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Chapter 3: Pageantry and Purpose

Henry found Argos in a chair in the corner, reading a magazine. Two of his wrists rested comfortably in what appeared to be armrest manacles, and the one with his watch rested on the side table, fingers patiently tapping. His husband, Dorian, was just where he’d left him, and because the quetzal’s face was pointed toward the window, Henry was rewarded with a most sumptuous view of his naked hind end, and his hanging anatomy, when he entered.

Argos smiled when Henry arrived and immediately stood up. It was just a flash, but the black pouch against the spider’s black leg seemed to be decently full. “I see you’re acclimating well?” he asked. “A man that can hold that kind of conversation while his bounty is on full display is assuredly a man sure about himself.”

“Oh, y’know,” Henry said, beaming from the compliment, “When in Rome.”

“When in the wild!” Argos corrected. The magazine was titled “EntrePaneurs” and was a locally-distributed publication about Puerto Panuela’s business scene. The center article was an interview with Abdul-Kogari “Kioga” Darvish and how the cheetah went from a humble marketing intern to co-founder of medical-pleasure-lifestyle company Pendrael, Davis, and Co. This was right in front of an advertisement from the same company. “You see, the male mindset of animals never left us, not even when we invented disposable diapers and rocketships! It is all an interplay of Alpha and Beta, of men sizing up other men to appraise their value. It is want and desire, take and give—a free market of trading service-for-service, Eros and/or Plato. You impressed those boys and girls out there: this is exactly the custodianship that will drive you and your pet.”

“Well then; do I get my diploma?”

Argos frowned. “You still have forty-five minutes left, Mr. Van Clove; you did not pay for beginner’s applause.”

“You really flip from complimentary to critical.”

“You flip from competent to dilettante, my friend. It would be a betrayal to you to praise your every misstep. I would be a mother bird cheering her gimp-winged runt until it leaps out of the nest, full of false confidence, to its death.”

Henry’s eyes bugged. “...correct, but wow. Okie doke. The ice bucket, then.”

“Correct.”

“Aaaugh,” protested Dorian. He put his thighs together, but his erection popped out the back.

“Is that your choice?” asked Argos.

“No.”

“Correct him, then,” said the spider.

“Ooohhg!”

Henry looked at his husband and shrugged with a smile. The feathered snake’s snout was fixed open with the ring gag, and a strand of saliva was leaking out and down the length of his fuzzy chin. “Sorry, baby.”

“Hhhon’ a-hol-a-high!”

“He’s saying do not apologize,” said Argos.

“Right!” said Henry. He walked down the side of his pet, ice bucket rattling, and set it down under Dorian’s stomach. “Legs apart,” he instructed.

“Mmmh.”

A flicker of impatience sparked in Henry. “Darling, it would be most proper to have your anatomy secured in a chastity cage as we go through our strictures, and so we must calm the calamity in your loins before proceeding.”

“Lovely phraseology, if a bit memetic,” Argos said, looking at his fingernails.

“Rrrr,” Dorian assented, then repositioned his knees so that his rigid shaft hung between them.

“This will only take a second…” Henry said, then slipped the bucket between his pet’s thighs. He used his fingers to dig a center well in the ice, then carefully inserted the quetzal’s cock into the cold cubes.

“Mmmh!” Dorian honked, bucking like a bronco as his rigid flesh hit the cold.

“Now hold on…” said Henry, catching Dorian’s shoulders as he pulled against the collar chaining him to the table. “Go slower.”

“Arry.”

“Don’t apologize, baby.”

“Ep-bep-bep,” said Argos.

“Ah. Apology accepted, my pet. You’re a good boy.”

“Better.”

The ice bucket was repositioned and Henry pushed his pet down by his naked hip.

“Ahhh, aaah…” flinched Dorian.

“Now we’ll see if he’s into cold-play,” said Argos, checking his watch. “I may recommend that if the situation is not resolved within five minutes, we proceed despite your pet’s engorgement.”

“But he’s not allowed to touch it,” said Henry.

“Mrrrr,” said Dorian.

Argos smiled. “Isn’t that the worst part of porn? A man and his wonderful bulge or erection, and he can’t stop but put his fucking hands all over it.”

