# Who Knows Best

Title: Who Knows Best
Status: Complete
Characters: Anon, Fang, Naser, Ripley, Samantha, Naomi
Rating: NSFW
Classification: One Shot
Author: Blackheel
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Before my knuckles reach the door it swings open.
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Cool, conditioned air and an unfamiliar scent falls upon me like a sundowner, tearing a swift chill down my spine as a towering shadow soon follows. Immediately, a part of me wants to cut my losses and run, but it’s bickering with the other half that’s frozen out of fear; neither halves can shake the sudden feeling that I’m intruding on someone else’s territory, and that sudden gust of brisk, unnatural air is all too akin to the sobering shock of getting caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to be.That ‘someone’ doesn’t hesitate to make his presence known, either, completely unlike myself; as the impetuous figure emerges from his lair I can, at the very least, confirm he’s some sort of person — a large, towering, broadly-built person who dwarfs me in every regard, all but dismissing the sun itself as his wings slyly close out the world around us. Whoever this is, he looms with all unerring moxie of an impassible brute, silent and expectant, an immense pair of shoulders squared in such a way that I expect to be crushed into the distant horizon at any moment. Narrow eyes take hold of my own. I feel each one boring a hole into the back of my skull; worse, I’m certain those claws holding the door open would fit neatly within them.
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I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here internally struggling with abject terror, but it seems just long enough that the terrifying presence in front of me has decided to break the ice. Then again, it seems obvious he’s the sort of person to do whatever he likes. I can’t begin to imagine anyone who could ever hope to stop him. “Hmm...” the figure hummed, his leathery brow flexing just slightly as he (I assume) tries to make any sense of my lingering presence. No part of me can muster the integrity to utter a single word of my own; I’m not even sure what I look like in the present moment, all too fixated on not getting my head bitten off by the scariest thing I’ve seen since I arrived in Volcadera. “You Anon?” he finally asks. His voice — and his sobering grasp of my real name — feels as pleasant as being scraped across the entire expanse of the nearby driveway, shredding my body into an unrecognizable state before being flung into the distant horizon, all for daring to interrupt whatever this man was doing prior to my arrival. I put aside grisly visions of my own demise and manage to speak up. I’m not sure what I sound like, but I am sure it isn’t doing me any favors. The man’s grizzled expression makes that painfully clear, immediately.
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“Y-yeah, I’m Anon. P-pleased to m-meet you, uh...”
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The blaring of countless alarm bells turns the inside of my skull into a hazard range and all but liquifies the remainder of my thoughts. I know what courtesy is and what that entails, but this is another matter entirely. I know I’m lost... or worse, lured in some kind of trap. The figure before me knows it just as well as I do; there’s a sly shade of mirth lingering somewhere in those eyelids that have yet to blink, creasing his brow and prompting his jagged, toothy beak to murmur something amid a wicked scowl. “Executioner,” he concludes, his voice grazing my faculties just as harshly as my prior, asphalt-centric fantasy. Or... wait. Did he really just say that? For the first time in what’s felt like several hours, I’m able to tap into the logical part of my own mind. His ostensible response, I realize, is such a surreal mix of alien and totally-apt that I suddenly can’t convince myself to trust my own ears. Worse, that sudden return to Earth has made me acutely aware of the sea of perspiration I’ve unwittingly subjected my clothes to (or, at least, I pray it’s perspiration.) I’m no longer certain I can bear the weight of both them and my adversary’s unwavering attention. I’m one second away from regressing into a comedy routine (something about delivering a pizza to the wrong address, perhaps) and sprinting home.
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“Honey, who is it?” a second voice calls out, depriving (or more realistically, sparing) me of the opportunity to formulate any sort of response. This voice is... different. It’s every bit as confident as the one standing in front of me, but it’s such a striking disparity in pitch and tone that I can’t help but immediately draw comparisons in my head. Ying versus yang; peace versus war. Whoever this was, she’s caught my opposition’s attention in an instant; his gaze releases my own in an uncharacteristic show of mercy, settling aside as another figure gracefully ekes her way into the afternoon sunlight. If I wasn’t making comparisons before, I definitely am now; I’m all-too- familiar with this pristine, pearly set of wings presenting themselves to the world, flexing delicately as each plush feather basks beneath a shared warmth. A part of me feels like they’re beckoning me, even if I know better; I can’t figure out if each wing is more akin to the heavenly embrace of a merciful angel, here to rescue me from my own pitiful cowardice, or a pair of penalty flags propped up to punish the overly-aggressive man who has taken his time rendering me into a human puddle. Yet it was those same logical inferences that put an end to whatever comparisons I was using to distract myself from her larger, stronger companion. This second figure isn’t actually Fang; that much is obvious. Fang isn’t just shy of five feet in height, and I can’t imagine any circumstance where she would willingly wear a pink, flowery apron. None that exist outside of my dreams, anyway.
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The petite (yet unmistakably matronly) figure casts her own gaze upon me as well, a smile gently easing across the length of her beak. Though the trepidation racking my body might not have vanished — my alleged executioner is still present, after all, — I’m so thankful for the welcoming gesture that I could have kissed her. “Oh, you must be Anon!” the more hospitable of the pair discerns, the very thought seeming to delight her. “Come in, come in,” she continues soon after, nestling a collection of disconcertingly-firm claws around my wrist before graciously guiding me through the yet-impenetrable cascade of shadows. I was thankful for the help; as I pass the other, leering figure guarding the doorway, it becomes apparent that I wouldn’t have made it past him even if I had arrived with my own personal army.
