It’s 7 a.m., and my bird master, Ahab, wakes me up with breakfast in bed by forcing his cock down my throat.
It was a rude awakening the first few times he did it, but now that I’m used to it, I hardly feel awake until he’s crammed his thick meat into my muzzle to unload the excess avian jizz that he churned up overnight.
Today is special, because he drained the size of some other lucky pet yesterday and his manhood is bigger than before. It dislocates my jaw, but that’s just an important step in acclimating to Master’s needs. My body will adjust in time.
The pleasure of treating Master properly far outweighs any sort of pain from my aching jaw. I feel his cock flex, pulse, and release its heavenly seed into me, rounding my belly, and my comparatively small prick spurts out its own pitiful load, hands-free, in response.
I’m a good pet. I never cum before Master does.
After he pulls out, I dutifully clean up the mess I’ve made. Growth days like today always leave the biggest messes, but they also mean there’s more of Master’s delicious seed to lap up.
I’m expected to be done by the time Master returns with his coffee. Otherwise, he won’t reward me with his paws.
Getting to tongue-bathe his hulking feet and polish his sharp, shiny talons is one of the highlights of my day. While Master sips his coffee, I press my face against his thick soles, gently kneading and massaging them before rolling my tongue over their entire length. I take great pride in leaving them utterly pristine.
He needs his caffeine, but every deep sigh and pleasured grunt I elicit from Master is enough to keep me going for the rest of the day.
On weekends, when there’s more time, Master will sometimes let me move up to his groin once I’ve done a good job with his paws. I love to nuzzle and caress his heavy balls while listening to them churn up my next meal. They deserve my dutiful worship, and I will gladly provide it as often as Master allows.
But today is a Monday, so it’s time for me to get dressed for work.
I wear a stylish two-piece outfit while Master works. The first piece is a collar, chained to the underside of his desk. It’s where I stay for the entirety of the work day. I’m an important assistant to Master; he says I help him stay focused and increase his production.
The second piece is my cage. Good pets don’t make messes while working.
Once it’s on, Master teases me about how pathetic and useless my cock is and takes the key for safekeeping. He won’t let me take it off unless I’ve done a good job that day.
Whenever Master is sitting at his desk, I’m expected to be worshipping him at all times. For the next eight hours, I am his professional cock warmer. I roll my tongue across every square centimeter of his thick cock and voluminous balls dozens of times each hour. I am to do this in such a way that nobody on a remote call could know I’m there. I take pride in how silently I work, having been punished and retrained in the past whenever a stray moan escaped my muzzle.
I am not to make him cum, and he has enough control over himself to prevent that from happening. But if I’m doing well, Master’s cock will let me know by leaking its delicious pre.
My favorite spot is the crease where the base of his cock meets his sack. It’s where his avian musk is strongest. I could get drunk off the scent, and as the day goes on, I love to press my muzzle against it and breath deeply, massaging the two massive cumtanks that hang on either side, each larger than my own head. I let Master’s cock flop over my head, rivulets of his glossy pre rolling down my back and matting my fur.
There is no clock within view beneath Master’s desk, so I can keep complete focus on his pleasure without ever worrying about the time. The only indication I get of how the day passes is when it’s time for lunch: Without warning, Master face-fucks me until I’m full and satisfied. His seed is all the nutrition I need, and he’s generous in providing me with so much.
I can tell how his day is going by how roughly he gives me my lunch. If he’s having a frustrating day, I’ll know by how forceful he is, and I’ll know that I need to do an even better job during the afternoon.
When work is finally over, he’ll undo my collar with one of his dextrous feet without even looking under the desk. Sometimes he’ll “miss” and plant his soles directly on my face, forcing me to the ground. I think he does this just to feel me writhe and squirm underneath his huge stompers. It works.
After work, it’s time for the gym. I didn’t do a good enough job today, so Master makes me leave my cage on. It’s embarrassing to feel so many eyes on it as Master leads me through the locker room, hand on my butt, occasionally squeezing it to make me blush and shudder.
