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Chapter 6: Pro-Cession

Canterbury greeted them in the covered garage with a big grin. The cat was dressed in his normal uniform, a vest with no shirt, and a thong whose coy upper window showed the pink of his penis.

“Running valet today, Chaucer?” asked Henry with a smile. Dorian was already in his pet gear, and tossed the leash over the windshield so his caretaker could lead him around the hood.

The cat inclined his chin. “If it isn’t two of our most beautiful customers. Why yes; I’m in training to become a manager.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” said Henry.

Canterbury put his tongue behind his lower lip, pushing it out. “I will neither confirm or deny. I promise I say it to the Van Cloves with more enthusiasm.”

“Is fellating part of your job, or—wait, don’t answer that.”

The cat’s teeth filled his grin.

They checked in at the front desk with a modest and petite fuzzy pink lady dragon who couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. She was polite and prim with her demeanor and the men checking in didn’t immediately realize that she was completely bottomless, merely having the fur around her pubis carefully trimmed so that it formed a pillowy soft mound.

“The discretion wing?” she asked, her ears perking amidst a seemingly floating mane.

Dorian himself had lush feathery plumage as a quetzal, and prided himself on meticulous downcare. This girl, however, was making him jealous.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Henry, aware that they had courageously managed to waltz in with Dorian’s intimacy gear—and chastity bulge—in ready display.

The pink dragon smiled and gestured to a pair of double doors to her side. “Here is the privacy hallway; you will only encounter other like-minded patrons.”

The duck nodded. “That’s great, but I think we’ll take the normal hallway.”

“Oh,” she said with a blush. She kept her hands folded in front of her waist. “That is all well and good, but I may warn you there will be a multi-participant session to your … left and a varied-fluid exhibition to your right.”

“I do have one question,” asked Dorian, pulling his ring gag out with the slurp sound of a pacifier. “And I hope it doesn’t sound too horrible.”

She kept her smile and her ears widened. She had aggravatingly ice blue eyes. “Yessir, Pet Van Clove; what do you wonder?”

“People come in … a range of body types. And while I’m certainly not the director of a modeling agency, and would be suspicious if one requested me, I could see a risk of, let’s say, those of poor health decisions—”

“Ah yes, it’s understandable,” interrupted the pink dragon. Dorian hadn’t quite gotten to his question.

“Well,” the quetzal continued, “And I’m not sure how prevalent it is, but—”

“What he means to say—” said Henry.

“Let me say it,” interrupted Dorian. “People who perhaps have taken an avant-garde or lazy interpretation of the standard of ‘beauty’ and may attend this place with the ulterior motive of ‘making’ people see their intimate actions to legitimize their deviancy from a general, objective norm.”

The dragon smiled with her eyes squinting. “My sister runs a karaoke service. In response, there is a similar distribution method with the singers.”

“Well now I’m actually curious,” said Dorian.

The dragon pursed her lips. “We can’t really get into company policies but suffice to say we want to create an environment both elevated and non-intimidating.”

“I think you’d be a great wedding planner,” said Dorian.

The dragon giggled. “That’s actually my other sister’s job. Are you sirs ready for your Eudaimonic experience?”

“That would be excellent; thank you,” said the quetzal. “And you are?”

“Gillian,” she said, offering her paw.

Dorian took it and they shook; Gillian did a slight curtsy. The fur of her hand was indulgently, deifically soft; Dorian would have to ask her for her care routine or fight her to the death in a volcano.

Henry and Dorian took the main route, where couples, throuples, and septouples of multiple body types revelled in their pleasure. The duck held the quetzal’s leash, but it was limp because they walked side by side. Some of the occupants were fully absorbed in their ritual, while others seemed to be watching the shared window more than each other.

Dorian and Henry averted their gaze from these, but to a male alligator who was riding atop two males who had precariously managed to position themselves and their penises close enough together, they gave a thumbs up as the double-bitch happened to glance their way.

His eyes were screwed in a half-wink as he managed two organs buried within him; he gave a dazed thumb back.

