Timothy flinch. “Or, if you want a different take on it, I'm a spy for the partisans. They're coming, Timothy. They're going to capture the General, and they're going to let you go free. Do you want that?”
	Timothy squeezed his bear. For a long time he lay with his mouth open, unable to form a sound, as the strange notion of freedom clawed its way up from the repressed depths of his imagination. He started to shake, feeling like ants were crawling in his fur.
	“Do you know where Almera bunker is, Timothy?”
	He shook his head. It felt heavy. His tongue felt like wool.
	“I see,” said Liam, with that same sharpness that had made Timothy flinch. Now, though, it seemed cold. It reminded Timothy of the voice the General would use to silence a room full of laughing men. “Well, we'll see what you know soon enough. Go back to sleep, Timothy. And be ready.”
	He heard soft footsteps moving away. He called after the feline, but a harsh shushing sound silenced him. He lay his head back down. With a head bursting with unsettling thoughts, he tried very hard not to think.

Timothy woke to shouting voices, distant, but loud. He sat up and pressed against the bars. Running feet, clattering on the hard floors beyond his nursery door. More shouts. Then, making him gasp, the rattle of gunfire.
	He shrank back from the bars and hugged his bear to his chest.
	“Liam?” he whispered. “Are you there?”
	No answer. He didn't know if he was alone in the room. More gunfire, closer now, with the zip and whine of ricochets. Timothy buried his face into the bear's soft fur. There was a loud thump, like someone had dropped a stack of books. A gust of air came rushing through the nursery, carrying with it the dusty smell of masonry.
	Timothy cried for the General.
	Then, a sound louder than the end of the world.

Timothy woke again. For a brief moment, he felt nothing. He lifted an arm, and that's when it struck him; an explosion of throbbing pain in his head. He gasped and reached up, but his hands jerked to a stop, handcuffs clinking at his wrists. He lowered his hands and felt around. They were cuffed to the rungs of an army cot. When he shifted his feet he felt the same arrested motion and heard the same clinking metal; more cuffs on his ankles, securing them to the same bars.
	He sniffled. That's when he realised he couldn't hear anything. Nothing at all. Not even the soft sounds that pervaded almost every place, unnoticed by most. He couldn't even hear his own breathing. Panicked, he started to cry out.
	He stopped. He heard that! Faint, muffled, but definitely there. He grunted experimentally, and then louder. Yes, he could hear his own voice, but only just. It was like...
	Sighing, he laid his head back down. Earplugs. It had to be. He turned his head to rub his ear against the cot, but pain washed through his head when he moved it. And it felt more like there was something bulky over each ear. Soft fabric. Bandages?
	Something touched his chest, making him jerk, heart racing. Fingers moved across his body, sometimes stroking, sometimes poking and pinching. He winced and yelped as the fingers found various sore spots he didn't know he had. His whole body felt like one big bruise.
	A sharp prick of pain touched his bicep. The pain washed away in an instant. He sighed gratefully, then felt himself slip away.

A hand patted his cheek.
	“Timothy. Timothy. Wake up, Timothy.”
	Timothy groaned. And now he could hear his own voice properly. His head still hurt, but not as badly as before. It was dull throb now, much more bearable. His body felt tired. He lifted a hand, and felt the same clink of cuffs again.
	“Guh,” he said. His tongue felt huge.
	“How are you feeling, Timothy? Can you hear me?”
	It took a few moments for him to understand the words. He recognised the voice. Liam!
	An ugly knot of discomfort formed in his gut. He opened his mouth to reply, but it felt...wrong. He snapped it shut, and just nodded.
	“That's good.” He heard movement. Shuffling footsteps. A hand grabbed his wrist and the cuffs clicked. As it did the same to his other limbs, he realised that this hand most definitely didn't belong to Liam. It was big and rough, like the General's. But it wasn't him. Unbidden, Timothy's lip began to quiver.
