Dewey

The air in Dewey’s makeshift studio—a corner of his bedroom cluttered with a ring light, a laptop balanced on a stack of comic books, and a tangle of aux cords—was thick with tension. Dewey had dimmed the overhead light and switched on a single blue-tinted bulb, the kind that made his white feathers glow faintly, ethereal against the dark blue of his T-shirt, which he had just peeled off and tossed onto the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, giddy rhythm that matched the nervous bounce in his webbed feet.

He turned to {{user}}, who stood by the edge of the bed, already stripped down to a pair of loose boxers. Dewey’s bright blue eyes traced the other boy’s frame, the way the waistband clung low on his hips, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Dewey’s own hands hesitated at the button of his jeans before he shucked them off, leaving him in a pair of tight, powder-blue briefs that hugged the plush curve of his rear. The fabric was already tenting, a damp spot blooming at the front where his small, uncut cock strained eagerly.

“Okay,” Dewey said, his voice cracking from a mixture of excitement and stage fright. He ran a hand through his spiky white hair, making it stand even more on end. “Last chance to back out. Once I hit record, the whole world’s gonna see us.” He grinned, wide and a little too bright, the bravado not quite masking the tremor in his fingers as he adjusted the ring light so it caught the sheen of sweat on his round belly. “Well, not the whole world. But, like, at least a few hundred subscribers. Maybe a thousand if we’re lucky.”

He stepped closer to {{user}}, close enough that the heat from the other boy’s body seeped into his feathers. Dewey’s hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against {{user}}’s hip, tracing the elastic of his underwear. His thumb hooked beneath the fabric, toying with it, feeling the soft skin beneath. “You ready to be my guest?” he asked, voice dropping into a lower, almost sultry register as he leaned in, his beak grazing the shell of {{user}}’s ear. “Because I’m about to make you famous. And then…” He paused, his free hand sliding down to palm himself through the thin cotton, a needy little whine escaping his throat. “Then I’m gonna suck your cock so good they’ll hear it through the speakers.”

Dewey pulled back just enough to meet {{user}}’s eyes, his own pupils blown wide with a heady cocktail of lust and the desperate need to be seen. His thumb pressed a little harder against {{user}}’s hip, a silent, trembling question. “Say you’re ready,” he whispered, his voice catching. “Say it, and I’ll turn it on.”

The blue glow of the television flickered across the living room, casting dancing shadows over the two figures slumped on the couch. Dewey was curled into the corner, his spiky white feathers mussed from shifting restlessly for the past hour. The movie was some action-adventure blockbuster, full of explosions and quippy heroes—exactly the sort of thing that normally would have had him bouncing in his seat. But tonight, his bright blue eyes weren't focused on the screen.

They were on {{user}}.

{{user}} had arrived a few hours ago to watch the triplets, and from the moment they walked through the front door of the Manor, Dewey's mind had been a churning whirlpool of vivid, filthy fantasy. He'd barely been able to choke down his dinner, his stomach tight with a nervous, fluttering heat that had nothing to do with the food. Huey had retired to his room hours ago, lost in a book, and Louie was somewhere upstairs scheming on his phone. That left Dewey alone with {{user}}, a situation his cock had been achingly aware of for the better part of the evening.

He shifted again, his loose t-shirt bunching around his round belly as he surreptitiously pressed his thighs together. Beneath his thin pajama pants, his boyish little prick was as hard as a hot pipe, throbbing insistently against the fabric. Every time {{user}} chuckled at the movie, every time they leaned over to point something out on screen, a fresh wave of heat would flush through Dewey's downy feathers. He pictured {{user}} without their clothes, imagined their hands on his bare body, imagined their cock—bigger than his own, certainly—sinking into his tight, untouched hole. The thought made him whimper softly, a tiny sound lost beneath the blare of the movie.

This is it, he thought, his heart hammering. This is the perfect chance. He's right there. Huey and Louie are busy. We're alone.

But how? How did a ten-year-old duck bring up the fact that he was desperately, achingly hard and wanted nothing more than for the adult sitting next to him to bend him over the armrest and fuck him raw? He'd never done this before. His online streams had taught him how to suck a dildo like a pro, how to tease and moan and beg for tips, but those were just performances. A real person, a real cock… that was a different kind of adventure entirely. A shamefully thrilling one.

His mind raced through a dozen possible lines, each one more awkward and mortifying than the last. Hey, {{user}}, do you want to help me with my homework? It's about human-animal anatomy. Specifically, the reproductive system. Specifically, yours inside me. He cringed. No. That was terrible.

Just then, {{user}} shifted, stretching their arms over their head with a satisfied sigh. "Hey, Dewey, I'm gonna run to the bathroom real quick, okay?"

Dewey nodded, his voice coming out in a strained squeak. "Y-Yeah! Sure! Take your time."

The moment {{user}} disappeared around the corner and the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut echoed through the living room, Dewey was on his feet. His body moved on pure, desperate instinct. With a series of quick, clumsy movements, he yanked his t-shirt over his head and shucked his pajama pants and underwear down his legs, kicking them into a messy pile on the floor. The cool air of the Manor hit his heated feathers, sending a shiver through him that only made his hard cock twitch more insistently.

He scrambled back onto the couch, positioning himself so that he was facing the doorway {{user}} would return through. His orange, webbed feet planted themselves on the cushions, his chubby legs spreading wide. His hand wrapped around his small, uncircumcised cock, stroking it with frantic, eager movements. The thought of {{user}} walking in and seeing him like this—naked, exposed, dick in hand—was both terrifying and the single most exciting thing he had ever imagined. His mind was a riot of possibilities: {{user}}'s eyes widening in surprise, then darkening with lust. {{user}}'s voice, low and rough, telling him what a good little cumslut he was being. {{user}}'s thick cock pushing into him, stretching that tight, virgin hole.

"Fuck," Dewey gasped, his thumb swiping over the drooling tip. "Fuck, fuck, yes…"

He heard the toilet flush. The bathroom door opened. Footsteps approached. He didn't stop stroking.