“Phew,” said Dorian.

“He ain’t gonna be shittin’ straight next few days,” said Henry.

Dorian puzzled over the idiom but didn’t question it.

They got to their room and patted themselves for the keys. They opened their little hotel booklet and found not a card, but a collar tag and a wristband.

“Oh, that is kinky,” chuckled Henry, who after taking his own wristband affixed the tag to Dorian’s collar.

The quetzal puzzled. “But I’m a little too high for…” he started, then groaned. “Oh, dammit,” he said.

With a smug tug coming from Henry, his husband and caretaker, the quetzal got down onto his hands and knees and crawled to the door. The duck pulled his leash, and Dorian turned around to face his caretaker. He let out an imploring moan.

Henry smiled. “Now that’s a good boy,” he said, reaching down to pet Dorian’s plumage. “Very pretty snird.”

Dorian hissed, baring his foldable fangs. His husband sighed, smiling.

“Okay, okay. Very pretty quetz.”

Dorian nuzzled Henry’s paw. Then the duck gave another tug of the leash, leaning hips forward. Dorian found his tail wagging, and cool air hit his uncovered rear slit. The quetzal’s caged loins stirred in his jock, and he crawled forward to nuzzle Henry’s groin.

The warm lump was fragrant and soft in the duck’s trousers; its essence brought Dorian right back to the comfortable place of physical and emotional intimacy. Dorian brought his nose under the lump, lifting it on the bridge of his muzzle.

Then he got a tug in the opposite direction. “All right now, baby. Let’s go in,” Henry said, and Dorian galloped around to put his neck against the lock sensor. The door clicked and opened automatically.

They got in and Henry guided Dorian up onto the bed, walking him up a small staircase already in position. The quetzal frolicked around on the mattress, spinning in a circle, then went back to Henry’s groin, where he started pawing at his trousers.

Henry tugged. “Ah-ah-ah,” he said, “We’re not just going to ‘get into it;’ we got plenty of mattresses at home.”

“We have one mattress,” said Dorian, which got him another tug.

“And that’s plenty enough; where’s your ring gag?”

“Well what do we want to do?”

“I dunno; anything you were wanting?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” said Dorian, getting up on his haunches. The quetzal dideth protest, but he looked provocatively satisfying in his chest harness and chastity jock. “This is all what you want, my caretaker, and one decision maker is plenty-enough.”

“Oooh, this is getting complicated,” said Henry. “Because I know you want watersports.”

“Well don’t you?”

“No-no-no;” said Henry, “See I want your pleasure and this may please you and therefore that pleases me…”

“We are not going to be getting into any derivative fulfillment,” said Dorian with a finger pointed up, “that we would be seeking the approval of the other to be happy ourselves.”

“Baby,” Henry said, grabbing Dorian’s finger, “We can put the cart before the horse if it’s engineered with foresight.”

“So what do we do?” asked Dorian.

Henry smirked. Dorian’s pretty serpentine eyes were more expressive than the default snake, and the duck almost had to squint from their brightness. He saw a combination of anticipation, excitement, and love; the man was truly enthused to see what his husband would offer.

“I guess you’re not giving me any hints. Let’s go; I got a full bladder.”

Dorian tugged back on the leash. “Darling, dressed like that?”

Henry smirked. He was dressed for church if not better, wearing clean pressed slacks, a tucked-in collared shirt, and even a sweater vest and polished leather shoes. Dorian didn’t know if it was for contrast, or for trepidation. “Clothes can be taken off, can they not?” he asked.

“I just …” Dorian started, then giggled. “It’s nice.”

The duck seemed to glow. “Well, thank you, dear. I think I have a hunch of where to go.”

The room door opened and Dorian tugged again. “Honey, you know we aren’t exhibitionists.”

Henry paused, still in his queer glow. “We will cast no pearl necklaces before swine.”

“You’re suddenly courageous,” said Dorian.

