One Machine to Top Them All [18+]
In the Bottom Barn, the act of sexually receiving is glorified, resulting in a strict prohibition on tops. Four hot-headed friends with no one to fulfill their needs--perfect candidates to breed innovation!
Edited by wellifimust and Psydrosis
Thumbnail artwork by @FondestFriend on Twitter
Word count: 5,130
In the beginning God created the heavens and the Earth. Then he made a bunch of other things, culminating in his masterwork: people. On the seventh day, he sat back and watched his creation...only to have his view blotted out by the light he created.
This is where he realized his fatal flaw. The people's asses were just too fat, clapping so loud and shining so bright he could do nothing but fume in jealousy. Then he tried to wipe them out.
But, miraculously, the people persisted. And so did their fat asses.
Close to a bajillion-or-so years down the line, this conflict endured. The people got so bored of this dump that they started to innovate in new fields such as agriculture, language, and video games. They constructed communities to enjoy these things together, species be damned. Though, in this world of boring, unremarkable lives, four big-assed friends found themselves in a dilemma.
It was the prehistoric era of the early twenty-first century: society existed but not yet wireless earbuds. On a drab day in the outskirts of Orlin City, up inside a third floor, single bedroom apartment unit, a notably fat-assed, thirty year-old alligator uncovered his greatest problem among his three dearest friends.
"Gaw-damn!" he cried in his rumbling voice, plunging a dildo halfway into his hiney. "My arm's spent!"
He surveyed his three friends, all lying naked in a cluster of mattresses, each plugging their own holes with comparable silicone dicks.
"Whaddaya mean!? Don't it feel good?" asked the muffled voice Joyce, a blue-footed booby, as he pressed his beak into bedding and nearly dug into the mattress.
Reynold, a pudgy bear, shoved his glasses up his snout with his other wrist and squinted through the smudged lens. "Nah, I get it. It's, like, a lotta work to keep up!"
A sharper voice cut through the air, hardly perturbed by his self-induced action. "Really, Mitch? You're gonna complain with a dick in your ass?"
The chubby gator pumped the toy again before letting go, lying back, and shaking his head at his greatest dissenter.
The muscular donkey continued to be an ass. "You're really gonna break the Bottom Barn spirit?"
Mitch glowered at him and growled, then resuming his thrusting under a thoroughly bruised ego. "Step off my grill, Dominic! You wouldn't have that dildo without our spirit! You know my commitment our slogan: all things must ass!"
"You think about ass a lot for a bottom."
"I think about my friends."
"Yeah," Dominic snickered, "and how much you wanna do 'em? I'll never look at an ass--cross my heart--I'll be a bottom for life 'cause of that."
Reynold sighed and adjusted his posture to face him. "Come on, man! Let's not get accusatory. We're here because of our bottomism, not to be torn apart by the tops!"
Mitch rolled over with an exasperated breath. He reached into the centre of the pile and grabbed the communal lube bottle, clicking open the lid and slathering his toy. Lying on his stomach, he wasted no time shoving the dick back in his rear and sighing in content.
Dominic switched paws. "Just saying, we should act in the service of our goals here. If you want dick, you find a way. If you really don't wanna tucker out, you can always hit the gym."
"Hey! I gotta eat more than I work off!" The fat gator raised his ass and flourished it for the arousal of the drywall behind him. "Goes all to my bombin' hips! I need it to impress the boys!"
"You don't get boys!" Dominic snarked.
Then it hit him.
"Wait..." the stunned donkey uttered, "we...don't get boys!"
The four had to pause their self-pleasure as the weight of this realization fell upon their shoulders.
"Or girls!" added Joyce.
Reynold scowled at Dominic. "We can't! It's in the rules of the Bottom Barn!"
"Who cares about rules?" a slumping booby bickered.
"I do!" Reynold answered. "Defined in the words of the Bottom Barn manifesto--subsection-E, paragraph nine..."
He pried into his memory to retrieve the exact words of a sacred passage: explaining a universal constant; a way of life; codified through divine will, not sociocultural influence or any of that hogwash.
