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HARD MOUTHED

It's a long, sleepless night, and Nettie spends every waking second of it thinking about that stupid fucking key.

The bar where he'd left his jacket opens at three in the afternoon. Nettie knows this because he's checked its website four times in the last twenty minutes. There was a moment or two, around three in the morning, when he'd considered a cheeky bit of B&E—but he doesn't even know if his coat is still where he left it, or if someone nabbed it, or if it got tossed into a lost and found bin.

At some point, despite his tossing and turning, the enforced waiting starts to feel a bit like foreplay.

So, Nettie waits.

It's not like he's got nothing else to do. He's got things to fill the weekend moments of his life. Hell, if he digs deep enough through his phone, he could probably find a friend to hang out with. Probably. If he wanted to. Which he doesn't.

What he really wants is a bit of post-nut clarity to level him out. He grinds his palm between his legs, shivering. He burns his breakfast because he can't stop thinking about the crocodile's blunted claws on his wrists, teeth on his throat, the plug slipping into his slit. He notices a flake of red paint on the silver lock from the hood of the bull's stupid sports car. Nettie chews his burnt toast and thumbs it away. He checks the website again.

The bar still opens at three in the afternoon.

He's got hours to kill, a lot of nervous energy to burn, and he can't even jack off about it.

It doesn't stop him from trying. He quickly discovers that if he angles the plug right and fiddles with the plug's release pin, it's just enough movement to edge. It doesn't help. After fifteen frustrating minutes, he's hot in the face, panting into his knuckles. Fifteen minutes after that, he's tearing his tool-drawer apart, looking for a pair of bolt-cutters that he knows he doesn't own.

“Fucker," he mutters, kicking out of his shorts with a wince. “Fucking hell."

His groin aches. He's worse off now than when he started, his head buzzing and thoughts murky with aimless lust. He feels like he's still drunk. Maybe he should take another cold shower. Maybe he should give it a rest before he hurts himself.

Maybe he should try a vibrator.

Cursing under his breath, Nettie pulls out his suitcase of sex toys and dumps it onto the bed. He picks out a vibrator wand and grins when it rumbles to life between his legs, buzzing loudly against the metal face of the plug.

“Ooh," he croons, shivering a little. He grinds the head of the vibrator into the locked pin, and his legs shake hard enough that he has to curl a fist into his sheets to stay upright. “Oh… oh. Holy fuck."

He ends up on his back, with his thighs wrapped around the vibrator, bucking his hips feverishly. The pleasure is lovely and prickly and warm—but the constant pressure on his dick and the occasional twinge of pain keeps shunting the goalposts further. By the time the batteries in the vibrator die, all he's got to show for his efforts is a stomach cramp.

“Come on," he urges, softly. His thighs are numb. “Come the fuck on."

By the time three rolls around, he's no closer to cresting his edge than he was an hour ago. His sheets are a sweat-spotted mess, streaked with lube from an aborted attempt at fingering himself to the finish line. He's in the middle of trying to figure out a way to choke himself with his own belt when he glances at the time.

He's a mess, but he doesn't bother cleaning up. He dials the number from the bar's website and puts it on speaker as he staggers his way to his closet, brushing his sweaty plumage with his fingers. He doesn't bother with underwear; shorts, shirt, splash of water on his face. Even that much effort feels herculean.

“Hello?"

Nettie jumps at the sound of the voice from the bedroom. He tosses the towel aside and rushes back to his phone, cursing under his breath.

“This had better not be a prank call."

Even scattered as he is, Nettie recognizes the voice: it's the retriever bartender with the slick-back.

“Hey!" Nettie croaks, picking up the phone in damp fingers. “Hey, yeah, what's up. I was at your bar yesterday, and-"

There's a little muffled sound as the dog covers the mic. Muffled voices. The clinking of glass. Nettie taps his talons on the linoleum.

“Okay," the guy says, after a long few seconds. “What do you want?"

“I left my jacket behind."

There's another pause, longer than Nettie expected. “You're that bird," the bartender remarks, wryly. He doesn't sound bored anymore—if anything, he sounds like Nettie just told him a good joke.

“Uh…" Nettie says. “Sure."

“Jacket's canvas, right? Froofy bit on the collar?"

Nettie's sigh of relief has him sagging in place. “Oh, thank God. Yeah, that's-"

“Little key in the breast pocket?"

Nettie freezes. He opens his beak twice before any words come out. “That's the one."

Another pause, this time without any mic-covering. The guy's waiting him out.

“Cool," Nettie caves, warily. “Can… can I come grab it?"

Pause. Again. What the fuck?

“Sure thing," the retriever says eventually. Nettie can't be sure, but it sounds like he's wearing a shit-eating grin. He can hear talking in the background. “Come by whenever. I've got it right here."

Nettie clicks his beak and forces himself to relax. It's just a key. The guy's got no reason to assume what it's for. Just because he sounds like he knows exactly what it's for doesn't mean shit. He's probably just an asshole.

“I'm on my way over," he says, tucking the phone against his shoulder while he pulls a pair of shorts on. “I'll be there in like half an hour."

“No rush, dude," the bartender says, jovially. “It's not going anywhere."

***

Nettie scopes the place when he gets there, looking in the windows to make sure last night's bull isn't sitting at the bar.

When he's sure there's no chance of awkward reunions, he takes a breath and heads in. The place is pretty much deserted this early, but there's one or two other idiots here who have no place better to be on a Sunday afternoon.

The labrador bartender smiles when Nettie enters, flicking a rag into a bin beside the counter. The guy's curly black fur is a little wind-tousled, and he's casually dressed. He could be another patron, if he wasn't stood behind the bar.