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The ptero-matriarch drags me into her abode, not-so-gently tossing me into what must have been the comfiest couch to ever exist. The ptero-patriarch follows in the meantime, setting and flexing his jaw in a visible (and blatantly agitated) pattern as his wife takes to housewarming. I can’t help but worry, albeit silently, that my drenched body has completely ruined whatever flawless piece of furniture my savior has decided I simply must sit upon. I take my ongoing life as evidence no one is irreversibly offended just yet.
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Still thoroughly-intimidated by the larger of the pair, my attention places itself squarely upon the back of a little green dress barely-obscured by a sea of pillowy feathers. I wasn’t sure why, but the feeling that my life was in terrible danger (along with a sea of internal alarm bells) returned, only for a familiar voice to summarily disarm them. “Oh, you must forgive my little Lucy. She’s still getting ready for your date!” the fussing matriarch explains, eventually easing around to face both myself and her husband properly. I can’t help but find her smile equal parts charming and disarming; it’s the sort of expression that breaks an unctuous facade in the worst sort of way if not done right, yet this one is soliciting my attention effortlessly. I’m so entranced, in fact, that I quietly come to realize I’m missing half of what she’s said. Repeated use of the word ‘date’ has both terrified and embarrassed me, too, and the last thing I need is Fang’s father — the ‘executioner’, — gaining any more leverage in this situation. Thankfully, I come to another realization: my body defaults into smiling and nodding politely whenever I’m terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought, all of which appears to have placated my hostess and drawn little ire from her husband.
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“Ah, it’s uh, no trouble ma’am,” I mention confidently in response to nothing in particular. Before anyone can find the remark confusing I change the subject. “But uh... I thought her name was ‘Fang.’” I can feel the temptation to elucidate bubble up from inside me (as I’m pretty sure dating a man’s daughter without even knowing her name is, in fact, a crime that warrants execution), but the kindly woman titters in her pink apron, a collection of claws barely subduing a cheeky smile. “Oh, that? My little tooth fairy always loves to re-invent herself...” I’m surprised to see a sincere shade of warmth cross the matron’s photogenic features, gentle eyes gazing outward as she’s pulled into some distant, fond memory. “One moment she was the prettiest princess pirate... now she’s some sort of rock-and-roll maestro!” Witnessing such sincere love for her daughter is terribly infectious, as is her smile; execution be damned, I can’t help but appreciate something so pure. I just wish I wasn’t constantly nodding and desperately struggling to ward off performing my best Stella impression in these blue jeans. “The imagination she has...” we consider in unison, even if only one of us murmurs it outright.
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As I watch the ptero-lady’s little green sundress flutter further and further away, I’m jostled by the sound of a familiar voice, offering a quaint yet familiar: “Sup buddy.” It was just Naser. I would never tell him as much to his face, but I’d thanked a nearby wall-mounted Raptor Jesus effigy that it was ‘just Naser.’ The resemblance between himself and his father is incredible, at least out of the corner of my eye. Easing back into the couch, the pair of us recline at two distinct and differing angles, allowing Naser to speak up a second time. “You good?” I silently wish I could replicate the calm, collected gaze he seems to have perfected, instead vying to take a deep breath, collect my scrambled thoughts and provide a sober answer. He deserves that much. “I’m good,” I reply, likely convincing no one. My insecurity drives me to small talk. “So, uh... nice place.” Save for an exceedingly-comfortable couch, I had no actual grasp of my surroundings until that moment. My attention casts itself across every pristine eggshell wall, generously interspersed with family photographs. I even manage to spot what could ostensibly be called a ‘pirate princess’, poised and proud, waving a tiny sword in the direction of an elated young woman that I could have sworn was Fang at a distance. The figure’s diminutive height and high-waisted, distinctively-dated trousers, however, did away with my confusion in an instant. Thankfully, reality bends to my will and keeps me from transitioning into both a coward and a liar; it really was a nice place.
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“Home is where the heart is, as they say,” a fourth, grating voice cordially informs me. Contempt and stupefaction jab me all at once as Naser’s girlfriend, Naomi, pops into the room from some unseen crevice. It takes all of my willpower to not mention something about spraying for pests. Sauntering forward, Naomi offers me a silver-platter selection of the smallest cups I have ever seen; a gift I accept solely because I suspect Fang’s mother prepared them. Naomi confirms my suspicions and Naser denies a helping, mentioning something about ‘hot leaf juice.’ I decide this equates to the old adage ‘more for me’, even if I have no intention of rocking the boat by taking more than my fair share. This cup alone feels as though I’m stepping on the toes of fate itself, causing a piece of my integrity to tug and nag incessantly, all-too-insistent on telling me that something has gone horribly awry.
