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"Yes, oh god yes... oh you beautiful lady, please take me, I'm so close!"

"Darling, how do you fancy going to see The Grease With The Golden Spring Onion tomorrow night?"

"I must admit I'm clueless about it sweetest. Tell me more. Does it look any good?"

The first voice was the Irish setter on-stage. He'd arrived already dressed in full, slick black raingear. A two-piece suit with finely polished brass buttons and tall black thighwaders with yellow trim at the very top. He wore thick-looking latex gauntlets on his hands as well, again designed, probably custom-made in fact, with yellow trim at the cuffs to show where it ended and the sleeve of his rainjacket began. He had a black peaked cap to top it off, bearing an insignia that was hard to discern but that conveyed authority, though there was good enough reason to believe it was an entirely fictional one. Combined with the tobacco pipe he had clenched between his teeth he was, overall, dressed in what should have been a dignified manner. When he'd arrived on-stage he almost seemed as such, carrying a box under one arm. All his dignity had dissolved when he opened up the package and tremblingly removed an inflatable pig that he proceeded to puff up into its plump, almost perfectly spherical form. It was exactly as one would expect with red-painted lips and mascara'd eyes, and the setter, now a very awkward, nervous-looking setter, had fidgeted with his pipe, loading and lighting it and only finally unzipping his black rubber trousers. He had a decently-sized cock, perhaps even on the large side, which was surprising when the performance's obvious slant towards destroying his dignity had made it a dead cert he'd prove to have a penis the size of a matchstick. He'd spent several full minutes since then kissing the pig lovingly, talking sensuously, pressing his cock to its lips and even performing cunnilingus on it before finally oiling his sex with a bottle produced from the cardboard box and beginning to fuck his "lover"

The second voice belonged to the slender, effeminate swan, arguably dressed no less macho than the Irish setter in full biker leathers - boots, trousers, jacket and peaked cap of his own, though the insignia on his was authentic, traceable back to the airforce pilot it had been stolen from before changing hands several times into the swan's possession. He'd returned from the bar with glasses of white wine for himself and his lover, the third voice, another swan also in intense black leather, also very feminine with it. The second swan didn't have a peaked cap, though he did have tough leather gloves to compensate for it

"Well," Rupert, the first swan said, looking ahead at the Irish setter's self-debasement, "the review in the paper says it's a European art-house detective noir. Stefan Cólquade is in it"

"It does sound very European," replied George, the second swan. "I'm sure I ate a dish with that name once when I was in Poland. Go on then," he smiled at his lover, "anything for you Pertie. I know you like your arty movies." He kissed the capped swan on the cheek, who flexed his long neck away bashfully, then both looked in the direction of the stage as the Irish setter climaxed loudly into his plastic lover. After a few moments' silence he meekly removed his cock, picked up the pig and began to lick its cunt clean. "I see that's an edible lubricant then," the gloved swan remarked more for the sake of saying something about the show than any real interest

"What is this performance anyway Georgie?" asked the capped swan, sipping his wine

"Do you know sweetest, I'm really not sure." George too picked up his glass. "I'm not sure if it's meant to be a sex show or an art statement... or both maybe? I wish they provided a program in this club"

Rupert giggled, putting his arm around his lover. "You know what he makes me think of Georgie? He reminds me of that dragon we worked with last month, do you remember?"

"Yes!" George replied. "And there was that cat the month before I think, she spent so long deciding if she wanted to go into the box wearing a dress or a raincoat. Do you remember her?"

"How could I forget?" Rupert smiled. "She was very nice to work with, actually. They both were. And I spoke to David, you know the 'curator' for the Red Rose? He was telling me how they had a pig and a labrador in the," he ran the edge of his hand across his throat, the code for 'guillotine' just as 'curator' equalled 'executioner'. The swans were more careful than to explicitly say outright what they did for a living. You never knew who was listening in. "They were both all dressed up in yellow shipping gear," he continued, "and they were very polite people apparently. Do you think it's a trend?"

"Very polite people excited to wear raincoats?" George replied with a grin and a raised eyebrow. "I could believe it. Do you remember that summer when we had half a dozen clowns in the box?" They both giggled at the memory. Even the cruel spectacle of the Sarcophagus fucking and strangling and castrating its occupant at once could be offset through the simple expedient of dressing up that occupant in facepaint and a red rubber nose. George reached behind his lover's chair, stroking his hand through the tailfeathers sticking out of the leather. "You in your leather will always be the trend for me though, Pertie"

Rupert gave him another bashful look and then kissed him, a long, deep kiss. "Do you think we'll end up with him in the box?" he asked, nodding to the Irish setter now tucking his penis away and deflating his toy pig. George suppressed a particularly loud chortle

"Not at all, sweetest, not at all. You'd never see him at the Pan, you can tell he's not the sort. He must be forty already, and he probably wants to be eighty years old, still embarrassing himself with Miss Piggy"

Rupert suppressed his laughter that time, both swans sighing in amusement before kissing once more. "I wonder if there'd be an audience ready to watch him expire on-stage?"

George smirked at that. "Now that could be the start of a trend. People indulging their fetish until they die of exhaustion. We would be out of a job though, you know that don't you?"

Rupert nodded wryly. "I suppose it would free up more evenings at least. We need to take a week off you know. We never get to see any of the other 'curators'." He leaned in closer, his voice as hushed as he could make it. "I heard Leboe down at Chapsky's is doing some horribly cruel stuff to his performers Georgie, lots of whips and screws and branding irons before the rope"

George had to stuff his hand into his beak at that. "Yes," he whispered back, "we need to see that! Oh Pertie," he kissed the capped swan's cheek again, speaking more softly and tenderly rather than the conspiritor's whisper they reserved for the business of cruelty, "I wish I was a masochist sometimes, I'd be so happy to have you whip me"

"Such a shame we're both such utter sadists," Rupert replied, squeezing his hand. "Still, we have our performers," he grinned. "They love us when we hurt them. And maybe I can slap your balls just a little tonight darling?"

George smiled, picked up his glass and offered his lover a toast. "Make me your squealing bitch," he leered, "and if we aren't spent I shall return the favour." And they kissed again= = = = =

Dedicated to Mister Minos