Before Nettie can get a word out, he's being slid a colourful drink and waved into a seat.

“It's on the house," the labrador says at Nettie's suspicious look. He can hear the guy's tail wagging. “I owe you."

Nettie narrows his eyes, but takes the drink and the seat. “For what?" he asks, suspiciously.

The labrador nods to the other end of the bar, where Nettie had picked up last night's stud. “That bull guy was freaking me out a bit yesterday," he says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I was working myself up to cutting him off before you decided to take one for the team."

“Oh." Nettie flushes a bit at the labrador's knowing grin. He shouldn't be surprised; his matador routine hadn't exactly been subtle. With an embarrassed huff, Nettie picks up the whatever-it-is in a cup and takes a cautious sip. It tastes more like syrup than alcohol. He downs it quickly, only to find another slid into its place.

“Is this one on the house too?"

The bartender folds his cloth in front of him, then leans forward on both elbows. “Depends."

“On what?"

“On you," the retriever says, leaning his chin into his folded hands. “We've got a bet going."

A little kernel of dread pops in Nettie's stomach. “Is it about me 'taking one for the team' last night?" he says, dryly. “The guy could barely keep it up, if that's what you're after."

The labrador rocks back and forth on his elbows, grinning. “Nope. Guess again."

Nettie's not an idiot. He knows the game that's being played, just as he knows that if he plays it, he's not going to win. Instead, he clicks his beak and remains silent, waiting for the labrador's move.

He's not all that surprised when the guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little silver key. Nettie's little silver key.

“It's about this little guy," the bartender says, holding the thing up between them. The urge to grab it and run grips Nettie by the brainstem. His hand twitches. Fuck his coat, wherever the labrador's keeping it, he can always buy another. Nettie breathes in slowly, and doesn't follow the key with his eyes when the barkeep starts waving it lazily in front of him.

“You're a nosy fucker," Nettie snarks, trying for casual and ending up a bit too high. “Dick move, going through a guy's pockets."

The dog grins, folding the key into his palm and knocking against the bartop. “What's it for?"

Nettie stays silent again. There's a low throbbing in his crotch that he does his best to ignore, even as he feels his face grows redder and redder under the labrador's growing smile.

“Jada thinks it's for a diary," the guy says, quietly.

Nettie can't help but snort at that. “What am I, a fucking teenager?"

The canine's grin is all teeth. “That's what I said." He leans over the counter, his gaze raking down Nettie's front and back up again. “You wanna hear what I think it's for?"

Nettie meets his gaze for an even few seconds, giving nothing.

And then he rubs his beak and sighs.

“I knew it!" The retriever cackles, slamming his palm down on the counter hard enough to make Nettie jump. “I knew you were a freak for taking on el Toro, but fuck, dude."

“Congrats," Nettie mutters into his drink. “What do you win?"

“Well, for starters, I don't work Fridays for the rest of the month." The retriever thinks for a second. It looks like it takes real effort. “Also, she's gonna do this thing with a cantaloupe next time we hook up."

Nettie starts to unpack that, then decides he's in no position to judge. “Sounds like fun," he says, dryly. “Can I have my shit back?"

The dog just smiles at him. Nettie rubs his temple and sighs. “Fine. What do you want?"

The labrador lets out a bark of laughter. “Do a little dance," he says, beady eyes alight with mischief. “Do my fucking taxes, I don't know. Lemme think."

Someone calls from the other end of the bar, and the dog trots away, leaving Nettie hanging. There are a bunch more people around now, filling the space with burbling conversation and the smell of open booze. After a few minutes, the barkeep wanders back around with a cocktail, placing it in front of Nettie with a flourish.

“That's your last freebie." The labrador guffaws at Nettie's cocked eyebrow, snickering into his knuckles. “Fuck, man. I can't even look at you."

Impatience is starting to corrode Nettie's already limited manners, but he manages to keep a hold of himself. The drink tastes like shit. Down the hatch it goes.

“So," the retriever says, scratching a claw against the bartop. “There's a break-room in back."

That perks Nettie up. He lowers his drink and gives the guy a look-over. He's hot, in a careless, stupid kind of way. “Oh yeah?"

“Oh yeah," The dog says, leaning an elbow on the counter. Nettie's leaning in too, close enough to smell the retriever's hair gel… and catch a faint whiff of menthol cigarettes on his breath.

The lurch of his heart is sudden and cold. The adrenaline hits his system just like it always does—but this time, the tingling rush that creeps across his skin feels eerily like the prickle of falling snow. His stomach twinges, right above his navel.

God. It's the most visceral flashback he's ever had, coming at the worst possible time.

Nettie pulls back, crushing down the urge to get up off the stool and fuck off. He's in a bar, he reminds himself. Not an alley. It's the middle of the day, and Nettie's not some clueless, trembling idiot who gets stabbed without asking for it first. Not anymore.

Get a fucking grip.

“Just-" Nettie starts, hearing the tremor in his own voice. He swallows and tries again. “Can I just have my shit back?"

The dog recovers quick. From the coy slant of his grin, he must think Nettie's playing hard to get. “Oh, come on—don't pretend you weren't eye-fucking me two seconds ago."

Nettie taps his fingers on his empty glass. He doesn't rub the itch from his stomach because there's no reason to. It's just a scar. He's got plenty of those. He's fine.

“Force of habit."

“Ah, come on. We can be quick, I just wanna see-"

“I don't do mutts, asshole."

