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Well, here you've found yourself.

The cascade of near-death experiences you've experienced aboard Space Station 13, the drone of boredom which had led to plenty of death-feeling thoughts in of itself, the surroundings of steely, cold colors and glassy-eyed coworkers, and you've found yourself as a victim of an attack. 'At last,' you think. Maybe this is sweet relief; clocked from behind, swept from your station in the Research & Development lab, kicked to the floor. You land hard, shielding your head from the metal floor on instinct, and clutch your stomach in that animalistic desire to protect your vitals. There's not another soul in your department and you doubt your coworkers would have much interest in saving you either way. As you stare up and your vision clears, you find your suspicion confirmed-- it's an intruder of the station, an over-tall, horrifying beast in black armor. Vox Raider. You expect something sharp to be plunged into your neck at any moment.

However, the tall, foreboding bird's next move is not, in fact, to knock you out, or shoot you dead, or any of the sort-- instead, he simply plants you firmly in the ground with a well-placed, wide two-taloned foot on your chest, rubber boot rubbing harshly into your chest. It's not quite a stomp, but it's enough to surprise you thoroughly and extract a long, sharp breath. In an even more confusing move, the Vox also emits what sounds like Common-- more fluent than you could have guessed, in a deep and not altogether hoarse voice.

"Stay."

You swallow spit, mortified for a moment. Though these particular boots aren't the sharp sort, more of a flexible, gripping appendage aid, you're still taken aback completely. As you stare up at his protruding leg as it holds you down, his form leaned forth as if he were just as panicked as you, the situation gains a twinge of fuzziness. It doesn't much look like the bird is trying to choke you out, even if your airflow feels a little limited now. With hesitation, you mouth out, then finally speak-- "O-Okay."

The Vox lets out a huff through the black helmet, shuddering for a moment. He tilts his head over towards your workplace-- the protolathe, the computer, the mindless day-to-day routine. "Does this print darts?" he asks, firm as a stone, swiveling to face you once again. He presses a little harder down on you, to express the seeming urgency of the situation.

"No," you manage out, immediately.

"Fine," says the bird. "Then you'll just have to stay down." He extends his other leg forth, stepping over towards the console, all the while putting a constant pressure on the base of your neck with his restraining, booted right foot. You get the feeling that it would be bad to resist at this point, but you're also starting to get another feeling, as he begins hurriedly typing at your station-- something in your groin is stirring, independent of his actions. Well, not completely independently. As you stare down at his leg terminating in a flexible, tight-fitting boot, pressing down on you, it dawns on you, all at once, washing horror over your body in droves... you /like/ this. No, dear God, you don't like this-- this has awoken something in you in the span of an instant which is so blindingly powerful that you've already shot up within your jumpsuit. You don't like to brag, but even pressed up against your belly it's quite visible, a little white-fabric bulge between your legs, pressing desperately in a show of arousal. Something deeply indescribable but deeply degenerate has made the experience of being stepped on, held down, and near-choked by a disgusting Vox's two-taloned rubber boots absolutely irresistible.

This is a problem. This is an absolutely catastrophic problem. You shift your hips uncomfortably to try and hide it, but you aren't getting anywhere in doing so. Every worried glance down finds another glance at your situation, the Vox towering above you as he's distracted by the options on the console, holding you captive with the simple force of gravity. Your more subconscious bits buck upwards a little, humping the air before you force yourself flat and limp, trying to avoid letting the bird know a damn thing. You couldn't bear it. Before you're able to adequately make yourself modest, though, you suddenly feel the Vox lift his foot back up-- releasing you from your terribly arousing prison, leaving a few fold marks in your jumpsuit, letting you breathe fully. "Get up," he hisses out. "Nothing good here."

You start to get up the moment the command is spoken, but still find room to question. "Why? I-I work here, you don't gotta--"

"Nothing good in the machine." The Vox is snarling a little. "I came for machinery or tech, but I'm on my last resort, as you can probably tell by the lack of darts for my gun..." You hear a reserved chuckle from within the black mask wrapped around, presumably, his beak. "You're now a hostage. Or a slave. We'll see." He continues to beckon you up, finally jerking you fully upright with his left hand, showing his effortless strength over your rather sedentary body. Though your erection continues to be pretty damn visible, he doesn't seem to be glancing down-- instead giving you a blank look through the purple lenses of the helmet. "Follow." You decide to oblige, and the Vox starts off, stomping towards one of the exit doors towards R&D's pod bay.

