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Walking Through the Desert (With a Crow)

The coyote was being stalked.

At first, the crow had kept its distance, soaring high in the sweltering desert air, back to the sun so the coyote couldn't see. Later, it would rest on a rock or cliff-edge, letting the coyote limp on a way, but never letting the canine get right out of sight before swooping forward and finding another perch. Sometimes, Yot wondered if it was a different crow. Then he would glimpse it from the corner of a weary yellow eye. Yep, still the same bird. Small by corvid standards, with glossy black feathers, beady eyes, a little feathered ruff on its throat, and a heavy beak which looked like it would soon rain down some heavy blows.

The coyote panted, his tongue and his throat dry and parched. Maybe he should have stayed in that old shack? Making a break for it had seemed a sensible idea, though for the past two days, thoughts had become more sluggish. No, he couldn't have stayed in that shack. During his final night there, he awoke to the sound of a rattle. Gasping, breath short and heart pumping, the coyote grabbed his tattered jacket (and nothing else) before he scarpered into the desert night, finding his way by moonlight and starlight. At first, he wasn't concerned, even as dawn broke and that stifling heat bore down again. Surely there would be another place, another blessedly cool plot where he could rest and ease his burnt paw pads and scratch his fly-blown pelt. But there was nowhere. Barely a rock or a plant to provide shade. And still the heat continued to rise. At any rate, he couldn't stay long in one place. He needed water. And he needed to lose that crow.

The bird appeared everywhere. Sometimes to the coyote's left. Sometimes to the right. Sometimes, the bird would fly ahead and perch, watching the canine approach, only to take wing and begin a lazy circle, drifting on the next thermal. Tailing him, keen to take the first prize. The coyote screwed his eyes shut and imagined he was alone. But one thing he couldn't ignore was the crow's caw.

Caw.

Caw. That maddening caw! It was laughter, drilling into the coyote's head like that beak would soon drill. So the bird was mocking him. Gaw on, the coyote heard. Struggle on in vain.

The crow got bolder. No longer bothering to keep cover, it alighted on the ground, and hopped a few paces behind the coyote. Yot sneered, not even having the energy to chase the bird off. Maybe if the bird got even closer, he could kick at it, but even that wasn't a guarantee. And so he limped on, with his new companion, looking for some place or landmark to aim towards. Meaningless, yes, ultimately, but the little challenge had kept the coyote going for a good few days. Playing the game one more time wouldn't hurt.

Up ahead was a fallen tree, devoid of leaves, a twist of gnarled branches barely a few metres high. Each branch was dried and cracked after countless rainless days. That would do. Yot limped the final few steps into its shade, and he took a seat at its trunk. The crow had backed off, and Yot tilted his head to the bird.

“I know you're following me."

The coyote's voice was scratchy, his throat hoarse, but in the windless desert, his voice carried.

“Just so you know…" Yot took a deep breath, chest rising and falling. “I think this is it for me. You may as well wait here in the shade. Otherwise, some big buzzard will get me first, and you'll miss out on the choice pickings."

Silence for a few seconds. Yot watched from afar, but the bird didn't move. He shrugged his shoulders and sat back. The shade was only a few degrees cooler, but Yot appreciated it nonetheless. Suddenly, the crow took flight, crossing the short patch of stony ground and bushes and dying grass. It came to rest on one of the higher branches. The two animals faced each other, the canine and the crow. Yot threw a casual salute to his fellow scavenger.

“Well, howdy," the coyote said. Before sighing. “Ah, I don't know what else to say. Don't make a difference, anyway."

The crow just observed him with those beady black eyes. The coyote scoffed, and rolled his eyes to the sky.

"Heh, look at me, baking out in the desert, and talkin' with the birds. You probably don't even understand me."

“Oh, I do."

Yot perked a brow. “Yeah? Well, don't that beat all."

The crow held his head high. “I'm happy to talk with you, if it makes you feel better."

Yot shrugged and raised his paws. “Nothing else to do. It'll kill some time anyway, you know, before I croak."

“And you do know what happens after that?"

“Well, sure. You peck the meat from my bones. Eyes first, I presume."

“Mmm. They do have a lovely yellow gleam."

