FSE

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"Hey, idiota! You coming by or what?"

Desmond looked up at the clock. 6 PM, give or take on his uncertain analog clock, but the fact that one of the animatronics was chiding him meant it was probably five or ten minutes after. The young man sheepishly slid his phone out of his breast pocket. 6:07 PM precisely, changing to 6:08 as he looked at it.

The fox slotted his tools away on the peg board and slid the frame up his desk. It was a replacement leg too stocky to be Mangle's but too slim to belong to the wide-hipped Foxy. It did not belong to any animatronic currently active at Freddy Pimpbear's Pussy, but instead to somebody Desmond was prototyping. His name would be Bonnie, based on the purple rabbit from the earliest days of the establishment's first incarnation. But Bonnie could wait. Freddy and the girls already under his in-character employ made the club enormously popular.

Desmond licked his lips and depressed one of the send buttons on his desk radio. He could send a signal directly into the artificial brain of any of the animatronics. It was a good way to give them silent instructions, so as to not disturb guests even in the most intimate moments. He uttered into the mic with a smirk on his face, "Easy there, puta. I didn't forget."

"Pah!" the sassy Latino spat back. Desmond laughed to himself.

As if Desmond didn't spend enough time at Pimpbear's, he often spent his downtime with the animatronics. It was time in which he could have gone out to pursue flesh-and-blood romantic interests, but the animatronics were a sure thing. Desmond wondered vaguely, as he smoothed down his rumpled uniform and combed his long hair, if he had a robot fetish. If he did, so did everybody else who came to visit. The fact comforted him.

On his way to his appointment, Desmond stopped and had a slice of cold pizza past its throw-out time along with a glass of water. Past the bar, he gave the stage a wide berth, where Foxy was entertaining a throng of guests with a catchy burlesque number. Ripped stockings darkened her orange fur and black ruffles at the tops drew eyes to her groin. Her crotch was in competition with her bosom. Both her thick jugs were naked, brown nipples stiff with mismatched jewelry clipped onto the rings. That she was crooning about being tanked on grog couldn't have been mere coincidence.

Though tempted to listen to Foxy warble of drunken booty-plunderin', Desmond didn't stay and tap his foot for long. Soon after starting on his way again, he brushed into the white-and-pink vixen Mangle whom stopped him for a gentle hug and a kiss on his lips. Smiling lopsidedly, Desmond bumped his nose into hers and hugged back around her lightly-dressed body. She was, at that moment, rocking a translucent red bra and panties combo. Both items were lacy and sparkling.

"Hello, sweet thing," cooed Mangle, her voice barely audible over the ruckus of Foxy's show. "El puta is waiting on you." She noted this dryly, with a jaded smirk on her face.

Desmond licked Mangle's lips. The vixen rumbled sweetly and pressed her cold body more tightly to his. "Maybe I want you instead," he offered as he wrapped his palms around her behind.

But Mangle laughed at the prospect and nudged Desmond away. "Chica would never stop complaining about it. Go see her, darling." The vixen winked and backpedaled, then blew a kiss at the twink. "You and I will have a little fun some other time, cutie."

The foxcoon walked down the hall, away from the heart of the club. The private room of Freddy the Pimpbear was noisy with the sounds of a good time. In his casual walk past, Desmond heard the guttural sleaze of Freddy and the blissful squeals and pleas of two distinctly different ladies. Desmond heard Freddy utter how much he loved milfs. The declaration made the twink smile contritely. "You and me both, papa bear," he muttered under his breath.

A few doors down, Desmond stopped. Licking his lips and putting on a coy smile, Desmond appeared to be channeling Freddy himself. Truly, papa Pimpbear would have been pleased to see the young man leering so lasciviously on the dawn of a booty call. He balled up his fist and pounded the door. "Open up, puta," he growled. "I'm here."

From through the door: "Well, you got the pet name right." Slowly it opened, and there, contrasted by the darkness of her room and the relative brightness of the hallway, was Chica. "But your accent is fuckin' mierda."

Desmond's sleazy smile slackened into something more playful. "Mierda is shit, right?"

"Si," Chica confirmed, nodding smartly. She pulled Desmond close by the collar of his shirt. Emitting a lustful churring sound, she licked his cheek. "C'mon, chico, we're goin' this way." And she nudged him back the way she pulled him, thrusting him out into the hall. She followed and let her door close at her back.

