Boredom. One of the many symptoms of ADHD, and one he dealt with on a daily basis as he put machines together. He remembered when first started as a technician. He thought to himself, "How could I possibly get bored with building and testing all these crazy gizmos?"
Alas, after a few months, he found himself looking at the clock and checking his phone for messages so much to the point that his boss had to reprimand him for it. Even after, Pat would reflexively stick his hand in his pocket for his phone, only to chastise himself for it as he pulled it back out sans mobile distraction.
"Keep it together, man," he told himself.
A quick glimpse at the clock told him it was a quarter past two.
"Fifteen minutes until break time, Pat. You can keep yourself under control for another fifteen minutes."
Despite his reassurances, he reached for his phone another three times before the clock struck two-thirty. The second the minute hand hit six, he made a mad dash for the storage room.
Normally, he'd be content with browsing his phone at his desk, but a coworker of a certain age made it a break time routine to rant to whoever would listen about everything wrong with religion and politics. Like clockwork, he heard the conspiracy theorist's cry of "Have you heard the bullshit the Pope said about America!?" as he reached the door.
*SQUEEEEEAAAK*
*SQUEEEEEAAAK*
*SLAM*
The green parrot sighed and relaxed his shoulders as he walked out onto the open floor. While the room was a storage area, the company only used it for large machinery parts that didn't fit neatly on the stock shelves. Items like that only took up a fraction of their inventory. Hence, aside from a few crates and half-empty pallets, the storeroom had always been particularly empty, perfect for getting away from rabid co-workers.
Pat whipped out his phone and logged into Twitter. The first minute or so of scrolling was nothing special. There were a few decent pieces of art, both clean and lewd, but nothing stirred the parrot's mind enough to warrant a like or a retweet. The bad political takes sandwiched in between didn't excite him either. Regardless, he scrolled on, insistent on catching up on everything he's missed.
About halfway through his timeline, an art piece stopped him in his tracks: a digital illustration of a co-ed locker room. A rainbow of furs, feathers, and scales colored his screen, as each man, woman, and non-binary person posed in various states of undress, if not entirely naked. Some were smiling as they chatted with their fellow mates. Others were looking at their phones or busy undressing, but none of them were flustered by their nudity, nor presence of the different genders.
What really made it special in Pat's eyes was each individual's physiognomy. The characters were bereft of impossibly thin waists, back-breaking breasts, or Louisville Slugger-sized meat sticks. Instead, everyone had healthy layers of fat and proportionally sized genitalia. Even the trans depictions decried the objectifying hyper-esque sizes typical in futa content, all in favor of a realistic portrayal of transitioning bodies. As much as he could appreciate the norm of oversized tits and dicks in his pornography, he treasured the rare sight of authentic anatomy even more.
'Hot damn!' he thought, 'I gotta save this one for when I get home!'
The overweight avian could only dream of such a body-positive world as the one he was ogling. Sure, he had friends who accepted him as he was, even without clothes. Still, he knew the world was more prudish and fatphobic than his peers. His fantasies painted a wider picture than the one on his screen. He imagined a world where the bodies of others were a natural sight, even in public. After all, we all come into this world wearing our birthday suits, and some of the most famous paintings ever painted are portraits of nude models. If anything, walking around in the buff should be considered a bold fashion statement rather than an act of obscenity. Oh, to live in a universe where you could be loved and appreciated, regardless of size, shape, or pack of attire. Pat couldn't think of anything more tantalizing. It's no wonder how his cock had left a firm outline in the front of his jeans by the time he liked and retweeted the piece.
'Fuck, I'm gonna be thinking about this all day!'
He looked around, just to make sure he was really alone, before adjusting the bulge in his pants.
"Mmmph!" he moaned, before covering his beak.
Sure, he didn't have time to take care of his morning wood like he usually did before work, but it shouldn't have made him that sensitive. Thank goodness there was no one around to hear that… right?