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It doesn’t take long to figure out just what that ‘something’ is: the entire wall behind Naomi and Naser is littered with the mounted, taxidermied remnants of various animals. For lack of anything better to do in the interim, I take to casually appraising each musty trophy, putting my Rock Bottom education to the test as I suss out the identity of various corpses. A pair of glassy-eyed bucks; several freshwater fish, each impressive in size; an impeccably-maintained falcon (which I wasn’t aware anyone hunted until now), and, lastly, the hulking skull of a rhinoceros. The animals themselves aren’t what concerns me; such trophies would be mildly interesting in, say, a museum. Rather, it’s the rapid onset of a cold, unerring sobriety that accompanies pants-ruining fear, set off by one very specific trigger; one who had, at last, re-entered the once-comfortable living room. Fang’s father hasn’t grown any less terrifying in the presence of other, less murderous company, yet a part of me can’t help but humanize him as he makes his way across the living room’s expanse, allowing his enormous self (his ass, to be specific) to swiftly usher all of the air out of a characteristic, throne-esque loveseat. Fittingly, he brought a scepter as well; one that took the form of a gleaming golf club. I’m not sure why.
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Sensing opportunity, I test my luck by initiating conversation. The wall-mounted trophies are just interesting enough to work in my favor, and my bowels feel less likely to evacuate themselves at any moment. “Uh, what gun did you use to hunt - “
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“Anon!” a voice calls out from another, entirely separate room, throwing off my train of thought. I recognize the voice; Naser does too, his gaze shifting from Naomi to myself. “I think my... mom needs you?” The subtle bemusement in his voice expresses a sentiment we both share, although I can’t help but feel as if the younger ptero-lad has suddenly grown very suspicious of my presence. It imbues an odd sort of guilt, albeit not for very long; Fang’s father doesn’t hesitate to roar out, responding before anyone else can. I was surprised the house didn’t collapse beneath the weight of his protest. “I’m speaking with the boy! He’ll be there in a minute!” he glowers, a conspicuous thumb-claw traveling across the rather shiny skull of his putter. Or was it a nine-iron? The voice of Fang’s mom stands unshaken, maintaining the same gentle trill it embodied just a moment ago. “I need to see him now!” The demand gives three of us reason to pause; Fang’s father grumbles, sinking just a bit further into a chair that — despite knowing who it belonged to — I was starting to envy. “Maybe I should help her,” Naomi mentions, breaking the tension as she begins to rise from her side of Naser’s couch. She’s cut down by that same, domineering voice. “Get going, boy,” Fang’s father insists, waving me onward as though I were an annoyance he was at liberty to dismiss whenever he pleased. Technically, I was. “Uh, right,” I mutter anxiously and, before I realize it, I’ve returned to my feet as if preparing to leave. The very thought of standing up Fang sends a tumultuous storm through my insides, but I’m quickly distracted.
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“Uh...”
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“That door,” my executioner instructs in sotto, casting a claw in one very specific direction. There are only two other doors and a stairway, and I feel like an idiot for not testing my luck with a casual guess. “Th-thank you,” I announce, making my way toward the vague solicitation. As I depart I feel Naser’s speculative gaze sear into the part of my skull his father had already started on, as well as hear the voice of said father some distance behind me. “So, Naomi... you never told me. Are you a fan of golf?” Without looking, I can somehow sense the same predatory sneer that had been used at my expense not too long ago. What the man sought to accomplish by deploying it on a young girl was lost to me, but I was no longer at liberty to sit and wonder.
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A pleasant breeze caresses my body as I enter, traveling past me like so many silk curtains. The itinerant, fleeting gust of a midday wind is equal parts refreshing and nurturing, and it takes little time to render the stagnant perspiration that has since lingered on the surface of my skin nothing more than a distant memory. My prior interrogation, too, has slowly lost its stranglehold on my faculties; for the first time since I’ve arrived I feel like I can exercise the full capacity of my cramped lungs, among other, equally-as-tense pieces of my own anatomy. For a brief moment I’m convinced that the natural atmosphere of Volcadera has some kind of esoteric healing properties, but it doesn’t take long for that illusion to melt away as well. I realize I’ve been staring silently at the true source of my salvation: a familiar woman clad in a little green dress, tending to some unseen task at the surface of a kitchen sink. Wings obscure her body yet somehow fail to block the persistent gusts sneaking in via an open window. I wait cordially, taking in the more minute details of my surroundings. ‘Nice place’ remains an understatement; someone clearly went to great lengths to not only obtain this home but keep it in impeccable shape. Fang’s father, Naser and Fang herself seem like the least responsible parties.
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“Oh, Anon, there you are!” the delicate ptero-matriarch finally exclaims, half-turned and facing me. We share practiced smiles; as usual, I get the impression mine is nowhere near as convincing. “Hello, Mrs. ... Fang’s mom,” I manage to say, struggling to maintain a confident brow. I find myself feeling thankful as she doesn’t appear to take any offense from the remark, slipping off a pair of light blue rubber gloves before setting them beside the sink. “Mrs. Aaron,” she clarifies, closing some distance between us. “Although you may call me ‘Samantha’, if that makes you more comfortable.” I decide in an instant I have no intention of doing that, likening it to calling my own mother by her first name. More importantly, it’s my top priority to show Fang’s family the respect they deserve. “Thank you, Mrs. Aaron,” I reply. A second round of incurable tension corners my waking mind as Samantha’s polite demeanor creases. That slight betrayal of her emotions (even if incredibly brief) sends a clear signal; I had somehow messed up. It’s a terrible feeling. With the possible exception of Naser, I foolishly believed Fang’s mother was the only person to receive my presence in any sort of positive way. A deluge of guilt and uncertainty begins to drown me yet again. Anxiety bowls me over, too, as I come to realize Samantha has clearly recognized this fresh shade of characteristic spinelessness.