“Read my mind,” said Henry. He had begun to stroke Dorian’s back and hip, that which wasn’t covered by a harness. In time, the duck observed his pet’s anatomy grow soft and shrink, returning to the still-beautiful state of flaccid and visible. The ice may have shrunk him another inch, in fact. “There we go. Very good boy.”

“Rrrr!”

Henry grabbed the cage and set the pump bottle of lubricant on the table. He applied some to his hands, then picked up the metal ring and cylinder and carefully began to put them in place.

“Aaaah,” flinched Dorian as the ring slipped around his penis.

“Oh, still cold,” said Henry, then frowned. “Now come on; it’s not colder than the ice.”

“Mrrr.”

“Silly, silly boy,” said the duck, locking the cylinder into place.

“The hardest part is getting into the mindspace, but it comes quicker with practice. Soon, just adorning a certain piece of gear, or even a key phrase, will be enough to start the process. Proceed with the inspection of your pet.”

“Inspection?” asked Henry. He was getting oddly comfortable being in revealing underpants. Honestly, the orange garment was little more than a sock around his anatomy, and both his husband and their coach, Argos, could plainly see his erection bob and wag with every step. The muscle-spider himself was somewhat hidden with his optical illusion brief, but he was still only two square feet of fabric away from swinging in the wind.

“You are ‘caretaker,’ are you not?” asked Argos, jingling Henry’s collar.

“Well yes, but what do I do?”

“Inspect,” said the spider.

“Okay,” said Henry, turning back to Dorian. The quetzal could only turn and look at Henry so often; the duck was positioned behind his shoulder. “Look straight,” Henry commanded him, and Dorian faced the window. They’d gotten one of the edge apartments; it was a beautiful sunny day outside. The colors of the buildings, the cars below, and a nearby park shimmered in a light breeze.

The duck checked Dorian’s neck and head, going so far as to push back the lip of his pet’s mask and inspect his teeth and gums around the bite ring. In moving down his pet’s body, he stroked his stomach and sides, his rump; he then checked to see that Dorian’s cage was in place and found it quite warm to the touch. The quetzal’s penis was restrained, and filled to the quarter amount that it was allowed.

Henry was handed a weight-lifter’s belt; he raised an eyebrow at this but noticed the back had a leather clamp with snaps on it. He put this around Dorian’s torso and, to the surprised honks of his pet, guided his tail into the fixture to snap it in place, bracing the quetzal’s tail permanently up and out of the way of his buttocks and their central, intimate aperture.

“Perfect form, Henry,” congratulated Argos.

“You mean Dorian?” asked Henry.

“Why would I be talking to your pet, Mister Van Clove?”

“Ahhr.”

“Excellent,” said Henry, then cleared his throat as he rounded his husband and viewed him from the rear. His loins, still packaged and prepared for erotic congress, twitched as he beheld the quetzal’s private entry and the ring-bunched pod of his gonads. “So, this has been a heady exploration for a carnal act; what do I…?”

“The anthroid creates form and function out of raw material,” said Argos. “Do not think that the physical world and the theoretical mind are divorced. Inspect.”

Henry nodded, feeling a cool breeze tease the feathers of his near-naked body. His erection bumped against the edge of the table as he leaned forward and grasped his pet’s rump and spread the soft mounds. He leaned in closer, sensing the musk of Dorian’s anus.

“Like a gourmand, Henry,” said Argos. “Not an animal at a trough.”

The duck could feel its warmth as his bill approached. There was no scent of bodywash; merely that of a clean organ. The savory-sweet smell of Dorian’s testes drifted upward, and Henry got the sense of virility and vitality. His cock pulsed in his bikini, adding pearly fluid to the tip.

Argos’s advice was that of a gourmand, and gourmands tasted … trying not to look at the muscular spider, standing as a statue, Henry leaned in and delicately flicked the tip of his tongue across Dorian’s slit. His pet sighed in response and the slit twitched.

His teacher didn’t speak, so Henry continued. The tendrils of lust, of attraction toward his partner, his pet, began to take hold of the duck, but he found harmony in pulling back against them. Careful, did Henry supp of his pet’s anus, with soft kisses and slow strokes of the tongue. He tasted the ring’s musk; he breathed the aroma of Dorian’s slit and sac. This in tandem filled Henry’s mouth and throat: the scent alone was something he swallowed.