Desmond was familiar with all of them. Like a master mechanic in a garage, he had taken every last one of them apart and put them all back together with lube in all the right places. The finer points of their brains were past him even on the best days, but he knew what made them tick otherwise.

Yet in spite of his intimate mechanical knowledge of the animatronics, Desmond appreciated that they were more than masses of alloy, wires, high-density flash chips and heuristic algorithms. They looked and acted like any living creature. To Desmond, and perhaps others whom came to the club with some frequency, they were alive in every sense of the word, sexual servitude notwithstanding.

At that moment, Desmond admired not what a marvel of engineering the life form before him was, but the female shape of its body. Desmond was very horny, and Chica was as fine an example of femininity as Foxy or Mangle - just in different ways than the vixens offered. Instead of being a boisterous pirate or a girl-next-door ballerina, Chica was an unpleasant Latino bitch. It was the key aspect of her personality.

Giving weight to her sass, Chica had generous proportions; thick hips, round behind, and strong legs ending in three-toed chicken feet. In line with her only average breasts, Chica had hints of muscle tone under her yellow, soft down. Of course all of the animatronics were strong well beyond any organic creature, but the appearance of some tone helped Chica to look both feminine and tough.

Because she was meant to be aesthetically pleasing, Chica was very pretty in the face. She usually had an off-color smirk, matched by eyelids drenched in purple shadow which were almost never open completely, giving every expression a sarcastic dullness. She had a mohawk of hair the same color as her down, but it was swooshed to the side, curving around the side of her head.

Chica wrapped her strong arms around Desmond and bumped the slightly downward-curving tip of her beak into his nose. She stood a full head above him yet still appeared ladylike pressing up close to him. "Ay, baby," she cooed. "You're lookin' good tonight."

Genuine affection from Chica was never out of the question. Desmond slid his arms around her, reaching up under her worn-out leather jacket to stroke her back, most of which was bare. A tube top (with the colorful legend EAT ME across its front) hugged her, keeping her upper body decent. Desmond liked her bottoms more; a kilt worn purposefully askew to show her panty line.

"You and me both," Desmond said, smiling.

Chica snickered and nipped his cheek with her beak. She tugged on, but did not pluck out a whisker. "Let's go this way, yeah?" said the bird, nodding down the hall to the rear exit. "Nice night. You spend way too much time cooped up in here, no es bueno. C'mon."

Ushered along by Chica, Desmond bluntly asked, "Did one of the other girls put you up to this?"

"Ay, maybe," Chica shrugged. She slid her hand down his back and patted his girly behind. "Maybe I decided on my own to look out for you, 'cause, you know," she paused to snicker, "I kinda like you, chico, even if you're kind of a sabelotodo most of the time."

"Sabelotodo," Desmond dryly said. "That one I know. Pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?"

Chica wiped her downy hand across his face and briefly, but firmly held his muzzle closed. "Shush."

As Chica stepped out into the cool evening air followed by Desmond, the fox said with some coy humor, "Fresh air is nice, you know, but the alley isn't exactly a good time."

The bird looked over her shoulder and scoffed at Desmond. She reached into her breast pocket and took out a well-licked sucker stick, which she clutched in her beak like a cigarette. Around it she said, "I got you covered, carino. Here." It was then that Chica gestured to the ladder going up the rear of the building, which Desmond had seen dozens of times but never gave much thought to. She winked and started to climb. Desmond watched her, staring shamelessly up her kilt. He joined her on the ladder without a word, just a few rungs behind. He continued to look up at her panties.

Chica dismounted the ladder and disappeared from Desmond's view only to lean out and offer him a hand as he neared the top. He took her hand, and she pulled him up suddenly and surely. Though he knew it was coming, he still gasped and ended up clinging to her. Chica laughed in rare good nature and squeezed him reassuringly.

"Chill, chico! I ain't gonna let you fall, man."

"Thanks," Desmond mumbled, self-conscious of his fear. He kissed Chica's cheek and eased off of her. Overhead and off on the horizon was a postcard image of the sunset, and opposite was the waxing moon as it gained dominance. Echoes of idling cars and chatter from the street below sounded washed-up and far away. The building which Freddy Pimpbear's Pussy occupied was only three stories, but this was ample to provide some privacy on the rooftop.