Stammering and out of breath, you try to get a word in. "What h-happened? Where'd all those darts go?"

"Spent them knocking out everyone else on the way here," he grunts. "You're... lucky, I suppose."

"Yeah," you choke out briefly, struggling to keep your hands over your erection, "lucky." With a slight limp and awkward pose, you continue as he flashes a card in front of the airlock's sensor and it clicks open, sliding up effortlessly. He practically guides you along, eyes trained on you more often than the hall ahead, and once he determines you aren't walking fast enough he grasps your arm and begins taking you along with haste. You continue through the hall, trying to think up some kind of escape plan-- running? Fighting? You're pretty certain he could put you on the ground before you even had a chance to do most of that. As you saunter forth behind your captor, he finally runs up against a pod bay door, circular and a bit narrow, with a keypad barring access.

He glances back at you, clicking his beak from inside the mask. "Do you know any of these codes?"

Once again, you manage out a meek, "Yeah." Almost immediately after you speak, the Vox suddenly lifts his leg back up-- half-kicking and half-pressing you towards the nearby wall, pinning you tightly as his boot-covered talons wrap around your shoulders. He's flexible, you'll give him that, but as your erection flares up once more from the sudden move, you can't help but question-- why?!

"What is it, then?" he beckons. You can taste a little impatience in his voice, even as he's standing in a rather terrifying pose, foot pressing you into the wall dramatically.

Immediately, you stammer out the door's code. "F-Four, six, nine, two." The Vox gives a firm nod and starts plinking it into the keypad, but your confusion is just intensified. After a moment, you offer, "I could have j-just entered it."

He seems displeased with the idea, and the pod door shifts open. "I wouldn't want you trying anything." Almost in conjunction with this, his toe-talons grasp and grip tighter on your shoulder, holding you even further against the wall, practically pinning your arms. He holds you here for what feels like a little too long, letting you struggle to choke out a response, before finally retracting his leg and standing firmly in front of you. "--Now, you get in first."

The dock is a narrow passage, but can just about fit you while allowing him to see past. You begin to clamber inside, struggling to keep your flaring, intrusive erection from being noticed, and see that it's a one-man pod-- a cockpit with almost no wiggle room, no back seat, no cargo compartment. You notice all of this at about the same time as the Vox does, and shiver a little bit. This is what these pods are designed to be, of course-- one-man escape. Unfortunately, the bird squawks out a solution. "Get in the footwell."

"What?" you ask, in a sort of mortified mix of arousal, disbelief, and confusion.

"Room for one, so you get in the footwell. It's a twenty minute jet. Live with it." There's not a lot of expressiveness in his voice-- just a commanding, deep tone that compels you to follow this inane command. You continue to clamber forth, crawling under the dashboard and finding yourself in a small compartment just barely able to fit you half-curled up. Silently, you thank every god you can think of for not putting pedals down here. A few moments later, the Vox climbs in after you-- and, as you could have probably guessed, sits in the comfy leather seat, plants both of his rubber-booted feet on top of you, and presses down, holding you tight against the bottom of the footwell. You couldn't resist even if you wanted to, now, with his right foot holding your thighs against the floor and his left foot pressed flush against your chest.

The situation is enthralling for only one part of your body, and deeply uncomfortable for every other part. You can feel your dick spurt out a small divot of precum as it's brushed by his form-fitting boot, and every little shifting movement of his toe-talons sends shockwaves of uneasy pleasure throughout your lower half. As he shuts the pod door and begins to rev up the shuttle, however, you can't help but ask... "Wh-why is every situation leading t-to you stepping on me?"

"What?" the bird speaks, lowly.

"W-Well, what about... j-just handcuffing me? Or threatening me? I-I'm not gonna..."

He snarls a little, but it's of a shifted tone. "It establishes dominance. Me over you. You no longer /have/ control, so I'll step on and over you all I like." The Vox seems to be considering something, and glances to his left for a second. "It's punishment, too. For not cooperating. Being human."

Something deep inside of you wells up and speaks. You swear it's not /you/ speaking, but the words come out regardless, quiet and broken. "--Is it p-punishment if I'm into it?!"

Again, he snarls, "What?"

"I mean--" You struggle to compose yourself, shifting weakly against his feet, which seem to tighten and press you into the footwell further with each passing moment. You feel the pod start to take off, undocking and shifting quietly. He's having the thruster set to low. "I mean th-that maybe I'm... into being a prisoner! Hostage! Y-You know? Like, m-my work's really... really mundane, s-so this is a kind of cool break?"