The sphincter’s texture was smooth and wrinkled, almost pleated, with an alluring firmness to it that suggested a sumptuous response. Henry had to fight himself, willpower versus libido, not to dive in and plunge his tongue barbarously into Dorian’s rectum, and this posed a conundrum, body against mind.

Gourmand, he reminded himself. Step-by-step; a fast-forwarded symphony is just a cacophony. It wasn’t mind versus body; it was instant gratification against full appreciation. Henry relaxed his jaw and slid his pricked tongue into his pet’s canal. The silky walls undulated against his wet muscle, dancing with him as he wet the immediate inside in saliva. Dorian gave out a low moan, and Henry felt the hole soften around him.

Argos set a soft blue plug to the side. “Secure and protect. Bring form,” he said.

Henry caught the silhouette of the spider’s prominent tumescence and blushed; the pouch was distinctly more swollen than before.

“V-very well,” Henry said, then wiped his bill on his arm and smelled it.

The duck’s hand shivered as he poured lube on the pod-shaped plug and masturbated it. As his fingers passed the equator, he noticed the toy’s circumference. “This is a bit larger than what we normally use.”

“A bit, yes. You shared your shopping history from the Mercatio and I upgraded you one size.”

The duck felt like the plug was in his throat. His abs clenched and his bright orange tent jolted. “Why so big?”

“Boundaries are not improved if they are not stretched,” Argos said. His top half was quite placid; his bottom half had a ferocious peak.

Henry went up to his pet and stroked his shoulders. “You doing all right, hon?” he asked.

“Rrrr!” his husband said. The base of his trapped tail wagged.

The duck smiled. “Guess I’m the stick in the mud! Time to stick this in—”

“Do not make that pun,” intervened Argos.

“Fair.”

Henry set the toy down and pumped silky-smooth, thick clear lubricant into his palm. The small pile magnified the lines of his hand and the duck used his fingers to gradually apply it around Dorian’s exposed passage and against the aperture itself. Applying to home maintenance, soup seasoning, and anal sex, the adage “use more than you think you’ll need” was applied liberally here, and Henry spackled Dorian’s crack until air and light slipped off.

“Does water-based lubricant work on you, Mister Van Clove?” Argos asked.

“Rrr-rrr,” the quetzal said, managing to smile around his ring gag.

“Not you, the other— ah.”

Henry winked. “Just have to make sure the preen gland is calm.”

“Very well. Were you ever a swimmer?”

The duck shrugged. His fingers were dutifully working on Dorian’s canal, and the warmth and silkiness was only compounded as more and more lubricant was applied. He felt his pet relaxing, and soon two, then three fingers easily slid inside the quetzal’s inviting rump. “You know the drill. High school and college off natural talent, decent scholarship, then a white collar job and you forget what a pool is.”

Henry rubbed his hands together, coating them in lube, then pushed two fingers of each hand into Dorian’s winking, smothered slit. He coaxed it open, gently pulling until light entered and he saw pink. The quetzal coughed and it snapped shut, knocking the duck’s knuckles together.

“Provide incentive,” Argos said with a wave of his hand. Most of his arms were still crossed. “A man is intellect and emotion: you need both to feel life. Call it acid and base, bass and treble; balls to make a good squirt and a brain to appreciate how marvelous that just was.”

Henry nodded, and inserted two fingers deep into Dorian, all the way to the knuckles. He found the flat, firm plane of his pet’s prostate, and this he began to stroke, down and down and down. His pet’s fur and feathers immediately spiked, the body more animated.

Firmer and firmer strokes made the quetzal thrust. His cage jiggled between his thighs, and a clear strand emerged from the hole at the tip. Dorian’s cock strained in its confines, drooling onto the table.

“There we go,” said Argos.

“So the duality of man n’ all that,” said Henry, lubing up the plug. His mind still boggled when his fingers and thumb, formed as a ring, broke at the toy … the tool’s equator. “You’re saying that about my swimming and about pet showmanship?”

“About everything, my friend. Please the brain and the balls, but do not overthink, nor overcum.”

“What about the heart?”

“It’s in-between the two.”

