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Chapter 4: Aftercare and Underwear

Argos rattled off the hotel’s offerings, but kept it simple. Henry pulled out of Dorian’s rear and unclasped the bindings that folded his legs in half. He bade his pet—his partner—to sit up, and removed his mask. The quetzal flexed his jaw and Argos fetched him a towel to sit on, pending any leakage. Henry spotted the bikini crotch flap on the floor, but chose to remain with his anatomy hanging out.

“As a bundle, all the tools you have used get a fifteen percent discount. You are interested?” asked the spider.

“Yes,” Henry said, and Dorian nodded. The quetzal had his snout back, but had yet to talk. Instead, he made eye contact with his partner then leaned his head on the duck’s shoulder.

“I’ll have it washed, packaged, and shipped. Cleanup of the room is to take twenty minutes, which gives you twenty minutes to clean yourselves up and dress ‘politely.’”

“To dress privately,” Henry interjected. “I do not want to share this magic with just anyone.” He put his hand on Dorian’s forearm and squeezed.

“Fair point. The beggars of talent and of praise roam even these fair streets.”

“Do we get any longer for like, aftercare, and snuggling?”

“We do offer unsupervised hours, yes. Or the whole night, if you would prefer.”

Dorian’s hand covered Henry’s and his thumb brushed his knuckle. Henry nodded. “Or we can do that at home.” Dorian squeezed Henry’s hand. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Argos folded all his arms behind him and bowed. “Then if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I shall get cleaned up myself,” he said, then hit a button on the wall and exited the room. A few people in the hall spotted his prodigious erect briefs and lewdly cheered.

“Sorry, happily married,” Henry and Dorian distantly heard, its inflection smug, and the crowd groaned and booed.

The door hissed closed and the duck turned back to his quetzal mate. “Guess it’s shower time, eh?”

“Mm-hmm,” his partner responded, restored to his lips.

The bathroom was, like the rest of the room, an impressive display of quiet luxury and utility. It had excellent floorspace, waterproof sections of carpet, and a drain in the center of the room. The floor layout was open, with a sink and toilet segregated by half-clear, half-frosted sliding glass panels, and the shower head was located in the center of the room, above the drain, affixed to a track that could move it to the traditional shower cubicle.

The toilet had a time-lock with a “sync” button—most likely connected to the clothing lockbox—and was also on a track where it could be hidden in a side closet. Curious, Henry pushed it out of the way and saw that the seating ring remained above a drain.

“Oh, they have all the kinks. Er, specialized proclivities of intimacy.”

Dorian cleared his throat.

“Aftercare, sorry,” said Henry. He went back to his partner and kissed his lips; the feathered serpent responded with a peck. “Okie doke; here we go.”

The duck stripped himself of his crotchless bikini, harness, collar, and hood as if he was just in the gym locker room. Everything off, go take a shower, try not to look at everyone’s junk. Which was usually very easy in Puerto Panuela; the city was not sex-positive per se but it was sex-honest. After dark, even on national streaming services, this region of Wyoming enjoyed the occasional commercial for “the new jock that cups and shapes your bulge!” or “soothing anal lubricant,” or even “adult diapers for enhanced productivity and comfortable snuggling.” The gyms, therefore, did not have that weird stigma where looking at a man’s privates was some surreptitious, shameful gay hookup act. The presence of the stigma then produced that strange feedback loop where men forced their gaze upright, but everyone was paranoid that everyone else was forcing themselves not to look down. Like catching “the gay” was the new bird flu.

Here, you looked, you shrugged. Or if they caught you looking, you’d say “nice,” and they’d say, “thanks, bro” because Puerto Panuela was very bro-positive.

But Henry did have a little bit of a penis fetish. He loved Dorian’s—it was attached to his husband—but there was a sort of androphilia about the duck where …

I guess it’s because a lot of people are pent-up; they’re balled up in their frustrations. And nudity’s a symbol of earnestness. You’re not hiding anything. You’re just existing in the glorious sunshine.