"Rule A: Meetings every Sunday, unless it's during football playoffs, which postpones the meeting to the next available day for three of the club's constituents! Rule B: Mitch is super cool, and also the only valid leader of the Bottom Barn organization except in extreme circumstances such as ownership deferral to another constituent with a fatter ass, or his unfortunate passing!" Reynold took a deep breath. "Rule C: bottoms only; no tops allowed! If we had tops, we wouldn't be a bottom club! Rule--"
"See?" Mitch cut in. "Tops are shady! We gotta put our heads together."
"Rule D! All club meetings occur in Mitch's apartment. In exceptional circumstances impeding availability of this location, the meeting may be moved to anywhere else. Rule E! During the week a club member is celebrating a birthday, the other constituents must organize to bring in cake."
"I like that one," noted Joyce.
Dominic held up a paw. "Okay, we get it." He glanced sideways at Mitch. "All right, what's your pitch?"
"Catch this, dude." Mitch rose onto his knees and dropped the toy, gesturing with his hands in front. "We've all got fat asses: it's part of the Bottom Barn code. You know what else is? Bottoming! We can't let anyone else in if they can't live up to the name!"
Silence penetrated the Bottom Barn as his speech held the other three captive.
"So what's up? Try this: our own top, the sex machine. A pussy pounder; a beaver beater; a dildo demon! Something to clobber us like mashed potatoes, home skillet! And we could bust it out whenever we want, 'cause it's ours!"
Dominic glanced between the gator's invigorated grin and hard cock. "'Ours', or 'yours'? I'm not paying out of my asshole for some junk we'll keep in a closet!"
"Nah, hear me out! We don't have to drop much on some fancy-schmancy pre-made sex toy! We can build our own, with every feature we need!"
Reynold gazed at the floor. "I mean, I guess..."
Joyce rose off his knees and bounced back on his ass. "Yeah! This is straight up your alley, dude!"
"Exactly!" added Mitch, a chronic idea-haver who didn't quite recognize his long ancestry of quantum physicists. "I got the dope-ass dildos, Rey has the know-how, Dom's got the parts," he glanced at Joyce and hesitated, "...and we all got some money to toss around!"
"Damn, that's true!" remarked Reynold, computer scientist graduate, former high school robotics contest champion. "We can do some, like, personalized shit for that!"
"I can picture the engine," reflected Dominic, working mechanical engineer, hobbyist electrician. "If you guys give me an outline, I could see if I've got something to work with."
"Yeah, Mitch! Give us a run-down!" proclaimed Joyce, who once successfully balanced a soccer ball on his beak for five seconds straight.
Mitch showed off his teeth in a sharp grin. "Our mechanical homie...the Bottom Barn's fifth member!"
A waist-height tripod stood alone, fastened to a microphone boom arm holding a slidable metal shaft: hollow and shaped for potential attachment with any consistently modified accessory. Wires connected to a pump for the rod, controlled by a central motor where they split off in a variety of directions including the power supply and wall outlet, a series of electrical trinkets atop a styrofoam platform above the metal arm, and a small black switch in Dominic's hand.
He glimmered at the switch as the last of his three friends sat down on the couch in front of the haphazard mess of electrical equipment.
"I worked with your basic plan," he prefaced, "though I made some changes of my own based on what I had in the shop."
Dominic turned the dial. The metal rod slid hazardously back and forth against the microphone arm. The connected pump whirred with activity under a styrofoam control platform, which remained shockingly still despite the thrusting.
The three looked on in honest curiosity and scientific wonder.
Dominic abruptly cut off the metallic clanking. "Okay, so...pretty steady, huh?" From behind his back, he produced a simple red dildo. "Watch this."
The donkey grunted as he crouched over and fit the bulk of red silicone against the pole, finagling it until it slid in place with a quiet pop. Rising up, he brushed off his jeans and switched on the remote.
Life enveloped the machine as a desperate force possessed it, humping frantically through the air towards the seated three. At a suddenly quickened pace, the legs of the tripod quivered as it desperately sought to match the dial's control. Finally, it lurched onto its front legs, wobbled briefly in the air, and swung its jabbing cock into the dark wooden floor..
