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The Jackdaw

Category: Gay Male
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As I stood with the rain slowly soaking through my coat, I wondered not for the first time if coming out as gay might not have been such a good idea after all. If only I’d kept it to myself, I reasoned, then Siân would never have bullied me into going with her to the city’s annual Pride festival.

And then, instead of waiting outside in the rain for her to show up (late as usual) to take me to something I really didn’t want to go to in the first place, I could be nestled down in my favourite armchair enjoying a good book, maybe sipping at a mug of hot chocolate if I was really pushing the boat out.

The city was as grey as the weather. From where I stood a grey street twisted steeply downhill towards a grey and uninviting sea beneath a sulking grey sky. Mouldering seagull-splattered terraces pressed tall and close either side of the road, each house rendered in its own unique shade of dirty grey. Even the people looked somehow hunched and grey, as though they’d let the city seep into their soul.

Against this backdrop there was no mistaking Siân when she finally appeared. Short and broad, she sported a vivid green tight-fitting top, an almost offensively yellow full-length plastic raincoat and her signature inhumanly wide grin.

“Come on!” she shouted before I could even open my mouth to say hello. “What are you doing just standing about in the rain like a big soggy gay frog? We’re late!” And with that she was splashing rapidly away down the hill, and I was stumbling after her, trying to keep up.

* * *

“With so many gays in one place, even you might manage to hook up with someone. Go on, you’ll have fun! Promise!” Those were her exact words when she’d persuaded me to come. I’d memorised them so that I could regurgitate them at her later, after the day inevitably proved to be a disaster.

Our local Pride wasn’t one of the big ones, and from what little I’d heard it was a long way from being one of the best. My first sight of the place seemed to confirm my expectations. A corner of the big park by the seafront had been fenced off for the occasion, and people were milling around; there was going to be a parade, but fortunately it was running even later than we were. The small turnout, bedraggled but spirited, waved their limp sodden banners in defiance of the rain and slowly trampled the grass into a thick sticky mud while they waited for things to get going. Around the edges of the site the usual purveyors of hot unhealthy foods had set up their stalls beneath whatever shelter they could rig together, the salesmen looking damp and slightly bored.

“Well I wasn’t expecting much but somehow I’m still underwhelmed.” I looked to Siân for a response but she either hadn’t heard me or was ignoring me, and was glancing around as eagerly as a child in a sweet shop. And I had to admit that in one important regard the festival was exactly what I was hoping it would be: if nothing else, it wasn’t grey. There was colour everywhere, even if some of it was starting to streak in the rain, and there was a certain sense of irrepressible good humour about the crowd, despite the weather. It was the kind of place where you could be yourself and didn’t have to be embarrassed about standing out.

And then I saw him, standing motionless in the very centre of the crowd…

“Who on Earth is that?”

She looked where I was pointing. “Oh, him? He’s a regular feature, been here every year since the beginning. Practically a one-man institution now. Never speaks a word, though. No idea who he really is, but we call him the Jackdaw.”

It wasn’t hard to see why: the man was dressed something like a great black bird. A feather-trimmed black mask completely covered his face, with a stylised beak curving down to hide his mouth. Below that, his whole body was shrouded under a full-length robe of jet black feathers, glistening in the rain.

“Are you certain he’s a ‘he’?” I asked.

“Bloody tall flat-chested lady if she isn’t.”

“Fair point.” I couldn’t help but stare. The costume was impressive, but it was something more than that. It was the way he held himself: tall, proud and unselfconscious, gazing over the raucous rabble surrounding him as fondly and protectively as a mother bird watching over her chicks. It was the way he moved: purposefully, minimally, apparently indifferent to the rain. No, more than that even. It was the way everyone else moved around him. Respectfully. Almost submissively. Always giving him space, but still seeming to orbit around him like moths around a lamp. Probably they didn’t even realise they were doing it. Perhaps, I thought fancifully, the crowd was only gathered in that particular spot because he was there; he was the seed around which the crowd had crystallised.

A screech of feedback interrupted my imagination and a woman’s voice with a strong French accent gushed over a speaker system; “Ladies and gentlemen and, um, other good people, thank you for your patience. If you can somehow keep yourselves afloat in this mud for just a little longer, we’ll be setting sail in five minutes. Five minutes!”

“Oooh,” said Siân, “I like her voice. Sexy. Damn sexy. I wonder if the rest of her matches up?” She glanced about eagerly. “Where do you think she’s speaking from?”

“Hmm?” I was still watching the Jackdaw in fascination, and hadn’t been fully listening.

“Oh, what’s this? Got your eye on someone already, have you? Well you go chase down the unlucky gentleman, why don’t you? I’ve got a sexy-voiced lady to stalk and seduce.”