	“Pick him up,” said Liam. “Gently.”
	Strong hands hooked under his arms and hoisted him into the air. He grunted as he was pressed against the man's chest, twinging every bruise on his body. Big, strong, with a canine musk. The fabric over his chest was stiff, and ridged with the seams and embellishments of some kind of uniform, much like the General's. But not the General.
	Through unknown spaces they moved. Then, into cool air, scented with diesel and the grubby smell of somewhere utilitarian. The man lowered him, and Timothy flailed in panic before his rear touched a seat. This was when Timothy realised he was no-longer diapered. His hands shot down to his hips, patting, searching, disbelieving. Then, tentatively, he felt his crotch.
	No chastity!
	Gently, he touched his fingertips to his sheath, then jerked them away. The General wouldn't like him doing that!
	“Hold him steady,” said Liam. “Don't let him topple over. He's still very weak.”
	A grunt came from above him, thick and masculine. Those giant hands settled on his shoulders, gentle, but firm.
	“Now, Timothy,” said Liam, his voice coming from close in front of his nose. Timothy imagined him crouching down to be at his eye level. “I'm going to need you to listen very carefully, okay?”
	Timothy squirmed in the long pause that followed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then just gave a tiny nod.
	“You're with the partisans now. We took the General's compound last night, after we spoke. I'm sure you've guessed that, of course.” Small fingers touched his cheek, and Timothy winced. Yup, there was a bruise there too. “A few mortars went astray. They weren't meant to come down so close to where you were. I hope you understand that we didn't mean to hurt you.”
	The fingers withdrew. Timothy shifted in the seat, but not far; the hands on his shoulders still held him. They felt more like they were holding him down, rather than keeping him sitting up.
	“Do you remember what we talked about, Timothy?” said Liam, his voice moving away and to the side. “About the Almera bunker? I don't suppose you've been able to remember any more details about it.”
	Timothy shook his head. The fingers on his shoulders pressed in just a fraction harder.
	“Ah,” said Liam. “I was hoping that you would have a different answer for me. Artur, hold him still for me.”
	The hands gripped tighter on his shoulders. Timothy yelped and lifted his arms up, his hands closing around those beefy fingers. But that did nothing, and the tired ache in his arms made him lower them. He sniffled.
	“I don't know anything!” he cried.
	“We'll see,” said Liam. His voice closer now. Timothy heard something crack, like a cracker being snapped, like...like a gun being cocked? He searched his imagination, desperate for answers.
	“P-please! I swear! I don't know where the Almera bunker is! Please! Please don't-”
	Fingers, wet and slippery and warm, pressed down onto his sheath, massaging into his fur. Timothy sat frozen, silent, mouth open.
	The snap of a plastic cap being opened. That's what that sound was.
	“Shh,” said Liam. “It's alright. You've been locked in that chastity device for a while now, haven't you?”
	Timothy shivered. His cock started to swell. He braced himself for the discomfort that always followed. But that was with the chastity there to confine it. Now, his cock was free to grow to full hardness, with nothing to hold it in except the gentle stroking of those lubricated fingers, up and down, spreading the wetness and warmth over his whole shaft. Shakily, Timothy exhaled, laying his head back, bumping against Artur's thigh.
	“Feels nice, doesn't it?” said Liam. “I've been thinking about doing this for a while, you know. All the time I was pretending to be that bastard's little baby boy. You're a cute guy, you know that? In another life, we could have dated. Still, this is nice, isn't it?”
	Liam's hands closed around his shaft in a tight ring and squeezed upwards towards the tip. Timothy shuddered and groaned. His cock felt like it was going to burst if it got any harder. His balls ached with so much impatient need, built up over...how long? He couldn't know. It was another lifetime when he last felt an orgasm. He couldn't remember what it felt like.