The retriever's suggestive smile flattens. Nettie catches up to his own mouth a second too late to bite his tongue.

“What did you say?" The labrador asks, indignantly.

Nettie clicks his beak, trying to puzzle that out himself.

It takes him a second to realize that his runaway mouth was, as a matter of fact, correct: he really doesn't do mutts. Hasn't done. Ever. He'd fantasized plenty. Sexted some, then flaked. But actually getting in bed with one?

He can't think of a single time.

With the smell of menthol in his head and the phantom pain of the mugger's knife in his stomach, it's not hard to figure out why.

He grounds himself with a quick breath, smoothing his feathers down from where they'd poofed up around his collar. He's past this; Nettie's a grown-ass junkie with a fix to chase, not the trembling little freshman he'd once been.

So what if he can barely breathe?

Fear can feel good, if he lets it.

“I..." Nettie says, hoarsely, over the deafening thrum of his own heart. “Nothing, man. Where's your break room?"

The dog's cold expression doesn't thaw—but one of his floppy ears twitches. He drops his towel onto the bartop, then pulls out his phone and starts typing something, full cold-shoulder. Shit. He's actually gone and pissed the guy off. It's the goddamn bull all over again.

“You know what?" the labrador says, still typing on his phone. He's all smiles when he looks up, like nothing ever happened. Like Nettie's fat fucking mouth hadn't gone and ruined the mood. “I changed my mind. Fuck the break room."

Nettie shifts on the stool. Swallows a lump in his throat. “Your place, then."

The guy laughs as though that's the funniest thing he's ever heard. “Nah, man. I've got this friend. His name's Kolter. I want you to buy him a drink."

There's a little pause between them. Nettie clicks his beak, just to break the silence. “What, seriously? That's it?"

The lab's phone buzzes in his hand. The guy just keeps smiling at him, perfectly placid.

Several worst-case scenarios start to take root on the inside of Nettie's mangled head. This is way too easy. This Kolter guy has got to be a serial killer or something.

Or worse, a virgin.

“What's wrong with him?" Nettie asks, bluntly.

When the lab laughs this time, it sounds like it did over the phone. Like there's a joke here that Nettie isn't in on. He takes one of Nettie's empty glasses and drops it in the sink with a clatter. “He ain't some mutt, if that's what you're worried about," he says, like they're friends now, buddies with a fun inside joke between them.

There is definitely something wrong here. Nettie chews on that for all of two seconds before deciding he doesn't care. “Fine," he says. “And then I get my shit back?"

“Yep."

The retriever sticks out his hand. Nettie shakes it, expecting his fingers to get crushed or something—but it's just a normal handshake. Everything's normal here. No impending feeling of doom that raises the hackles on Nettie's neck. If the labrador can pretend that they're cool all of a sudden, so can he.

Nettie spends the next hour or so nursing his last freebie and watching the door. A half-dozen people filter in, and he sits up every time the bell over the door rings—but as it happens, he shouldn't have bothered.

A horse walks into the bar.

God. Nettie's life has never felt more like a joke.

The guy, who is, in fact, a horse, seems a little buttoned up. All the way up, like he's going to church after this or something. He's a little older than Nettie, but not by much. His fur is roan red and shiny. Nice hair and a nervous voice.

The labrador calls him over. Nettie sighs into his drink.

Polite herbivore isn't his usual flavour… but maybe something lighter, something less sharp-toothed isn't such a bad idea to ride out the waning hours of his imprisonment. Assuming, of course, that this is going where he thinks it is. And assuming he doesn't scare the poor guy as soon as his pants are off. And assuming the lab doesn't go back on their ditzy little handshake deal.

Christ.

The horse is chatty, which is good. For the cheap price of an Old Fashioned, Nettie is treated to the guy's life story, which he only half listens to. The stallion is lean and sleek as an athlete. Judging by the strain in the crotch, he's probably hung. The constant press of Nettie's own dick against the plug makes it impossible to sit still, like it knows that it's one handsome, underwhelming fuck away from freedom.

Nettie likes to think he has flirting down to a science—but his composure keeps slipping and he keeps stuttering, as if years of practice just up and left him. He's coming off like an idiot, like he's new at this again, and the guy's too nice to rib him over it. It's fucking irritating.

Luckily, the guy doesn't seem bothered by his spaciness. He just seems happy to have Nettie's attention.

“So anyway," the guy—Kolter, Nettie recalls—says, “You ever try poppers?"

Nettie almost chokes on his drink. He can't say if that was the way this conversation was going, or if Kolter just said it to get his attention. If it's the latter, it works like a charm.

“Um…" Nettie says, deciding to lay it on a little thick. “That's like, a drug, right?" He makes a show of rubbing the back of his neck and averting his eyes while he lies through his beak. “I've never done that stuff before."

“Hey, it's cool," the stallion says with a weird smile. “I'm not gonna make you do anything you're not into."

That's nice of him. So nice, in fact, that Nettie barely notices the little alarm bell going off in the back of his mind.

Nettie hasn't always been a good liar—but two-facing was a skill that had come naturally to him, once he put his mind to it. A friend of his, a little after graduating together, had told Nettie over drinks that he, quote, 'barely even recognized him sometimes'. He'd considered it a compliment at the time, even though it had been followed up with a vodka soda being thrown in his face.

Point is, Nettie knows damn well what it sounds like when someone throws out a line they don't believe.

And Kolter, he realizes with a lurch, just lied through his flat fucking teeth.

Nettie makes a show of nodding and smiling while the stallion talks some more—but he knows how any good grift works. He's not watching the very distracting horse anymore.