He was marched down the hall not only with his hood completely shuttered and the ring gag affixing his mouth open, but Henry inserted a decently intrusive butt plug into his rump that had an obvious airplane tag hanging from it that read, “Remove Before Flight.” Despite Dorian’s grand feather-snake tail, the fluorescent gag fluttered beneath his buttocks.

Dorian had grabbed Henry’s wrist as soon as his lubricant-wet hand had seated the thick, hefty plug in his rectum. The plug did not painfully stretch, but it had so thoroughly filled his rectum it felt heavier than lead, and was giving him slight back pain. “My eternal love, will you please reassure me how this public display will not trivialize the bond we share?”

The duck’s pretty, wood-brown eyes fluttered. “My dear, all in good time,” he had said.

Thus, the walk was filled with one of many questions, with the pre-flight tag spinning and tickling the back of Dorian’s thighs. It advertised that something was nestled in that very precious compartment of his body.

Yet when there came solicitations toward the two, Henry rebuffed them.

“Oh, no thank you. I’m married.”

“Well, that doesn’t—”

“In the traditional way; thank you.”

Dorian felt reassured by that, even as he was being led with a dramatic amount of his body on display. In a way, he sort of felt like an expensive purchase being carried from the store: everyone saw the package (ahem), but only one man would open it.

A door opened and the quetzal heard the distinct sound of echoing tile. A sink ran; liquid pittered and pattered.

“Ahhrrh?” Dorian asked.

“Just about, dear. Just need to install you.”

“Rrrr.”

He was walked to the back of this echoing room and grabbed on both sides. “Careful, pet; there’s a step,” Henry said. “Just a small one.”

Dorian’s bare foot bumped against a speed bump covered in soft leather. Then he was turned around by his shoulders, and with familiar paws soon under his arms, he was bade to kneel down upon that same bump.

“All right; arms up,” he heard, and when he obeyed he felt his paws bump up against tile walls. Quickly, his cuffs were affixed to points on the walls, and then his hood was unshaded.

Dorian “woke” to the view of his husband standing before him, smiling while standing in a public bathroom. The quetzal himself was bound with his arms spread in a three-wall cubicle only slightly taller than Henry’s elbow.

“Spread your legs, love,” said Henry.

Dorian did so, and the resulting gap between his thighs accentuated his gendered lump.

“You endlessly please me,” Henry said with a lively growl, pulling his fly down with measured adagio, “And therefore you should assist me in more of my needs.”

The bathroom door opened with another man whistling, followed by a jingle of collar tags.

“Arrh?” asked Dorian.

“Oh wow, right on time,” said Henry.

“Rih hoh hime?” asked Dorian.

“Shh, shh, shh,” said Henry.

The duck switched to his casual attitude, where he greeted the newcomer with a nod of solidarity. “Enjoying the weather?” he asked, sidling into his urinal cubicle.

The new man, some sort of mammalian herbivore, escorted his pet into the cubicle next to him and locked him in place. Henry casually undid his zipper, then pulled his member out of his briefs in the most perfunctory manner. He gave it a tug, stretching it out, then a couple shakes. When he looked down at his pet, he winked and then aimed at the ring gag.

Dorian blushed and felt his cage strain. His tail wagged, and he gasped as he reflexively clenched on the large plug that filled him.

The other male shrugged, undoing his zipper in his own stall. “Little rainier n’ usual, but I’m sure the farmers could use it.”

Henry jiggled himself a couple more times, rocking back and forth on his feet. “Oh, to a certain extent. Think it was five years ago, some of their fields flooded?”

“Yeah, but that was a special year. Aaah, there it goes,” groaned the other male, and Dorian heard an initial splatter against something soft and furry, then the distinct hollow echo of a much smaller and more defined receptacle. His cage stirred in its pouch, on full display for his caretaker.

“God, we were worried about the storm drains, too,” said Henry. “Kept having to check the basement for flood— ahhh. For flooding.