	Liam's voice breathed against his ear. “You want to cum, don't you? You want to drain all that pent-up lust, all over my face. You like me, don't you Timothy. I remember you touching my face, feeling what I look like. Remember, I could see your expression, and see the way you squirmed, the way you always did when your chastity was feeling tight. Maybe you'd like it if I put my mouth to the tip, right as you cum? Gently suckle on your most sensitive spot, make the pleasure feel really mind-blowing. Would you like that, Timothy? To finally cum, after all this time as the General's chaste little baby?”
	Timothy felt tears prick in his eyes. He felt none of the aches and pains; they were still there, but they were dwarfed and overshadowed by the immense power of the pleasure and feeling of urgent pressure underneath Liam's gentle fingers. He groaned wordlessly, his voice a shaky mess of animal sounds.
	“Y-yes,” he gasped, forming the word only with intense effort. “Yes, I want to cum!”
	Liam's fingers slowed to a stop, resting gently on the tip of his cock. Timothy whined and tried to rock his hips, to rub against them, but every movement he made was matched, those fingers keeping their maddening gentle pressure. One stroke. He only needed one firm stroke, and then he'd be there.
	“Tell me what you know about the Almera bunker.”
	Timothy gasped out a needy sob. “I don't know anything!”
	Liam's fingers lifted away, and Timothy's cock throbbed in empty air, the lube going cold in moments. “Artur,” said Liam. “We're going to need the electrodes, if you please.”

Timothy thought he understood torture. He had suffered the beatings given to him by the guards in the prison, before the General rescued him. He had languished, alone and cold, in the miserable damp of his cell, for day after day. He had endured the empty hours of lonely longing in his nursery, while the General was away. He thought these things were torture.
	But they were not. Oh no, not by any measure. Not compared to this.
	On the face of it, he was comfortable. There was a soft mattress beneath his back. The cuffs that held his wrists and ankles and kept his limbs pulled to the corners of the bed were supple and fur-lined, and the ropes attached to them were loose enough to let him move and lay comfortably. They had even taped a fresh diaper around his waist, making him feel normal again. And when he wet it, they changed it for another, sparing him the discomfort of laying in his own squishy dampness.
	But, the tiny pads they had taped to the base and head of his cock...
	Timothy couldn't think. All thoughts were blasted away by the raw emotions of lust and frustration. No matter how he writhed on the bed, no matter which way he twisted his body, he could not escape the tingling feeling of pressure and oh-so-maddening pleasure that surged through his cock as the electrodes did their work. Constant, unrelenting, and always just not enough to tip him over the edge to release.
	He tried begging. He tried pleading for mercy. He screamed, he cried, he sobbed in abject despair. He tried to hump the air, but felt only the gentle squeeze of his diaper's padding, compounding his denial. The tingling never diminished. Nor did it ever increase. It stayed at that exact level, on and on, keeping him quivering at the edge of release. This wasn't the brutal fury of a beating. This was the slow, patient sadism of something far more sinister and cold. It didn't stop when he slept. It didn't stop when they forced a rubber teat into his mouth to gulp down milk mixed with ground-up ration bars. It didn't stop for anything he did or said. Not even when Liam's voice would ask, calmly, like he wasn't the source of this torture, “what do you know about the Almera bunker?” Every time, Timothy would have no answer for him. Not one that Liam liked, anyway. And the torture continued.

Click.
	The tingling stopped in an instant. In its absence, an unbearable itching, like scurrying ants, took its place, as the tired nerves in his cock struggled to adjust.
	More clicks. Keys in locks. Large hands lifted him. He hung limp like a doll, and made only soft murmuring noises. With no input from his concious mind, his hands moved to his crotch, drawn as if to a magnet. The hands knocked his arms away each time. It seemed to take forever, but as his damn body was being towelled dry, his erection finally subsided, leaving only the dull ache.