“Okay, I understand,” said Henry. He tapped Dorian’s rump. “Ready?”

“Rrrh.”

“Careful,” said Argos.

Henry angled the plug’s tip against the quetzal’s passage. His eardrums fluttered at the sticky-slick sounds the tool produced as it slid between his pet’s buttocks. He felt the initial pressure of Dorian’s anus resisting the foreign intrusion, then with some gentle words of assurance Henry felt the ring part around its circumference. He blushed as he saw Dorian spreading around it, the pink band forming to the blue girth, and then he heard a soft gasp.

The duck backed the plug out an inch, letting his pet relax. “Doing good, baby,” he said, scratching the quetzal’s rear. Seeing his mate yet spread around the plug, gripping it as much as the generous lubricant would allow, gave Henry a most natural, instinctual surge of pride and desire. Eventually, it would be him inside his pet, enjoying the same slick, warm grasp of the quetzal’s canal.

After Dorian was allowed a few breaths, Henry gradually pushed. He gave a centimeter, then paused. Then another, and paused. The equator was soon upon them. Then another centimeter, and Henry carefully watched his pet’s body; the tension of the shoulders, the arc of the back.

As he was watching, he stroked Dorian’s side. His thumb kept firm pressure on the plug, and soon he felt movement, a slow drawing in. His eyes went back to his pet’s exposed rump and he beheld with carnal satisfaction the quetzal’s slick ring swallow the thick plug up to the base, where it sat like a proud silicone jewel. This was accompanied by a deep murr by Dorian, almost as if the air was directly pushed out of him by the rectum-filling tool.

“How do you feel?” asked Henry. As he leaned in and hugged his pet by its side, his erection bumped the table. Not only was he as hard as Dorian’s cage, but a cool breeze on the tip told him he was rather drippy, as well. His loins were poised for a most satisfactory ejection.

“Hhnng,” answered his pet. Henry went around to the front of him, and the quetzal’s eyes sparkled as they made eye contact. They’d set their wedding bands in the locked chest; Argos had insisted that they enter this world anew. The bonds from the old one, however, were still there.

Henry put his hand to Dorian’s snout and was rewarded by a passionate nuzzle. “Love you, too, baby. Good boy.”

“Proceed,” informed Argos.

The duck turned to the larger male. “Any suggestions?”

One arm emerged from the folded stacks, dangling Dorian’s jock.

Henry assented and slipped the garment on Dorian one bands at a time. The soft cotton elastic straps sat comfortably beneath his mate’s buttocks, and the pink-blue pouch cupped his cage loins within a perfect pod, accentuating the precious area with beautiful geometry.

Argos offered a leash. Henry nodded and took the implement, then disconnected Dorian’s collar from the table and attached the new lead to his chest harness.

“Pride, Henry,” said the six-armed man, “Pride and duty. Purpose and passion, because you care. You own.”

“Absolutely, sir,” answered the duck, his breast full of solemn, pure energy. Henry jingled the leash and bade Dorian to walk.

His quetzal pet; plugged, muzzled, caged, and leashed; perambulated on his hands and knees. The duck led him up to the room’s door, then back to the bed. They went around the table, then Henry stopped in the center and snapped his fingers.

“Up, boy,” he said, and Dorian rose on his haunches with his arms up and wrists bent. Henry offered his hand and his pet nuzzled it. The duck rewarded him with a scratch to his neck, those portions that weren’t covered by mask or collar. Henry, moved by happiness, leaned in and kissed the top of the quetzal’s head. “You’re a very good boy,” he said with a shining smile.

The awareness of his arousal came in and out. There was no doubt, by tensility or reflectance, that the duck’s medium malehood was immensely enthusiastic.

Henry, however, did not give into haste, and instead took his pet through further strictures. He had his pet; nearly naked with his loins singularly sheathed in a jock and his passage preceded by a plug; roll over, play dead, sit, stand, beg, and when again they were walking, heel by his side.

At one point, he had nearly forgotten that this “pet” was his husband of three years, and was looking around for a doggy bed. But then Dorian got ahead of him, walking on all fours, and in seeing the exquisite picture of his husband’s rear end; of his pert, round rump cheeks with his plug and his pouch; his own body responded with a surge of need and imperative: not only of release, but the luscious way in which they would get him there together.

