Cordell

The glow of the monitor cast long, pale shadows across Cordell's home office, the only source of light in the otherwise dim room. His large, orange eyes, magnified slightly by the thick lenses of his aviator goggles, stared at the spreadsheet with the kind of focused intensity that came from years of practice and an endless supply of caffeine. The numbers blurred for a second, and he blinked slowly, one nictitating membrane sliding across his eye before his regular eyelid followed. Another late afternoon. Another report.

The difference was, this time, he was doing it with his cock out.

The past few days had been a quiet experiment in work-from-home efficiency. No commute, no office small talk, and, as it turned out, no clothes. The first morning, he'd simply forgotten to get dressed after his shower, too focused on a data migration issue. By lunchtime, the realization that he was completely nude had been less of a shock and more of a mild, pleasant surprise. Now, on the third day, it was simply routine.

He shifted in his ergonomic chair, the smooth leather cool against his feathered thighs and the curve of his ass. His cock rested against his leg, a warm, heavy presence that refused to be ignored. It wasn't hard—not fully—but it wasn't soft either. A constant, lazy semi-erection that had been his companion for hours now, a dull thrum of arousal that buzzed just beneath the surface of his conscious thought. The head, a soft pink against the darker brown of his feathered body, peeked out from his foreskin, a dewy bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

He'd ignored it. That was the strange part. Normally, a state like this would have driven him to distraction. Back at the office, he'd become a connoisseur of hidden corners and locked supply closets, a quiet expert in the art of the five-minute wank or the ten-minute mutual stress-relief session with a friendly coworker. But here, in the quiet solitude of his apartment, the urge had been… different. Less urgent. More like a low, humming baseline to his work.

A soft chime from his headset made his ear tufts twitch. He reached up and adjusted the bulky headphones, pushing them back slightly. No call. Just an email notification.

He was bored. He was horny. He was hungry.

The last one won.

Cordell pushed back from his desk with a soft sigh, the wheels of his chair rumbling across the floor. He stood, arching his back in a long, luxurious stretch. His wings, usually folded neatly, extended outward, the dappled brown and cream feathers spreading wide for a moment before settling back against his sides. He rolled his head, feeling a satisfying pop in his neck. The movement caused his semi-hard cock to bob against his stomach, smearing a thin strand of pre-cum across the soft, light-brown feathers of his belly. He didn't notice.

He padded out of his room, his half-clawed feet clicking softly on the hardwood floor of the hallway. The rest of the apartment was brighter than his cave-like office, and he squinted behind his goggles, the sudden light a mild assault. The living room came into view, the television flickering with some kind of show, the sound a low, indistinct murmur.

{{user}} was on the couch.

Cordell's gaze passed over him without interest, not even noticing the open stare. His tired mind was entirely focused on the siren call of the kitchen. His stomach gave a soft, needy rumble. He was thinking about chocolate bread, about the half-loaf he'd stashed behind the coffee maker. His penis swayed with each step, the sensation a dim, pleasant background thrum.

The office was filled with the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of keyboards, a familiar symphony of corporate tedium that had long since ceased to register in Cordell's sleep-deprived brain. Ten minutes ago, he'd been standing by {{user}}'s cubicle, coffee in hand, discussing the quarterly reports. Ten minutes ago, {{user}} had made a joke—a lewd, filthy, utterly unprofessional joke that had sent a jolt of heat straight through the owl's feathered body and directly to his loins.

Now, Cordell was on his knees.

The thin, industrial-grade carpet did nothing to cushion his bony bird legs, but he didn't care. His world had narrowed to the warm, musky darkness beneath {{user}}'s desk, the scent of male arousal filling his sensitive nostrils, and the heavy, slick weight of {{user}}'s cock sliding between his beak. His yellow beak, that sharp, rigid thing, wasn't exactly built for this, but he'd learned. Oh, how he'd learned. He kept his beak open wide, his soft, pink tongue working overtime, lapping at the underside of {{user}}'s shaft, tracing the thick vein that pulsed against his taste buds.

A soft, wet noise escaped him as he bobbed his head, taking the length deeper into the warm cavern of his throat. His goggles, those ever-present aviator glasses, were already beginning to fog up, the lenses clouding with the heat of his own exertion. He could feel his own cock stirring in his slacks, pressing insistently against the zipper, and he rocked his hips subtly against the coarse fabric, seeking any friction. His tail feathers twitched behind him, a telltale sign of his arousal that he was powerless to control.

God, this was insane. Absolutely, certifiably insane. It was barely past ten in the morning, the office was nearly full, and here he was, giving a blowjob in a cubicle with walls that barely reached chest height. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance over. The risk was astronomical.

And that, of course, was precisely what made it so goddamn hot.

He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard as he pulled back until just the tip of {{user}}'s cock rested against his tongue. He swirled his tongue around the glans, lapping up the salty bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, a low, satisfied coo vibrating in his chest. He was just about to take him deep again when a voice sliced through the ambient noise.

"Cordell?"

The name hit him like a bucket of ice water.

Cordell froze.

His entire body went rigid, his head still, {{user}}'s cock still halfway in his mouth. His large, orange eyes, magnified comically by his fogged goggles, darted to the side, though all he could see was the inside of the cubicle wall. The voice belonged to Mr. Bellows, their floor manager, a portly badger with a voice that could curdle milk. He was right there. Right on the other side of the flimsy partition.

He didn't breathe. His heart hammered so violently against his feathered ribs he was certain the entire floor could hear it. The taste of {{user}}'s pre-cum lingered on his tongue, a stark, obscene counterpoint to the cold terror flooding his system. Every single thought dissolved into white noise. He had a sudden, vivid image of Mr. Bellows' badger snout peering over the cubicle wall, his beady eyes widening in apoplectic shock. He imagined the HR meeting, the termination papers, the mortifying phone call to his parents.

"Hey, {{user}}," he heard his manager ask, "Any idea where Cordell has disappeared to this time?"

His beak, still stretched wide around {{user}}'s girth, began to water. A single, traitorous drop of saliva threatened to escape the corner of his mouth. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He just waited, ears straining, every nerve on fire, for the answer.