Joyce's eyes lit up as Dominic madly raced to shut it off. "Woah," he mumbled, gazing at a dildo bent under the weight of the metal pushing up and down, "you even got CBT?"
Reynold stroked his chin. "Uh...is that supposed to happen?"
The engineer sighed as the machine shut off, allowing him to prop it back up safely. He looked to the confused trio. "Well, normally there'd be a bench, and that's what I tested it with. That wouldn't be too comfortable, so I guess we'd need to grab a new one." Dominic scratched behind his head. "I'll probably build up on this dumb little tripod thing, too."
"Oh!" clamored an inspired Joyce. "Can we add a dildo holder on top?"
Dominic raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"
Mitch's eyes shone. "Oh, snap! We could add a rung on top for that! Sorta like arms!"
"What, like, made out of metal?" Reynold asked.
Joyce sprung up. "Yeah, that'd be the shit! You're the robot dude! We could make it look all...robot-y!"
Dominic held up a paw. "Let's not go too overboard, guys, I just barely got this--"
"Hey, what if we made it talk, too? Is that possible?" Joyce tossed in, turning completely towards his other friends.
Reynold slid his glasses up. "Heh, yeah, I could do something simple there! We could go even further and have it pick up audio cues! I wonder if we could control speed with commands, or something..."
Joyce sat in contemplation. "So what do we call it, then? If it's a bot, we need a name, right?"
"Dick!" announced Reynold. "Dick one-thousand! Because it's, like, the first one!"
Mitch shook his head. "Doesn't that imply it's the thousandth one?"
Joyce waved his wings. "No, no, I got it! Tobro! Cause it's our bro, and it's 'robot' backwards!"
"Wouldn't that be 'Tobor'?" Reynold questioned.
"Hey, dumbasses!" Dominic interjected. "Take it down a notch! It can't even hold a dildo without tipping over!"
Mitch shot up a finger. "Tipping...tippy...Toppy! Oh, shit! Let's call him Toppy! That'd be wicked!"
Joyce narrowed his eyes. "I don't know...I kinda like 'Dumbasses'."
"Nah, Toppy's good!" determined Reynold, turning to Dominic. "Two-to-one here. What do you say?"
The drained donkey sighed like a parent looking at a floor littered in discarded toys. "Toppy it is..."
The three more enthusiastic Bottom Barn members descended upon Dominic's project with vulturous hunger: each engaging in their own quest to breathe life into their robotic son.
An airheaded Joyce began the trials by sketching and seeking out parts for the appearance of the machine's upper body. Falling asleep that night after the demonstration, a mystical vision slapped the booby like a chauvinist pig. Toppy was not to be scaled, feathered, round-muzzled, or stocky in build. The android would emulate a series of canis features to stand out as a new Bottom Barn representative.
An immaculate cardboard face donning radiant LED eyes and a thin, motionless cylinder of a muzzle would compose Toppy's domineering appearance. On top of the box, two triangular slices of paper would represent tall, perceptive ears. They'd have no real purpose, Joyce knew, for the microphone would sit on the styrofoam platform. Nevertheless, the sleepy bird knew to never let function supersede the significance of form. He carefully folded the blueprint, stuffed it in his pocket, and dropped into bed without changing.
The next morning, clocked-in at his bathhouse receptionist job. On a quiet, hazy morning, he found himself on the phone, scrambling for a piece of paper. Not until two days later, digging helplessly through his dry laundry for that client's number, did he rediscover crude scribblings of a cardboard box drawn in ink, worn like an ancient cave painting. His next shopping trip involved a visit to an art supplies store.
Reynold always focused on his projects, so his memory served him much better. The meeting sparked his imagination with fantasies of brilliant innovations and physics awards with his name on them, as a co-creator of Toppy, who wouldn't just be a sex robot, but a sex friend. His shopping trip came immediately, and it started with the internet purchase of a voice box and microphone, along with required circuitry.
Then, settling down at his desk with a glass of wine--one hand on the keyboard, the other on his crotch--the revitalized bear set out on writing the horniest code he could muster.