* * *

We paraded over a mile down the seafront, ending up in a car park where a few people stood to deliver rousing speeches over a microphone, and then we paraded back. It didn’t stop raining once but a surprising number of people were out anyway to give us support as we marched past, and only a handful of local louts braved the weather to jeer and throw abuse.

The Jackdaw walked with us, near the front, his feathered coat rippling magnificently with every step. I kept finding my eyes drawn to him irresistibly. My imagination hooked itself onto a new fancy: that he wasn’t walking with the crowd at all, but rather he was pulling the crowd along with him like the tail behind a comet.

But I had other things to occupy my mind. I’d never have a better opportunity to begin introducing myself to the gay community. Siân had found her announcer – a pretty redhead named Marie – and had attached herself to her, leaving me to face the social intricacies of Pride on my own. I drummed up the courage to strike up conversations with some of the quieter men in the crowd. A few of them seemed very pleasant, and they were very polite about excusing themselves when I ran out of conversation and stuttered in awkward nervousness. Eventually I gave it up and marched in silence, on my own, hoping somebody with a warm smile and a pretty face might approach me. They didn’t.

Back in the park I bought myself a burger in a bun and ate it dispiritedly. I couldn’t really blame people for finding me boring; after all, even I found me a little boring. I just wished they were better at hiding it. Suddenly I felt a desperate need to be away from the crowd, and looked around for somewhere to hide.

A small stage had been erected with the intention of putting on a bit of a concert and a show after the march. The rain had flooded it completely, shorting out a variety of lamps and amps, and the put-upon technicians seemed to be packing things away, giving it up as a bad job. Behind the forlorn stage I found my sanctuary: a quiet area scattered with abandoned and muddied stage pieces.

Someone had left a mirror propped up against a couple of crates. I gazed into it critically. For the first time I noticed what I had unconsciously chosen to wear that morning: thick tatty grey coat; lifeless grey shirt; grey old-man trousers. Grey, grey and grey all over. And the worst thing was, it seemed to suit me.

A new wave of self-pity washed over me, soaking into my soul more thoroughly than the endless rain. I didn’t want to be the grey nonentity I saw in the mirror. I didn’t want to be the one standing miserably on his own, staring at his own reflection, tormented by the shouts of everybody else somehow managing to enjoy themselves despite everything. I didn’t want to be me. I wanted to be…

In the mirror I saw a black shadow closing in. The Jackdaw. He strode towards me, feathered coat swishing around his ankles, and stopped two steps short. Turning to face him I stared stupidly, wondering what I should say, realising my heart was pounding for a reason I couldn’t quite place. He stared back, the bright glint of his eyes just visible behind the big black eyes of his mask. What did he want? Why was he here? I struggled for something to say.

“I… I really like your costume.” I cursed the words as soon as I’d said them. I wanted to tell him that it almost hurt to tear my eyes away from him. That when he moved he rippled and sheened like molten onyx. That wherever he stood he seemed to me the central figure in a masterpiece, with everything around him existing solely to provide him a background. But the words in my head didn’t know how to form in my mouth.

He didn’t reply, he just carried on staring at me, motionless, the rain shimmering down him. I glanced down, and noticed for the first time his arm stretched out towards me, holding a mud-splattered wallet in his black-gloved hand. My wallet. Of course. I must have dropped it at the burger stand, and he’d picked it up and followed me to give it back.

I took it, and mumbled an incoherent thanks. For a moment there was silence as he stared down at me impassively. A new feeling was rising irresistibly inside me. I wanted to touch him, to feel him, to run my fingers over his feathers. To lift that mask and kiss him. I dearly wanted to reach my hand inside his robe and explore him, to make love right there in the rain with this majestic man so magnificently unlike myself, whose name and face and voice I didn’t even know.

The moment to make a move, if there had ever been one, passed. He nodded and turned away, striding back towards the front of the stage when…

“Can I… touch you?”

He stopped. It took me a moment to register that it was me who’d spoken. My heartbeat rose as he turned back towards me and stepped slowly closer. Whatever had I gotten myself into now?

Before I’d had time to gather my thoughts he was back in front of me, stretching out his arm to me again, and I was reaching to touch the soft feathers of his sleeve, sliding my fingers through the luxurious plumage. It seemed somehow unreal, as though I’d wandered however slightly away from the predictable script of my life and into someone else’s; I kept expecting him to notice at any moment that I was a grey nobody and pull his arm away in disgust. But he didn’t, and I was allowed to enjoy the stiff silky brush of his feathers between my fingers, and didn’t fail to appreciate the firm, muscular feel of his arm beneath the fabric.

I knew what I wanted now – at least, as much as I ever did – and I found myself uncharacteristically willing to risk humiliation to get it. I made my touch softer, stroking up and down his sleeve slowly, sensuously, suggestively. I gave him what I hoped was my most winning smile.