Chica walked along the roof. The gravel crunched under her boots, echoed softly by Desmond's more demure footfalls. She sat down on one of the air conditioners. It hummed away beneath her, made no worse for wear by her weight upon it. She crossed one leg over the other, resting her palms on the edge. "Nice up here, ay? I found this spot up here one day after I helped some dude bust his nuts in the alley, hah."

For a moment, as if contemplating things she shouldn't, Chica stared at the setting sun. Desmond joined her and slid his paw around her bare knee, and from there up her thigh a few inches. The bird chuckled and put her hand over his mitt. "Ay, you're lucky I like those soft fingers, chico."

Desmond chuckled with her. He rested against Chica, contemplating the sun too. It was almost entirely gone on the horizon, a melting orange blur. The first stars of the night were becoming visible. "You know what I find weird?"

"What?"

"Foxy drops that awful pirate speak when I've got her alone." He turned his head just slightly and looked at Chica from the very corner of his eye. They exchanged little smiles. "But you still sound like you just got out of the barrio."

"Ay," Chica shrugged, swinging her legs a little bit. The heels of her boots clacked against the sheet metal of the air conditioner. "It suits me, man. Sets me apart, too - what do I got without that? Everybody comes here for the foxes." She said it without resentment. Desmond didn't try to refute it, but he leaned on Chica more heavily and kissed her neck. "So I'm always Chica, the Latino punk. It's my thing, chico!"

The fox let out a single laugh. "I dunno. I like all of you. Even Foxy when she's talking like a pirate."

"Arr harr, matey, semen on me poop deck," Chica drawled in a spot-on impersonation. Desmond started to giggle, then the laughter spilled out of him. Chica snickered and went on, "Shiver me titties, lad, get th' cannons ready, we be boardin'!"

"Stop," Desmond laughed, flopping against Chica like a ragdoll.

"Harrr, I got scurvy in me booty," said Chica, and then she slid her formidable arm around the twink. "Ay, hey, I don't blame her for not wanting to talk like that all the time."

Desmond was still in the last throes of his laughing fit. He hadn't stopped giggling when he smooched Chica's beak. The bird let out a sweet coo and bumped the rounded tip of her beak on his cheek. "So babe, you want to relax now?"

"Mhm," the foxcoon conceded, his tail swishing. Chica grabbed her EAT ME tube top and yanked it down around her midriff, letting her breasts spill out. Desmond chuckled lewdly. "There we go - that's what I came here for."

"Ay, and here we were bein' all romantic. You wanted me for the ballbuster shit, yeah? So, tienes ganas? You wanna fuck now, chico?" Chica sternly asked, grabbing a firm fistful of Desmond's crotch. He gasped. Chica flicked away her sucker stick with her tongue then dragged the cool muscle across his cheek, giving the foxcoon a lascivious slurp.

Hungrily licking back on Chica's tongue and beak, Desmond shuddered out, "Just like I asked for, baby. I need it bad."

Chica chuckled in a wicked way. She licked along his neck then nipped his throat with her beak, before more lovingly preening him in a few spots. "Guess everyone gets bored sometimes, ay?" Exerting her grasp on Desmond's crotch and bolstering it with a hand on his shoulder, she lifted him off the air conditioner. "Hrm, my boots ain't looking so shiny, chico." Holding a foot aloft, she said with a smirk both casual and condescending, "Do somethin' about it."

A terribly coy smile, undermined by warm, blushing cheeks, spread across Desmond's face. He knelt in the gravel of the roof and grabbed hold of Chica's heel, then bumped his nose against one of her boot's distinct three toes. "Boot licking, huh? You're getting more creative."

The bird laughed tightly, producing another well-licked sucker stick from her breast pocket. She clutched it in her beak. "Don't get no ideas, chico," she warningly said. "You're still gonna lick the usual spots."

Desmond's smile grew bashful and his eyes closed slightly. Using the tip of his long, pink tongue, he detailed the creases in the toes of the boots, then allowed himself one lurid slurp across the top, creating a stripe of saliva skewing off at random. The chicken wriggled her tail feathers and nudged her foot into lips, pressing his tongue between the surface of her boot and his own soft lip.

"Aw, fuck this," she snickered. "I ain't gettin' off on this."

Desmond pulled back and wet his tongue. He looked up at Chica, smiling mischievously. "I dunno, it was doing it for me."

