Essence of Flight
It wouldn't have been the first time the idea interested me. I looked over the canvas, and as I studied the tools laid down and around it, I must confess I did feel a spike in my pulse, and the twisting, painful-yet-pleasant feeling of something stirring between my thighs and held back by boxers.
It was strange that someone would consider this art, that people would enjoy the sight of this, for the numerous reasons they had for doing so, but all I ever cared about was that there was joy without harm. An ethical hedonist, if you well. And, frankly, in the many faceted views of my mind, and the varied moods, it turned out that I wanted this. An artist was a mix of all their interests, whether they wrote, painted, programmed, played out games with others, sculpted or just exerted their creativity on the world.
And so, as I looked over the paint and the restraints, I felt happy. The paint that would be on my body, and on the white material, the bonds, and the smoothness between my legs, the actions that I would perform to myself...
My chance to be live art. Nullified by my own hand, and laid down to enjoy it. A deep breath in, and out. Well. Time to begin.
Canvas flat before me, I bend over, kneeling, back arching, and work on securing the soft, padded restraints to the wooden frame below the material I would be resting on and secured to.
It takes a little while to screw the final bolt into place, and tailfeathers flicking in the air, I'm glad there's no-one to watch this, partly because I can't help but show off a bit, with the curves and flow of my feathers in the air. Mostly because I don't want to sully this moment by recording it. Something special for myself.
The paints next, nothing too unusual. Three heavy smears of marbled green, blue and purple, just about at my sides on the canvas, and one around my tailfeathers. Looking over at the mirror, I see myself, and smile. A slim black avian, called various forms between kind, cute, handsome and proud, depending on who you speak to. Or by some others, stupid, shy, overeager. Moods cloud us all, I suppose, especially me. Still others just don't like birds, or don't like me, but that's not my problem. Jaunty blue eye-stripes, and gold eyes I both love and hate, due to the thing I most notice in mirrors. The framed lenses that allow me to see correctly, and the unsynchronised curse of a squint. Neither seem to matter to others, but they lead me to look down on myself. Not today. Today I'm good.
A deep breath flows into my lungs, hissing through my nares as I stroke sharp talons down my chest, just teasing the feathers into place, another hand habitually going through my crest, lending itself to that air swept look, not that flying doesn't do that. Down below shows a hard pinkness, which I welcome with a gentle finger. Just the feeling of my own scaled touch makes me shiver, fluffing out, the flexing of myriad iridescent feathers under my skin. Thoughts are flickering through my head, check-lists of preparations. Pain's my fear, and goes against all I believe in. So, a little scouring and the right sources, and I have ways around that. Lifting and fetching a cannula, I gently slide it into my forearm, with a pinch. It stings, as ever, and I find myself giggling, then laughing heavily. Needles do this to me, I fear them, and my response is irrational, uncontrollable laughter. Beside the canvas is the IV and the pump, all ready, on a time delay. I have an hour before it starts, and ten minutes after that before I'm moved to front of house. The line is cleared of air, and attached, then bandaged in place.
Next, my feet. Long, scrupulously clean and well cared for. Long avian toes wiggle a little as I rub them, feeling my muscles flex slowly. Thank the sky for leather protectors. I rest them in the padded cuffs, and do them up tightly. Two quick clicks, and they're set. Key on the hook back here, place known for emergencies.
I look over the tools next to me with mild trepidation. Elastrator, scalpel, retractors, cautery, and premixed syringe. At least... It won't hurt. The syringe is first, and with another pinching of the skin,it slides into my root. I hiss out, and depress the plunger slowly, and thankfully, the mild fire in the nerves there dies down. The rest spreads through my groin with a dull feeling of pressure, then gentle warmth. Painkillers, healing factors, and a few strange and exotic chemicals that confuse the nerves into misreporting their reactions.
Basically, this'll feel good. It's important to me that it does. Next, the elastrator. Picking up the strange contraption, I double-load elastic bands into it, and then open them right up.
My sharp talons caress my smooth, hot taper, feeling every pulse of my organ, and quickening my breath. As I slide down to where my base and my slit meet, and ease a talon inside, I can feel my heart flutter with anticipation in my chest, and decide to have one last blast first. I gently put the tool by my side, and sweep my wings over the canvas, picking up the marbled paints I'd put down. My wings lift and carry the pigment, sweeping it over the white, and leaving the imprint of my reactions.
Warm, yellow scales close around my member, and I slowly start to tease myself, thumb rubbing my dripping tip, a finger reaching into the most sensitive place in my body, sliding into my slit. I can feel my own root, and the slow rubbing there is enough to build pressure in my chest, starting to jerk off now. My erection sliding between my fingers, the sensitive flesh rolling back and forth, soft pinkness bulging before my eyes at the tug to the tip, then pulling nice and taut back the other way. A few tugs more, and I join the lone finger in my slit with another, gently stretching it out, the pressure in my chest bursting out in a long, shaky moan as cold air rushes into and fills that heated tunnel to my root.