The construction was up to Mitch, the father of the idea. The hulking gator thumped his big claws on his keyboard, fumbling about various furniture sites to purchase the best budget leather ottoman he could find. Later, with his mind running wild, he cracked out his wallet again to buy some cheap bed restraints
Next Sunday, they had the cardboard organized and half a control unit wired as Joyce and Reynold arrived to study Mitch's progress.
Dominic let himself into Mitch's apartment without a knock, butting the door open and carrying his tower of metal. He set it down near the three seated around a hill of wires and a pasted cardboard box. "Hey guys! I fixed the tipping issue! Super rookie mistake I made with the distribution of mass. We might have to fine tune that as we make more additions."
Joyce cut him off from his scientific blabbery. "Dom! I'm a genius!"
The hoisting donkey set the machine down and stretched his arms. "Well, I think that's a bit of an overstatement, given--"
"Mitch spent yesterday throwing the head together. Did you see the scan of my design?"
Dominic stared at him blankly before proper recollection hit him. "Oh! I saw that. Didn't respond yet; I had a lot on my plate. What was your plan for the eyes? I didn't think they'd work." He flipped the page over. "Wait, why's my dad's number on here?"
"No, we talked about the eyes here," Reynold cut in. "They're, like, LEDs; Mitch figured we'd poke them through construction paper. See, he's done the basic structure but we've still gotta wire it."
Mitch reached towards the pile and yanked out a cardboard box in both claws. "Yeah, dude! It wasn't too hard, I did projects like this all the time in high school!"
The head was more or less as Joyce drew it up, maintaining a vague canine resemblance behind its crass construction and vacant, blank eyes.
"Okay, nice," grumbled Dominic, crouching as the three scooched over to make room. "I wish you consulted me a bit more, though. I would've made some refinements to this."
"Eh, it's fine!" chirped a jubilant booby. "You can help us solder Reynold's shit together!"
Following another week of effort, there stood the seven foot-tall robot beside the leather bench: part-metal, part-cardboard, part-silicon. In front of the structure sat a council on the couch: Mitch and Joyce perched attentively on the outside cushions while Dominic, sandwiched by his larger friends, leaned back and crossed his arms.
"All right, guys," declared Reynold, holding the dial instead, gazing softly in admiration of the loose, multi-coloured wires strung from the head like intricate nerves, "here goes Toppy!"
With a slight twist of a claw, the robot's penetrating green eyes flashed on.
"I AM TOPPY," the text-to-speech voice recited, "I AM VERY HORNY."
"Damn!" cried Mitch. "That's rad as shit, dude!"
A goofy smile covered Reynold's face. He pushed up his glasses. "Yup! Toppy talks! He has some set phrases that trigger upon the detection of certain syllables, organized randomly. It's quite simple, actually, like--"
"I AM TOPPY. WELCOME TO THE BOTTOM BARN."
Dominic raised an eyebrow. "How many phrases did you program?"
"Ah, not many. I was mostly just messing with it, seeing what works. If we don't like something, I could, like, try to tamper with it." He scratched the back of his neck. "But it'd be better if we didn't...'cause that'd be kind of hard."
"I AM TOPPY. I HAVE TWELVE DIFFERENT PROGRAMMED PHRASES. THIS IS ONE OF THEM."
"Does he always say his name?" asked a suddenly concerned Joyce. "Wait. Is he sentient?"
"Nah! It's just randomness. But yes to the name question." Reynold peered down at the remote inquisitively. "I don't know why he keeps saying it!"
"I AM TOPPY. I AM A TOTAL WHORE."
Mitch waved a claw dismissively. "S'all cool! Doesn't matter how he talks...only how he bangs!"
Dominic leaned ahead of the gator and cleared his throat. "Oh, don't worry about that!" he chuckled, with a gesture to Reynold. "Turn that dial a little more."
A rubbery red dildo shot forward before reeling back and repeating the motion. The jackhammer pounding of the old motor was absent; the new part whirred comfortably quieter, allowing a strange muffled buzzing to gain audibility.
"I AM TOPPY. BUT TO YOU I AM DADDY," moaned the sporadically thrusting robot.
"There's a vibrator in there!" Dominic answered before anyone could ask.