Henry balled up all his caretaker clothing and tossed it in a digital hamper near the bathroom’s exit. A prompt came up, thanking him for his purchase and giving him a tracking number for the Holistic Counseling Services app. Dorian, by contrast, was still standing in the middle of the room, patiently watching.

“Oh! Silly me,” chuckled Henry, then came up to his mate and kissed him on the cheek, then hugged him and held him there. Dorian’s scent, a quiet male cologne, always brought Henry back home.

Dorian didn’t talk, but he did click his tongue TCK-TKK in the manner of an analogue clock. “Again, silly me,” said Henry, then backed up to look at his … pusband … his petner … his met … and admire him.

The quetzal tried to suppress a grin as his husband appraised his submissive uniform—the chest harness with a leash still attached, the jingling collar, the musky jock still soaked with preseminal—and folded his arms. He reached one hand down and jiggled his round male pouch.

“I’mma keep you like that forever.”

Dorian frowned and lowered his head, shooting him a raised eyebrow.

“At least a clean version.”

Dorian’s thighs clenched together, squishing his jocked bulge. But he did give a thumbs up.

“Yeah, there we go!” Henry excitedly said, rubbing his hands together.

Henry got about to stripping his pet, his anatomy at half-mast and bouncing as he unbuckled his thigh cuffs, his chest harness, and his collar. When the duck knelt before the quetzal, he took an extra moment to savor Dorian’s mound, first sniffing and then nuzzling it, getting a streak of sweet musk on his beak.

“Hmm?” asked Dorian, and Henry shushed him.

“Ah-ah; you are mine,” reminded Henry. But he did not overstay his welcome, and with great relish he peeled the quetzal’s garment off his hips. The intimate raiment looped over itself as its waistband rolled down Dorian’s shapely legs, and Henry with a blush kissed the tip of his mate’s cage now he was almost completely naked.

Brazenly, Henry stood and put the pouch over his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He was rewarded with a smirk from his husband, who then took the garment from him and tossed it in the hamper. The duck was back at three-quarters mast now, and he noticed how Dorian’s hands magnetized toward it.

When his mate’s fingers wrapped around his shaft, Henry leaned in and they shared a deep kiss, their lips parting for each other’s tongue and their chests pressing together. Dorian stroked Henry’s seed-coated shaft and it was actually Henry this time to break their intimate impulses.

Dorian’s anatomy, for that matter, was straining in its cage, pulling his sac up into a concerning squish against the holding ring. “Oh, yeah; let’s get that off you, dear.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dorian purred. Henry retrieved the key and unlocked the quetzal; Dorian’s penis flopped out and grew half-hard right away, making removal of the sac ring a bit of a process. Also curious was, by way of the cage bars, a series of “grill marks” along the quetzal’s length.

“Got mustard?” snarked Henry.

“Ahem,” informed Dorian, who immediately stepped into the shower. They used the wall panel to shift the showerhead back to the normal cubicle, then pulled the sliding glass to encapsulate them. On the wall were bottles for shampoo, conditioner, scale wash, skin wash, feather wash, and silicone-based lubricant. Beside that was a metal hose with a domed tip—an enema hose. Beside that, a waterproof personal groomer.

“Looks like we need a second honeymoon here,” Henry said, then turned on the water. The interface was digital, and hesitated as the water pre-heated. “I guess 37.5 is correct,” said Henry.

“Fahrenheit?” asked Dorian as his first post-pet word.

Henry grinned. “Yep; time to be men. Nah, it’s C right here; guess that’s fancy temperature.”

Dorian sighed. The shower came on and they got to washing themselves, though Dorian was a bit slow to step into the stream. He kept looking at Henry.

“So how you feeling, love?” asked the duck, coming over with a wad of shampoo in his palm. Dorian smiled and turned his back to Henry, letting him lather up his shoulder blades and back.

“Feeling good, dear,” answered Dorian, nodding. The quetzal could be quiet at times; now it was only more natural to be so.

“Yeah, that was really something,” Henry said, kneeling down to wash his legs. Gently, he reached up and parted Dorian’s buttocks and started scrubbing.

“Darling?” Dorian asked. “I, um, that area. Still full.”