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“Are you... uncomfortable, Anon?” The question is delivered gently, as though I were bedridden. I feel like I will be, once I return to the living room and have every bone in my body broken for disappointing her. “U-uncomfortable?” I parrot; Samantha nods gently, folding her hands at the base of her pink apron. I come to realize that the distance created between us was chosen mindfully, ensuring Samantha was just close enough to speak without threatening to invade my personal space. It was somewhere between a tense stand-off and an intervention; I swallowed yet another build-up of guilt, standing at attention to accept whatever’s coming my way. “I understand Ripley... — Mr. Aaron, has a mind to intimidate my little tooth fairy’s suitors,” she begins to clarify, brow softening as though in apology. “I do hope you’ll forgive him. He is as concerned for Lucy’s well-being as I am... you are the first young man she has brought home.” I don’t dare mention it, but I’m nonetheless surprised to hear that. I’ve never considered Fang anything less than a knock-out, even if she is a little rude.
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Put at ease by Samantha’s sincerity, I betray a gap in my own defenses and dare to inquire further. “I am?” I ask, illiciting another nod from my hostess. “Yes.” She visibly ponders then, raising an index claw to gently tap just beneath the tip of her beak. “Although... there was that young allosaurus man. He was more of a ‘stalker’, however... someone my little Lucy couldn’t stand. I do hope they find him some day.” As I put aside the vague recollection of an allosaurus teen’s mugshot appearing on the side of the milk carton in my fridge, I realize that Samantha has snuck just a little bit closer. She’s less apologetic now; she must think we’re finding common ground, and I don’t have it in me to correct her. “I understand,” I find myself uttering, and before long the rest of my emotions spill outward. A part of me wishes I had the fortitude to keep them inside and figure out the most tactful way to express myself, but it’s genuinely quite difficult to feel anything less than at-home with Samantha’s gaze meeting my own. I can’t help but envy Fang; I wish my own mother cared about my life this much. “I... hope you understand I feel the same way. About Lucy, I mean. She’s the first girl I’ve ever... “ My spine nearly gives out as I realize what I was about to say. Samantha seems unphased; she was using the same word I had in mind much earlier, after all. “... Hung out with,” I mention. “I’m new to all of this. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”
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Samantha’s smile remains a swiss army knife, empathetic as it is understanding. I can feel the tumultuous pounding deep inside my chest begin to slow; still ecstatic, yet far from terrified. “You aren’t ‘supposed to do anything’, Anon,” Samantha expresses quietly, her gentle voice now more of a sagely murmur. A familiar pair of claws ventures forth, taking just one of my own, significantly-larger hands, caressing the knuckles and exterior. I’m left unsure as to whether the gesture is meant to comfort myself or her, at this point. “Ever since meeting you, I can feel my little girl opening up again... You’ve reawakened something inside of her.” A familiar, wistful gaze phases through the center of my chest as Samantha’s head bows away. I don’t dare interrupt the comforting memory she seems to have indulged in, content to stand in place. “It reminds me so much of when I first met Ripley...”
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As confusing as the likeness may be, I make no effort to deny it. I couldn’t deny Fang meant something to me, even if I couldn’t quite place what that ‘something’ was. I couldn’t deny that I had spent the last few months fending off my own cowardice, struggling to stick my neck out just to try and understand this girl when, I figured, no one else was even making the attempt. I have no idea what sort of influence I’ve actually been, but hearing Fang’s mother insist that I’m doing something right is reassuring. It’s tempting to lose myself in the delusion; to simply forget the legion of stupid things I’ve done to make Fang lash out. I still wonder if I should have lightened the mood with a joke, back when we were cutting vines in detention, or said something, anything, back on that rooftop. It’s unfortunate Fang’s gaze is just as pretty (and disarming) as Samantha’s, lacerating my defenses and forcing the truth to spill out. I suspect that this inherent skill runs in the family, somehow.
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“... You’re a very thoughtful young man, Anon.” I shake off yet another tiresome bout of self-pity as Samantha solicits my attention once again. Her expression has melted at this point, locking her eyes with my own in a peculiar sort of way. “I’m certain you haven’t done any ‘stupid things.’ You just need to be a little more confident in yourself.” I silently lament my own ‘inherent skill’ to mumble thoughts aloud as Samantha’s hands fall away, folding prim and proper at the hem of her apron. “Luckily, I know a way to fix that. It’s a little strange... but I think it will help.”
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Before I can infer so much as a single detail as to what I’m agreeing to, I agree to it. “Sure. Whatever helps,” I nod, sharing a smile with Samantha as her claws fumble with the southernmost hem of her dress. The tables turn just slightly as, for whatever reason, she’s become the apprehensive one. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t even consider it... but you are the first boy my little Lucy has shown any interest in. And you haven’t expressed any interest in other young women... Ever.” Samantha’s shoots me with a sudden look, but it’s a glancing blow. I give her credit, albeit silently; that was a pretty good way to check if I was lying. Little did she know I’m as bad at talking to girls as I am at drawing in their interest, save for laughter. I feel the sharp, matronly appraisal fall away at last, trailing downward as if drifting into deep thought. “It’s important that you show confidence, Anon. Supporting someone is important... but what good is support if it wavers, hmm?” I nod yet again, doing my best Spike Spiegel impression. “You’re right. ‘Support’ means listening when F - uh, Lucy, needs me to listen... but it also means being strong when she needs that, too.”