The first trickle startled Dorian, sprinkling on his chest like warm water. Then the stream sputtered to full, splashing on his collarbone and cutting right through feather to skin. It poured down his torso in a river, then trickled to his hip and went outside his thigh. Henry quickly readjusted his aim, firing it directly into the rubber circle holding his pet’s mouth open. Dorian let his mouth fill with the salty, tangy fluid before swallowing. Some of Henry’s very warm urine dribbled down his chin, and he was surprised that even between swallows, the taste lingered in his mouth and nose. The quetzal’s core buzzed: his husband was perfectly at peace, and using his body for his relief.

His tail wagged above the dominating plug. Henry kept peeing, and Dorian kept drinking. Even though his breakfast was light, his stomach was filling.

The other male coughed. “Oops; sorry there, babe,” he said down into his own cubicle. “You watch any football?” he asked Henry.

“Hum?” asked the duck. His stream went a little off-course, spraying across Dorian’s masked muzzle and splashing his shoulder. As soon as he heard the difference, he corrected and apologized. “Ope, sorry. Um? No, not really. I can appreciate the tactics but my Sundays are so thick.”

“I hear that,” said the herbivore male.

The door opened again and this person came in just by himself. He was a reptile only wearing a leather vest and a metal cock ring/ball stretcher held in place by leather straps around his waist.

The reptile, deep green in color, nodded at the two urinating men and took up the third stall. Dorian couldn’t remember if there was a urinal there, or just a floor drain. The leather-daddy let loose and sprayed the back wall.

He leaned over to Henry and said, “Got a room party in 506 if you need to drain the venom. You too, way over there.”

The duck and the mammal had been chit-chatting about the best type of buffalo wing. “Hum?” asked Henry. “Oh, I’m going back after this.”

“You, bud?” asked the reptile, two stalls over. His pissing was so loud, it felt like it was hitting their eardrums.

The herbivore trickled down, then shook it a few times. “We may stop in. Pup here threw his back out last week with a snart.”

“That’s too bad,” said the reptile, then turned his gaze, smirking directly at Dorian. The quetzal’s stomach turned, and he fumbled drinking his husband’s most recent mouthful. It poured out over his chin, slipping into the mask and dribbling over his stomach, groin, and thighs. “Looks like you got a real obedient bitch, there, too.”

Henry’s voice went deeper; Dorian’d heard it when visiting his husband at the construction site. “Eyes on your own work, bud,” he said.

The reptile cleared his throat and faced forward. Silence reigned—and urine rained—until Henry was done, and then the reptile was done. Dorian smiled in his mask as the duck casually shook his member off, flicking droplets onto his bound, near-nude body. Then Henry zipped up.

“All right,” he said to the herbivore, “Guess we should be going.”

“Don’t get too wet out there,” said the other male, then nodded as Dorian stood back up. “You too, bud.”

Henry shuttered Dorian’s hood and took up his leash. He turned to leave, then reached back and patted the reptile’s shoulder. “Nice cock, bro,” he said to the reptile.

The reptile looked back, a little stupefied. “Uh, thanks,” he said, though kept his lower half pointed toward the cubicle.

He washed his hands and took Dorian back to the room, where he removed his pet’s ring gag and eye covers. The quetzal merely sat upon the bed on his haunches, wagging his tail.

“What did you think of that, dear?” asked Henry.

Dorian let out a snort, smiled, and wagged his tail.

The duck’s jaw fell, and then he smirked. “Ah, we’re playing it that way, then.”

Henry picked up Dorian’s leash and pulled him close. The duck kissed the quetzal deeply, tasting his own musky essence on his pet’s tongue. He closed his lips around his pet’s tongue and sucked, then let it go with a pop. Things were coalescing quickly, and Henry knew his trousers would be fully tented within a minute. No longer would he be able to hide his own deep need for his partner.

He brought Dorian to crawl toward his conical, obvious lap and with an easy tug of the leash, his pet was nuzzling up and down the stretched out, bouncy length. A hurried flurry of Henry’s fingers opened his pants, whereupon they fell with the weight of his belt all the way to his ankles, revealing his flagrant hunter orange thong that permitted his full mast.