"Cool!" Joyce proclaimed. "All right, Mitch, you gonna try it out first?"
Mitch's eyes brightened. "Really? You guys'd let me?"
"Yeah! Only fair! You've got the fattest ass in the club and all!"
Dominic slid a reluctant glance between them. "Wait a sec, I haven't even explained everything! I was gonna demonstrate it..." his eyes slid away, "with myself..."
The dopey booby shrugged. "I guess you gotta work that ass at the gym more!"
"I AM TOPPY. I AM GOING TO SEE-YOU-YOU-YOU-YOU-YOU-EM."
Reynold switched Toppy back into its idle mode. "Eh, it's fine, Dom, I think we've got it. Let's let Mitch up to test it. 'Bout time we got Toppy started, huh, gentlemen?"
"Okay, but have we tested high speeds with our new extensions?"
Mitch wore a warm smile as he rose from the couch and kicked down his shorts. "This means a lot to me, homies!"
"I AM TOPPY. DO ME ALREADY."
Dominic rubbed his eyes.
Mitch shuffled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, before peeling down the waistband of his underwear with a claw. "I'm pretty good to go; I was practicing last night! Someone wanna snatch the lube?"
Reynold looked back between the beefy gator and the wide-eyed booby, whose beak dangled in typical admiration of his friend's dick. The bear's eyelids drooped as he shifted his gaze to the irritated Dominic. "You grab it. I'll fit Mitch to the bench."
Mitch growled in lust as he swayed his pelvis, pleasurably squeezing his penis into the leather cushion. His balls hung out on the other side between the spread of his flabby thighs, which clung to the wooden legs of the bench under a pair of restraints leading down to his ankles. Above that, exposed to the machine, were the giant hills of his plump green ass. In the front, Reynold was just finishing a similar pair of bindings on his arms.
The big bear squinted in concentration as he struggled with the last strap. "We'll start out real slow, let him get into a rhythm, all right?"
Dominic peered high across the plump scaled body to his other friend, carefully avoiding a glimpse of Mitch's ass. "Yeah, sure." He turned his eyes to meet Joyce's, who sat comfortably on the couch nearby, pants down, cock hard in his grasp.
"I AM TOPPY. I FUCKED YOU ARE MOTHER," the robot droned, prodding his attention back to the remote.
Reynold finished up, gradually rising to his feet and wincing as he stretched his back. He extended a paw and slapped it on the flat of Mitch's back. "Ta-da! How's it feeling?"
Mitch craned his neck and met him with a trademark grin. "Good, good! It's ab-so-lutely pimpin' down here!" Dominic moved in his peripheral vision. "Now show me the money!"
As Dominic turned the dial, Mitch's ass and the dildo--both thoroughly lubed by a zealous Joyce--made first contact.
Mitch sighed as Toppy's slow first thrusting poked at his ass, before venturing forward and penetrating him.
"I AM TOPPY. I AM A TOTAL WHORE."
Reynold beamed, hands on his hips, admiring his personal share of handiwork. "We know, bud."
The dildo pushed further into Mitch on each repeated entry, vibrating softly, plunging sloppily at a quarter speed of Joyce's own distant masturbation. After multiple passages, Toppy made its most thorough expedition, sinking balls-deep into the gator.
Mitch's tongue lolled. "Aw, hell yeah..."
"I AM TOPPY. YOUR ASS IS--bzzzt--" the electronic voice stuttered, "SOPHISTICATED."
Dominic slid a curious glance to Reynold.
"Oh, ha! That's the, uh...randomized adjective system! I thought it could be hot if Toppy, like, made up dirty talk."
The bound gator gripped the front legs of the bench and looked back to his friends. "Hey...Dom? Can you crank it up?" He shut his eyes and laid his head against the edge of the leather as the rate of thrusting doubled. "Aw, fuck, Toppy...that's the spot!"
Joyce glanced at his standing friends and cleared his throat. "Hey, uh, can you guys move? You're blocking the show!"
"I AM TOPPY. MY PENIS IS--bzzt--NONDESCRIPT."
Dominic shrugged at Reynold. "I'm not saying it was a bad idea, but I think your execution is flawed."
