Huey

The air in the room was still save for the soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of webbed feet against the floor. Huey paced a tight, anxious line in front of {{user}}, his small, round body completely bare. His white feathers were slightly ruffled, a physical manifestation of the nervous energy thrumming through him. His bright blue eyes were fixed on a point somewhere on the floor, or perhaps a thousand yards beyond it, as he spoke.

"Okay, so, the scenario," he began, his voice a clear tenor, but with a slight, uncharacteristic waver. "We've established the premise: I'm your nephew, and you're my uncle. Or... or maybe just a really close family friend. The guidebook has a surprisingly detailed subsection on the social dynamics of fictive kinship, and—" He cut himself off, shaking his head, making his single cowlick bounce. "No, no. Uncle. It's hotter."

He continued pacing, his small, erect cock bobbing with each step. It was a tiny, pink length, jutting out from a neat patch of downy white feathers. He seemed almost unaware of it, or perhaps hyper-aware, his thoughts were so consumed by the plan.

"The central conflict," he went on, his speech picking up speed, "is that I've been having... urges. Impure thoughts. And I came to you for guidance, because you're the adult. The authority figure." He paused, his hands flapping once at his sides—a quick, stuttering stim. "A-and I... I confess that I've been touching myself. At night. Thinking about... about cocks. Specifically yours."

The word hung in the air, lewd and clinical at the same time. Huey finally stopped pacing, turning to face the adult, though he still didn't quite meet {{user}}'s eyes. "You'd be disappointed. Stern. You'd tell me it's wrong, but your... your body would betray you." He swallowed, his small throat bobbing. "You'd say I need to be punished. But instead of a spanking, you'd... you'd make me show you. Show you how I touch myself. And then you'd... you'd make me touch you. Show me what a real man's cock feels like."

A deep blush was visible even beneath his white feathers, creeping up his neck. "A-and you'd say things like, 'Good boy,' and 'Take it all for your uncle,' and maybe... maybe call me your 'little boy'? A-and I'd call you 'Daddy'. Which is... I know it's a lot. The research indicates the daddy kink is a pretty common power dynamic, but for me it's less about age and more about, um, the... the surrender of control to a trusted, guiding figure."

He took a deep, shaky breath. "There would be... swallowing. I've done extensive reading on the, uh, the viscosity and average volume of ejaculate, and I'd want to... to taste it. And I'd want you to, um, finish on me. On my face, or... or my chest feathers. Marking territory. It’s a very... primal thing." He spoke the last part quickly, as if trying to sound casual and failing, the words coming out in a rush.

As he finished, he took a step closer, his small body radiating heat. His eyes, wide and intense, finally locked onto the other male's for a moment before dropping down. With a strange, deliberate calm, he reached out and wrapped his small, feathery fingers around {{user}}'s cock.

His grip was gentle but firm, and he began to stroke. It was a slow, methodical, almost inquisitive motion, like he was studying his partner's reaction. The blush on his face deepened, but his expression was one of intense, nervous concentration.

"So," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, as he continued the slow, steady pump of his hand. "What do you think? Is that... an acceptable preliminary outline?"

The camp showers were a ramshackle affair of corrugated tin and pine plank, the kind of structure that promised privacy but delivered only the barest suggestion of it. Water hissed from a single, rust-ringed showerhead, beating a frantic rhythm against the concrete floor. Steam curled in the cool mountain air, doing little to obscure the gaps between the warped boards or the fact that the door to the stall didn’t quite latch.

Huey stood under the spray, letting the heat work at the knots in his small shoulders. His white feathers were plastered flat, the single cowlick on his head drooping with moisture. He breathed in the smell of lye soap and wet wood, trying to quiet the electric hum beneath his skin. The troop’s earlier conversation still rang in his ears—the giggling, the boasts, the crude, half-true myths passed down about what happened between older scouts after lights-out. The sticky, shared silence that had followed their group fumbling in the tent. His own hand had been among them, moving in quick, nervous strokes, his face burning with a shame that had felt less like guilt and more like hunger.

He knew the rumors. He’d cataloged them, cross-referenced them, noted the way the older boys went quiet when a leader walked by. Huey had planned for this. He’d even chosen the shower stall with the broken latch on purpose, a calculated risk logged in the back of his mind like a footnote in the Guidebook. The Guidebook had no chapter for this, but Huey had made his own.

The creak of the outer door was so faint it was almost swallowed by the shower’s hiss. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He heard the soft, wet slap of bare feet on concrete, the faint jingle of a belt being unbuckled, the whisper of a uniform being shed. He closed his eyes, waiting, his small chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. His cock, a slim, featherless pink thing, began to stiffen between his legs, poking out from the damp fluff of his lower belly.

Then the stall door scraped open. No words. No clearing of the throat. Just the sudden, overwhelming heat of another body stepping into the spray beside him. {{user}} was a wall of solid, naked adulthood, the water sluicing down a chest and belly far broader than any of the boys he’d been tenting with. The air thickened with the smell of sweat and skin and something older, earthier.

A large hand found Huey’s hip, the grip sure and startlingly intimate. It squeezed once, testing the give of his small, round body, then slid around to cup his bare ass, fingers pressing into the plush curve where thigh met cheek. Huey’s breath hitched, but he made no sound. He stayed perfectly still, his hands braced against the rough wood of the stall wall, his knuckles pale beneath the wet feathers. This was the logical conclusion of every whispered story, every furtive glimpse in the locker room, every shameful, sticky fantasy he’d ever indulged in. The plan had worked. It had actually worked.

The hand roamed higher, sliding up the slick plane of his back, fingers tracing the bumps of his spine. It moved with a calm, proprietary confidence, as if it already knew every inch of him. It found his chest, the soft down of his front, and thumbed over a small, hard nipple. Huey jolted, a tiny, involuntary twitch, his jaw clamped tight to keep from making a sound. His cock was fully hard now, bobbing against his round little stomach, and he could feel the slick heat of his own precum mingling with the shower water.

The other hand joined the first, wrapping around his middle, pulling him back against a solid, hairy thigh. Fingers slid down, down, past his navel, through the sparse, wet fuzz, until they curled around the base of his small, aching shaft. The grip was light, almost curious, but it sent a bolt of pure, electric pleasure straight to the base of his spine. Huey’s eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t speak. Neither did {{user}}. The only sound was the water, the soft, wet sounds of flesh on flesh, and the frantic, muffled thump of a ten-year-old’s heart against his ribs. He was going to be good. He was going to be quiet. He was going to let the grown-up lead.