	He tried to catch the scent of the person bathing him, but the smell of the flowery shampoo massaged into his fur was too strong for him to pick it up. The hands felt like Artur's, but there were so many strong hands in his life. They carried him, against a strong cotton-covered chest. There was more activity around him now; people moving and speaking with a purpose. Electronic whirring and humming. The air was hot and dry. It prickled at his fur, buzzing with static electricity.
	“Blue shirt, or red?” said someone, a new voice.
	“Blue,” rumbled the man holding him. Yes, it was Artur. Timothy tried to squirm away from him, but his grip was too strong, and he was too weak. “Red comes across as powerful. We don't want him to look powerful.”
	“I've got pink, if you like.”
	“Too cheerful. Actually, what about a grey or brown?”
	Multiple sets of hands dressed him, moving his limp limbs around. He felt a button-up shirt. It might have been blue or grey or brown. He tried to wriggle as they tugged boxer-briefs up his legs, and then jeans over the top of them. It was efficient. It lacked all of the soothing tenderness of the General's attention when he dressed his baby boy.
	The clothes touched his skin in all the wrong ways. The shirt bunched in under his arms, and it itched horribly. He rubbed at his chest and sides, but that only made the sand-papery roughness worse. The jeans rested so heavily on his legs. It was like wearing steel piping. But worst of all were the boxer-briefs. They squeezed his waist and thighs like the diaper did, but they also pressed down onto his crotch, rather than giving the soft comfort of a diaper's padding. And they were so thin! It was worse than being naked. His lower lip quivered.
	“He looks unhappy.”
	“Good,” said Artur. “That's the look we want. He's ready.”
	They set him down onto plastic chair. He felt heat on his face, like strong sunshine. But there was no breeze, nor the acoustics of open skies. People moved around him in the unknown space. Footsteps approached him, and hands settled on his knees. The body leaned in close enough for him to smell feline scent past his own shampooed body. Liam.
	“Perhaps you really don't know anything about the bunker,” he said. “You can still be useful to us. Are you going to be a good boy, Timothy?”
	Meekly, Timothy nodded.
	“Good. Very good.” He felt the air move as Liam moved around to his side. “Over there, in front of you, is a video camera. In a few moments, you're going to be recorded. You will tell the camera who you are, and what the General did to you. You will then denounce him.”
	Timothy tensed. “I'll...what?”
	“You will tell the world that the General is a monster. A rapist and a pervert. You will help to bring him down, even if you can't tell us where he is.”
	Timothy made a strangled noise. He whipped his head from side to side, until the stab of headache made him stop. “No!” he cried.
	“No?”
	“I won't!”
	“Timothy,” said Liam, quiet, soothing. “He hurt you. He kidnapped you and turned you into his depraved little toy. You owe it to yourself and to everyone to tell the world what happened, and to expose the General for what he truly is. Don't you want to do that?”
	Timothy clamped his jaw shut and shook his head. Was the camera filming now? He tried to focus his hearing, as if he might pick out some tell-tale detail. But all he heard was the background humming of electronics, and the quiet breathing of an unknown number of people...watching him.
	“You don't have to be afraid, Timothy,” said Liam, his voice firmer. “The General isn't here now. He can't hurt you. He'll never find you. I promise you.”
	The clothes itched. The seat was hard against his unpadded rear. He was being asked to think, to decide, to control his actions and his future, in this mysterious room, with no mental map. Somewhere out there, hopefully still intact, was his nursery, with its softness and its warmth. He knew its layout. He could move around with confidence. His padded rear protected him in a constant, comforting hug. His fleecy clothes didn't itch and pinch. He didn't have to think, or worry. The General took care of everything.
	He shook his head again. Liam hissed.
	“How can you say no, after what he did to you?! You're a victim! Surely you know that!” A pause, and the harshness drained from Liam's voice. Timothy felt his hands sliding down over his shoulders and chest, and then settling on his crotch. The thin fabric offered no protection, like his diaper and his chastity would. Under his touch, his cock started to harden once again. Timothy groaned and tried to twist away, but Liam pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back against the chair.