Chica braced her licked boot on his chest and pushed him gently. "Si, but it ain't about you, chico," she sneered. She crunched both boots into the gravel and pushed off her perch, and in doing so bumped her loins against his snout. Desmond recoiled automatically but Chica grabbed the back of his head and reeled him in, smearing his muzzle on her crotch.

The fox gasped into her pleated kilt, then drew in a thick breath through his nostrils. The kilt and her panties did little to conceal the scent of her muff. Desmond hugged her around her perfect legs, digging his fingers into her downy fluff.

A lurid hiss from Chica overrode Desmond's huffing and snuffling. She gyrated against his face, shoving his nose where her clit was hidden. "How bad you want it, now?" she quietly asked, staring down at Desmond. In the low light, her luminescent blue eyes were brilliant. "Estoy caliente, tell me you need it bad."

"Come o-o-on," Desmond grunted into Chica's crotch. "Don't make me beg."

"Ay, I thought you wanted to beg," Chica laughed. "Okay, carino, here it is, quick 'n easy," she tutted. Chica tugged up her kilt, baring her thick hips and her crotch, which vibrant pink panties covered up. A damp spot darkened their color. Desmond tugged down her panties and bumped his nose against her snatch.

"Besame," she quietly said, though she ground into his nose. Grinning snidely, she translated, "Kiss me."

"I knew what you meant," Desmond lied, then he started to chain kisses along the yellow bird's pussylips. He didn't part them, instead only kissing their surface. Chica eased her legs apart and quivered in pleasure. Desmond's soft lips teased her own. His bristling snout fur tickled her through her soft down.

Everything about Chica was simply dynamite. That was the case with any one of the animatronics. They were crafted for pleasure, not the least of which was aesthetic. Cool, slightly viscous juices leaked from Chica's cuntlips as Desmond kissed them repetitively. It ended up coating his lips and forming a veneer across his nose. Pheromones filled his lungs and sinuses, and the erection he already had began throbbing more painfully under his black work slacks.

Supreme arousal had Desmond feeling overheated even as buried his face in the thighs of a cold machine. He unbuttoned his tacky pink shirt and slid it off. The benefit to a button-down shirt was that he didn't have to withdraw his snout.

Chica clenched her beak firmly on the sucker stick. Her eyelids drifted down and she rubbed the back of Desmond's head, tangling his pretty hair. "Ah, yeah," she puffed, taking a moment to rub behind one of his ears.

Desmond's kisses were becoming licks. He lapped only occasionally across the bird's muff, slightly parting her pussylips to taste the delicate pink inside. Chica shivered and her legs parted further still. With this new leeway, the fox grew bolder. His licks now began at the far end of her delicate lips. Just a few of those far-reaching licks coaxed Chica to change it up.

Pushing against Desmond's head, Chica broke him loose. He panted and pushed forward, trying uselessly to defy her incredible strength. "God, please," he shuddered. "Don't cut me off now."

"Easy, puta," she spat. "Don't you forget who's calling the shots."

The chicken shoved Desmond back and twisted around, her boot grinding in the gravel. She braced both palms on the air conditioner, then dropped to her forearms, causing a heavy, metallic thud in the material beneath her. A sneer formed at the corners of her beak. She glanced back at her huffing fuckboy and perked out her ass, covered by the kilt. "Beso mi culo!" she triumphantly declared, then laughed.

Desmond smiled at the presentation. He guessed rightly what Chica had told him. He lifted her kilt up, setting it on the shelf her back made in this position, and licked his lips. There was Chica's naked yellow ass, its cheeks round but taut, looking terrifically inviting underneath such full tail feathers. He tugged apart her buttocks and gazed at the relaxed pink pucker between them.

Helpfully, Chica said, "Eat me out, chico. I know you're a fuckin' ass fiend, I seen what you do with the others."

Three long seconds came to pass. Desmond tried to think of something snide to say, but Chica's flawless asshole took his breath away and occupied his thoughts, fragmenting them into lustful stupidity. He grunted like a beast and butted his cool, black nose into her anal ring. It winked. Desmond could feel the orifice's wrinkles and tenses through his sensitive nose. Subtle, pleasing musk scented it. Desmond slopped out his long tongue against her taint, and pressed its rearmost flesh on her pucker. Then he dragged it up, physically moving his head to scrape his smooth tongue across her anus. He used every centimeter of his tongue and playfully dug the tip into her.

Throughout Desmond's exploratory laps, Chica closed her eyes tightly and arched her back. A lewd moan escaped her, a gentle noise in contrast to gruff commands. "Damn, chico," she sighed, pushing her rear back.