Henry tickled the naked male on the way up and hugged him from behind. “You wanna …” he started, pushing his half-hard shaft between the quetzal’s cheeks, “Empty?”

Dorian blushed, himself still rather erect from being freed. His hand went near the bottles and nudged the cylindrical wand. “I suppose this is Chekov’s gun?”

A soft pain went through Henry’s groin, still spent. “Oof. Yeah, I think we could change your oil; make sure you’re running clean. Or,” he said, dropping one hand to stroke Dorian’s stomach, “Want to keep my burden, my essence, for the ride home?”

The quetzal’s abdomen grumbled. “Aah,” he gasped. “I’m thinking that’d make for an awkward car ride and possibly a load of laundry.”

“I’m not hearing no,” Henry purred, reaching down and stroking Dorian’s cock. The quetzal was uncircumcised, and his foreskin glided across his hard length.

“Goodness, you’re kinky,” he giggled, but scooted forward before they were charged another hour in the room. Twenty minutes moved fast.

Of course, there was an intercom just outside the shower panel. Dorian reached out and blooped the button.

“Front desk,” purred Canterbury. They heard familiar slurping sounds and the rustle of a rocking mattress. “Ah, no teeth, please.”

The two males shared startled grins like teen males seeing their first pair of boobs.

“Ah, yes,” nervously chuckled Dorian. “We were wondering—”

“Heaven’s sake, I am so sorry; let me put on noise suppression,” said the cat. “Immensely unprofessional and—that knot looks dry—you have my deepest apologies. Keep with the rhythm; her head and hips are connected.”

“Hey, we’ll cut you a deal,” said Dorian, swatting Henry’s paws away as he felt them grasp his sac and shaft. The quetzal bit his lip as he felt the duck kneel behind him and nestle his bill between his post-pounded buttocks. The tongue came soon after, teasing his sore rear entrance. “Aaah. And this may sound like blackmail—”

“Against the question and I know what you’re thinking,” Canterbury said, having failed to trigger noise suppression. A male and female were rhythmically grunting in the background, and the female’s mouth was full. “But ahh … mmm … I’m in a very good mood. I can distract the next guests with the foreplay jacuzzi; the swimsuits are completely netted, it’s so sexy; and give you the full remaining half-hour.”

Dorian’s mind was starting to slip into passion; it was one thing being fucked in front of a professional, confident spider in a mankini but here he was being serviced and fondled at the same time as his new brother-in-lust. “Well, all right; that’s a good starting point, but—”

Canterbury must have detected the quetzal’s faltering, because the screen of the intercom came on with a cheeky selfie-cam from the tuxedo cat. He still wore his bowtie and vest, but now his lovely black thong was merely cupping his balls, because he (or someone in the room) had extracted his malehood through its coy little window and an enthusiastic female catfish was bobbing her head up and down on it. Her big breasts hung free and swung with every stroke.

Behind her, a male chocolate labrador was clapping her fishy cheeks.

Canterbury smugly grinned, keeping the fellatio in the viewing window. “Don’t worry, I can’t see you. You have to press the camera button for that. “Eudaimonia is about value and, if Doctor Morrigan’s ‘condition’ was anything to go by—he purposely walked through the exhibition wing—you got platinum for a penny. So! Not a second more over thirty; the ‘closing time’ lights will come on when there’s five minutes to go.”

Dorian almost felt bad he didn’t have his camera on, and Henry’s insistent ministrations to his backside and groin were not helping his negotiator mind. In fact, he felt fantastic; the tongue was soothing his ring like no lotion could, and the gentle tugs to his balls and rhythmic strokes to his rock-hard shaft sent waves of soothing pleasure through him.

He wondered how many people politely joined orgies because they felt it rude to say “no.” The quetzal felt a downward slosh in his abdomen. “Ah! Honey, that’s a loaded gun,” said Dorian.

“Mmfh, amph… blast me,” said Henry with his mouth full.

“W-what happens if we’re here at thirty and five seconds?”