“That they did. That they did."

The crow fluttered to the ground. “I must say, you're rather relaxed about the whole, you know…"

“Becomin' crow chow? Well, I've had a good run. And if you're my reaper, you've been following me for a long time. You only chose to show yourself today."

“Okay, so no hard feelings?"

“None at all. Circle of life and all that. You're just filling your niche. And I'll soon be filling your belly."

“You almost sound grateful."

The coyote sighed. “May as well end on a positive. Especially when the last few days have been so shit. Who'd have thought things would take such a turn? After starting so well."

“What happened?"

“Let's call it 'a date gone wrong'. A hookup at a rest-stop, explore the old place, and blow this possum." The coyote sniggered. “Glory hole, you see. Should have been a fun day out. If only I'd kept my yap shut. He'd have never attacked me. He'd have zipped up, left, and we'd a' gone our separate ways. But no, I had to get curious. I had to say I wanted him. Wanted to see all of him. Wanted him inside me. Well, he obliged all right. He slithered into that stall, cornered me, broke my wrist…" the coyote held up the wrist in question, the left one, which hung at a crooked angle. “Then he bent me over that toilet. And…"

The coyote went silent. The crow hopped closer. “He… had his way with…?"

“Raped me." Yot bit his lip, and nodded. “I wanted it. What else can I say? I've only myself to blame. Of course, he just left afterwards, like he'd done nothing worse than take a piss. Me, I didn't leave that place for two days. Didn't even sleep. I didn't dare. What if he was waiting for me outside? What if he came back? I just watched the sun set, then rise again the next day. I barely even moved. I was so scared he'd be outside, waiting for me, waiting to tear up my insides again, drive that filthy double-cock under my tail. But then I heard noises, banging elsewhere in the building. I had to make a dash for it. Through the building, out the back door, and away. I never saw if it was him, or someone else. They didn't see me either. I just ran. Not back to town - I wasn't safe with that possum prowling around. So I headed out here, out into the sticks. All I found was that abandoned lodge, stripped bare of course, not a drop or a crumb in sight. Only a rattlesnake. And I did not want to become her chew toy. So I scampered again. But I wasn't about to give up. Call it survival instinct, but I had to keep pressing on. Make no mistake, if I was fit, I'd still be walking now. But we both know the score. I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm so thirsty… ow! And everything hurts."

The coyote winced, hissing through his teeth. The crow couldn't tell whether that was due to his damaged wrist, or some internal injury.

“I do wonder though…" The coyote patted his jacket. His paw rested on something, and he gave a bitter laugh. “Thought I still had a few. Well, can't trade 'em, can't take 'em with me neither. May as well enjoy at least one more."

The coyote pulled out the item in question: a pack of smokes. He opened the cardboard pack and took out a cigarette—hand-rolled, no filter. He held it between two claws.

“My last little bit of pleasure in this rotten life. That is, of course, if you'd be so clichéd as to grant me a last request."

“Hey, it's your funeral. Light up."

“Gracias. But word to the wise, crow. When you're eatin' me, you might want to leave my lungs. You'd probably get cancer just by eating them."

“Hey, I'm a scavenger. I eat what I find."

“Well I've got plenty of muscle on me. So I won't be entirely useless. You'll still get a good meal out of me."

“Hey, thanks for doing all the heavy lifting for me."

“You're welcome. It took years to make you this meal. Savour it."

The coyote held the cigarette between his teeth. He felt his pockets again, speaking in a mutter.

“Now, after sayin' all that, this is the point where I've lost my lighter… ah, no, there it is."

The coyote pulled out the shiny silver lighter—watching with a smirk as the shine mesmerised the crow. With his teeth around the cigarette, the coyote clicked his lighter. As always, it flicked into flame the first time—fucking top-quality lighter, should be a nice trinket for Bird Boy. The end of the cigarette caught light, and Yot took a deep drag, filling his lungs with the noxious smoke. Holding the cigarette, he turned to the crow by his side, his eyes narrow and gleaming yellow, and he sniffed out the smoke through his canine nostrils, hard towards the crow. The richness and the bitterness of the blend struck the corvid, who went wide-eyed before breaking into a fit of coughs, covering his beak with a wing.