“Aaah!” Dorian barked, almost enunciating, and he galloped forward to drag his face against the length, nuzzling it up, down, and around. It sprang to center when the quetzal would push it out, and when Dorian got under him to sniff his sac, Henry felt his legs quiver with the cold rush of air.

After all, the bottom half of Henry was now as naked as Dorian.

“Oooh, sheesh,” the duck said with a twitch and a throb. The musk of his urine, as well as two pairs of enthused testes, brought a thirst to both men they had to remind themselves to control.

Dorian prevented himself from fully helping his husband, but did put a paw down on Henry’s pants, allowing the duck to step out of them. The quetzal then went back into the duck’s crotch, but was stopped short by a bip to his nose. He pouted, but then Henry pulled off his sweater vest and collared shirt, revealing his hidden complimentary orange harness.

Then came the best part: Henry parted the fabric of his bright orange pouch to reveal his beautiful pink shaft. A quick tug of the leash and Henry prevented his pet from leaning into it; the duck instead used his other hand to direct his stiff, bright organ against his pet’s muzzle and draw its pre-beading slit across his lips.

Dorian happily licked his lips, and when the head was offered to him he was not so greedy to gulp it all down, but to put his lips in a kiss around the flared head and look up at his caretaker with ebullient passion. It was little secret that Henry, too, did not have his temptations not to bury himself fully in his pet’s inviting wet warmth. How appropriate it would be for him to finish in the place that had taken his preliminary warmth.

But no; no, no. Mating took place in the pelvic cradle.

It would mean just as much, would it not?

“Gah,” Henry lamented with a shiver, “My pet, I need your rump. Thick, warm, welcoming; you will please me, will you not?” he asked.

“Ah-hah,” Dorian confirmed, and ducked down and gave Henry’s sac a long, humming kiss before departing. He turned around on the bed and offered his posterior, which not only presented a beautiful feathered serpentine tail; but a coy flight tag hanging from a coaster-sized silicone base, and an eye-watering, pink-blue jock pouch of sumptuous scent and sensitivity.

“Good God,” Henry praised, his arousal feeling heavier as it hardened, “What can a man do but weep at such wonder and pleasure?”

“Dear,” Dorian protested, then clapped a paw over his mouth. “Mmm-hmm!”

Henry delicately giggled, then sauntered up to his pet’s most welcoming backside. “Okay, baby,” he said, placing one hand on Dorian’s hip and the other about the base of the plug. “Nice and easy. You’ve already thrilled me; let’s bring it on home.”

“Aaah,” the quetzal gasped, feeling the large mass travel toward his tightened sphincter. His caretaker was gentle with its extraction, stroking his hip and combing his back, but once the plug was underway, Dorian felt a greater appreciation for the body’s many valves and openings. The anthroid body was truly, oof … dynamic …

Henry licked his lips, grasping his pet’s thigh much for his own gratification as well as Dorian’s comfort. The duck was amazed, himself, at the shining, graceful gape of his lover’s body. His feathery, firm cheeks framed a central, intimate ring expanded a few times its own size. Dorian quivered with the great weight his hind passage bore, feeling his own pelvis bones turn to rubber.

“Baby, we’re just past the circumference,” Henry whispered, jealously hungry of the space the plug had occupied.

“Aaahh, hah,” Dorian grunted. “Hoooooooooh!” was his subsequent call as the silicone pod’s exodus became easier, and therefore faster. His eardrums flinched as his precious passage made the sound of a wet, reverse kiss. His tail flexed to cover himself, but he rebuffed it with the trust of his husband.

“My pet, my love…” Henry cooed, and when Dorian felt both hands on his hips, he leaned back with a happy sigh. This brought his sensitive, intimate ring in direct contact with his husband’s anatomy, and from there, the two in their persons overlapped.

Dorian panted through his mouth, breathing the heady, lingering perfume of Henry’s urine as his partner thrust into him, marrying their two bodies. In and in and in again went the duck’s stiff, warm rod, making the quetzal lightly gasp every time it stroked his rectum. He missed the sight of Henry before him, pouring his lovely essence down his throat, but Dorian supposed that it would only be symmetrical and proper if his other side was similarly filled with—

Dorian snorted.