He's watching the bartender.

As soon as his attention shifts, the stallion gets more animated than he's been all night, gesturing and laughing and touching Nettie's knees. While the guy regales Nettie with some shit story about a work party, the labrador is casually stirring something powdered into one of a pair of sazeracs. Then, he garnishes one glass with a lemon curl, and the other with lime.

Nettie's pulse quickens.

His full attention snaps back to the horse. There's a glint of intent in the stallion's eyes, a barely-veiled anticipation peeking out from behind his handsome smile.

Well goddamn. Looks can be deceiving, Nettie supposes.

Luckily, it's a sentiment that cuts both ways.

“You really said that?" Nettie laughs, leaning forward in his seat. Eyes forward. A good little listener. “How did your boss take it?"

“Well, you know…" the stallion says, rubbing his mane and glancing away. “Maybe I came up with it in the shower later."

“Sazies," the labrador cuts in, placing the glasses between them. “How's it going over here?"

Kolter takes his hand off Nettie's leg and laughs nervously. “Good, I think," he says, shooting Nettie a set of hopeful eyes. God, he's actually pretty good at this. The guy should be on TV instead of in some shitty dive, tag-teaming a roofie operation.

“He's got some good stories," Nettie says, because three can play the lying game and he's better at it. The labrador reaches over the bar and gives Kolter a little punch on the shoulder.

“Atta boy," he says, grinning.

The stallion shares a look with the labrador.

And then, he goes straight for the unspiked glass. The one with the lime.

Nettie looks down at the other drink. It's a ruddy red, almost purple. The glass has a little powdery smudge on the lip. A little undissolved sediment in the bottom. Fucking amateurs. Both the lab and the horse are watching him intently.

When Nettie picks the glass up, his heart flutters nervously against his ribs, like a question. No, it seems to say. Surely not.

Right?

It doesn't go down easy, but Nettie gets it done. Every flavour there might have been in it is blown out by the cloy of absinthe. He drains it all the way dry, and makes a little face for the benefit of his audience.

“Wow," he says, coughing once for effect. “That's strong."

The stallion touches his knee again, all concerned and worried and shit. “You okay?"

Nettie's skin is tingling. “Yeah," he says, brushing Kolter's knuckles with his own. “I might call it a night with that, though."

The labrador is all teeth when he smiles. “Don't forget your coat."

Nettie gets up off the stool, a little unsteady on his talons. It can't have hit him yet, whatever it is, but placebo is a motherfucker, and he's been drinking all afternoon. The floor is on a slant all of a sudden. The horse puts a hand on his elbow, steadying him as the labrador comes back with Nettie's jacket folded over his arm.

“Can I walk you home?" Kolter asks. Like a perfect little gentleman.

Nettie slides into his coat, and breathes a little sigh when he feels the poke-y shape of the key in the pocket. Then, he drapes his arms over Kolter's shoulders for balance and puts on his most half-lidded smile.

“My place is kind of far," he breathes. Holy shit, he can barely say it without slurring.

The horse's hands are at his waist. “Mind if we-"

“Y-yeah," Nettie says, because it's too late to back out now. “Let's fucking do this."

***

The horse basically has to carry Nettie up the stairs of his brownstone.

He's got no idea where he is right now. They took a train, at some point, but whatever internal compass Nettie once had is spinning like a top. He loses a few minutes, here and there, fighting the lead weight of his eyelids and the muffled thump-thump-thump in his ears.

He's starting to think that the bartender gave him a fuck-you-sized dose on purpose. Or maybe he's just not used to being date-raped. Hard to say, from the bottom of the well he's falling into.

I need a new fucking hobby, Nettie thinks, watching a ceiling fan shiver above him. He doesn't remember entering the guy's flat, let alone sitting down on the couch.

“Carpentry." Yeah, that's a good one. Nettie's really good at woodworking.

“What?"

“Dumb joke," he mumbles. He hopes that's what he said. His tongue is feeling heavy. “Hey… you." He's having trouble remembering the guy's name, but that's not anything to do with being drugged. Nettie's just an asshole. “Maybe I just sleep this off."

“Yeah," The horse says from somewhere very distant. Nettie can hear the rustle of a belt. “Maybe."

Sometime between blinks, Nettie loses his shirt. He feels hands tugging at his shorts and with a little start, remembers the plug still sitting in his slit. He tries to raise his head from the back of the couch to warn the guy, but he's too slow.

He feels Kolter –yeah, that's the name– spread his legs apart, and rub one thumb curiously over the plug. Nettie groans weakly, pressing his hips against the other man's hand.

“I…" Nettie starts. “I-"

“Huh," the horse says, placidly. If he's phased, it doesn't show.

“I've got the key," Nettie says, pushing himself up a little. The effort it takes puts little dots in his vision. His jacket's just there, on the arm of the couch. Miles and miles away. “It's in my-"

“Nah, it's cool," Kolter says, nudging him lightly back into the couch. “You weren't going to be using it anyway."

There's a shuffling sound, and then a bright flash. Nettie winces. The horse makes an approving noise.

“You're a real lightweight, aren't you? Can barely keep your mouth open." The guy, suddenly behind him, grips Nettie by the headfeathers and tilts his head slowly back and forth. Nettie can hear the click and clack of his beak closing and opening slackly at the motion. Can't feel it though—his whole face is numb. Jesus. What the fuck did he take?

When the guy lets him go, the room spins.

Another blink, and Nettie's down in front of the couch, slumped face-first into the musky warmth between two red-furred thighs. The stallion is holding Nettie up by the chin, smiling down at him beatifically. He's got a shiny metal ring gag in his other hand, the kind with the buckles.