Canterbury giggled. “The sprinklers come on. These rooms power wash themselves. Oh, the fun we see; once every other week you’ll have a naked couple, throuple, what have you, running down the hallway, screaming and soaking wet, and the Praetorians are waiting in the lobby with a towel and a lecture. Can I see you?” he asked.

Rude to say no, but it was within his right. Dorian pressed the button anyway.

The view Canterbury got was that of a feathered serpent, feathers wet, bracing himself against the shower wall and glass while a pair of studious hands worked his cock and balls, and that of a kneeling duck, half-erect, with his face buried under the quetzal’s tail.

“What ho!” the cat cried, pumping a fist. This dislodged his erection from the catfish’s mouth, but with a beckoning paw she knelt back down and slurped away at his shaft. “Yes, dear; you can use a finger. One for now. Well, well! Even after all that, your wonderful husband is making sure you’re all ship shape and scrubbed. Marry him again; you have another ring finger.”

“So, discount?” Dorian asked, stifling a groan as Henry’s tongue snaked up inside his seed-filled passage.

“No,” said Canterbury, and hung up.

Dorian blinked. Fair was fair, he supposed … though out of the corner of his eye, he swore he could see something swinging between the catfish’s legs, and it wasn’t a pair of dog balls.

Huh, the catfish was a catfish. Hmm.

A grumble behind his bladder brought Dorian back to reality. Those hands on his loins had never stopped; in fact every glance of a thumbpad across his hooded glans was that of a dimmer switch turning up the lights. With his entire undercarriage being fondled, stroked and serviced, tip to tailhole, Dorian was locking into the same sex hypnosis that drove Henry passionately into his backside. He was up on the balls of his feet, and every time he rose to his toes, a duck head followed, locked to his rump.

The tongue pulled his ring, loosening it, and Dorian gasped and clenched as a load of seed rushed his rear exit. When he clenched, Henry’s tongue fought.

“Love of my life,” he said, batting at the licking, slurping duck, “I’m as clean as I can be back there but I do not want that tract of me gushing into your mouth.”

Henry sighed and Dorian hated to sexually frustrate his husband. The duck stopped licking, but he kept stroking. “How ‘bout I keep my mouth and eyes closed?”

Dorian felt his hips thrusting into Henry’s hand. He blushed deeply, knowing he was oozing from both ends. The duck dodged low and lapped an errant stream trickling down his inner thigh. His abdomen clenched and gurgled; it was happening soon whether he wanted it or not.

“O-okay, fine,” said Dorian, his hips chasing Henry’s hand. The duck kept grabbing pumps from the lubricant bottle, making the pocket Dorian was thrusting into sumptuously slick and tight. From the stroking of his head to the squeezing of his shaft, Henry was expertly provoking the quetzal’s mating instinct, and Dorian found himself trying to think in between pumps.

“Just relax,” Henry purred, cupping Dorian’s sac. Even though the quetzal was unbound, he felt chained to the duck’s ministrations. And it felt fantastic.

“Oh, goodness,” Dorian sighed, and he closed his eyes as Henry quickened his pace. But just like that, Henry stopped and gripped both Dorian’s shaft and sac, freezing in place. Dorian whined and tried to hump, his lusts gnawing at their chains, but Henry’s hold on his gonads locked everything in a biological cage. “No, baby; don’t make me…”

“Ah-ah; it’s your choice,” teased Henry, nuzzling and licking under his tail. Every stroke of his tongue made the quetzal’s ring clench.

In dire straits, collared by his groin, Dorian could either finish the shower in sexual frustration or give in to this sexual blackmail. “Oooh,” he whined, giving a pitiful thrust.

“Try and hold it,” sing-songed Henry, nuzzling up between Dorian’s cheeks. The despicable duck went as far as to pull Dorian down by his gonads, right up against his face. He stroked the quetzal’s shaft a few times, squeezing out pre, then froze his hands again. “You know you wanna…”

“I wanna…” Dorian huffed, trying to hump.

“You wanna?” Henry teased, stroking his balls.

“I want to cum,” Dorian whined. “But not on the face; really. I don’t want you getting pink ey-hiiiiighh!” A squirt of clear fluid hit the shower wall, and a squirt of white struck Henry in the forehead. “Please; just compromise.”