“You know, it’s pretty private back here. No-one watching us. I’d love to get to know the man under the costume.”

My heart beat frantically from nerves. This wasn’t the sort of thing I did – ever! He took a step back, and to my amazement wordlessly began unfastening his coat, one button after another. At last he pulled the feathered fabric to either side, showing me the man underneath.

What I saw surprised me. There was certainly nothing displeasing about his tall figure, slim without being skinny. But I’d been expecting… well, I don’t really know what I’d been expecting. Something different. Instead, he was dressed quite ordinarily under the all-concealing cloak, in faded jeans and a plain dark T-shirt. Ordinary, and even somewhat grey.

He took my hand in his and I let him place it flat against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, the rhythm fast and nervous, almost as fast as my own. How could a man like the Jackdaw be nervous?

It was only a moment and then he lifted my hand in front of him, bowing forwards to meet it with his lips, kissing it softly. He turned on the spot, long coat swishing around his ankles, and he was striding away, refastening himself as he walked.

I stood numb, watching him go, thoughts swirling through my head, trying to digest what I’d seen and felt. I was glad nobody had seen that little interchange…

“Excuse me, Mr Jackdaw?” said Siân, stepping out of the shadows. “Do you mind if I…?” Without waiting for permission she wrapped an arm around his waist, held her phone out at arms length and took a selfie. “Neat! Thanks!”

She walked up to me, thumbing her phone, as he walked out of sight. “Ooh, that was a good one! Look, it’s got you in the background looking all confused and sad.”

“Siân! Did you… um… did you see what…”

“Did I see your attempt at an intimate moment with the man in the bird costume? Yep! I got it on video, too.”


She waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it! Someone always tries to get it off with the Jackdaw, every year. Tries and fails. Never would have guessed it would be you, though! Not too disappointed, I hope?”

“No, no. He showed me something… something amazing.”

“What, he got his cock out? I don’t remember that. I’ll have to have a good look back through the footage.”

“What? No! Something better than that.”

“Better than a cock? Are you sure you’re gay? Whatever. Anyway, I only came back here to find you, to tell you me and Marie are heading off to catch a drink somewhere dry.”

“Hmmm?” I could barely pay attention. My mind was already thinking forwards to next year’s Pride. I realised that I was going to be looking forward to it more than I’d thought possible.

* * *

A year passed by. In many ways, it was a very ordinary year. I won a minor promotion at work and redecorated my flat. I learned to make a really good lasagne and took a very pleasant but entirely uneventful holiday in Ireland. I went on a lot of dates which didn’t go anywhere. I even got into a bit of a relationship, but it faltered and fell apart after just a couple of months.

And all the time, I made plans for Pride. Plans, and a costume. The Jackdaw had shown me that beneath his costume he was an ordinary man like me. And if he was like me, then that meant that I, at least once a year, could be like him.

I didn’t know how to sew. I learned. My first attempt at a costume wasn’t a great success. I tried it on, took one look at myself, laughed myself silly and threw it in the bin. The second try wasn’t much better. But the third try… on the third try it was perfect.

* * *

When Pride came around again, there was blessedly no rain. But there was wind. Lots of wind. A primal gale howling straight in off the sea, laden with salt and spite.

This time I didn’t meet up with Siân beforehand. Even she didn’t know what I was planning. Instead I dressed and walked through the streets to the park, bracing myself against the wind, my costume flapping madly behind me. People stared, but I didn’t care. It was strange, but I felt different behind my mask; almost as if I’d lost all my shyness and self-consciousness. And the city even looked different. Less grey. I’d never noticed it before, but the tiered rows of tired old houses sloping down to meet the infinite sea… it was beautiful, in its way.

The organisers of Pride had learnt from last year’s mistakes: they’d erected a big arching canvas canopy over the stage to keep the rain from ruining the equipment. Unfortunately the wind had caught it like a sail and blown it down, and where the stage should have been was now marked by an abstract sculpture in metal poles and madly flapping canvas. It looked like the show was cancelled again.

The crowd, a little larger than the year before, was massed in front of the collapsed stage, looking windswept but excited. One group was engaged in retrieving a large rainbow banner which had escaped and flown into a nearby tree; as they caught sight of me they stopped what they were doing to stare and whisper. I gave them a friendly nod as I marched past, heading straight for the main body of people.

More and more heads turned towards me as I approached. The news of my arrival seemed to ripple through the crowd until as I reached its edge it seemed like there wasn’t a single person who didn’t have their attention riveted squarely on me. A part of me – the shy, grey part of me – squirmed uncomfortably under the spotlight of all those pairs of eyes. But the new part of me – the part that the costume embodied – gloried in it.