Henry paused in his thrusts, chewing on his lower bill as his penis trembled within the silken, moist folds of his partner’s rump. “Yeah, dear? What’s up?”

“Heh, just, um … duck sauce.”

Henry sneered and rolled the quetzal’s hip feathers in his fists. “Goddamn right I’m gonna give you some duck sauce. Gonna baste the fuck out of you and…” he broke into laughter, falling over Dorian’s back and squeezing him tight. “Oh, I can’t do it.”

Dorian reached between their legs and held both their sacs in his palm. He rubbed back and forth, nestling them together. “You’re a master baster, darling.”

“Goddamn right I am!” The silliness, combined with a stroke of Henry’s figurative and literal ego, humpstarted the male and he sprang right back up, grunting and thrusting into Dorian’s hot, velvety passage. The ridiculous rhetoric, however, tapered off as Henry subsumed into a wordless rhythm of breeding his partner’s bowel.

His mind would be almost laser-focused as he watched Dorian’s body shift with every lunge, but as the image was established—his private organ plowing repeatedly into the quetzal’s delicate orifice—and the soundtrack was printed—Dorian giving out little pants as he took his husband’s amorous thrusts—Henry found himself in a flight of fancy. It had felt so strangely natural to use his husband as a urinal, just like now to use him like a breeding mare. It was another form of melting, of opening oneself up on a molecular level, and the logical conclusion therefore was to pour himself out and occupy, exactly, the form of his lover.

“I dont know where the fuck I’m going but oh … oh God …” Henry stuttered, feeling the familiar pilot light ignite at the head of his shaft. The duck felt his groin tighten and enlighten, and tingling gave over to sparks, sputtering, then finally spurting. “I’m there!” he gasped.

The duck pushed himself tight against his quetzal. His hips thumped against his partner’s rump; his shaft thrust deep into his silken caverns and burst forth with a flood of juddering, spewing jets of hot seed. Henry’s thighs quaked as his loins caved in, dumping everything they had and then some. “Ooooh, lordie…” he gasped. His hands lost grip and he caught himself before he smacked his face into Dorian’s trapezius.

He rested the side of his head against the base of Dorian’s neck, nuzzling up into the feathers over and over until Dorian’s back was curled.

“Ooooo, ahhh,” the quetzal said, feeling his feathers bent backwards. “Ooo!”

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” said Henry. Dorian was very quick when a “nope” nerve was plucked. “Hooo,” he said, regaining articulateness. “H—how was that?” he asked.

Dorian’s mask squeaked as he turned back. “Rrr?” he asked coyly.

Henry’s brow folded. His arms were wrapped around his partner and his organ was perfectly ensheathed. His brain buffered. “Ah. How was it for me. That is the crux.”

“Ruh-huh,” his pet purred.

“I, um,” Henry said, feeling quite on the spot, being buried in his interrogator’s rump. “It was really natural. I couldn’t ask for a better time, or a better mate. I’m so satisfied; I love you so much. You can talk now, Dorian, dear.”

The quetzal unzipped his hood but left it on. His smile was beaming. “Did you set up the, ah, urinal thing?”

“Oh, um,” Henry said, “I remembered the room. Really good timing, I guess. What did you think? And no cheating; I know you have a brain.”

Dorian smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Why else would we need a toilet, save for solids? I’m very happy.”

Henry blushed. “That’s perfect,” he said, reaching forward.

Dorian took his hand and squeezed. For a few long moments, the lovers held each other by gaze, grasp, and coupling. Truly honored did the other feel to be within, or holding within, a part of their partner.

“I love you,” Henry said, adjusting his hips.

“And I love you,” said Dorian, lightly gasping as he clenched against the duck. “It’s so perfect; really is. Now, um. What about UTIs?”

The duck frowned. “I … I’m pretty sure I don’t have any.” His eyes crossed as Dorian’s tail wagged, flexing the muscles surrounding his person. “Oooo-hoo-hoo. Wow. Hah.” The quetzal’s grinning was splitting the muzzle zipper of the mask. “Ah-hah. Right,” said Henry.