While Henry enormously enjoyed the pearly jet of essence springing from his mate’s ring, firing in slow motion, he could tell by his voice that this was a boundary Dorian was sticking to. “Yeah, yeah, that sounds good; now one good push …” he implored.

Dorian felt Henry’s face drifting from his full rear end. Still, he furiously blushed; it was an intimate act that usually took place on the sanctity of the toilet, even if Henry was also there brushing his teeth. “This is for you, baby,” Dorian said, then squeezed down on his bowels to evacuate Henry’s sweet load.

It came out initially silent, but then the visceral squishing trumpet of the organ did sound out against the shower walls as an embarrassingly generous gush of semen burst from his rear end and hit Henry’s chest and stomach with a loud splat. “Oooof!” Dorian gratifyingly declared as relief poured through him … and out of him. He felt his ass squirt again, a pleasing remnant.

Henry, for his part, rewarded him with luscious, warm, rapid strokes. He tugged on his sac and he dove back into his rump, licking the wetted area.

All this stimulation, bolstered by the teasing and relief, threw Dorian into a passionate maelstrom and right over the edge. “Oh, love, I’m going to … hah! Ah! Oh goodness …” he swooned.

Henry, ever-brazen, turned Dorian around and pointed his throbbing, jolting anatomy at him. The first burst struck the shower wall, and the second onward rained down upon Henry’s face, painting his grinning bill, green head, and pink tongue in thick, hot strings of his delicious essence. Dorian, for his part, grinned at the absurd intimacy and braced himself in the cubicle’s corner as his groin irrevocably availed itself of its precious fluid.

“Lord Almighty,” Dorian chuckled, seeing his mate pelted in semen. “Did you have your fun?”

Henry’s smile slightly faded. “Did you?”

The quetzal parried and riposted. “Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. “My priority is you.”

“I thought we were done with the pet play?”

“Dynamic, dear,” said Dorian. His heart felt a little chilly; it was strange for Henry to suddenly switch it off. Then again, he was the more stoic type of male; very effusive during romantic times, but then when his loins were drained he’d be right back to fixing something in the detached garage. Sometimes still bottomless—Dorian was thankful they had a privacy fence. “D-do you remember what Argos said? Keep it Holy?”

Henry was immediately on his feet, stroking his mate’s shoulders. “I mean, yeah; I’m still absolutely sold on this—I don’t think either of us are charmed by ‘novelty’ anymore—”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, I don’t think that me walking around in assless chaps would be appealing ‘just’ because you can see my form-fitting underwear.”

“Ah; we’d want a through-line.”

“Exactly. The chaps are sexy because my rump and bulge are on display, because those are two elements of physical intimacy, because physical intimacy is a language of love along with mental and emotional intimacy.”

“Okay, novelty being something that’s merely ‘naughty’ or ‘forbidden’ or ‘taboo,’ whereas a ‘specialized proclivity,’ as Argos puts it, is a tool.”

“That’s right,” Henry said, taking another glob of feather wash and cleaning his chest. Dorian’s hands assisted. “But what do you think of my little bulge-walk for the ice? I mean, that was pretty risque, the way everyone could see my, y’know.”

Dorian shrugged, cleaning Henry’s face. “Did you draw pleasure from being seen in a taboo state?”

“I, um,” Henry started. “I dunno. It was kinda more like, we were all compatriots and free and experiencing the thrill of promised intimacy. So it was more about … the opposite of taboo. The realization that we’re not all kinked up with some emotional constipation, but that we are free, thriving spirits.”

Dorian shut off the shower, hearing a chime about their five minute warning. The song that played was indeed “Closing Time.” The quetzal stepped under a blower to dry his feathers and spoke over it. “I think some people use kink as self-medication; to fill a hole, as it were, for some unresolved shortcoming.”

“I can understand that; putting a poster over a hole in the wall,” said Henry. He opted for a towel and started rubbing from the bottom up. He turned around when the towel got to the bottom of his buttocks, and he scrubbed back and forth to make his cheeks jiggle. The duck looked back with a grin; he got a smirk and a head-shake from the feathered serpent.