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Irrationally impressed with my terrible response, I continue to watch Samantha expectantly, eagerly awaiting more sound advice. As she continues to fumble with her apron and gown, I feel an untold respect for her growing within the deepest recesses of my heart; her husband, Ripley, may serve as an unwavering bulwark hellbent on guarding the sanctity of Fang’s affections, but I’m slowly starting to understand that the true strength within this family — it’s ‘confident support’, I decide, — stems from Samantha. I continue to lavish the household’s reigning matriarch in unspoken compliments as I remain in place patiently, at last rewarded as a modest strip of delicate fabric falls from the inner recesses of that little green dress unto her ankles below.
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... Wait.
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An extravagant, introductory bassline pounds through the recesses of my skull as realization dawns upon me. My heart returns to Ripley-induced levels of arrant anxiety, working furiously as perspiration once again dots every inch of my scared-stiff body. Things get even worse as Samantha’s claws expose the second half of her secretive task, lifting her little green gown at the waist to reveal a pair of lithe, bare, pristine, pale legs. What lies between them is equally as instigating (and equally as bare)... but as much as I hate to admit it, the sight isn’t entirely unfamiliar. Fang’s signature black trousers never did leave very much to the imagination, and her mother is her dead ringer in every way save for height. “Oh relax, Anon. I know there’s pictures of this sort of thing all over that ‘internet’ nowadays... it’s nothing you haven’t seen there. Or in your biology class, perhaps.” Samantha’s smile hasn’t lost its luster, but the ever-appropriate curl in her beak is now more akin to a mischievous smirk than a welcoming gesture. Delicate feet venture forward, leaving one set of claws to keep her gown lifted as the other ventures onward, prodding a tent situated in my lap. I wasn’t sure which was more harrowing: the fact that this fifth limb had snuck up on me, or that an attractive woman has gone out of her way to touch it.
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All thought is euthanized by the onset of bleary astonishment, replaced with a deafening buzz. My body remains as stiff as my countenance, totally incapable of expressing any sense of protest as two of those pale claws manage to find my jeans zipper. She tugs it down so cleanly, and audibly, that we could have sold the recording to a foley artist; just as quickly, Samantha’s delicate hand ventures into the spacious recesses of my trousers. I can feel her fumbling within the hem and, in an instant, taking a sudden hold of my body. Thousands of anonymous internet shitposters cry out in agony as their uniform jeering is proven wrong all at once; a woman (an exceedingly pretty one, no less) is making overt sexual advances toward me. I’m too petrified to bask in the shallow sense of accomplishment. Shamefully aroused, too.
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“What’s shitposting?” Samantha inquires politely, maintaining her ever-familiar smile as a pale, firm grasp makes its way up the length of my erection before slyly venturing back down. Too many thoughts rush through my head at once to formulate a response. I know this is incredibly inappropriate; I know her husband — or Raptor Jesus forbid, Naser, — won’t hesitate to put me through a wall if they decide to venture in here. I know this is entirely my fault; I should know better. I also know her grasp is deceptively strong in spite of its size; even if her hand does little to truly obscure the fleshy extension she’s fixated upon, the muscles in her palm experience no trouble taking charge, pristine scales caressing against my distinctively-mammalian skin firmly as her grip travels along my person. It’s a far cry from the aimless, monkey-esque self-abuse I subject this very same piece of my anatomy to on the regular, and it’s rendered me dead silent.
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So silent, in fact, that Samantha’s demure demeanor creases once again. If her hand didn’t insist on continuing unabated, I would have felt guilty. “... Consider this is your first lesson, Anon. Remember: Be confident.” I experience the most bizarre sensation I’ve ever felt in my entire life as Samantha’s eyes ensnare my own, striking a cord that is equal parts Fang and equal parts... some other, vague, ever-scolding authority figure. An internal defense mechanism triggers; I prevent myself from likening the gaze to anyone that I may have experienced at any other point in my life, particularly at home. I know Samantha and I agreed moments ago that we both value sincerity, but in this case I have to make a brief exception. “Don’t just stand there,” she instructed softly, raising one of her her delicate little eyebrows. “I know you’re having fun... but what else could you be doing, dear? Think.”
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It’s apparent that her invasive hand isn’t going to stop; this really was some kind of lesson, not unlike the many I’ve shared with Fang thus far. Doing away with the incessant set of bongos pounding away both in my head and in my chest, I dedicated every fiber of my being to concentration. Samantha seemed to notice; her glimmering, appraising eyes didn’t leave me, and her working grasp grew just a little more firm. I swore she was teasing me. “Well, I... I did say I was new to this,” I finally managed to mention, accompanied by the sudden flex of my arm. Before I can realize what I’m doing, the entirety of my hand — fingers and palm — has audibly landed upon just half of the petite infiltrator’s backside. The front of her dress may have been lifted, but I wasn’t awarded any such liberty further back; instinct fastens my sudden sense of touch, doubling down as I envelop a ptero-cheek covered with clean linens. She was suspiciously muscular for a homebody. More thoughts of Fang (her ass, to be specific) cross my mind before returning to reality, lured out by Samantha’s smirk. Her beak is flush all of a sudden; this reminds me of Fang, too. “Good,” she whispers in an assuring, gentle voice; the vocal equivalent of a big, bold A+, made all the more impressive by its suggestive nature. “Harder,” she demands.