Nice. Yeah, that'll do.

The guy tips Nettie's head back, and slips the ring gag into his slack mouth. Nettie can hear the little buckle snap into place, and then the guy wrenches on the strap, prying his beak open wide. Nettie pants loudly, trying to work his jaw—it's no good. He swallows, and the sound comes out thick and wet.

“There we go," Kolter says, rubbing a finger across the sharp edge of his propped beak. “Much better, huh?"

Nettie doesn't bother to respond. He can already feel drool running down the crook of his jaw.

He's going to be so fucking dehydrated after this.

With Nettie's headfeathers gripped in one hand, the horse guides his mottled, half-hard cock through the gag and onto Nettie's tongue. The flat flare has some trouble fitting through the ring initially, but they manage. There's a little pop, and then a lovely weight and the heady taste of pre. The stallion is warm and heavy on his tongue, growing heavier as he hardens. The flare presses into his throat as the stallion's length twitches slowly to full mast.

Nettie's lungs hitch as his breath is blocked. The stallion isn't even holding him, choosing instead to lean back into the couch and watch him struggle. Nettie manages to lift his leaden hands into the reddish fur of the stallion's thighs and push off of his cock, just enough to get a breath.

He doesn't get very far before his retreat jerks to a halt. At first it doesn't make sense—the guy's not doing anything to stop him from backing off—but then he remembers the flare of the stallion's cockhead popping through the ring gag.

He's stuck.

Shit.

“You like it?" Kolter says, watching the realization dawn across Nettie's slack face. He flexes his cock, and Nettie's head nods along as it jumps in his mouth. “Yeah, baby. I knew you would."

No going back now. Not that there ever really was. Nettie's calling always leads him right where he belongs, and he's never seen much sense in fighting it.

Nettie doesn't go down on the guy so much as he just lets himself fall forward. The horse cock fills his mouth and bumps once more against the back of his throat. Nettie gags again, drawing back, panting across the broad head. He can't stop drooling around the gag. His throatfeathers are wet with it. His plugged slit is throbbing hard enough to draw little noises of desperation past the dick in his mouth.

He hasn't yet made it down further than the stallion's medial ring—and as soon as he realizes as much, he feels a palm settle on the back of his head.

Nettie tries to get a breath in, tries to push back against the lazy weight of the stallion's hand. Neither effort seems to matter. There's another little pop as the stallion's flare enters his throat, and then again when his medial ring rolls past the gag, locking him deeper into Nettie's unresisting throat.

Nettie closes his eyes and lets it happen. God, he's fucking tired.

“Hey," the horse says, with a dreamy lilt in his voice. “You gonna pass out?"

Nettie groans feebly.

“It's okay if you do." Kolter closes his thighs around Nettie's head, ensconcing him in warmth from all sides. “I don't mind."

He must, for a minute or two. Pass out, that is. There's another bright flash, and suddenly Nettie's coughing, the stallion's cockhead dribbling salt over his tongue, held up by a hand under his chin.

Nettie blinks up past his heavy eyelids, but for some reason, he can't see the stallion's face. It's a moment before he realizes that's because there's a phone in between them, its beady camera lenses pointed in his direction.

“Yeah, baby," the stallion says, dreamy and satisfied. “Look up here."

Another flash. Nettie screws his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he's back down the stallion's dick, breathless and light headed and unable to parse the fog of drugs and lust and latent adrenaline pooling in him like a choked engine. There's a splotch in his vision from the camera flash. If it weren't for the stallion's muscled legs on either side of him and the pillar of horsecock slotted neatly in his gagged beak, he wouldn't be upright. As it is, he's not kneeling anymore really, just slumped into the edge of the couch, hands fumbling senselessly at the plug between his shaking legs.

Nettie's perception stutters again. It's hard to tell if anything's changed. Every time he surfaces from the fog, the horse's pace is the same: unhurried. Utterly indulgent. Nettie's no stranger to a face-fuck—but the slow, lazy pace at which the stallion is using him settles something hot and dense in his stomach. He might be here forever. He might have already been here forever. The stallion's not even paying him any attention, save to raise and lower him up and down the length of his cock with one hand, snapping obnoxious flash-photos with the other.

Breathing is a luxury, occasionally afforded him. Nettie's hands are utterly useless, dragging against the carpet or the edge of the couch cushions in a futile attempt to control the pace. He blinks and wakes just long enough to suck in a lungful of heady air before being slowly, inexorably blotted back into unconsciousness.

At some point, Nettie looks up and sees the stallion turning Nettie's key over in his fingers curiously. The sight of it brings some life back into his burnt synapses, and Nettie finds the strength to groan weakly past the gag.

“You still in there?" the stallion asks, rubbing the back of Nettie's head. “Yeah, baby, I see you. You went away for a minute."

Nettie tries to respond, but the horse isn't looking for a conversation. He presses him slowly back down, sighing.

“How about I cum in your mouth," the stallion says dreamily, “and then we see what we can do with this?"

Nettie nods as best he can with the horsecock buried to the hilt in his gagged beak. Kolter keeps him hilted for another long minute. Blink. Breathe. The stallion stands up with his dick still hilted, gripping Nettie's head in both hands. He plants his hooves on either side of Nettie and starts to roll his hips. Slow, long motions, ignoring the haggard noises Nettie makes as he's violated.