They went out to the main room and found their clothes had been steamed and folded by the lockbox. A knot formed in Henry’s throat; how fucking expensive was this going to be? He tossed Dorian his clothes and the quetzal grinned, seeing that beside the lockbox was their fetish gear in neat little shopping bags.

“Give me my jock,” the quetzal purred.

“Oh, geez,” Henry said with a blush. “Well, I guess it’s covered parking…”

The refrain of “Closing Time” was a bit louder now, and the lights were a bit brighter. It was almost subtle. Henry’s phone pinged with an email.

“Thank you for staying at Eudaimonia, Your Receipt…”

“Oh geez,” said Henry, then opened it because heck, hesitation led to procrastination, and procrastination led to the Dark Side.

It actually wasn’t that bad. A luxury to be sure, but not one of those restaurants where they gave you a vaporized food enema—literally blowing smoke up your ass—and charged you five hundred dollars for the opportunity.

They got dressed and Dorian became a little bashful when he realized his rump was exposed and that, without the cage, his jock was readily indicating his excitement. Henry felt his own brief underwear tighten, but this was indeed their new horizon so they’d best get started if they were going to reach it. They held hands and walked proudly, a little timidly, to the lobby, where Argos and Canterbury were chit-chatting while both swiped through their appointment tablets.

Argos still had that amusing ability to scratch his hip, support his chin, check his watch, and scroll through an electronic device. Both were still in male eros-chic clothing where nothing beneath their groins were covered. Canterbury gave them a wink.

“All right; you’re all checked out and ready to go. Would you like our valet to bring the car around?”

“Is there a cost?” asked Henry, to which Dorian annoyedly squeezed his paw.

“Well, yes, but as you can see everything is brilliantly affordable.”

“Yeah, how do you do that?” asked Henry.

“A combination of the city’s prosperity, our own rigorous structures and systems, and the strict enforcement of societal congeniality.”

“The Praetorians and the Stupid Laws?”

“Yes, those.”

“Yes, it’s quite the paradox,” said Argos, “For we want to be purely free, and do whatever we want, but at the same time if I were with my family, I’d be deeply offended to have any of them, or even myself if I’m not in the mood, a gaggle publicly fornicating.”

“And I, the same.”

“We don’t want control over others, but certainly want control of our own experiences.”

“Indeed,” Henry said, finding himself loitering at the front desk. Canterbury slid to the side to assist a set of new customers. “Especially ones … that are so strongly emotional.”

“That are so strong,” said Argos, flexing as he folded a couple pairs of arms.

“You’d make a really cool Jedi,” Dorian said, unprompted.

Argos, Canterbury, Henry, and the customers paused, and they all had a laugh.

“Trust me, I’m better with glow sticks than searing hot plasma.”

“Doctor Morrigan is the type of fellow to not ask for ecstasy tablets, but antacids!”

“Canterbury, I’ll have you know that you will eventually be an adult with sore joints and druthers about popular music.”

“When Brokeback Mountain is not a gay romance, but a medical drama?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, then turned to Henry and Dorian. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

“Coupons?” asked Henry.

Argos chuckled. “We do have a rewards program and a credit card.”

“Oooh!” said Dorian.

“We’ll think,” said Henry, then tugged his mate’s paw to get them walking. “Maybe that muzzle was a good idea.”

“Excuse me!”

They laughed and teased their way to the car, Henry helping himself to Dorian’s exposed buttocks with pinches and subsequent bats to his hand.

“Hey, stawp!” Dorian mewled.

“You’re the one with that ass,” said Henry.

“I’m sorry; I was born with it!”

“And whose fault was that?”

Dorian sputtered and got to the passenger-side door. “My mom?”

Henry popped the driver door and got in. “Well …” he started, then his grin fell. He’d really backed himself into a corner. “Tell her thank you.”

The car fell silent. Dorian cleared his throat. “I … don’t think I can phrase that in any genteel way.”

“Yeah, probably right,” said Henry, starting the engine.