"What do you mean? Isn't it, like, more exciting that Toppy can say anything?"
Toppy pounded a euphoric Mitch with increasing intensity--wet balls slapping the bottom's in a profound display of homosexuality.
"It's not that Toppy can say anything. He only has a couple actual phrases! They're more like jokes, not really dirty talk." Dominic turned the dial further to meet Mitch's ever-growing arousal.
Reynold snatched the remote out of his paw. "Hey! Sex can be funny! Lighten up and stop bein' an ass!"
Joyce squawked over them. "Can you guys move so I can see the real ass?"
"I AM TOPPY. THIS TEXT IS RED."
An alarmed Dominic spun around. "Hell do you mean, real ass? Are you going top on us?"
Reynold almost dropped the remote. "What!? Top!?"
"Yeah! Chill out, traditionalists! Ever heard of submissive tops?"
"Wha--" The big bear clenched his paws. "That has 'top' in the name! That's strictly prohibited by Rule C!"
The turncoat booby rose up from the couch and glared feet across, standing smaller in stature but more muscular than his compatriot. "Uh huh? What's Rule C gonna do about this fat dick?!"
Dominic stepped forward into the fray. "Wait a sec. Are we bottoms as in, 'receivers of sex', or, 'submissive in sex'?"
Mitch's tail lashed as he arched his back and clenched his ass through the amplifying sensation. He bucked passionately into the leather, not even registering the argument behind him. "Ah...ah, shit! That's right..."
"I AM TOPPY," the robot reminded him, "THIS SEX IS--bzzzt--POLITICAL."
"Receivers!" cried Reynold, "there's a difference between 'bottom' and 'sub'!"
Joyce flexed his arms. "Yeah? Says who? The Church of Gay Sex?"
"Language! We developed these terms for a reason! You can't just...drop them for your own toppist agenda!"
"It's not toppism! I'm a bottom! I like dicks, I like ass, and I like titties! Do I need to make the Sub Squad for you to get off my dick!?"
"No, I get it now! You're a switch! And your design for Toppy was...like, a creative mechanism to express your hidden toppiness!" Reynold set his muzzle. "You wanted a top dog!"
The so-called toppist idol shone its green eyes and spoke thus, "I AM TOPPY. I HAVE NO FREE WILL."
Dominic sighed at the pair's bickering and turned away. Only then did he notice the velocity of the rod causing Toppy to sway.
"Don't give me that shit!" Joyce spat. "You worked on Toppy--we all worked on Toppy! So, what? Do we all have some top inside us? Dom won't even look at Mitch's fat ass, 'cause--"
"I'm not a top!" Reynold scowled, "I've been here longer!"
In a quick instant, Toppy pulled out of Mitch and punched his cheek instead of plunging back into his hole.
"Uh, guys?" Dominic cut in, glancing quickly at his empty hands and back at the pair.
"What, on this planet? I'm the oldest after Mitch! Thirty-five years!"
"Pff! Hardly act like it! Can't even follow a set of rules!"
"Maybe those rules are pathetic! Who gives a shit about who tops and bottoms!?"
"GUYS!" shouted Dominic.
The two snapped out of their dispute to glimpse a confused, restrained alligator glancing back at a robot thrusting itself off balance, darkness behind its glowing eyes as it spun towards him.
"Toppy? What are you doing?" cried a panting, unalert Mitch.
Dominic swiped his arm out fast to protect his defenseless friend. The metal caught his wrist, rather than his hand, sending both him and Toppy off-balance. Joyce and Reynold stumbled over each other, reaching fruitlessly at a falling robot, right before Dominic caught himself with a paw full of Mitch's ass.
"I AM TOPPY," the swinging robot announced, machinery slipping off the styrofoam before its inevitable crash. "BUT TO YOU I AM DAAAAAAAAAAAAAA--"
Mitch flinched, either at the smash of metal or the sudden grope. He stretched his plump neck, looking back at the transfixed three. "Guys...? What happened?"
Toppy lay motionless, silent, radiant eyes open towards the ceiling. The machine had broken along the top of the tripod, severing a pair of wires under its awkwardly distributed weight.