Henry’s heart sprang in his chest and his dick sprang in his bright orange bikini, coating the tip in a spurt of enthusiasm.

“Ye gods, my love,” he cooed, then Argos cleared his throat.

“Control, Mister Van Clove,” the spider said. “Your pet looks to you as the master. Set the example.”

“O-of course,” said Henry, his tone trembling like his protrusion. The muscular black spider, standing at an angle, was also fully erect in his leather brief. The proud protrusion thrust from his loins as a spectacular cliff, and the duck surmised it had the strength of the rest of his appendages, able to lift either of them off the floor by itself. “You were—”

“I do not mix business and pleasure, even if pleasure is my business,” Argos interrupted, heading off the awkward question. Again, all his arms crossed, not a single one near his groin nor the garment’s quick-release snaps. “Commence, if you kindly would.”

“W-with you watching?” Henry asked. He hooked his thumbs around his harness straps to prevent his own hands from covering himself: at this stage, it would assuredly be a form of backpedaling.

Argos shrugged. “You can certainly use this as your ruckus room for the twenty remaining minutes, but I would surmise that—” the black male stopped himself. “It is your choice.”

Henry put his fists on his hips. If the two were to butt heads, their lower extremities would strike first. “I’ll have you know that my husband and I have plenty of sex.”

“It shows.”

“I!” Henry started, then glared. “I thought you were supposed to be professional.”

Argos wasn’t much taller than Henry, but there was a mile of chest and arms between the two. “What kind of victory are you seeking, Mister Van Clove?”

The duck turned back to his husband, who was on the floor with his ankles tied to his thighs and a rather large plug embedded in his rump. “What would you like?” he asked.

A large, heavy, warm hand landed on Henry’s shoulder. The duck had a cape, a shroud, an inescapable cloud of masculine dread behind him. Another hand set itself on his other shoulder. Another hand grasped his side. Another held his hip. Two more hands mirrored the former. All thirty fingers gripped into his skin. A thick protrusion prodded his spine.

The spider’s mandibles bristled as he spoke, firmly and deeply. “You will take control of your life, your ego, and your mind, else someone else will. So many …” he said, growling as his grip increased. Henry felt his feet getting lighter. “... men are turned into slaves or sausage meat.”

The duck’s heels thudded against the floor and the grip was released. Argos was facing away from them, staring out the street side window. “Take control, Mister Van Clove.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Practice. Do not preach.”

Two of Argos’s eyes were in the back of his head. Henry did not have to wait for him to turn. Instead, the duck turned to his quetzal pet, took the leash, and said,

“Nuzzle me.” His hand lowered to his groin, which had softened in light of his hesitation but was no less explicit in its clingy orange pouch. Penis and testes were shown in their full, accentuated glory.

His pet assented, and as soon as the quetzal’s muzzle was near Henry’s bulge he could immediately feel it flare to life. First, Dorian sniffed it, pushing and pulling cool air over the humid lump. Henry closed the eye-flaps on his pet’s mask, leaving him to sense him by scent, taste, and touch.

“Hhh-hoh… hhah,” came out of the duck’s throat in shivers. He watched his crotch bloom and grow in real time: the quetzal bumped his sensitive pouch with his nose, and almost like clay, it stuck in place as soon as Dorian’s nose lifted it. It was one thing to be precariously hard as a side-effect: it was another thing for it to be the main event.

Dorian’s ring-gagged snout bumped the tip and the quetzal attempted to get his open-locked lips around the aperture. “Now hold on!” Henry said, reflexively pulling back on his pet. “Control. Enjoy it,” he instructed.

Dorian slowed down, applying the length of his muzzle to the length of Henry’s tent. The duck felt the warmth of his husband and trembled as his love’s jaw grazed his private exuberance. “G-good, hhah,” Henry said.

Lust and excellence built inside him—a compulsion to thrust himself toward perfection, toward completion. Just as his pet’s lips feathered on the tip of his clothed cock, so was achievement grazed upon his own. Musk and breath swirled in his nostrils: forward and up; there was a reason why his loins were sprained, stretched, obvious.

These orange panties were just dressing.