“Told you this was some good shit. Now just wait."

The crow grew still, a little unsteady on his avian feet, his beak parted the barest amount. Yot broke into a smouldering grin, smoke drifting through the gaps in his jagged teeth.

“Bet you weren't expecting that."

“No I wasn't! Wow that's… strong… herbal…."

“It's an acquired taste, yes, but you'll acquire it soon enough."

Yot lifted the glowing cigarette to his slender maw, drawing deep, before he took the stick from his maw and huffed at the crow, long and hard, all smoke and drooly maw. The crow, who hadn't moved after the first hit, got a full sample of smoky yotie breath, right over his beak.

“You can see why folks get hooked on these," said the coyote.

Now the crow was looking properly unsteady, stretching his wings for balance. “Uh… yeah… what the hell did you put in those?"

The coyote took another deep, deep drag on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs this time, before pointing his muzzle to the sky, smoke drifting from his maw as he addressed the crow. “A mix o' things. It's a blend of my own concoction."

“It… it's not actually that bad."

The coyote held the cigarette between the index and middle claws of his injured paw. Tails of thick white smoke drifted from the lit tip. “That it ain't. You fancy another hit?"

“Um… yeah."

The crow half-hopped half-flapped nearer to the coyote, while the smoke filled his head and clouded his vision. The canine leaned right down to the crow's level. He brought his maw close, opened it before the crow's beak, and breathed a whole lungful of smoke over the corvid's face. The crow could only stare, into the smoke and the coyote's fanged maw, bright and beady-eyed. He stared at that soft tongue and the top of his throat glistening with drool, the hint of meat just detectable among the smoke.

“That… that's real nice," the crow slurred.

The coyote huffed, another shot of smoke issuing from his maw. A grin played at the corner of his muzzle. “Heh, you look cute when you're buzzed."

“Yeah?"

The coyote licked the side of the crow's face. “Yeah."

The corvid blinked and fluffed out his feathers. His dark eyes started to cloud. “How are you… how are you not knocked out from that?"

“One, I've built up a tolerance. Two…" The coyote scratched his balls. “I'm a bigger animal."

The crow glanced down. “Um, I can see that."

“Huh? Oh yeah, that's another effect of my blend. Gets an animal properly horned up."

Heat and haze enveloped the two animals. The coyote licked the crow's heavy beak, hard and keratinous, well-adapted to plucking flesh from an animal—dead or alive. The crow opened his beak, and pressed his tongue to that long canine muscle. Yot's maw opened far wider than the crow's beak, but both animals savoured the smoky kiss. The coyote pulled away first—a string of drool hung between the scavengers' maws.

“By the way," the coyote whispered. "I'm only showing my tip. Fancy seeing how much bigger this animal is?"

“I… I do rather."

The coyote leaned against the dead tree, growling, haunches spread. With his free paw, he fondled himself before the crow. The spaced bird found the focus to watch the coyote's paw, teasing those low-hanging balls swaying loose in that yote-scrote, brushing over the thick plume of fur between those puppy-makers. The paw glided higher, taking a grip of that sheath. The coyote leaned back, took another deep drag of his cigarette, and let out all the smoke into the desert air, growling happier as he unsheathed inches of dark pink coyote cock in seconds. The crow stared, and liquid dampened the feathers under his tail.

“Like what you see, birdie?"

The crow parted his beak, stood silent, and settled for a nod.

“Wanna get a feel, too?"

“Yes." The crow's speech was dry, desiccated by the smoke.

The coyote fixed the crow with yellow eyes, legs spread, on full display.

“Then jump on over."

The crow hopped closer to the coyote's side. He reached out a wing. To steady himself, yeah, to steady himself. That wing-brush on 'yote-cock was just a coincidence.

“Heh, I've never been with a mammal before. Just be careful."

“Of course. I know how you birds are equipped. But I want this to feel good for us both."