The Vox pauses for what feels like a long time, and you wish for a moment you could gauge some kind of emotion through that mask. After consideration, he says, "This won't be a cool break for you. You'll be working for my people on the Shoal, if anything."

You nod weakly. "R-Right."

And, like that, the conversation suddenly stops. You continue to be locked in below the dashboard, body unsure, mind racing, as the pod continues off at what feels like a meandering speed-- or, at least, a slow acceleration. Once it seems the Vox has judged that you're both far enough away from Space Station 13, he revs up the engines a tad more, until they're a rather loud hum hanging over everything. Twenty minutes, he said. Only two minutes in and you're already horny to the point of barely being able to think, staring down at his flexible, rubber-clad feet, his toe-talons grasping you and rubbing subconsciously as he focuses, seemingly, on the dashboard above, occasionally muttering to himself. But it isn't really the typical kind of horny-- you can barely put into words why this has awakened things in you, why you're automatically drawing precum, why this terrifying situation has been compounded with a completely irratonal arousal. You just know you need release. Sweet, sweet release. Your lewd-addled mind starts shifting your hips up a little-- bending your legs, fighting only a little bit against the grasp of his right foot as it holds against your thighs. You're drawing it further down towards your groin, hoping that gravity and an absent mind will assist. After a few minutes of your head growing sick with thoughts and your dick becoming diamonds, the Vox finally shifts, whether on purpose or accidentally, moving his right foot and putting the boot-covered sole on your bulge. You glance up in panic, worried he's noticed something about you, but he stares absently on, occasionally tilting his head to look out the windows. Maybe he's just panicked.

He's pressing down, still, and the sensation is... indescribable. It's a little uncomfortable, as both his foot and your member are separated through some clothing, but the feeling of it is still definitively, without a doubt in your surly mind, a footjob. You shift in micrometers, as if going with the hum of the ship, glancing down with a sexual thirst at the foot curled around your chest and the toe-talons accidentally massaging your cock. Arousal starts to bubble up through the fog of things, and you hump a little against his flexible, form-fitting boot-- your cock feeling a definitive 'shlck' and buzzing with arousal, spurting up a few more globs of precum to wet your jumpsuit. Every little tiny shift of movement brings you closer and closer to an embarrassing climax, and no part of your body particularly wants it to happen-- but still, you move closer and closer towards it. Rubbing your shaft slowly across the surface of his boot, he'll occasionally apply more or less pressure, and you can even picture him doing it on purpose... pressing and rubbing your glans across your stomach, toe-talons tapping and rubber boots only a little coarse. And you can tell, from here, that they're rather soft after all-- somewhat malleable rubber rubbing against your chest. It's just the force behind it that keeps you locked tight against the footwell.

You start to heat up, panting a little, but it's masked by the low hum of the thrusters. You can feel orgasm prodding against you like a sickness, and yet this still isn't enough, this desperate little attempt at pleasure by dry-rubbing a Vox's foot. Even though you're nearing your peak, you want more. The same part of you that compelled you to speak earlier compels you to lean your head forth, staring face-to-face with his left foot as it holds you down. You slowly and weakly move your left arm up, folding it to reach your hand onto his boot... and try to pull it up, try to pull it closer. Incredibly, the Vox seems distracted enough that he simply complies-- and in a moment, his upright sole is hanging right in front of your face. You bring it right up, and open your mouth, sticking out your tongue and starting to hungrily lap at his boot. It is, surprisingly, utterly clean of contaminants, leaving only the odd taste of rubber, and as you lick at him, your erection flares up once again. You can feel orgasm coming. However, it's right then that the bird seems to notice that you're literally licking his boots!

He suddenly presses down with both feet, holding your cock tight against your stomach and pressing your head back down to the floor. He squawks in surprise, and moves his left foot off your mouth, but it's too late-- the sudden pressure across all your body has finally put you over the edge, and as pleasure wells up in bursts, you start to cum into your jumpsuit. You buck your hips a little, moaning softly, though once again it's masked by the hum of the ship, and long shots of semen start to spurt from your overworked tip, as it's pressed underneath two booted toe-talons. The Vox shouts out as you're mid-orgasm-- "What are you doing?!"

You struggle out, half-stammering through a masked pleasure, "I'm l-licking your... y-your boot, l-like... punishment... t-to make you... to make you happy...!"