I'm slick now, and groaning in joy, bucking my hips into my hands, fingers stroking my shaft, feeling me up and rubbing the soft, downy bulges of my balls. The sensations are strong, powerful, and it's so good, so hot inside me. My wings sweep, and beat against the canvas unconsciously, tailfeathers fluttering as this deep, heated feeling builds in my belly, spreading and growing, helped along by the thoughts of this being my last release. Under my fingers, I swell, shaft pushing into my hand as my hand pushes and squeezes to my base, and with a screech of joy, my world explodes.
I'm conscious only of a heavy, surging, rushing feeling, something heavy on my belly and chest, and a wonderful, fulfilling warmth throughout all of my body. 'W-Well,' goes a shaky voice in the back of my head. 'You always did like the fact that semen shows on your feathers so vividly...' Feeling my cheeks flush at the idea of being on show, I take up the elastrator again, and guide my erection through the bands, right down to my hilt, and pushing into my slit before I let the bands snap off. A yelp is forced from my beak, the blow sudden and surprising even through the haze of chemicals. Retractors finish that job, spreading my slit so that I have clear access...
I reload with a new band, and fondle my proud eggs. I blush again. A little bit of a misnomer there, they're more like cherries, but I'm a sucker for avian imagery. Besides... Boiled eggs, scrambled eggs... It's fun to add wordplay when I'm in the right mood... I guide them through the band, struggling a little, as it's a pain in the tailfeathers to get them both through, and one slips back through more than once, but finally they're through, and I gently roll the band off this time. It's still a hefty thwap, like being swatted...
When the stars in my eyes fade, I reach for the scalpel, and take a few deep, shaky breaths, butterflies in my belly, and a bad case of the shakes in my hands. A few calming moments later, and a little mantra ("Fear is the mind-slayer, the little death. I will swim in the fear until it washes away." A corruption of one of the mantras from Dune, good book, or at least I think so.), I'm ready.
There's a moment of indecision, then I settle. Hardest cut first. Those proud nine inches, and a little more, since I'm with the root, too... The scalpel slides in, and I shudder, feeling no pain, just a soft tingle. It's not that that's causing the shudder, more the fact that I can feel the sensations through the blade. It's sharp, and I slice slowly around the now-purple organ, glad the bands stop almost all feeling. Though time seems to slow to a crawl, it's a bit of a shock, enough to wind me for a moment as I feel it flop against my sticky belly, picking up some of my white as it does so. Not daring to even think until I'm done, I swap out for the cautery, and press it to the flat plane inside my slit, thankful that the disturbing sizzling is quickly over. Sealing the end of my severed member, too, I drop that in a preserving jar. Adrenaline is surging through my form, and my breath is ragged, as I make the next slice, between my twin orbs...
I was never really sure what happened next. One moment the cut's done, and the next I'm hearing the heavy beep of the fifteen minute warning. Had I passed out from sensory overload? Or had this just taken that long? Either way, my eggs were on the canvas before me, looking... Out of place, and a little odd. Well... I was already pretty much out of the count for this, so... Here goes!
I pick them up, and spend a little time rolling the orbs back and forth, lighter than usual thanks to the load I'd just decorated myself with. They're odd, really. Well-shaped, and firm. It's a curiosity why evolution led to them being in this place, vulnerable here. Well... Before I'd exposed them more, that is.
It took only a moment, and a surge of mixed pleasure and pain, to sever the slim cords, and then I let my two testes join my taper in the jar, with a pair of soft splashes. The hiss of the cautery again, as I seal both cords back up, then add butterfly sutures to hold the now empty patch of down together; and finally, the scalpel to cut the elastic band. With a snap that made me wince, the held-out down was freed, smoothing down against my groin, nothing there any more, just the gentle curve of my perineum, and white sutures. Far different from the subtle twin bulges of my cherries. Setting down the scalpel with a shaky hand, I grab a falconer's hood, and tug it on, tying it tightly, before locking my hands too, in a hurry now. And it wouldn't be a moment too soon before I black out again, exhausted from the ordeal.
# # #
It would be a few minutes before the IV started, flooding the neutered hawk's body with the mix promoting accelerated healing, and drugging him up on a good high to ride for the display. By the time the handlers came in, the sutures could be, and were removed. They lifted up the canvas, and carried art and artist out to the gallery, setting it down in front of a small silver plaque. Heavy, strong wings have swept the canvas, in pleasure, shock and joy, leading to the title he'd chosen:
"Essence of Flight. Canvas, subject and artist: Himself."