With the cigarette almost burned to his claws, the canine stubbed it out on the stony ground and flicked the butt away. He held the crow in gentle paws, mindful of those delicate feathers, and he lifted the crow from the ground. He rested the bird next to his chest. With clawed feet either side of the coyote's crotch, the bird nestled close, the two animals enjoying each other's embrace. However, the press of something warm and firm meant little time for comfort. The crow sighed, giving a soft trill and splaying his wing-feathers, willing himself to relax. The coyote pressed up, warm, very warm…red hot. And pointed. The bird pressed back, adjusting to the unusual feeling of a mammal at his cloacal slit. It felt…strange, yes, but a pleasant kind of strange. Solid. Heated. And so, the crow pressed back, twitching his vent, feeling the coyote's tip press against him. They felt resistance. The canine pressed up—resistance still. A tilt of the dog-head, and a playful grin.

"Gonna need you to relax, little bird."

The crow huffed, nodded, and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax his tail-vent. Slowly, and with a perverse trans-species pleasure, he felt the coyote slip inside. A sudden buck lodged the canine cock-head inside, making the crow caw, as a lance of pain shuddered through the black-winged bird. A duller, blossoming pain rose from his tail vent. Meanwhile the coyote growled, happy.

“You good?" the coyote asked.

The crow huffed, huffed. “I'm good."

"Excellent. Then let's take things easy."

The coyote held tighter, pressing down the feathers, ruffling them just enough that the crow's instincts screamed at him to preen. But he stayed his beak, shuddering. Seriously, body, don't you think we have something bigger to deal with?

“How… How much of yourself do you have inside-"

“Just the tip."

“Just… the tip?"

“And it's still the most you've ever had in there."

“Um… Yeah."

Silence. Yellow eyes. The poise of sharp claws.

“Lying to a trickster? That's dangerous."

The claws dug in, finding flesh. The crow fluffed. “Okay, my friend once put his beak in there. Just until it got too…"

The crow gasped, feeling his soft bird-vent yield to something thicker, and hotter, than a beak.

“Too much?" ventured the coyote.

“No", replied the crow, his voice strained. “Please, keep going. Ya horny dog."

“Quite a blatant attempt to rile me up." Twitch. “But it works."

For a while, the animals rocked together. For the hazy minded crow, the pain of the penetration soon dissipated, though he couldn't tell if that was due to the drug, or he was just getting used to the dog-arousal.

"More?" asked the coyote.

The crow tested the connection, pressing back. Satisfied he wasn't going to injure himself, he nodded to the coyote. And what followed was the deepest, most relentless pleasure the crow had ever known. His eyes went wide and he raised his head, beak open. He tried to call out, but he could barely breathe. So this was what penetration felt like. No wonder that mammals (and a few lucky birds) loved sex so much. This was so much better than the fleeting, flapping touch of slits that passed for regular avian sex. And judging from the size and feel of things (the crow had seen mammal cocks before), this coyote was a fine pick for his first mammal-fuck.

Then a deeper twinge of pain. "Oof…" The crow panted and flapped a little. “Hold on, hold on, struggling now."

Seemed the coyote wanted to test limits. The mammal growled, but nodded his head all the same.

"I can't see, by the way," the crow continued. “How much of you have I taken?"

"From the feels of things… about a third. No knot for you today, I guess."

But all the same, the crow's eyes went wide. “Fine with me. You've really stretched me out. I can't believe you've taken me so deep."

“Yeah… you're doing fine."