Henry’s thumb undid the snaps on his pubis: one, and two, then the flap fell away and he was truly naked.

“Rrr,” Dorian pouted insistently, and politely he pawed at Henry’s knee. He sat on his haunches: his plug was an inch out, ring clenching at the base of the enormous, foreign object inside him. His jock was a bit bigger, covering a cage that could contain his length, but certainly not his liquid. The tip was dark and drooling.

The sound that rushed past Henry’s lip was a combination of “God” and him shushing himself. And so while it came out as “Gosh” and sounded somewhat goofy, the duck felt himself as the pilot of a canoe entering the rushing rapids of sexual enthrallment. His body and spirit was exposed, on full display for his pet and partner: it eliminated any superstition that dom/sub relations gratified only the dom.

Dorian sat before him, obediently, but the apex of his jockstrap mound was dark and drooling fine lines of crystalline readiness on the floor beneath him. Behind his male lump, the base of the plug twitched as the quetzal’s internal passage grasped and squeezed the prodigious bulb.

“You may,” said Henry.

The ring gag affixing Dorian’s maw was, delightfully, a millimeter or two smaller than the diameter of Henry’s anatomy. Absolute shivers—and nipples hard enough to scrape his leather harness—availed themselves to Henry’s body as his pet’s mouth encircled his erection. The duck entered the pleasing tightness of the ring, and then a rapturous cavern of warmth and wetness which temporarily blinded him.

The word “control” was the first to return to Henry, and against his mad instinct to chase his orgasm with a few quick thrusts, the duck restrained himself and combed his fingers deep into his pet’s plumage.

“Slow, my darling,” he said. “Count to five coming in; count to five going out.”

Argos wasn’t much in the room anymore. He stood quite still, and was only noticeable by his white and black raiments, and a fairly handsome perfume effusing from him.

Dorian did as he was bade, and Henry emerged from his blindness to a vividness of colors, scent, and touch normally reserved for the point of ejaculative inevitability. The pleasure that surged from his crotch infused itself back into the tightness of his sac, the tensility of his shaft, and all Henry wanted to do at this point was to indulge in the graciously endless cycle of his pet luxuriating his rigid manhood with his tongue, tonsils, and cheek walls.

Moist gulps accompanied Dorian’s signs and soft moans. In went his pet’s muzzle, enveloping Henry’s privates in wet warmth, then out it went, stroking his length in lovely softness and the cool air of the room. Dorian’s chin was shiny from saliva and preseminal fluid, anointing Henry’s taut sac when the two connected. Pride, love, and electric sexual lust enveloped the duck from his webbed toes all the way to his chest. His loins became a lightning rod for sensation, and his mind raced clear and clean. Benedictions of connection and promise spoke paragraphs through action.

This was all correct: this was brilliantly right and if Henry were to have a pulsing, liquid epiphany at this moment, it would be a moment of achievement, another plateau discovered and claimed. They had climbed a new mountain, and to their purview reigned the majesty of pure, loving sex.

When Dorian pushed his open, wet mouth around Henry’s penis, the duck held him there by the back of the head. “H-hold; we turn a corner,” he said, and despite the inviting cavern surrounding his throbbing spire, the duck took a few deep breaths to bask in the sunshine of the moment. Forever, yes? Our vows of forever were about moments like these.

“Okay,” he said, then pulled out. A desperation for connectedness crept upon Henry, but he used its tentacles to drive him forward, not pull him down. “Turn around and push out your plug.”

“Arrrh?” asked Dorian.

“You cleaned yourself just a few hours ago. I don’t care if there’s remnant; that’s a tiny obstacle in the way of us. Of my pleasure. Your boons and your … voids … ” (he could have used a better word there) “...are my charge. You are mine.”

“Rrrr,” his pet said more affirmatively, then waited for Henry to take hold of his leash before he turned around.

Henry knelt so he could have the perfect view. One hand remained at the ready if his pet needed assistance with a gentle pull.

“Rr,” his pet grunted, and lusciously did his shining, lubricated ring pulse and push out, revealing a centimeter more of featherless skin as it stretched around the prominent obstruction. The glistering blue silicone grew as it bore out of him, bit by bit heading toward its equator which had given him moderate difficulty in its insertion. Its satisfactory girth widened Dorian’s precious passage, and seemed to have the same effect on the quetzal’s throat, deepening his grunts as his slit grew into a heady band. Henry’s hardness beamed with heat, warming his thighs and pouring anticipatory pre.

