This is episode 2. Episode 1 is here.
Back in my room in the Do-Duck Inn the party was swinging. I lay on my back on the bed, feet on the floor. Daisy stood in front of me, my cock hard in her beak. She wasn’t really evolved to give good suction, but she could certainly flutter that beak thing, like I’d never been fluttered before.
At the same time, Magica sat on my face, her thighs round my neck, her great webbed feet kicking happily at my shoulder blades. My tongue reached through the fringe of feathers and licked long and languorous at her sensitive little circle, her adorable cloaca. She gave a delicious little wriggle, and sub-quacked with every sweep of my tongue.
I tongued her a little harder, her feathered ass my faceful, all of my vision and much of my sensation. Magica made a series of kvetching, quacking noises: she was getting close. “Go human! Work that hairy face!”
I knew that for a politically punctilious duck like Magica, using duck slang for ‘human’ was as good as talking dirty. I liked that I’d pushed her beyond her notions of decorum.
Then she surprised even me: “Yeah, Daddy, you’re my Daddy! I’m so your little duckling! Do me, Daddy! Your little ducking! Hard!”
“My naughty little ducking.” I did her, tongue working.
Daisy climbed up onto my lap then, and lowered her cloaca onto my cock, slowly working and waggling her way down, descending until my cock was firmly lodged in her warm Anatidaed body. She rocked back and forth, pushing the rim of her cloaca against my pelvic bone.
“Ahhhh,” I said. If you can count that sort of thing as ‘saying’. My two ducks were so inexhaustible. Insatiable. But Magica raised her beak to point it at the ceiling, and quaked in utter joy and triumph. Her cloaca contracted spasmodically, and her thighs tightened on my neck. A faceful, I had, of orgasmic duck.
A duck pervert: Fucking humans!
Daisy was only a few seconds behind, quacking jubilantly and beating on my lower rib cage with her feathered fists. She spread her wings and shook them while she rode me, then emitted a long, incoherent series of quacks at the ceiling, and fell forward, her beak resting on my navel.
We relaxed together in a happy interspecies pile for maybe half an hour. When I’d softened and withdrawn from Daisy’s cloaca, I poured them each another glass of that fine Genu-wine Illinois Champagne.
Daisy stroked my cock lightly, with her soft feathered wings. “You know, we have myths, great duck song-sagas, about nights like this.”
Magica slapped my face with her wing, but playfully, lightly. “A human who picks up a hot, sexy duck Will get his best ever beak job or fuck– ”
“I can’t argue with that,” I said, sweetly exhausted and comfortable, my two lovely duckettes lying on my body.
Daisy took up the saga: “But she’ll get all a-quacker When he has her cloaca- “
“Then,” said Magica, “she’ll demand cunnilingus” [she spat then, ‘puh! puh! puh!,” as if expelling a mouthful of feathers] “Worse luck.”
“Sex with Ducks”, sung by Garfunkel and Oates
Silly UK censorship law breached: Bestiality! Face-sitting! Age play!
Also, for further information on sex with ducks, which according to the Reverend Pat Robertson is the inevitable result of gay marriage, go here.
It’s a very important singing documentary.
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!