The crow yielded his grip on the coyote, just a little, and the desert dog pulled back. The dog's erection burned all the way out, and soon only the very tip remained inside. And just as Yot felt himself start to slip free, he thrust back in, wringing a crackling call from the bird. Again, it was only a couple of inches, but that was more than enough to pleasure the crow. And pleasure the coyote, who twitched within the corvid, teeth bared and paws pressing those back-feathers. Their connection grew slick, precum easing their dog-fuck with every ominous twitch of coyote cock. The scavengers sighed together, two warm-blooded beasts enjoying each other's heat. And while the crow's twitching slit was warm, nothing was warmer than that big coyote erection. The crow nestled in, using his wings to steady himself, and the animals rolled together, gentle and subtle, just enjoying each other's closeness. Indeed it was the crow who made the next move, pressing down when the coyote next withdrew, keeping himself buried and waiting for the coyote to thrust up just like that! Another yield, another inch. The crow tried to tighten up, couldn't manage it, and the coyote felt it too and thrust upwards. Then he bucked, making the crow warble and almost lose his footing. For the second buck, the crow was ready, feet planted nice and firm. The coyote murred, clutched the crow tight, and bucked into the tightness he had carved. The crow was nowhere near taking him all. But it was a start. The crow, for his part, splayed his tail-feathers and willed himself to relax. Part of his mind threatened to remind him this was wrong, a perversion, that he was never designed to take a horny mammal. Then a wave of pleasure—or maybe the swirl of smoke through his brain—and the crow forgot that thought with a shuddering caw. The coyote was panting, yellow eyes tinged with red. He drew in a deep breath, tensed and pulled the crow down. The corvid tensed, beak open, and the coyote snarled out his breath, hot and flowing from his dog-snout and fanged muzzle. Seconds after the smoky breath hit his nares, the crow relaxed, this stale and passive hit numbing the pain of that thick coyote cock, which drilled an inch deeper still.

“Yeah… that's the stuff. Literally."

The crow was almost still now. His beak rested on the coyote's chest, and he barely resisted the canine's pounding.

“Oh yes," the coyote growled. “That should be more than enough to… oohhh…"

The prairie wolf was fully hard, and his sheath slipped back, letting his coyote knot slip free. The crow hovered, a few inches above it. The canine had stretched the crow to the absolute limit. But still he pulled deeper. He couldn't want more. He couldn't be… oh no.

“Better make me… grr… cum, birdie. Or I'm just gonna drive deeper."

The crow clenched down and down, trying to massage the dog in a crude analogue of a mammal's pussy. The coyote just huffed, a single gruff 'heh', and pressed in deeper.

“Whoa, whoa, you can't. You're too big."

“Never had a bitch complain yet."

“I'm… ow… I'm not a bitch."

The coyote locked eyes with the crow, and the corvid froze before those gleaming yellow eyes and those lethal teeth.

“Uh-huh. Sure. The way you hopped right up, fanned your tail, and took my cock like a feathery bitch. Actually, correction. No bitch has ever complained and lived."

The gravity, and the carnivorous growl, with which the coyote spoke that final word, sent a shudder through the crow's body. (Damn it, crow, don't pleasure him even more! But it feels so good, it feels so—)

The crush of coyote paws made the avian gasp, open-beaked. He felt one or two delicate feathers crack out of shape. He felt the paws grip tighter, the claw-tips of the right paw digging in in threat. And then the dog bucked, ripping something in the crow. A sharp caw. A pain within that grew and grew, a promise of pain finally delivered, making the avian clack his beak and tremble in the dog's paws. The coyote thrust again. Their connection took on a new, sharper, painful edge, still laced with pleasure but with a building pain that set mind and heart racing alike.

“But…" Strain in the bird's voice. “How can you… you were dying."

“You ever heard of playin' possum? Playin' dead? Here's a final lesson for you, bird: never trick a trickster."

The bird trembled, feeling his guts and even his gizzard thrust out of place.

“Coyote…" The crow flapped his compressed wing. “Stop…. you're killing me…"

And still the coyote drove deeper, ripping the crow open from within. The corvid was shaking now, his whole body shutting down in shock, while he struggled to take something far larger and far heftier than his vent was designed for. And yet, somehow, the pleasure still built. For the tortured tunnel, ripped lengthways and dripping with blood, sensation was sensation. Few animals had touched him there, and none of them had ever even come close to this depth. It was more than his brain could handle. Maybe, the crow wondered, his body was trying anything to counteract this torture. His heart raced, his body wracked with perverse pleasure. He didn't want to cum. Hated the idea of giving this coyote such sick satisfaction. But the coyote fucked him anyway, hard and with purpose, and the crow yielded, welcoming the pleasure, any pleasure, with a chorus of desperate caws. His cloaca twitched, shooting a messy spray of corvid cum all over the coyote's lap. Only when the coyote thrust deeper did the crow realise he had inadvertently given his torturer more lube. Fuck that dog. Fuck him in this life and the next…