"You've got, just--," Desmond struggled with his words. "This is such a nice ass."

Chica laughed, quite sweetly. "Quit tryin' to talk, si? Just do your thing."

Desmond breathed against her rear, taking in her musk. He smooched the pucker several times and curled his fingers around her thighs. He stroked up and defied the grain of her down, then rubbed downwards, going with it and smoothing it back out. Chica's ass cheeks were soft on his snout, and her scent, though light, was hotboxed in the crevice.

Lazily, Chica wriggled her tail feathers. She pushed the heel of her boot back against his crotch, and Desmond tellingly ground back. This made Chica grin.

The fox pulled back by just a few inches. He held fast on a thigh, sliding his fingers higher and higher until his thumb's knuckle bumped her cuntlips. At the same time as he gently rubbed her labia like strumming a guitar, he cupped a pillowy cheek in the other paw and pulled it to the side. Chica's damp anus was bared again, winking. Desmond dragged his tongue across it and moaned quietly.

Chica looked out across the darkening skyline. Thoughts raced through her mind. The outside world, the meaning of life and death to something like her, and Desmond's sexual needs. She chuckled, finding herself lingering on the last one due to her programming. Gently and sweetly, she said, "That's enough of that, carino. Get up here," she patted the air conditioner, "and lay back."

Desmond kissed Chica's soft ass one last time. As he draped himself back on the sheet metal, he dreamily cooed, "I love when you speak Spanish."

"I know," Chica winked, putting a knee up on the air conditioner. She unbuckled Desmond's belt and attacked his fly, and opened its cumbersome button and zipper with efficiency only a machine could exhibit. In the flaps of the slacks, Desmond's erection jutted up proudly, tenting his briefs. In the white material, a gray, saturated spot stuck out to Chica's cool eyes. She tossed away the sucker stick and lapped up along the underside of Desmond's erection, pressing the briefs taut to the flesh. Then as she neared the tip, she engulfed it all in her beak. The fabric spared him from the hard edges of her beak. She couldn't form a seal to suck with, so she lashed him with her inordinately strong tongue.

Right when Desmond started to moan, Chica put the brakes on her licks and pulled back, but stayed near his crotch. She looked up at his heaving breast and grinned. Chica liked to make boys moan and squirm. She pulled down his briefs, uneventful aside from the way his penis snagged in the waistband and sprung upward, resulting in a cute wag.

The chicken didn't make the effort to pull Desmond's bottoms down around the scuffed, hideous dress shoes he wore as part of his uniform, but she tugged off her own panties in a similar ordeal. She walked up on the air conditioner in one enormous step and loomed over the fox.

Desmond looked up at Chica and immediately smiled. The chicken smiled back and pulled up her kilt in an almost dainty curtsy, giving him a quick look at her damp pussylips. "What do you think, chico?" she cryptically asked.

"I think you need to hurry up and sit on my dick, puta," Desmond replied, smiling contritely.

Chica laughed. "A for effort, carino," she said, still laughing. She twisted around, her footsteps exceptionally noisy on the sheet metal. Looking over her shoulder, she added flatly, "But your accent is still mierda."

The punk squatted and grasped the foxcoon's erection. She guided it to her incredibly damp cuntlips and eased down, letting only his tip enter her. As Desmond shuddered, Chica braced her palms on the sheet metal and further bent her legs, resting her knees on the air conditioner. She lowered herself, ultimately resting in Desmond's lap, and allowed herself a croon of pleasure.

"Gawd," Desmond murmured. Chica chuckled and wriggled against him. She clenched rhythmically on his penis, exerting fine control over her vaginal muscles. "Gawd," he repeated, "that's so fucking nice."

"Ay, language," Chica tutted, "you little maricon."

Desmond blinked, then sat up with some difficulty. He wrapped his arms loosely around Chica and nuzzled into her shoulder. "Maricon?"

"Fag," Chica sniggered. "I'm kidding, carino. You know it." She reached down and back to rub Desmond's bare flank. Seemingly in return, he cupped her small breasts and kneaded them. Chica cooed and arched her spine, pouting out her breasts, and then she put her palms over his. She started modestly bouncing but picked up the pace quickly, and every time her hips collided with Desmond's, the foxcoon let out a quiet puff.