The implication brought a rise to the duck’s feathers and a painful throb to his member. Every time they were cuddling directly after sex, Dorian would eventually pat Henry’s naked hip and tell him to go pee. And it made total sense, but one time wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Baby, you don’t want your pee-hole to itch, do you?” Dorian would argue.

“Bleeeh,” Henry would dreamily protest, squishing in closer against Dorian.

Then the quetzal would threaten to pluck a feather, and the duck would gasp at the audacity.

So here Henry was, still hilted in his partner, their clothed pouches nestled together, and Dorian was imploring him to urinate. The duck had an inkling—a duckling, if one would—that the quetzal wasn’t about to excuse him.

“Sure, to the toilet?” Henry asked.

Dorian clenched and both males groaned, the areas in question rather vexed. “Aahh-hah. Well yes; to the last toilet you used.”

Henry’s silhouette grew fifty percent by the bristle of his feathers. “H-heh. L-last toilet, sure. That’s you, isn’t it?”

Dorian’s tail wagged and both males buckled toward each other. “Oof. Yes,” he purred.

The afterglow made Henry’s stalk rather sensitive, enfolded like this within Dorian’s warm body. His passage was already full of the duck’s thick seed, making Henry lose himself in calculations.

Henry shook his head as he felt his partner’s ribcage rise and fall. He couldn’t keep him waiting, and the sheets were washable. “Just one second, darling,” he said, drawing a circle in Dorian’s side. The quetzal giggled, a little ticklish.

“Take your time; I can stay here forever.”

The duck patted Dorian’s hip. “Good durable American construction; that’s what I like in my appliances.”

The quetzal gave an amused sigh. “Yes, dear.”

Henry performed his normal urinal ritual. He didn’t normally have stage fright—just stare at the wall until the flow starts—but then again usually his malehood was hanging out of his pants, not buried in a bowel.

“Hmm, hmm, hmm,” he hummed. He even rocked back and forth on his feet, looking at the far wall. Dorian tried to stay quiet, but even the slightest cough would set Henry back. “Don’t think, just pee; don’t think, just pee.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “So, do you watch baseball?”

Henry’s eyes flicked upward. “You know, there was a time back in college I really liked The Poodles. Then again, everyone did; was not only our state’s team but a top team overall. They just couldn’t stop getting to the world series. I think I had at least three jerseys. Mmmng…”

The familiar grunt came to the duck and his loins loosened. His bladder relaxed and warm urine flowed out of him, through the sensitive organ projecting from his lap and into the marvelous receptacle into which it was currently held.

“Ah…” Dorian said. His cage stirred beneath him as he felt another rush of hot liquid fill his intimate passage. He strove to relax his tired private muscles, and for a good duration he reached a reassuring, invigorating equilibrium where his body became the honest vessel.

At a certain point, however, the quetzal felt the perilous trickle of liquid out of his backside, which in most any other context would be cause for alarm and a flight to the bathroom, uttering harried prayers along the way. In this context, it was both precarious and affirming, as Dorian and Henry both had committed to the unspoken vow, “Come what may.”

A copious amount was coming at-present; as the quetzal weakly clenched he found Henry’s load—and therefore Dorian’s burden—to be quite generous. Clenching merely had the effect of shifting the seal of Henry’s anatomy, and released more of the salty mixture down the surface of Dorian’s perineum and wet the gentle pouch securing his caged gonads.

This vexed his fortified loins further when a trickling trail wound its way down both of the quetzal’s feathery thighs. “Ah, oh…” Dorian moaned, not wanting to give the impression of alarm or shame as Henry’s two gifts poured out of him.

“Phew,” said Henry, feeling also his own brief moisten with Dorian’s leak. “This one might be full; time for a flush,” he added, scritching Dorian’s back.

“Heh, mind if I speak?” asked his pet.

“Yeah!” Henry said. “I’ve not watched a Poodles game in a long time, but—”

“Honey, I’m not sure if I can hold this.”