It helps that Master goes to an underground, all-nude gym, so my lack of clothes doesn’t stand out. But my twinkish frame certainly feels out-of-place amid the many hulking, masculine behemoths that fill the room. I’d spend much more time ogling the godly bodies on display if Master hadn’t made abundantly clear that my focus was to be on him at all times.
His body is the best, anyway.
I’m not at the gym to stand around and gawk, but I’m not there to work out, either. My job is to be Master’s sweat rag. As he works up a sweat through a long, thumping session on the treadmill or a series of herculean reps on various weights, I’m there to lick the beads of moisture up — particularly in his more sensitive areas. And if I’m too slow to reach a damp spot, he’ll take matters into his own hands and force my muzzle where it’s supposed to go.
Master likes to finish on the bench press and have me straddle his waist, his slick, throbbing bird meat rubbing between my cheeks as a preview of what’s to come when we get home. Watching his muscles tense and strain up close as he lifts the heaviest weights while simultaneously feeling his manhood pressing against my butt would be enough to set me off, if I weren’t still caged. For now, I just have to endure the teasing until we get home.
While Master has dinner, I abstain and prepare for what I know is coming, even though no amount of stretching has ever been enough. I don’t know what he does in the time after dinner, but I do know I have to be ready for when he calls for me.
I’ll often find him relaxing on his armchair or his couch, dick at half-mast and already rivaling the size of my torso. Sometimes he showers after the gym, sometimes he doesn’t — it doesn’t seem to matter. Either way, his sizzling avian musk seems to waft off of him like steam, making me strain against my cage from the scent alone.
No words need to be said. I reverently worship his perfectly round, colossal nuts and his towering pillar of bird flesh, huffing and licking with all of my devotion until he grabs me by the scruff of my neck and hoists me into position against his tip.
No matter the amount of lube used, it never feels like enough when I feel his hot, twitching head pressing against my opening. But I take pride in being able to take Master’s cock, even if it feels like it’s about to split me in two.
I feel Master’s massive avian hands grasp either side of my torso and I close my eyes, knowing what’s coming.
Then he thrusts.
Instantly, I’m spread wide to accommodate Master’s huge, meaty shaft. The relative gentleness Master has treated me with throughout the day now evaporates as he reminds me of my place: His pet. His toy. His cumdump.
I surrender any control over my body to him as he pumps my overwhelmed form up and down on his colossal obelisk. It is a frenzied, bestial fuck, the kind that makes you see stars with each thrust of the hips and yearn for more each time he pulls even a single inch out.
No man-made toy could ever hope to survive Master’s needs. But I’m made for it.
I can’t help but moan with pleasure, harmonizing with the bird’s deep grunts. Master takes advantage of my open muzzle and forces his tongue down my throat in a dominating, overwhelming kiss. Instantly, I shoot a rope of cum through my cage, then another. I’ll be in trouble for that; Master hasn’t cum yet. But it feels too good to have him bulging my windpipe again.
Master enjoys it too. I can tell because one more firm thrust sends him deeper inside me than he’s ever been, and his long-awaited load arrives with a furious pace.
What feels like a constant stream of avian cum launches out of the huge bird’s cock. Rope after rope bulges against the inside of my chest before settling in my quickly-expanding belly. It feels as if a gallon of semen is getting pumped into me every second, with no end in sight — because I know this is only Round 1.
When this orgasm dies down, Master will still be hard, and the rough fucking will resume.
Master’s virile orbs need to produce, at a minimum, three loads a night before he begins to feel satisfied. Usually, it’s four or five. And after Round Two, I’m usually too dazed to keep count.
Somewhere along the way, we end up in his bed, where we’ll end the night. I feel like more of my mass is bird jizz than actual, physical person, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As I finally begin to regain my bearings, long after Master’s cock has left me achingly empty with a messy pullout, I realize Master is already sound asleep. His massive, muscular chest heaves with each deep breath. His fluid-soaked dick twitches in the throes of some pleasant dream. I curl up between the two and fall asleep almost instantly, feeling utterly safe and utterly satisfied.
I need my rest. Tomorrow we’ll do it all over again.
And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.