Desmond's legs hung over the edge of the air conditioner. The points of his shoes pointed inward, and he curled his toes inside them. After a gentle rub on Chica's breasts, he sighed and laid back, even interlacing his fingers behind his head to become the very picture of relaxation. Chica looked over her shoulder and laughed.

"Comfy there, chico?" she asked, riding steady.

"Hell yeah," Desmond cooed. In a nonsequitur, he murmured, "Nice view up here. I don't go outside much anymore."

The chicken smiled thinly. Her pace grew faster, and she spread her knees somewhat to allow for more sharp drops. It seemed as if her ride was becoming more chaotic, though she maintained precise control of her speed. Desmond was unaware of this nuance, realizing only pleasure. She cupped his scrotum and gently squeezed it. At the throbbing she felt in it, she smiled and drew her tongue along the edge of her beak. "You're gonna pop for me soon, ain't you?" she sordidly asked, looking over her shoulder again. "Yeah, I can feel it in your cojones."

Desmond giggled sharply. "Cojones, huh? If that's what you wanna call them..."

Chica pulled off of his uncut little cock and put her boots in the gravel, startling Desmond into a dismayed squeak. She looked back at him and winked, then sauntered to the edge of the building. Desmond very hastily kicked off his shoes, not bothering with their laces, and slipped off his bottoms. He followed her briskly, cock wagging side to side.

Chica rested her palms on the lip of the building and glanced back at him, then across the city. Not far off, due to their relative proximity to the city limits, one could see more rural country. There lie farm fields, wind turbines, and the lake which fed the city its drinking water. As Desmond shamelessly mounted up and entered her again, Chica grinned, but nodded towards the wilderness. "Looks pretty out that way."

Slowly grinding against the chicken, purring in pleasure, Desmond seemed occupied. He leaned confidently against Chica and followed her gaze. "Mhm, it is. I grew up in the sticks. Trust me, it gets old."

"Ay, who knows," Chica shrugged, pressing back with her fine ass. As she had so many times already, she looked over her shoulder and smiled impishly. "Mmm, real close now, carino. How 'bout you?"

"Yeah," Desmond cooed. He released Chica's hips and hugged her middle instead. As the sex went on and on, the moisture Chica produced to keep herself slick grew more viscous and plenty. It was perhaps unrealistic yet sexually thrilling that runners of her honey dribbled off of Desmond's balls at times. The musk in these fluids was heavy-handed, but it was balanced out by the open air.

Desmond's bucks were getting faster and harsher. Chica sighed pleasurably and pushed back ever more insistently, providing resistance he could push against. Her plush behind jiggled as he pounded into it, and she let her legs drift apart, making a wide, inverted vee shape out of them.

To orgasm was a routine part of all the animatronics' programming, but they still loved it when it happened. Chica tossed back her head and shuddered. Her beak clapped shut and she huffed through her nostrils. "Nngh, mierda," she puffed, and then she came, legs trembling as the bliss overtook her. Her pussy walls clamped down on Desmond's cock, wringing his flesh purple and veiny. He cried out in sharp, sudden pleasure of his own, but not that of an orgasm.

Chica squirted with phenomenal force. It gushed around Desmond's cock and smeared on his loins. His balls, already dampened, were left nearly soaked. It ran down Chica's thighs and dribbled on the gravel. "Oooh, fu-u-uck," she quavered, dipping her torso downward and nearly resting her head on the lip of the building.

Desmond held Chica's hips and started to grind again, but defying Chica's clenching pussy was incredibly difficult. It didn't matter anyway. He worked it out, then in, then out again, and in just one more time, and then he came too. He buckled and leaned fully on the chicken, resting on her back, and with a pathetic bleat. Throttled by Chica's vaginal muscles, his cock squirted only in huge, unwieldy bursts. The cum did not escape the seal of her vagina, and she crooned as it filled her up with gratifying warmth.

"Ahh, good! Real good, chico," she crooned. "You feel better, baby?"

Desmond was panting, unable to answer. Chica giggled and took that as an answer all its own. A few moments of afterglow passed before she chided, "Ay, c'mon." She straightened out, effortlessly lifting Desmond along with her. "Gotta get back inside before the boss comes looking for you, carino."

It came as a little surprise to Chica when Desmond leaned over her and kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Chica," he rather enigmatically purred.

The chicken smiled. If she could have, she would have blushed. All she could think to say was, "Uh. Any time, baby."