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I take a wild jab at what this means and tighten my grip on her backside, testing the suspiciously-strong muscles nestled somewhere within her perfectly-shaped glutes. I didn’t remain oblivious for very long; a glimmer in Samantha’s eye confirms she approves of the decision, and the rest of her figure decides to nestle much closer. She may be strong, but she’s small; I have no trouble supporting her modest weight as she leans against me entirely. I now feel her heart working furiously in her chest, mimicking my own; it’s as if we’ve taken mutually teasing one another with the subconscious, concussive pounding. I don’t realize it, but I’m breathing heavily, too; something she swiftly rectifies by slowing her pace below. “Relax,” she hums. The soft fingers that envelop my erection below refuse to let me go. I have no choice but to oblige; I force my knees into behaving, right my posture and maintain an uninterrupted gaze with my gracious hostess, dedicated to transitioning into the man Samantha envisions.
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Strange as the circumstances may be, I start to realize my prior apprehension has faded away. I’m enduring overt sexual advances from my d- ... ‘good friend’s’ mother, yet it’s ceased being any sort of problem, somehow. I’m not even tempted to question what sort of unholy bird-magic Samantha had to employ to convince me, of all people, to set my nerves aside and enjoy myself in such a precarious position. Then again, it wasn’t much a mystery; Samantha’s sidelong embrace did wonders for my confidence. Taking the reins so decisively had allowed her body meld with my own, eagerly sharing her affections in a very localized part of my anatomy. I can’t help but do the same, testing the integrity of whatever lingered beneath her dress whenever and wherever I could, expressing our mutual lust in the form of a greedy, wanting and perpetually-full hand. In a not-so-distant way, the scent of lingering, plush white feathers and familiar orange eyes make me understand just why I had managed to calm down. Samantha reminds me of someone, and I can’t imagine that’s any sort of accident on her part.
​
“It’s not ‘lust’, Anon,” she corrected quietly. “It’s a lesson.” Samantha’s attention nestles aside for a brief moment, squirming beneath my touch. I had a suspicion sneaking that hand inward and between her legs was a smart idea... or I did, until she gently batted my wrist away in a demure sort of way, courtesy of her tail. I was doubly-scolded as she shot me a wry look. “You’re a sweet young man... even if you did allow yourself to be molested by your girlfriend’s mother. That’s why I need to make sure you keep doing the right thing.” Before I can inquire further, I notice her hand no longer has any need to return to her gown; the same nebulous bird-magic that got me into this mess must have also mastered the technique of tucking fabric into itself, awarding me an uninterrupted view of the sacred (and as of now, oddly-glistening) space nestled between a pair of flawless, monochrome legs. Samantha wasn’t stupid; the gentle cock of her hip made it clear she knew what I was looking at, and she was shamelessly encouraging me.
​
“Think of Lucy,” she whispers, sudden and cryptic. I have no ability (nor desire) to deny what amounts to hypnotic suggestion, feeling my brow knit as the ever-working hand begins to seize me more aggressively. Her opposite hand has stolen a dish rag from... somewhere, folded and patiently awaiting at the head of my enduring length. I vaguely recall advice from a familiar imageboard to ‘hold out as long as possible’, but the consideration is struck down immediately, blasted by a sudden flare of what I could only liken to psychic warfare. Samantha knew what I wanted to feel long before I did; I was a novice, testing my mettle against a master. The rapid, pistoning fist that had enslaved me flexed and released like a precision instrument, ringing a vaguely-slick sound throughout the confines of the otherwise empty kitchen. Before I could make any sense of her technique, a sudden onset of overbearing pleasure struck me like a bullet. Every nerve ending in my body fries in an instant, helpless as Samantha’s regnant grasp continues to aggressively massage the stiff flesh below. The flexing of her palm and fingers blatantly out-wrestles the involuntary flexing of my erection; I endure the sensations as well as I possibly can, shuddering harshly, practically short circuiting as the offered dish rag is simply ruined by the pearly, viscous confines of my loins.
​
By the time it’s all over, I let out a distinctive (and blatantly satisfied) sigh. Samantha regards me in a sidelong sort of way; as tempting as it was to ask the obvious ‘what about you?’, she’s somehow made it clear that she has gotten what she wanted. “Well done, Anon.” I have no idea what I did well. I know I enjoyed it, but objectively-speaking, all I did was stand in place. “Well,” she replied, “You’re still standing upright. Even my dear Ripley never manages to do that.”
​
I fend off the mental image of Ripley’s absurdly-oversized dragon dildo of a johnson as Samantha continues, tilting her head aside in a curious way. I find myself as surprised as she is; I didn’t know I had it in me to not only ‘produce’ in such copious quantities, but also overshoot my enabler’s hand entirely. Streaks of some enigmatic, translucent substance have long since spattered across the kitchen floor, making their descent as far as the distant sink. “I hope you’ve learned what you can accomplish when you’re confident... And I hope you’ll make good use of it, when it comes to my little tooth fairy.” Speaking up (intentionally, anyway) for the first time in what has felt like hours, I suddenly recognize how parched I am. A tense mess of an airway was the common result of physical labor. “I do. Thank you, Samantha,” I mention outright. There’s no time to correct myself; there’s little desire, either. The small lady beams at me vibrantly, making it apparent that, somehow, being genuine in my stupidity is still the right thing to do. Maybe I really did learn something.