Nettie can feel the horse's heavy sack batting against his bulging throat, taste more and more salt every time the cockhead pulls out onto his tongue. The stallion retreats as far as he can against the rig gag and drags him along, clutched in his grip like a fleshlight. Nettie's hands find his slit again, but he can't focus on himself with his head so drug-fucked and his breaths so rare in coming. The plug pinches him, and he whimpers as he's pulled again down the stallion's length.

Above him, the stallion tilts his head back to the ceiling, then takes one hand from Nettie's headfeathers to work the base of his shiny, spit-slicked shaft as he pulls the rest of it from Nettie's throat. With the broad flare still locked behind the gag, there's nowhere Nettie can go, nothing he can do but pant and stare up past the stallion's tense midriff.

The horse's cock flexes twice against the roof of Nettie's mouth, and then a warm jet of cum floods his battered throat. The first pump is enough to fill Nettie's open, upturned beak. The second spills out the corners to join the mess of spit coating his chin and neck, warm and sticky and dripping. Nettie swallows what he can, even as a third jet joins the mess, and a fourth behind it.

The stallion grunts and pants through his orgasm, working his length and fixing Nettie's drowning, slack self with a look like nothing he's so far seen from the man. Even when the deluge turns to a dribble, Kolter's eyes are locked in, hot and wanting, staring at the mess he's made with a sort of vindictive pride.

He pulls his softening cock out past the ring gag and lets go of Nettie's head. Nettie slumps onto his side, crumpling into a sticky heap on the carpet. Barely aware of himself, barely aware of anything past the taste of cum and the drug fog and the pinpricks in his vision, Nettie's hands slip back between his legs, tugging desperately at the lock. His body is heavy, his thoughts insensate, but the need is the only thing animating him now. It's like he's in a dream, his every action drifting and clumsy. He bucks limply against his hands, screwing his eyes shut and whining at the dull, pinching pressure radiating from his slit.

“Hey," Kolter says gently, kneeling down beside him. “Let me help with that, baby."

The stallion shoos his fumbling hands away. He rolls Nettie onto his back, keeping him there with one hand on his stomach, and the other between his legs, rubbing and kneading the plug deeper into him.

Nettie finds the strength to hold his head up, and he watches Kolter feed the key halfway into the lock. He makes a needy, gurgling noise past the gag, and the stallion shushes him again.

Then, so very slowly, the stallion bends the end of the key with his thumb until it snaps.

The top half of the key lands on Nettie's stomach. He's frozen, staring at the little circle of metal like he doesn't understand what he's looking at. There's a tiny bit of jagged metal left sticking out of the lock, but not for long. With the same ease he used to break it, Kolter pushes what's left of the key into the keyhole until it disappears from sight.

Nettie lets his head fall back onto the carpet with a muffled thump.

“That's better," he hears the stallion say, from miles and miles off. “Just relax, baby."

The sound of the key snapping plays back and forth in Nettie's head. He raises his head again, unsure if what he witnessed actually happened—but there's the top half of the key, lying on his stomach-feathers, like something out of a nightmare.

Before it can fully sink in, Nettie's rolled onto his stomach. The stallion's hands grip his waist and pull him into a kneeling position, dragging his gagged beak over a wet spot on the carpet. Nettie grunts and tries to get his hands under him, but he can't. He's a puppet, and the strings that move him are firmly in the stallion's grip, tugged this way and that as the horse settles into place behind him.

“Fuck you," he tries to say. With his beak propped open by the gag, it sounds whorish, less words than a needy complaint.

The stallion ignores him completely. Nettie can feel the thick heat of the horse's cock stiffening once more between his spread thighs, jangling the silver lock where it dangles from its pin. Nettie can't even raise his chest from the floor, can't do a thing to stop Kolter when he feels the press of the slick flare beneath his tailfeathers.

When the stallion enters him, he stops thinking so much about it. Better, he knows, just to enjoy the ride.

Like before, the stallion's doing all the work, pulling Nettie flush against his lap, spearing the warm, fat length of his cock deeper than Nettie was prepared for. There's barely any resistance, barely anything except the familiar stretch of a stranger having his way, taking the pieces of him that they want, and discarding the rest. There's a wet spot growing on the carpet under Nettie's cheek as he pants and groans. The thud thud thud of his heart is a slow pulse that shakes him like thunder, steady and even and so much unlike the frightened tittering he is accustomed to.

It's almost relaxing. Would be relaxing, were it not for the minute-long blinks that steal the best parts out from under him. He is aware of the pace changing, the stallion grunting, and every so often, the flash of the camera. He remembers and forgets himself in bursts, his awareness flickering like a tired lightbulb. The one constant is the familiar, throbbing pressure between his legs, the sticky frustration of the goalposts running away from him until suddenly they aren't, he's past them, shaking and crying out in surprise and shame.

Suddenly, the stallion grabs his head in both hands, hooking his fingers into either side of the ring gag and pulling his face up from the carpet. Nettie arches limply backward into the steady thrust of his hips, fighting vertigo and failing.

“I like those noises, baby." The stallion's fingers taste salty on his lolling tongue. “Fuck me, you're a drooler."

Nettie groans into his fingers.

“You probably like making a mess, huh?" He pulls Nettie up into a one-armed headlock, his free hand pushing its way between Nettie's useless legs. “You're dripping from this end too, baby."

It's true. Nettie can feel the wetness between his thighs, a little slick of it creeping down his thigh. The stallion plays with the plug, jingles the silver lock, palms the plug deeper into his slit. It's too much. Full-on drug fueled, lust addled delirium.

“Did you cum, baby?" the stallion asks. There's a wet, slicking sound as he rubs the edge of Nettie's aching slit. “I think you did. You tightened up for a bit."