Seed continues pouring out of you as your pressed-on cock pulsates and vibrates. You can feel the glare through the bird's mask. "Well, you've been good down there," he quietly murmurs, as you stare at him in orgasmic shock. Somehow, it seems he hasn't noticed. "Stay that way and you won't have to do any of that."

Breathing heavily, with happiness and fear inundating your voice, you mutter, "O-Okay. Yeah." He finally glances away, and you allow yourself to breathe-- staring back down at the mess you've just created. Cum soaks the jumpsuit around your stomach, and seems to have even wetted the Vox's boots, as you slowly come down from one of the strangest and most desperate orgasms of your life.

The rest of the journey has a bit of a weird energy about it. Really, it's overwhelmingly weird. You remain uncomfortable with what you've done for about ten minutes, but as you near the end, you... just return to those inexplicable thoughts. That arousal. Your penis, while still recovering, grows half-hard under the press of the Vox's foot, where it still remains. You try to slowly dab off some of the cum from your uniform, but it's incredibly noticeable, and by the time the journey ends you don't know what you'll do.

By the time the journey ends, you don't know what TO do. He docks the pod in some other, foreign part of space, and the hum comes to a halt. With a bit of awkwardness for the foreign ship, he finally lets his feet off of you, climbing out and beckoning you forward. "Come, /now/," he snarls. You struggle to keep up the pace, and he reaches forth to tether you along once again, leaving your half-hard cock and stained jumpsuit in full view. You're forced through the tube after him, and once through, struggle to keep your composure on the other side. It's a ship, of some sort, with a curved, sleek design, and subtle ambient light that renders it rather comfy. You spot a wide door to your right, as well as a hallway to your left, containing what you presume are the rest of the rooms. He steps forward, still yanking you along, and points at the first door. "Shower room. I'll get you new clothes." The Vox points a talon at the distinctive stain on your stomach.

"I-I--" you start.

He interrupts immediately. "You pissed yourself. Happens." By the lack of expression past his visor, you can't tell if he's fucking with you, or if he actually didn't realize you had an orgasm in the cockpit. Regardless, with that, he waves an ID in front of the shower room door, and then hands it to you. "This opens only the residential doors. Get dressed, then sit right here until I get you. I have to get this ship moving."

After a few moments of clutching the ID in your hand, rather dazed and confused, he starts to walk off towards the door at the end of the hall. Before he leaves, you call out-- "What a-about the air? How am I breathing right now?"

"It's cycling oxygen," he states flatly. "Once you're properly inundated, you'll get Vox lungs." With that, he's gone, into what looks like a sort of bridge room-- and then you're left alone. The air of the ship washes over you, and you take a long, shuddery breath of relief, stepping into the shower room and starting to peel off the old jumpsuit. It's a little chill, but the shower operates how you guessed it might-- and within a couple minutes, you're stood, basked in hot water and cleansing yourself of the last half-hour.

Thoughts go through your head at a slightly more leisurely pace, now, even if they're no less worrying. The one that keeps popping up is a /worry/, a worry that maybe this desire isn't just gonna go away after you jerk off to it once, unlike a lot of the weirder things you kept finding on the Space Internet. Even after that desperate and awkward orgasm, your thoughts are engulfed with being under this Vox's talons-- sucking on his toe-talons, rubbing his soles, feeling out his boot and taking it off. You get so caught up in fantasy-land that you're right back where you started, rock hard in a strange place. Though you don't much feel like fixing that right now, you realize that if this is going to be a recurring thing for you, you just landed in a perfect spot. The bird is seemingly as eager to fulfill your new degeneracy as you are, even if he doesn't realize it, and if getting turned into a slave means you'll be hauled off away from him, that's ten times the slavery and zero times the fun. For now, you're distracting yourself with the fact that you just got /kidnapped/, and losing this opportunity would set reality in.

So, you decide, you want more. Everything in you is fighting against that prospect, and you feel vaguely like you're abandoning your own sense of self-preservation for this, but after years of working Nanotrasen and having no prospects, this is a goal. You want more of this step-on Vox foot nonsense, and no matter how weird it feels, you know it feels good. Or, at least, it felt good.

God, you hope this isn't the worst idea you've ever had.