​
Before I can decide what to do next, a voice rings out behind us. “MOM!”
Oh (raptor) Jesus. That’s Fang’s voice. It’s Fang’s voice, and it’s furious. My body is as stiff as stone, directly juxtaposed to the flaccid dud still leaking within the pit of Samantha’s waiting palm. That’s all I am, however; for lack of any better option, I vie to keep my hand wedged in the proverbial cookie jar, simply enduring whatever horrible fate might befall me. I make peace with myself, silently promising to offer a goat sacrifice if I somehow escape this awkward encounter alive. “Are you done with Anon yet? Dad is golfing on the coffee table, and Naomi won’t shut up! ” My endeavor to coolly glance aside is interrupted by Samantha’s own, opposite palm. She’s (quite forcefully) keeping me from regarding Fang in any direct way, clenching the strongest hand in the world around my jawline, taking the opportunity to smile back at her daughter instead. “Oh, we’ll be out there in a moment, Lucy. I simply needed Anon here to assist me with a little something.” I hear Fang emit a familiar, drawn-out groan as her characteristic combat boots twist aside and stomp back into the living room, allowing the kitchen door to slam shut. “We’re going to be late!” I hear her call out, now distant.
​
I allow Samantha’s domineering claw to fall away before I so much as attempt to peek backwards. Oh, right. Samantha has wings; there was no possible way Fang, nor anyone else, could have possibly seen what we were up to. Daintily stepping aside, Samantha unraveled her bunched-up gown in an instant, allowing it to once again drape over that all-too- precious part of her I’d been staring at intently at during climax. I glance downward, taking one last look at the distant mess I’d made before seeking out something else: undergarments. Samantha’s, specifically. Where had they gone? “You learn a few tricks when you live with two on-the-go teenagers!” my itinerant teacher mentions, having since released me to travel across the room. A bunched-up pair of ladies’ undergarments had made their way from Samantha’s ankles to beneath a nearby cupboard, at some point, and they had lingered there for the duration of my ‘lesson.’ I catch one last glimpse of Samantha’s perfectly- shaped backside as she bends over, retrieving the discarded panties (which were pink; go figure) and tucking them into a gown pocket, well out of sight. She stands upright and looks to me, bearing her usual, intoxicating smile and appearing no different than she had the moment we first met.
​
Sheepishly, I look down at myself. It takes little brainpower to adjust the hem of my trousers, carefully tucking my spent length back into the confines from which Samantha had seized it. It looked much smaller in my hand than it did in hers. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Samantha assures me quietly. Her ability to sneak up on me (and read my thoughts) is something I need to fix, clearly. Righting my posture yet again and dusting it free from any unseen debris, I’m subjected to a familiar pair of little white claws, each of which took to carefully adjusting my jacket collar. “Just remember: this was a lesson.” Her voice is equal parts sweet and authoritative as she works patiently before me, only to plant a tiny index claw at the center of my sternum. A part of me suspected I was being a baby, earlier, but now I can confirm it without question: she’s still ridiculously strong. Maybe even stronger than Ripley. “I have no problems with teaching you... so long as it’s used to provide me with grandchildren.”
​
Even if I did feel signficantly more confident than I had before, no man alive could resist wavering beneath the narrow gaze Samantha imbued. “O-of course, ma’am,” I agreed. “Lots of them,” she demanded, again. “At least four.” “Absolutely,” I insisted.
​
The promise satisfies her and that dreaded index claw falls away. Her attention once again hurries itself across the kitchen, slyly hiding a sopping dishrag beneath the sink before retrieving a brand new one. As I watch her soak it beneath a sink faucet, I can’t help but wonder; something I express immediately, rather than bottling it away. “Mind if I ask you something?” I declare outright, venturing forward. My legs were horribly stiff from standing still for so long. “It wouldn’t be much of a lesson if you couldn’t,” Samantha surmised, wringing out the soaked cloth before standing on her toes. It wasn’t about to make her reach; I bent at the knee, allowing her to wipe the cool, refreshing rag wherever she pleased. “While we were - ... while you were teaching me,” I begin, casually correcting myself, “You shooed my hand away. Was that the wrong thing to do?”
​
The subtle, matronly creases in Samantha’s complexion relax as she gets to work. It’s painfully apparent she is in her element now, even if the topic of discussion is the last sort of thing one would expect of her. I can’t help but admire the way she’s taken to gently wiping down my face, gentle yet discriminating. “That’s not the sort of thing you should be doing on the first date, Anon,” she remarks. Her tone of voice is profound; it’s not quite scolding, nor is it particularly disappointed. It’s an earnest sort of advice, having arrived incidentally at the behest of a handjob. “I appreciate the thought, dear... but you shouldn’t tease me, either. Things could have gotten out of hand, if I allowed that to continue.”
​
The realization I had been subjected to a pun is interrupted the playful dab of a wash cloth, swiftly cooling the tip of my nose. I can’t resist smiling at the mischief, nor can Samantha. “Maybe next time,” she mentions ominously, soon returning to the balls of her feet, twisting aside to hide away a second wash cloth. I stand properly, checking myself one last time for anything that might betray our earlier intentions. Finding nothing, I glance at fussing ptero-matriarch one last time. “Thank you,” I murmur. “Of course, Anon. Run along... I’ll be there in just a moment.”