	“Don't you want to cum?” asked Liam, his voice dripping with honey. “I know you want to. You still can, if you do what you know is right. Just make this one little video. You don't even need to say much. Just say the General is a monster, that he kidnapped you and tortured you. And then Artur and I can take you back to my room and I'll make sure you have a wonderful time. You remember what I sounded like, don't you? When the General was fucking me? Don't you want to see what it's like to be the one that makes me sound like that?”
	“Please...” gasped Timothy, starting the sentence without knowing where he wanted it to end. In the chaos of conflicting thoughts and emotions, he turned back to the only reliable thing; the contentment of helplessness. He didn't want to think any more! He shook his head once more, and uttered, “please stop...”
	Liam's hand lifted away. Timothy heard him grunt in disgust. His fingers wiped roughly against his shirt, and Timothy smelled urine. His crotch and inner thighs were wet, with the soaked jeans clinging to his fur, clammy and uncomfortable, nothing like to wet squish of a diaper.
	“Fucking freak wet himself,” muttered Liam. “And he probably didn't even notice.” The hand, damp with urine, gripped Timothy's chin and wrenched his head up. There was breath on his nose.
	“Last chance to change your mind, you little shit,” hissed Liam. “Say the word and you can still have all of this; a normal life, with normal clothes, with no fucking baby stuff, and you can even have me. Just say it! Denounce the General!”
	Timothy tried to tug his muzzle free, and nearly yelped in surprise when the fingers released him. He turned his head away and muttered, “I don't want that!”
	Liam didn't reply. In the hush of quiet humming and breathing, Timothy heard a strong, confident voice.
	“Very well done, baby,” said the General. “Very, very well done.”
	Timothy let out a strained squeak, trapped in the back of his throat. The General laughed.
	“And good work, Major. Very good work indeed.”
	“Thank you, sir!” said Liam.

Timothy huffed a shaky breath through his nose and suckled gently on the pacifier gag filling his mouth. He gurgled happily. His diaper caressed his rear, thick, soft, and warm. And through the hole cut into the seat, the General thrusted deep and fast into him.
	“I'm so proud of you,” he grunted, close by his ear. The General's strong arms wrapped tight around him, smothering Timothy in his heat and scent.
	“Your little brother is proud of you too.”
	Liam giggled. The feline knelt straddling Timothy's thighs. Each upward thrust made by the General bumped the crotch of Timothy's diaper against Liam's body. Timothy's nose caught the scent of the feline's arousal, of the cum splashed across the crinkling plastic. Purring, Liam nosed against Timothy's cheek, and kneaded his fingers against Timothy's chest.
	“I hope you're not mad at me,” said Liam, his voice sweet and soft. “I was just acting.”
	Timothy grunted into the gag. He tilted his head back against the General's shoulder. His cock throbbed in his chastity, safe and contained.
	“He's not mad at you,” said the General. “Are you, baby boy?”
	Timothy shook his head, but only after a short hesitation. His head lolled to the side and he huffed out a shaky pant as the General ground the head of his cock over his prostate.
	“He'll make it up to you,” said the General, with a laugh. “He'll play with you the next time I have a party.”
	“Mmmph!” cried Timothy. In his lap, Liam giggled, then lay forward against Timothy, squeezing him between two warm bodies. Timothy dropped his head forward and rested it against Liam's neck.
	“Now I know I can trust you,” said the General, “we can spend much more time together. You can be in my headquarters while I'm working. There's a lovely playpen waiting for you, right next to my desk. You're going to look so lovely there.”
	“And I'll be there too,” said Liam. “Every day.”
	“We won't ever...” The General grunted and tightened his grip around Timothy's body. One last thrust, slamming deep, and Timothy groaned as he felt the General's cum  pulsing deep inside him. He exhaled a happy sigh. No need to think. No need to worry. Together with the General, and Liam.
	Every day!