Your shower concludes after a thorough soaping down, leaving you finally feeling a little bit alive. You dry off on an overly rough towel and peek outside, bare naked, having thrown your old clothes into the bin next to the door. Right outside of the airlock is a folded pile of clothes which look workable enough, being some nylon trousers, a proper long shirt, and black calf socks. You don't know exactly why this was what the Vox chose for you, but they're suitable, and you quickly change, adopting not to put on your shoes quite yet. You want to be a bit sneaky, after all. Stepping outside with newfound dignity, you start to creep up towards the cockpit room, intending to confront the bird, though maybe not head on, about your thoughts-- but as you're traveling, you hear a faint noise from the room beside you. You immediately sidle to the airlock, pressing your ear up against it.

The voice, you think, is the same as the Vox who captured you. Amidst the ship's ambient noise you can make out soft panting, something definitely meaty, and the low huffing squawk of a bird in uproar. For a moment, you're struck with the very obvious idea that the bird requires privacy, but you remember what he said earlier. Punishment. Punishment for doing the wrong thing, for snooping, for barging in. You swallow some spit, taking a deep breath, considering that this is what you're about to do, and slide your ID across the sensor on the door, sliding it open.

Inside is a bedroom-- one with a few lined-up bunk beds, as well as two single beds that seem to have glass covers half-opened. Sitting atop one of the beds, however, is the Vox from earlier. He no longer has his helmet, revealing his grayish feathers and far-back quills, his nitrogen-delivering nostril mask, and his deep black eyes, caught in what you can only interpret is a burst of pleasure. His black-gloved hands clutch his pink, meaty shaft which terminates in a slightly rounded point, shaped in a slight crescent, leaking a clear dribble of precum. Nearly the instant you glance over him in his vulnerable state, he immediately stands up, eyes widening and form growing intense. You hold your ground a moment, though your jaw slacks unconsciously, and your erection solidifies. Great, you think. It's not just vox feet-- you're wholesale bird-gay. The Vox stomps over towards you, growling. "I told you to stay outside."

"I--"

You're grasped before you can speak, swung inside and put face-to-face with the bird. His beak trembles a little, but the rest of him holds firm. The airlock behind you shuts. "Only an hour in and you're already disobeying. That has to be /trained/ out."

With a hesitant, intrigued tone, you reply, "Y-Yes, sir."

He presses a hand on your shoulder. "Kneel against that wall." His firm tone shakes you some, and he points with his free hand towards one of the back walls-- located only a few feet from one of the bunk beds. His rather sizable fleshy Vox cock hangs right by your groin, still spurting remnants of precum, but you don't delay following his order, scurrying over to the wall and beginning to awkwardly kneel in front of it, pressing your back a little against the metal. The Vox immediately steps after you, and faster than you realize, he's leaned back against the bunk bed a little for balance, sticking his leg up to press his booted foot against your face. The proximity means he's got full force behind it, and you're taken aback-- head struggling to balance as you grasp both hands around his leg, clutching for balance of your own. His rubber-covered toe-talons clench tightly against your hair and scalp, using you as a clutch. He laughs in an uproar. "This is what you get, bootlicker." You can't figure out if you've landed in heaven or hell, as you scramble to lick at his soles, now in full view, sucking on the rubber form-fitting boots and rubbing your face against his talons. Arousal wells up fiercely, and you can already feel an erection growing inside of your trousers-- now with no jumpsuit to easily conceal it, the bulge is forwards, out and proud. Pleased with having full dominance over you, the Vox starts speaking. "You're thinking of how you'll get back home. You're thinking of how you'll sneak around and escape, how you'll defy me and get back to that worthless job of yours." You start sucking on his toe-talons, feeling their odd length out, massaging each bone through the boot as it violates your mouth and throat, poking and prodding in. You feel humiliated and gratified all at once. "You're thinking of how I'm simply some dirty Vox who you can outsmart. Who you can beat. All you need is an opportunity." Your eyes roll back a little with pleasure, utterly distracted. His boot soles are clean, and feel like an extension of him, and every little movement of his feet makes the experience all the better. You feel your cock prod like a sword against your trousers. "You're thinking of all of that. You're thinking of all of that..." he mutters. Through his two toe-talons, you can see his expression shift a little. It grows more devious, more knowing. He clenches down on your face and rubs more slowly. "...or, perhaps, you're thinking of /this/. This, right now. You... /like/ it, don't you?"

Dear God. You start to stammer out, "N-No?!"

"Mhm. No, no, I saw." He lifts his foot off your face, and you spot just how much you've salivated over it, and how much you're still salivating, like you're hungry for something that isn't a damn boot. "In the cockpit... you weren't just bearing and taking it. I know what that looks like." The Vox continues descending his right foot, bringing it down, clawing softly at your chest, as you sit with no idea what to do. "I saw what you were trying to do, so I gave it to you..." His leg finally lowers, and he finds your rock-hard bulge pushing out against your trousers. He prods at it with one toe-talon, and you feel the rubber form-fitting boot caress you. "...and you were pleased. And now, here you are, still very much pleased."

