Chapter 0 - Prologue

Two men sat at a table in a restaurant. They were kink immigrants to the bustling city of Puerto Panuela, having found Wilkes, Nebraska too chaste and San Fran’s Folsom less-than-wholesome. Henry the duck was a lively man, tickling under his husband’s tailfeathers whenever the public’s animatronic eyes were averted, and Dorian the quetzalcoatl was a more conservative person, needing to be out of his clothes before any frisky business went down.

Henry was the top; Dorian was the bottom. They did not initially seek out their roles, but one look by Henry at Dorian’s backsac while he was in a thong, and one look by Dorian at Henry’s appreciable bulge in tight shorts, and they formed their yin-yang of appeal.

The restaurant was on the second floor of a corporate building and overlooked one of Panuela’s many parks, as well as a retail district with shops of general comfort—kitchen supplies, candles, comic books; all sorts. Every few blocks did seem to have what Dorian called a “kink speakeasy:” they were usually either clothing shops or pharmacies, but then past a certain line ran products of a much more sexual nature, be it crotchless pants or adult diapers.

Dorian and Henry had specifically requested a secluded booth. “Pet play?” Henry asked. “Like we get some bowls for food and water; I change the newspapers in your cage?”

The quetzal laughed, but his feathers squished inward. “And have our bedroom smell like a frat house bathroom?”

“But it’s coming from you, baby.”

Dorian tapped his plate with his fork. Even though it was lunch, they had gone all out and gotten small steaks, salad, vegetables, and a basket of bread. “I think you’re using your humor to spackle over the intricacies.”

The duck shook his head. “I’m just saying let’s go for it, but what ‘it’ is remains to be defined.”

The quetzal tapped the black plastic business card on the table. “We should sign up for that class.”

Henry nodded and sipped his wine. “And it ain’t gonna be a cucking situation, right?”

Dorian flipped the card. It read, Argos Arachnos, Spinneret’s Dungeon. Specialized Proclivities Instructor. Professionalism Guaranteed. “It’s why we emigrated here, away from the orgies and witch burnings.”

The duck’s fingernails played a quiet xylophone tune on the stem of his glass. “And you’re all right with the total ‘sub’ nature of this? Totally submitting?”

Dorian straightened up in his seat; feeling the bikini beneath his trousers tighten. “Part of love, and of trust as a whole, is surrender. I want to surrender to you. To fall into your arms, your desires, your mind. I give advantage and you take advantage. Both of us get pleasure. Take me," he said, reaching across the table to grasp Henry’s hand.

The duck felt hot underneath his collar and he squeezed his husband’s hand. "Don't I?" he asked, feeling his own briefs tighten.

"I mean fully. Own me."

"Like sub and dom?"

"Yeah but the labels, it's not quite there. You don't dominate me because you're not squashing my will. It's not a fight. I give, you take. I surrender, you occupy."

Henry gulped, feeling a knot slide down his throat. He’d seen those online videos of the sub strapped to a scaffold, the fur of their bare rump flattened by a paddle. It’d not appealed to him at that time, but to imagine his lovely quetzal; his mate and partner in spirit, mind, and body; in such a compromising yet free position brought moisture to his brow, and the tip of his underwear. That the quetz wanted not only to bare all before him, but to completely submit to him: let Henry have free reign of his body and satiate himself in most any method he saw fit.

“But what if you don’t get off?” Henry asked. He tried to cross his legs, his briefs uncomfortably stretched to the point that the leg bands pulled against his body, but Dorian’s foot stopped them. A bolt of vulnerability shot through him and his feathers flared outward: maybe this is what his husband was talking about.

“It’s not about getting off,” said Dorian. His shoe rubbed along Henry’s shin, sending shivers up the duck’s spine. “It’s about a lively, tingling sensation. About me satisfying you … about me feeling your satisfaction all over my back, and inside my body.”

Henry sat frozen in the booth; he looked down and regretted wearing khakis. The apex of his trouser mountain was capped in dark wetness. “I-I see.”

Dorian grinned, picking up his fork and knife again. It was with the greatest restraint that he closed his own legs; his fiercely hard erection brushed against the bottom of the table. “Let’s finish up before our steak … or my duck … gets cold.”