He examined his surroundings one last time, just to be absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent certain he was alone. He peeked high and low, behind crates and under shelves where anyone could be hiding. While he was able to confirm without a doubt that he was the only one in the room, there were a few other details he noticed, like how there weren't any security cameras, and how the door was the only way in or out, and how one could easily hide behind a crate and have their whole body hidden from anybody who entered. His cock throbbed even harder.
"Really?" He muttered, looking down at his bulging groin. "Here and now? Of all the times and places?"
Another throb.
He groaned, "What the hell is wrong with me?"
Sure, he's had his moments of shamelessness, but not at his place of work. Anybody could walk in and catch him red-handed (or cock-handed in this case). The only way that would end is a report to HR followed by an immediate termination. The only logical course of action was to forget this silly masturbatory notion and head back to the main floor to cool down. So, without further ado, the avian shoved his phone back in his pocket, made his way to the door, and-
*SQUEEEEEAAAK*
Its rusty hinges echoed across the empty space of the storeroom, causing Pat to recoil.
'Ugh! I keep forgetting how loud that fucking door is!'
It was as he thought those words that the lightbulb went off on his head. He looked back at one of the larger crates, six feet by six feet, easily big enough to conceal him.
*SQUEEEEEAAAK*
*SLAM*
"One… two… three," he counted, briskly walking toward the crate until passing it.
He measured twelve seconds from the door and took a moment to ponder the mental math. Ever since he began his bouts of exhibitionism, he's become quite adept at swiftly getting dressed. Still, twelve seconds was too short a time for anyone… but it was more than enough for him to pull up and zip his pants.
He stuck a hand down his jeans. Still hard. At this rate, if he didn't take care of it, he was bound to get blue balls for the rest of his shift. He pulled out his phone again.
2:33. Twelve minutes left.
"Let's make this quick, then."
Pressing himself against the rear of the crate, he unzipped his pants and tugged them and his underwear down to his knees. Like a spring, his green member bounced out of his garments. He wrapped his fingers around it. Judging from how stiff it was, it wouldn't take much for him to get himself off.
As he began to stroke himself, he drifted back to the clothing-optional paradise in his mind, imagining a day in such a world. He would come into work, just as usual, but as he hung up his raincoat, he would reveal he wore nothing underneath it.
"Mornin', Pat!" his boss would say.
"Mornin'!" he'd reply. "What's on the agenda today?"
The middle-aged boar would list out all the work orders on the bracket, intermittently breaking eye contact to glance downward at the bird's anatomy. Pat always wondered if his conservative boss was secretly in the closet. He didn't seem to mind what he was looking at after all. Either way, he wasn't Pat's type and they both had work to get done.
The parrot would strut out onto the warehouse floor. Like his boss, most of them were still fully dressed, but it wasn't his business. Their bodies, their choice. Even with their modesty, though, they couldn't help but stare as he headed to his workstation. One would think they'd get used to the sight of a nudist after working with one for forty hours a week every week, but it seemed his bright green ass was just too hypnotizing to disregard.
With all those imaginary eyes on him, the real Pat sped up, pistoning his hand around his dick, closing in on release. The scene in his mind's eye accelerated as well, as his effigy splayed himself across his workstation, his erection pointing to the sky. While Pat held his moans, his fictional self openly howled in pleasure as he masturbated, making damn sure everyone in the building knew what he was doing.
"Mmmpf, fuck! Feels so good! Hah, hah, hah! Holy shit! Yes!"
He echoed across the warehouse, calling out to every eye.
"Please, look at me. Bear witness to my pleasure. I'm gonna! I'm gonna!"
*SQUEEEEEAAAK*
"Hey, Pat! You in here?"
No! Not now! Of all the times somebody had to show up, why now? Bullet after white bullet coursed through his nethers and not even the tightest grip around his shaft was going to stop him from leaking.
With no time to think, he cupped the tip of his quivering member. Spurt after spurt emptied out into his palm. All the while, his face alternated between the slack-jawed ecstasy of orgasm and the wide-eyed horror of being found. His fingers taut against each other, at least he could take comfort in not leaving a mess on the floor.