A crunching, squelching, yield of flesh. The coyote drove deeper, ripping flesh and doubtless rupturing organs that were never meant to be touched, and most certainly not touched by a mammal, and his erection. The crow felt his brain shutting down, a growing numbness that started on the left, and spread in a terrifying unstoppable wave. The edges of the crow's vision burned away like celluloid film, leaving only the coyote, dead centre, burned into what remained of his greying vision, and that disgusting swell of his engorged canine cock. The coyote didn't need to knot the crow, but he did anyway, shunting that swollen mass of flesh upwards and ripping the bloody remains of the crow's cloaca, while that tapered shaft thrust up to the crow's chest, compressing lungs that struggled to take in air. And still his brain would not shut down. He couldn't even be given mercy, spared the indignity of hearing that wretched dog howl out his orgasm, nor of feeling that sickening twitch, twitch, convulsing through his body, heralding shot after clear shot of cloudy coyote cum.

The crow croaked, his eyes nearly closed. “So much for… both feeling good..."

“Oh you were feeling good, I'm sure. But you're probably not right now."

The impaled bird coughed and spluttered. He convulsed on the coyote's pike. Dark thick crimson gargled and bubbled under the bird's tongue, and flowed from his open beak.

“Still," continued the coyote, “no hard feelings."

“What use are… ack!... feelings? You bested me." The crow's next cough brought up a paler, more bubbly liquid blend, adding a salty tang to the metal. With laboured, strangled, cloying breaths, the crow struggled to speak. “That must be… your cum I'm tasting."

The coyote grinned and twitched his cock, wringing a strangulated gulp from the dying bird. “You may want to stop talking, then. Let the darkness cloak you. Oh, and enjoy the taste of mammal."

The crow tried to chuckle, but blood caught in his airway. Gurgling. Choking on his own blood. And coyote cum. A bubbling, foaming, red-and-white-and-pink cocktail that spilled from the side of his beak and stained his black feathers. The crow had just enough strength, and just enough clear airway, for a few words more.

“Just to say…good luck…surviving. You'll do fine."

The coyote watched, running his claws through those shiny black feathers, while the crow's head rolled awkwardly to the side, his movements stilled, until, finally, he moved no more.

Yot took some deep breaths, enjoying his afterglow. He held the crow in both paws, tried to pull back, but didn't succeed. It took a few minutes and a few attempts before his canine knot softened enough, and he could wrench free of the crow's ruptured cloaca, tearing up the bird even more. He held the crow just aloft of his lap, the first few inches of coyote cock still embedded in the bird. His whole erection twitched, spilling his thickest, richest shots of coyote puppies into the clawed-up carved-up bird. Then, a sharp upward pull of the bird, and the coyote wrenched himself free. A final middle claw to his reaper. The crow left this planet, unblinking, while staring at the canine who wrenched him from the circle of life.

Yot held the dead bird, smiling at the rush of a fresh kill. He licked the lifeless beak, tasting the blood and cum that had bubbled up the crow's throat. He lapped and lapped with his broad dog-tongue, drinking the thick and coagulating liquids, slaking his thirst. His stomach growled.

He dropped the crow corpse to the stony earth. He turned the bird onto its back, and he dug in his jaws and teeth. The crow was full of little bones that crackled in Yot's maw and scratched the ridges of his palate. The coyote ate regardless, savouring the raw bird meat, tasting the seasoning of dust on the dark bird's feathers. He left the largest bones, namely the spine and the main wingspan. With his paws, he wrenched the skull away. He examined the head, before a wicked and ironic thought sparked in his trickstery mind. With the points of his teeth, he plucked the crow's eyes out, one after the other. The tiny beads burst with jelly and flavour.

The coyote dropped the skull, and the lower jaw cracked away on impact. He rose to his paws, shaking like the dog he was, feeling the sway of his short, coarse, shaggy pelt. Then he cocked a leg, and sprayed a little piss onto the crow's skull: little, but deeply scented. He watched the steam of his mark rising into the desert air. And with his mark stained dark all around the bird head, he turned tail and crossed the desert, alone this time. The crow had restored him, and although Yot knew it would take much more to return to full strength, already he could feel the hope returning.

All right then, world, what's next?