So I was staying at the Do-Duck Inn while I worked on the Black-Bellied Whistling Duck murder. I was out of ideas, and luck. I went down to the bar.
The lights were as low as a duck hunter’s miserable soul, but I could make out the usual duck-bar decorations on the walls: the stuffed head of a pointer dog mounted on a wooden shield, some broken shotguns, decoys covered in duck shit, and a portrait of Daisy.
And two chicks nursing drinks at the bar, in pink toledo tops and no pants. They had feet to die for, and their feathers went everywhere a duck dame’s feathers should. They were ducks full of sin, whose tail fathers wrote sexual cheques in the air that couldn’t always be cashed.
I walked up to stand between the pair of them. The one on my left, the blonde, looked up at me, her eyes wide and her sultry beak full of promise. Promises she didn’t always keep. She was an American White-Winged Scoter, and they don’t give trust, or deserve trust, easily.
“Hey, it’s a human! What you doing in a duck-bar, hairyhead?”
I looked at her. “I was alone in my room, duckettes. I thought I’d come down to the bar and have a Fluffy Duck.” I looked at her companion on the right, an exotically sexy Andean Teal. “Or two.”
The chick on my right quacked appreciatively. She signalled the bartender. He came up drying his hands on a cloth you wouldn’t use to scrub a midden. “Human here, man wants a Inter-Species-Menage-A-Trois-In-A-Motel-Bedroom.”
The bartender, a Red-Crested Prochard, looked at me sourly. “Who the bloody hell doesn’t?” But he went off to mix my Menage.
“What’s your name, hairyhead?”
“Keats,” I said. “Like the poet. You?”
The blonde said, “I’m Daisy. And my friend here -”
Magica de Spell
“Magica de Spell,” said the Teal chick.
“Well, I’m mighty pleased to meet you.”
“So you should be, human,” said Daisy, though if she was Daisy I was George Gordon, Lord Byron. “Because we’re going to make you one lucky hairyhead, if you’ll just take a bottle of champagne, and two hot chicks back to your room.”
Magic quacked lightly. “You know, Daisy, ‘hairyhead’ is kind of pejorative. Just say ‘human’, ok?”
Daisy shrugged, giving me a glimpse of nippleless breasts. “I don’t mean it disrespectfully, h- human.”
The bartender brought my Menage, and I took a swig. It was green, and tasted accordingly. “No disrespect taken, lovely Daisy. My head is hairy, what can I say? And I can screw you and you’ll blow your corks, but I don’t have a corkscrew cock. Not like Donald.”
Daisy quacked, and put her three-fingered hand on my arm, eyes looking deeply into mine. “I like that you’re human. And you’ll love us ducks. Your life is just bleak, till you’ve had beak.”
And Magica put her hand on my shoulder too. She pecked me on the cheek, and breathed, “We’ll make your human knees go weak, and that weird cylindrical cock you got? We’ll make that thing as hard as teak.”
If only ducks would learn to scan. Then they each pressed a thigh against mine. I downed my drink in one gulp. “Ladies, duckettes, let’s go. There seems to be an illegal party in my room. Just about to happen.”
I stood up, and a second later so did they. They came up to my waist. So, with a chick under each hand, I headed to my room, stopping only to buy a bottle of Genu-wine Illinois Champagne from the slot machine.
[To be continued.]
Crazy UK censorship rule breached: bestiality. But we get nervier in the next episode!
Smutathon involves writers pumping out filth for a 12-hour marathon of smut. It’s to raise awareness, and money, for two great causes: Rape Crisis Centres, and Backlash, an organisation challenging the UK’s insane censorship regime.
What I’d like you lovely, lively people to do, please is go here, and support Smutathon with your donation.