His wandering fingers return to Nettie's gag, wetter and saltier than before. The stallion rubs the taste into his tongue, rutting to the hilt, crushing Nettie's tailfeathers between them, closing his arm tighter around Nettie's neck. Nettie pulls feebly at the horse's forearm, and makes another wailing noise as the cock inside of him presses something molten and important.

“Yeah, baby, I know it feels good." The stallion pets the vague shape of the bulge in Nettie's stomach, snapping his hips violently before slowing his pace once more. “Daddy's got that good dick for you."

The world tips forward, and Nettie sucks in a long, aching breath as the headlock loosens. He's looking down at his folded, twitching legs, watching the locked plug jump wildly with every impact of the stallion's thrusts.

“I'm gonna put a foal in you," he says, simply. “Gonna cum nice and deep, just the way you like. I know you want that, baby. I know what you want."

For the first time in this waking dream, Nettie feels a laugh bubbling up past the gag. This fucking guy, this idiot flat-toothed herbivore has no idea what Nettie wants.

What Nettie wants is to file Kolter's perfect teeth into points so he can bite him. What Nettie wants is to be torn to little pieces and put back together in a better order, fucked into normalcy.

The thought is crystalline and furious. It dissipates into the fog as soon as it occurs. Nettie holds onto it for as long as he can, biting down on the gag and groaning his frustration as its passing leaves him stupid.

The stallion lowers Nettie back face-first into the carpet, into the sizable puddle of drool and cum he'd left earlier. As if on impulse, Kolter rubs his face in it, back and forth, almost gently.

“Oh?" Kolter mumbles, his voice a pleased rumble. “You got all tight again, baby. Do you like being used as a rag? You didn't cum again, did you?"

Nettie tries to shake his head, but he doesn't even know which question it is in answer to. Just a no in general, maybe. That brief spike of anger has burnt him out completely, like a melting filament.

Another flash goes off above him. Then another. Nettie lets his eyes close, wincing at the coloured blotches dancing in his vision. The stallion slows his rutting for a moment, and Nettie can hear him swiping through the photos one-handed, the other idly rubbing the base of his crumpled tailfeathers.

“Oh, just look at you," the stallion says, distracted and delighted. “Messy fuckin' rag. Wanna see?"

The stallion leans forward overtop him and pulls Nettie's headfeathers, wrenching his head back and placing the phone screen in front of him. The flash-photography leaves little to the imagination; every mussed feather and shiny stain captured in high definition. In the photo, Nettie's eyes are dim and unfocussed, slack like a dreamer. The lower half of his beak is shiny with spittle and the pearly remains of the stallion's first load. His feathers are wild, the gag shiny and silver in his beak.

The stallion swipes his thumb across the screen, paging backwards through the night. “Look at that, huh?" he crooned. “Just look at you."

There are a lot of pictures; all of them from above, looking down at Nettie's glassy expression. There's one of the stallion's medial-ring stretching his ass like a cheap condom while he drools into the carpet. One from the blowjob, the foamy, spit-slicked length buried down his throat. One from earlier than that, when Nettie had been lying on the couch still clothed, staring up at the ceiling fan.

“You look so good on my dick, baby." Nettie turns his head in the stallion's grip, his headfeathers straining. “Hey, it's okay. Let's make you cum again."

He drops the phone in front of Nettie, face up.

And then he starts to fuck him.

The pace they'd set all night had been achingly slow, to the tune of the stallion's amusement. Now, it seems that part is over. With one hand holding Nettie's head and the other in a fist around his tailfeathers, the horse ruts him mercilessly, without even the patronizing affection he'd been putting on. Nettie rocks back and forth, ragged breaths pushed out past the gag as the horse rails him like a toy, dragging him back into every thrust like he's trying to break him in half.

Held like a cut of meat, Nettie's eyes cross. His thoughts blur, his thighs go numb from the impacts. His hands try to find purchase in the carpet beneath him, but he can't hold onto anything for long. The stallion's snorting breaths puff hot and heavy over the small of his back, and the wrenching pain of pulling feathers blends into a comfortable, full-body numbness. He's utterly limp in the stallion's grip, taking what he's given and giving nothing back.

It's the first time all night he's actually been able to enjoy himself.

The rampant fucking doesn't last nearly long enough. With a series of short, violent thrusts, the stallion slams himself to the hilt and finishes with a loud, satisfied whinny. Nettie can't do much but take that, too, feeling the thick shaft of the stallion's cock twitch and fill him with warmth as the hands holding his limp body twist and tighten, uprooting feathers. The stallion snorts and snaps his hips a few more times for good measure, the sounds of their colliding hips turning wet as his load begins to leak out between them.

The stallion drops him the moment he's done. Nettie collapses in a heap, too surprised and too leaden to catch himself on the way down. The stallion pushes him off of his cock and stands in the same motion, leaving Nettie at once gaping and empty. He can feel the horse's cum dripping onto his lower back as the guy stands over him, breathing like he's just run a marathon.

Nettie hiccups past the gag. He lays where he was tossed, unable to move. His mouth feels sandy. The lethargy has him now, in its cloudy, vacant grip. One of his arms is pinned warmly beneath his stomach, but he can't muster the strength to pull it out. The slow beat of his heart draws little spurts of molten pleasure from his plugged slit. His face is wet. He might be crying.

The stallion steps over him, into his line of sight. Nettie hears him say something low and sweet as he crouches down beside him. Another flash from the camera. Another. Another.

And then, as suddenly as if he'd blinked, Nettie is looking at the sun rise past the edge of a window.