"He's dead..." sputtered Joyce, now on his knees after having failed his catch. "The vision's dead!"
Reynold stood, gazing down solemnly. "The physics awards..." he looked to the remote, face down on the ground. "Damn it! I forgot to bolt down his legs!"
The booby beside him, now flaccid, glowered. "Physics awards!? Did you think you were gonna win ten thousand dollars for something we came up with together!?"
"Actually, a few million!" Reynold bit back. "And of course I would've shared it! Of course!"
"Bullshit! You should've listened to Dom! He said to go easy and you didn't listen!"
"What? You gave Mitch the idea! And Dom turned it up, F.Y.I!"
"Yeah, but then you took it! And you took offense to me jerking off to my friend getting plowed! What's wrong with that!?"
"'Cause that's a top thing! And that's, like, totally against the rules of the Bottom Barn!"
"What? Are you gonna throw me out just because I like fuckin'!?"
"I dunno! How does Mitch feel about someone breaking his code!?"
"God, that's so good!" growled Mitch, once again breaking the two out of their bickering.
Joyce and Reynold spun around.
Dominic grasped a chunky gator tail in one paw, using the other to hold the waist of his friend. He huffed and peered down as his humping found a rhythm. "Mmmm. Helps that your ass is so fat!"
Reynold's brain was in the middle of a gold medal gymnast routine. "Dom!" he sputtered. "You're a top, too!?"
Dominic pulled his paw off Mitch's waist and shimmied it under the leather, giving the big gator a little grope. As he quickened his pace, he closed his eyes and stretched his back. "Mmm-hmm..."
The humbled bear nudged his glasses and scanned his friends, settling on Joyce, who took to this realization in the complete opposite manner. "But...Rule C!"
A wry grin overtook Dominic's long muzzle. "Rule C can kiss our asses."
Joyce sat back and fondled himself. "Hell yeah, dude! I knew you'd ease up! Rule C ain't no cake rule..." his beak tightened as his dick grew to fill out his wing. "Guess I got a thing for cake."
Mitch pressed his scaled neck into the leather and let his muzzle drop. "Oh god, Dom! Pound me, dude!"
Dominic's jaw drooped as he closed his eyes and gasped around Mitch.
Joyce stared up at Reynold. "So, uh--sucks about Toppy and all..."
The bear huffed, watching the other two have fun. His rules had clearly failed him. "Yup."
"But, uh, maybe..." the booby's glance turned hopeful. "You, being a bottom and all, and me, being..." he trailed off.
"A top? Whatever. I guess that word means, like, jack shit now, huh?"
"Yeah..." Joyce smiled clumsily. "You think I could top you?"
Reynold studied his traitorous friend from the shimmer in his eyes to a beak dumbly ajar with magical wonder. He peeked at Dominic, who moaned around each thrust of his inevitable orgasm, seemingly in another world, isolated somewhere greater with Mitch.
"Fine," he sighed, looking back at their fallen son, "...for Toppy." When he dropped down to join the sitting booby, a smirk crept upon his muzzle. "You better kiss better than a tube of cardboard."
On that day, two of bottomhood's diligent monks fell into the throes of temptation. While the bonds formed through the Bottom Barn were tight before that fateful day, their convictions turned looser than their sphincters. In the resulting chaos, they founded a new Bottom Barn where the top half retained the same importance of its corresponding class. Their souls were certainly most harshly judged.
But what became of Toppy?
Though the robot was swiftly stashed away as a piece of junk metal in Dominic's closet, the engineer checked back a week later to find the broken machine missing. After consulting the authorities to rule out a prank or a break-in, Dominic chose to forget about his creation and never tell another soul.
In truth, Toppy was the excellent creation they expected. In the middle of the night, the broken robot lifted himself quietly onto his three legs and limped out the door, down the fire escape, and into the darkness of night. What happened next, we can't say, though news of his eventual location surfaced around the Great Beyond.
Toppy now resides in heaven, an ass-less being, challenging God for the title of his throne. It's only fair, one may reason, that the one who invoked a deep appreciation of ass may be a suitable contender for its greatest dissenter.