"I-I--" Once again, you can't speak.

He thrusts his foot forward some, putting your cock between two of his booted toes, pressing through the fabric. A terrifying burst of pleasure shoots through you like a shotgun. "You don't need to say anything. Strip off your pants." You take a few moments of consideration, and then finally start to pull those trousers down, cautious, while he takes his foot away for an agonizing moment. Your dick finally emerges, fully erect, leaking a solid stream of precum down the base of your shaft, while you shudder and breathe heavily. As soon as it's free, the Vox shifts his foot forward at a more modest pace, slicking down your rod using the space between his two talons, clutching it deftly and rubbing up until he reaches your base. His prehensile toe-talons have full control over your cock, and he clasps you with the whole of his wide-foot, much to your disdain, and immense glee. "This won't do for punishment. But I /do/ think it will stop you from misbehaving... if this is your /reward/." You see a terrifying grin in his beak, teeth clenched, and he laughs softly. All that possible panic and disapproval in his eyes is gone, replaced with a strange, raw intensity. His free hand not spent keeping him steady clasps around his pinkish cock, and he begins slicking himself up and down, hanging his tip right by your face as he continues giving you a slow, agonizingly cautious footjob with his booted talons. "A reward for good behavior. Like... telling the truth. Khhmmm. Tell me the /truth/, human." He clacks his beak as he pushes up your cock against your stomach, beginning to rub against it with his rubber-clad sole. "Do you want your reward?"

The slow buildup convinces you not to wait another moment. You immediately speak, still with shakiness in your voice, "Y-Yes! Yes, I-I do! I don't know... why I do, I don't have any idea, but I /want it/!"

"That's all you had to say." His grin grows a twinge of warmth, but only for a moment, and then the intensity returns in full force. He grasps your cock tightly with his toe-talons, beginning to jerk you up and down as you're pressed against the wall. His hands slick with a heap of precum from his over-excited penis, and he points his tip right at you, mere inches from your face, where you droop your jaw, readily accepting the spurts of precum that begin to pump out in droves. His rubber-booted toe-talons, while strange in wholesale, are comfortably fitting around your cock, and the way he /moves/ with them-- gyrating and grasping and clawing and rubbing his sole against you, fulfilling you all at once in ways you had never, ever seen yourself enjoying. The feathery Vox is a machine of movements, looking a tiny bit acrobatic in his pose, hanging his cock over you like a carrot, one you're terribly hungry for. The terrific feeling in your groin, as well as the deep discomfort from having edged so long beforehand, combine into a feeling that makes you absolutely sick with pleasure, growing limp in all parts of your body but your dick. You know this can't last more than a few moments more, and the Vox seems to sense this, too, squawking in deep, guttural pleasure as his own orgasm begins to well up. His foot becomes a perfect target for you to shoot through, and you both reach the mountaintop at the same time. His member starts jittering before it begins pumping, shooting, violently splattering you with cum, plenty of which lands in your mouth, begging for you to suck it down, but plenty of which simply coats your clothes and face. All these feelings become a mish-mash, and you're caught in orgasm long after you needed it-- leading to an extremely pent-up, shuddering, gasping, breathy climax. Your shaft is clutched wholly by the Vox's booted sole and toe-talons, and as you begin to spurt upwards in droves, he lifts a tad bit over your tip, letting your load coat his sole and toes nicely, like a seed umbrella. Cum soaks you entirely, and soaks his lower half, as you're inundated in an absolute ocean of pleasure. It takes what feels like forever to fade, and when both of you are panting like you've just run a mile, you finally fall limp, shuddering and sighing and basking in the glow.

You see a little smile on his beak, and his eyes are far from a glare. They're certainly devious, more knowing than you thought, but that twinge of warmth is back. Once he sees a little bit of the orgasm-addled cloudiness from your eyes disappear, he slowly lifts his leg, and plants his cum-covered booted foot near your face. With a soft tone, he says, "...and here's the after-party, human."

"Y-Yeah?" you whisper quietly, starting to settle into the wall, legs splaying.

"Mhm." He chuckles, and though you already know what to do as you start to lap at his soles, he says, "Clean it all up.~"

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Pub: 11 Feb 2021 07:33 UTC
Views: 705