“Hey, I mean, they got diapers.”

Dorian madly blushed. He couldn’t imagine his first experience in an adult … that thing … to be him filling up the back with his library of mystery issuances. “I think I might need the toilet, like for real.”

“Did the caretaker give his pet permission to use the toilet?” Henry teased.

Dorian crossed his eyes as he heard a trademark gurgle wending its way through his long passage. “Honey, I’m being very serious that something’s going to happen rather soon. It can be on you—don’t you dare—or in a more hygienic receptacle.

“Okie doke,” said Henry, pulling out. Dorian did not have time to clench, and even if he did, it would have been an arduous process slower than the speed of liquid. In addition, the sudden withdrawal of Henry from the quetzal’s rump created a vacuum, and what material was there rushed to occupy the empty space. Dorian let out a yelp as a distinct squirt of semen and urine jetted out of him, splattering onto Henry’s groin and thigh, as well as the washable rugs beneath them.

This was only a precursor, a preambulatory tremor, and Dorian quickly stood up as his abdomen grumbled and his fatigued ring fumbled to close. A squirt coated his hand as he waddled to the bathroom, and Henry swooped in before him, closing the door with a smug grin.

“Honey!” protested Dorian, pressing his hand tightly between his wet rump cheeks. “I really like this but are you going to torment me?”

“Well, yes,” Henry said, then opened the door. He quickly tapped a few buttons on the wall and the toilet retreated into the wall.

“Dear,” Dorian said, swirling in frustration and blush—the grin was reassuring, but his predicament was harrowing.

The duck extended his hand to the center of the room, where there lay a drain. “You may relieve yourself.”

“Oh, I can’t believe you! Erp…” Dorian said. As the site of relief was pointed to him, his body went underway to purge itself, and the quetzal found himself prematurely gushing as he hurried to the drain in a squat, leaving a trail along the way before his passage opened up and a full shower rained out of him, spraying his ankles.

“Eeeeeuugh,” was Dorian’s guttural moan. Levees in his mind and body both flung open; there was nothing to perceive but the sweet, purifying easement of mental and physical pressures.

“Nice,” said Henry, viewing the erotic deluge in all its glory. He strutted around, semi-erect penis in the open, and presented it to his pet’s face to be cleaned. “Help me out, dear?”

“Ungh!” Dorian gasped, another hush of liquid hissing out of him. “I suppose this is not some ritual of indignity?”

“Whoa!” said Henry, backing up a step. “Baby, I never said anything about degrading you. This is an epiphany! I said I’d marry all of you and this includes this liberation of strictures.”

“You … wooo … ooo …” he gasped, each grunt accompanied by another gush that reddened both sets of his cheeks, “ … have been reading Argos’s supplementary articles?”

“I had to look up a few words; funny they don’t translate ‘hippie’ on Go-Ogle.”

“He … eeee … is a sexual technician.”

“All the above; sure,” Henry said. “Honestly I feel quite close to you, even while you’re letting it all out. Now will you assist, pet?” He punctuated that last word, holding his penis out to Dorian’s gaped maw. The quetzal was flowing like an upended milk jug.

“As you wish, love,” Dorian said, and when he took Henry’s organ into his mouth, the world faded away and he peacefully suckled. The dregs of his bowel absolution cascaded away, and he was floating, here in space, secure and naked with his partner and caretaker.

The duck’s penis was salty and creamy with his ejaculate, possessing also an oaky zing of the urine he’d graciously—yet dominantly—poured in both ends of the quetzal. He sucked until the soft shaft tasted of musk and skin, and his intimate passage had naught but air and mucus within.

“Heh,” Dorian said, pulling back. He smiled up at Henry, all decked out in his blaze orange harness and mask, then leaned back in to nuzzle his hip. He rested his head there, snout nudged up against the bundle of the duck’s gonads, and let out a soft, contented sigh.

“I love you, dear,” said Henry, unzipping the top of Dorian’s hood to expose his headruff.

The quetzal nuzzled his husband’s lap. “I love you so much, dearest.”