“Hhhr,” the quetzal grunted, and the plug exited him with a gratifying slurp, landing satisfactorily on its base and wiggling. It came out perfectly clean, but the alternative would have just been a wet wipe and a reassuring kiss. Henry had pledged himself fully to Dorian’s being.

“I’ll take you on the bed. Up you go,” the duck said, jingling Dorian’s leash. “On your back. I want to see that pod of maleness jiggle like the rest of you.”

“Rrr!” Dorian said, then awkwardly clambered onto the bed on his knees and hands. He flipped around and lay back, spreading his bound legs. Before Henry lay a rapturous bounty; be it the pert, perky cheeks of Dorian’s buttocks; their exquisite framing by virtue of his jockstrap; the culmination of the garment’s support as the semi-spherical pouch between his legs; or the winking, relaxed, and lubricated slit perched above his bound tail.

Argos had not moved, though Henry blushed with a performative twitch to imagine that his ministrations thus far had been successful enough as to rouse the male’s interest, and certainly to humidify his constricting leather brief. He could only imagine the number of students that Doctor Morrigan had that, out of utter confusion from their attempts, kept the spider feeling chaste as a churchmou—

Snap “Please do focus, Mister Van Clove.”

“Right, yessir.” Henry checked Dorian’s bindings, feeling along his tail which was trapped under him and his shins and thighs, which were still tied together to give him half-legs. “You doing all right, pet?” he asked.

“Rrr-hrr,” Dorian said with a nod.

Henry positioned himself close to his pet’s loins and rump. His shaft, already wet with Dorian’s spit, throbbed before him as an obvious pink mast. Closing in on the quetzal, feeling the heat radiating from his undercarriage, and smelling the distinct musk of his moist, caged groin and lubricated rear canal, Henry felt as tremulous as a virgin on his wedding night. The anticipation of sensations to come, and the shaky, squirting inevitability of the conclusion, wracked the duck in delirious excitement. All of the pageantry he’d endured had secretly been enkindling and revivifying him.

Control, Henry. Control, he reminded himself. But then again, this was all for his pleasure … his pet had served his purpose: elevating Henry to a moment of pure bliss. This was all for him to take.

I’ll see if I can pleasure him at least somewhat… the neo-virgin thought to himself. He wiped his hand along the cleft of Dorian’s rump, shivering as his fingertips glanced upon the relaxed, plugless hole. If a feather—from either one of them—landed on his penis, it might tremble and erupt right there. Carefully, he applied the lubricant to his shaft, firmly squeezing the tip if just to distribute some blood away.

Then he pushed in, and again stars burst in his eyes. Like a conical paper towel dipped in water; hot, enthralling sensation drew itself into Henry’s body through his cock, blooming outwards from his crotch until it reached his throat and his toes. He was only an inch in, and Dorian’s plush, grasping rump pulsed invitingly before him. This was all his.

Henry kissed his pet’s knee and slid inside. Six inches felt like six miles and six nanometers at the same time, so concentrated yet endless was the buzzing, slick, and hot passage that held him and caressed him. “Aaah,” the duck moaned, already feeling the corkscrew spiral of the ultimate. “Oh, love, I’m already…”

He clenched his teeth and sucked in air, affording him a few more moments. He began his thrusting and his mind became laser-focused: all was centered on his erect shaft and the driving of it into his pet, his lover. Dorian’s ass welcomed him with the luxury of a thousand silk sheets, and all Henry could do in response was to push, and push, and push again into that loving tunnel to continually stoke the fire raging in his loins.

Thrusts became not mindless humping, but transcendent rutting: the singular language they spoke to each other was that of love, lust, and connection. Henry’s balls struck his mate’s rump as he drove himself into Dorian: he implored the galaxies that he could forever be connected to him, but it was a truism that peaks like this, in becoming plateaus, could lose their meaningfulness.