He's in a bed, curled up on his side and facing the wall. He doesn't move for a long time. Just the thought of budging is enough to send warning shocks through his muscles. Staying still starts to hurt too, after a while. The world is fuzzy and indistinct, like moisture on a camera lens. He closes his eyes against the blurry sunrise, feeling…

Nothing much at all, really. Achy. A little hungry.

The first coherent thought he has is panicked: this is not his apartment. As soon as the thought occurs, he pulls an elbow under his side and heaves himself into a sit.

Kolter is in the bed with him, sprawled out and breathing softly. On the bedside dresser are two capless bottles: one rye whiskey, one KY jelly. Both are half-empty. The sheets they're sleeping in are absolutely fucked beyond repair.

Nettie knows the feeling.

Quietly, he pushes the comforter off his legs and swings them off the edge of the bed. It's harder than it should be, his muscles weak and aching. He sits there for a moment, swaying in place, putting his scattered thoughts back in order. Assessing the damage.

PCP, probably. Maybe MDMA, or something he's never even heard of. Whatever the bartender had put in the drink, his body is putting on a little parade to let him know how much it does not appreciate his drinking it.

He staggers into the on-suite bathroom and drinks from the tap until he feels like a real person again. The cloud is lifting, slowly, and what little he remembers is filtering back to him in fragments. He leaves his head under the tap, letting the water rinse him clean. It takes a while. The bottom of the basin is cool on his forehead, and hey, that's nice.

He dries himself with a hand towel, exits the bathroom, and does not once look in the mirror.

Kolter's phone is lying on the ground beside the bed. Quiet as he can, Nettie slinks over to it and picks it up. The stallion barely stirs, even when Nettie holds the phone against the sleeping stallion's index finger and opens it.

Everything about the device, from the default background to the lack of apps, screams burner phone. Nettie casts a thoughtful glance at Kolter, then sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to go through it.

None of the guy's dozen or so contacts are named, but it's not hard to figure out the who's-who of Kolter's shitty little social circle: there's a dealer or two, a handful of for-cash employment offers, and at the top of the list, a number that could only be the labrador from the bar.

Helplessly curious, Nettie opens their chat and scrolls up until he hits the timestamps for yesterday afternoon.

Wanna get your dick wet?

I'm down who's the lucky pussy

Some dumb fag with a fat mouth. Might need some encouragement.

Lemme at him I'm God's gift to uppity bitches

Beneath that are a dozen or so photos that Nettie forces himself to look at in detail. Each swipe of his thumb shines a light on the various aches and sticky spots and missing feathers that his Swiss-cheese memory can't account for. It's a sordid bit of detective work that leads him eventually to the camera roll.

Kolter's a busy guy, turns out. He and the labrador must have a system going, because there's a lot of material here. A few dozen videos, and more pictures than Nettie cares to count, some dating back to a few years ago. The horse's various conquests come in all kinds of exotic flavours. Some of them are even conscious.

Nettie picks out the best of the bunch from last night and airdrops them to his own phone. Just looking at his glassy expression in the photos makes him itch—but they'll make for good midnight fodder later, once he's gotten over himself.

He dumps the whiskey bottle onto the mattress and chucks Kolter's phone into the toilet on his way out.

While he's collecting his scattered clothes from the living room floor, something catches his attention: a tiny, shiny disc, like a coin on the carpet. He picks up the broken head of the key, surprised at just how little the sight of it bothers him. Then again, maybe it shouldn't; he's not really sure he's got much left in the tank at this point.

It's kind of nice, actually. Dissociation is peaceful. Like the calm after a wildfire.

Once he's outside, Nettie wanders a bit, letting himself get lost in this unfamiliar part of the city. It's a nice day, already too warm for his coat. He can't bring himself to take it off, though. He can't stop fidgeting, and the pockets give him something to do with his hands.

At some point, he gets a call from work, and remembers it's Monday, and subsequently that he should be at the office instead of wandering aimlessly downtown. He lets his boss go to voicemail and finds a nice park bench to sit his tenderized ass down on.

It's only been two days since his fling with the crocodile. Some fifty odd hours since he'd last got off. Properly gotten off, anyway. He must have cum last night, somehow; he can't imagine why else he would be feeling Zen of all things after a night like that. His thighs are sticky, but he can't be sure from what, exactly. Cum. Booze. Spit. Lube. It all came off in the shower.

If he had managed to finish, he doesn't remember any relief that came with it—and the more he digs back through the fog, the more his aching head refuses his probing.

And yet, even now, his muddled memories of last night get a rise out of his ravaged body. His heart rate kicks up. His skin flushes. He's still horny. God fucking damn it.

With a sigh, Nettie pulls out the broken head of the key and rolls it around in his fingers. There's nothing for it, really.

The plug needs to go. Right fucking now.

There's a hardware store a few minutes away—but the idea of snipping the lock doesn't appeal like it probably should at this point. It feels like a cop-out, like pussying out with a safeword just when things are getting good.

Almost lyrical, the crocodile's mocking goodbye drifts across the forefront of his busted brain. You'll be back, birdy. At the time, Nettie had scoffed at the crocodile's creepy, corny confidence.

He hates how attractive it is that the lizard had been right.

He doesn't have the croc's contact anymore. He'd completely nuked their chats, and crawling back into the guy's DMs strikes him as genuinely pathetic.

But, Nettie realizes with a frightened tug of his heart, he's been to the big guy's den once already. Given half a chance, he could probably find it again.

He's already gone this far. What's a little further?

Traps are, after all, meant to be stepped in.