"Pat?" the voice repeated.
Unfortunately, this left him with another problem: how to dispose of the damning bodily fluids. He needed both hands to button his pants, and all of the paper towels and trash bins were on the opposite side of the exit. There was one possible option, but the thought of it alone made the bird grimace… that is, until he heard the tap-tap-tapping of footsteps.
'Fuck!'
With twelve seconds ticking down, he swallowed his pride, and brought his hand to his beak.
One… Two…
He tilted his head up and let the white, sticky syrup flow into his gullet.
Three… Four…
The warmth. The bitter-salty taste. The fact that hundreds of millions of microscopic cells were wiggling around in his mouth.
Five… Six…
It was all pushing him to gag and spit, but he persevered, gulping down the majority of his mess.
Seven… Eight…
He stuck out his tongue, licking the rest of the sickening residue off of his hand like a cat until all the semen stuck to his skin was swapped with saliva.
Nine… Ten…
With his talon as clean as he could manage, Pat dove for the belt of his pants around his ankles.
Eleven… Twelve…
"Paaaaaaaaaat…"
"I'm here! I'm here!" he yelped as he came out from behind the crate, his pants fully buttoned and zipped. "Sorry, I was a little stuck in my head."
"Yeah, I get that," replied the canine-like being in front of him.
His name was Kerkits. He was canine in appearance, but Pat wasn't exactly certain what species he was, nor did he ever feel comfortable enough to straight-up ask him. Come to think of it, there was a lot the avian didn't know about him, given they worked in separate departments. His hair was always messy and he was the only machinist in the shop that wore an apron. Nevertheless, the dog-thing seemed like a decent enough guy. That didn't stop him from praying he couldn't tell what just transpired.
"Anyway, the supervisors are looking for you."
"T-They are?"
The bird yanked his phone out and checked the time. 2:42. Still break time.
"I'm not in trouble, am I?" he asked.
"Oh nah, nothing like that."
"Oh, thank goodness."
"Just gettin' everyone together for the meeting after break. You know, for the new insurance?"
"Right, that was today."
"Yepperoni," the canine answered as he fished a small tin out of his work apron and opened it. "By the way, do you want a mint? No offense, but you've got some serious Bad Dragon breath right now."
"I, uh… sure. Thank you," He faltered before picking one.
"No probs. See ya at the meeting," he waved, stashing the tin as he walked away.
Finally, Pat could breathe. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, starting with making a mental note to NEVER. EVER. Do that again. One close call was one too many in his eyes. Plus, he didn't care much for the feeling of the millions of sperm swimming around in his throat, looking for an egg they'll never find.
He couldn't share this story with anyone either, even with his other perverted peers. The number of jokes about 'eating bird seed' would be through the roof. At least he got it out of his system, and Kerkits seemed none the wiser.
However, doting on the… whatever he was, Pat remembered something that made him halt in his tracks.
"No offense, but you've got some serious Bad Dragon breath right now."
Bad Dragon? As in the sex toy company? Sure, it's not impossible that he was referring to some other company named Bad Dragon… but how many other companies sold products that smelled like sex?
Over the course of the day, he would conjure up several leaps in logic and unlikely scenarios to paint his coworker in a more tame light. In the end, the only one explanation seemed the most probable:
'He's a kinkster like me.'
----
Funny story: One day in 2011, I was leaving work when I noticed one of my co-workers had a Bad Dragon sticker on their car. Immediately, I made it my mission to find out whose car it was and befriend them. Turns out, it was
\n\t\t\t\t\tCurcuits (aka Kerkits) all along! After talking to him for about a year and a half, I brought up the idea of this commission and he was all for it!So thanks to him for approving it, as well as :iconChikiota: for the awesome art. Really captured the juxtaposition of "Oh fuck, I cumming!" and "Oh fuck, I'm gonna get caught!" in Pat's face.
And a huge shoutout to Curcuits/Kerkits,
\n\t\t\t\t\twellifimust, and \r\n\t\t\t\t\t| \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tGlimmyGlam\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t