What was also a current constant was the incredible, rapid thumps of Henry’s hips against his pet’s ass. Presence of mind was this and this alone: Henry thumped and Dorian moaned. He ruthlessly, voraciously pounded the quetzal’s tunnel; and every breath sucked in a luscious bouquet of anal musk, every thrust flooded his ears with the squishing, slurping sounds of his pet’s rectum against his shaft.

The deep satisfaction welled within Henry’s pelvic cradle, an electric tingling that tightened his anus and sac and brought an enlightened awareness to his flaring glans. The duck got up on his toes and leaned forward, following his body over the edge of rapture and sounding out a glorious cry. His groan, his cheer, his profession of joy burst from his throat and his malehood erupted. His winking slit clenched as his shaft poured long, thick spurts deep into his pet’s rump. He flooded the quetzal in gasping, spraying streams of hot seed. Dorian gasped and moaned as his caretaker filled him; fluid rushed into his rectum and then up his long passage, splashing against the first corner and careening up the next strait.

“Hhah!” Henry cried with a final thrust, sending droplets of sweat misting off his feathers. “Hah…”

The afterglow came not as an awkward pause, but settled like sediment, to harden into immortal stone. Here the duck was with his penis in his partner’s rump, sweaty hips against sweaty buttocks, heart twittering like a hummingbird’s, and a staggering amount of his precious seed submerging that sensitive protrusion.

“Oh I love you so much,” gasped Henry, his proclamation pouring out of him like semen.

“Urrr ooo,” purred Dorian, his pet whose muzzle was still affixed open.

“Very good,” said Argos. The muscular spider had not moved from his spot near the wall. Henry turned to him with pride and a sort of brotherly intimacy, having shared this moment with a man he deeply respected. The duck kept himself embedded in his pet’s intimate canal; Argos had seen everything in great detail and so it would be silly—contradictory, even—to attempt to pull out and assume normal conversation. Henry and Dorian, in consummating their love through a grand, dynamic ritual of bestow and receive, had given their hearts fully, nakedly, and given Argos the gift of beholding it.

The spider, for his part, had a serene smile on his face. His forehead glistened with sweat, and one buckle of his leather garment had turned sideways with the strain of great male enthusiasm. “Remember your vows and keep them holy,” Argos said, performing an elaborate cross before his chest. “For the spirit of one flows through the other and is returned pure.”

“I’m not sure who’s had the greater privilege,” Henry said, hugging Dorian’s legs, keeping himself inside his pet.

Argos chuckled. His crossed arms formed an impressive breastplate. “Well-spoken of a master. Too humble and I’ve watched a pity-show. Too arrogant, and you’re a narcissist beggar. Respect flows through us like love; they are the same genus.”

Henry nodded, grinning, then turned back to Dorian. He gently stroked his pet’s stomach, then looked downward to his jock pouch. “Oh wow.”

The bottom half was drenched and, formerly white, was now partially see-through. The lines of the cage holding the quetzal’s cock glimmered through the fabric. Clear, sticky fluid soaked all the way to the support straps and radiated with sweet musk; the pod of Dorian’s scrotum wafted with an earthy, savory allure.

“Hnngh,” his pet bashfully purred.

“You did a great job, love,” said Henry.

“Oh uuu id.”

“You did a number on us both,” said Argos, adjusting his buckle. “And your pet, your husband, was a most well-tuned vehicle for your journeyman expertise.”

Henry quickly leaned forward, and grasping at his pet’s harness, pulled him up. Still seated deep inside his canal, his seed and manhood intermingling, he kissed Dorian’s ring gag and brushed their tongues together. “God I’m so happy to have you.”

Dorian’s tail twitched underneath him. “Eee uuu.”

The duck felt his sac clench, and with his sumptuous semen acting as lubricant, he felt himself half re-harden. “Hey!” he said, starting some wet, short thrusts, “Do you want to—”

Both Dorian and Argos objected. Dorian, with a whine, and Argos, with a clearing of his throat.

“I didn’t want to tell you this, my friend, but your hour elapsed fifteen minutes ago. I will not charge the time elapsed—it seems that in your passion, you distracted me—but you have two choices, my prize customers.”

“Oh, it’s over,” said Henry.

“It’s funny how the male focus has the same shape as the penis, doesn’t it? Linear and quite pointed at times.”