​
I carefully navigate back into the Aarons’ living room. Naser is swift to lock my gaze with his own, a cool smile creeping across his features. “Well, that explains it,” he declared outright, drawing Ripley’s attention unto me as well. I have no idea what he means at first; I silently pray for Buddha to be a bro and not betray my extra-marital affair to the men most likely to kill me for it. “You look a lot better than you did five minutes ago, man. My mom cleaned you up fast.” I turn my attention to Fang; she’s inspecting me as well, although a part of me can’t help but sense the slightest tinge of suspicion. “What did he look like?” she asks. “Like a dead man,” Ripley interrupted, almost instantly taking the wind out of Naser’s sails. I couldn’t help but feel bad for him.
​
“Anon walked all the way here... didn’t you, Anon?” Samantha’s familiar voice informs the seated crowd as she re-enters from the confines of her kitchen, convincing me to scoot aside and linger much closer to Fang. Only one of us is embarrassed by that fact; I take a moment to admire the adorable way Fang’s face twists when caught off-guard, only serving to embarrass her further. “I couldn’t have him going on your date in such a state,” Samantha remarks cheerily, bending over to set a pitcher and tray unto the coffee table, shamelessly mogging Naomi’s earlier efforts. As pleasing as the sight of Samantha’s backside may have been, I find myself distracted by the younger of the two Aaron women; the gentle flush of Fang’s beak has since grown significantly little redder, her expression contorted in furious protest. “Moooom! It’s not a date! ... And it’s Fang now!”
​
“Oh, excuse me, Fang,” Samantha politely corrects herself, now situated across from her husband. I’m not certain what’s in that pitcher, but it’s enticing Naser; he doesn’t hesitate to pour himself a glass of the peculiar, blue drink, sipping it in clear view of a mildly-disappointed Naomi. “Although... Naser, dear, have you finished your studies?”
​
“Yep,” he replies, eventually. He’s very taken to that drink. It’s starting to make me want some.
​
“Well, why not make it a ‘double date’?” Samantha inquires, her gaze ‘incidentally’ falling upon me. The suggestion receives mixed results; Naser has nearly choked on whatever he was sipping, whereas Naomi’s mood has picked up significantly. “That sounds like a wonderful idea!” the puce princess shamelessly concurs, almost immediately setting her attention upon Ripley. “I agree,” he murmurs, gravelly as ever. Though the significantly larger man has the clear intention to belittle me once again, I feel my body defying him; my knees no longer pulverized themselves into gelatin in his presence, nor do I feel threatened by his glaring appraisal. He’s simply a man; one who I intend to respect, even if I’ve had sexual congress with his wife. “Moooom!” Fang protests, although Samantha is quick to retort. “Oh come now, Lucy. How many more opportunities are you going to get to spend together?” “Hopefully none,” Fang scowls. “Awww, but you always used to spend time with little Naser,” Samantha mentions, her graceful form beginning to sway back and forth wistfully. Her eyes gloss over again. “Like all those times you used to bathe together...”
​
Putting aside invasive thoughts of one nude Fang in her bathtub, I manage a straight face as Fang is, once again, shamelessly mortified by her parents. I was beginning to feel bad for her, too. “Keen all you want. It’s happening,” Ripley declared, leaning forward before rising out of his flattened loveseat. I admit wholeheartedly that I’m willing to defy the man’s gaze while he’s seated, but am significantly less eager to do once stood at his proper, intimidating height. “It’s not happening,” Fang states affirmatively, locking eyes with her father. “It is,” he decrees. The pair test each other for an incredible length of time, clouding the room an in impenetrable sort of tension. The ptero-pair bristle as though prepared to fight one another; eventually, though, Fang seems to relent. “Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffine,” she groans, shoulders collapsed, hanging her head back in defeat. “Let’s just get out of here, Anon,” she grumbles, forcing her way out of present company and onto the luxurious home’s front porch.
​
I don’t hesitate follow after her. Lessons aside, I’m relieved to escape the den of one very stand-offish old dragon. We wait patiently for Naomi to tend to Naser’s choking fit and guide him along; I’m thankful he survives, since he’s our ride into town. As the pair of us make our way across the lawn and unto the driveway, my attention lingers aside, spotting Samantha beneath the scenic porch awning. We share a gentle wave; nothing that could ever hope to arouse any sort of suspicion, I figure. “What did you and my mom talk about?” Fang asks, all but cornering me in the backseat of Naser’s car. Just as I’m prepared to respond, he’s flung his jacket between us. “Oh, she... just wanted to ask what we were doing,” I reply. “Kind of like how your dad wanted to know, just with less... you know.”
​
“Yeah, we know,” Naser sighs, punctuated by the sudden roar of a sporty ignition.
​
“So long as she wasn’t telling you stories about when I was a baby,” Fang pouts, folding her arms over her chest and leaning aside. Withholding a laugh, my attention eases itself onto the disappearing sidewalks of the Aaron family’s neighborhood. Samantha is a dot on the horizon, at least for now. I can’t help but enjoy the change in scenery, mulling over the instructions given to me before speaking up again. “Anyways, Fang,” I begin, soliciting her attention. “What sort of place are we supposed to be looking for?”