My eyes swept the colourful crowd for a familiar figure. There was Siân with Marie at her side, staring like everyone else with a silly grin on her face, but I wasn’t looking for her. I spotted a couple of men I’d been on dates with, and almost laughed aloud to think how completely they’d fail to recognise me now. But I hadn’t come here for them either.

People were moving out of my way as I stepped forwards, giving me space so I didn’t have to weave and push and apologise my way through. A clear passage seemed to be opening before me, the crowd parting to either side as though people knew exactly where I’d be going next. I followed the path and it took me to him.

The Jackdaw.

He stood casually, staring right at me through the crowd, his expression unreadable behind the black eyes of his mask, his feathered coat fluttering in the wind. For a moment the two of us just stood there, regarding one another…

I’d chosen my costume carefully. It was, very deliberately, a lot like the Jackdaw’s. Beaked mask, ankle-length robe thick with feathers. In fact, it was exactly like the Jackdaw’s costume except for one detail. That detail was that where his was perfect black, mine was a pure and brilliant white.

…and then we were striding towards each other, the crowd all around us, our eyes locked, the distance closing, closing…

There was no awkward introduction, no fumbling handshake. As I reached him I wrapped my arms straight around his shoulders and he around mine, clasping us together so firmly that it seemed we’d never come apart again. There was only a moment’s hesitation before we both moved in for a kiss. The beaks on both our masks held us up with a minor logistical challenge but he leant his head one way, I leant mine the other and at last our lips were pressed against one another, running over one another, drinking one another in.

I’ve kissed a few men, but I’d never had a kiss like that one before. It was so hungry. So much yearning and frustration and pent-up passion all let out in one long, glorious moment; and his lips pushed back against mine with every bit as much ravenous need. We knew, we understood each other, and we needed each other. We were strangers, but we were soulmates, and that kiss was our bond.

So absorbed in it was I, that it was only after we pulled apart that I finally noticed the sound of the crowd around us, cheering and clapping at what to them must have been a tremendous piece of unexpected theatre. I looked around, feeling suddenly a little more exposed than I wanted to be. What happened now? My plan had worked better than I’d dared hope and now I’d wandered into the misty unknown of the dream beyond it, and wasn’t sure where to take my next step.

But the Jackdaw knew what to do. He offered his black gloved hand and I gave him my white one, letting him lead me towards the collapsed canopy. There he pulled up a flap of canvas and I followed him into the place within, the crowd cheering and whistling as we disappeared from their sight.

* * *

I once spent a night in a tent in the middle of a storm. It was a slightly scary but strangely invigorating experience, sitting bolt upright with a lantern between my knees, watching the wind and rain rattle and blast against the canvas, knowing that at any moment the next onslaught of angry air could rip every peg out of the sodden ground and my shelter would collapse with me inside it.

Standing under the stricken canopy reminded me of that. There was the same background roar of rattling canvas, the same sense of isolation from the rest of the world, and the same slightly exciting fear that the whole thing could collapse around me at any moment. And then the Jackdaw came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and suddenly it was nothing whatsoever like that dark and lonely night.

He kissed me on the back of the neck, tenderly, and his hands roved. They roved over my chest, my stomach, my hips; black-gloved hands sliding over white feathers, feeling out the man underneath.

I let myself relax, leaning back into him, enjoying being touched. A hand was pressed against my stomach; another was moving up my thigh. His beak rubbed against my cheek as he nuzzled me. I could feel his erection against my buttocks through two layers of feathers. The hand on my thigh roved up a little further and now he could feel mine.

Suddenly I didn’t feel like being the passive one any longer. I spun around in his arms, so that the hand which had rested on my stomach now pushed against the small of my back, and the hand which had been feeling between my legs now closed around my bottom. I carefully positioned my own hands in an exactly symmetrical position, unable to resist a cheeky squeeze of his firm arse as I pulled him in for another kiss.

It was different to the first kiss. Less hungry, more intimate. Less urgent, more sensuous. But still just as good. His tongue slipped out to touch my lips, tracing a tender circle around my mouth, tantalising me. And as we kissed, my hips pressed forwards into his; erection rubbing against erection, white grinding relentlessly against black, black grinding insistently back against white, the rustling whisper of feather rubbing against feather just barely audible over the clatter of wind-tortured canvas.

I could have kissed him and kissed him until the day wore into night and been content, but I had even better plans for him. I let my lips depart from his and cruise down over his smooth-shaven chin, exploring the clean curves of his neck. He threw back his head and I kissed the crux of his throat, feeling the gentle throb of his pulse under my lips.

My fingers found the top button of his cloak and eased it open, letting me kiss his neck right down to where it disappeared into a plain black T-shirt. Buttons number two, three, four and five quickly followed suit and I paused to appreciate a well-toned chest pleasingly presented under a tight-fitting top. For a moment I stood hypnotised by the rhythmic swell of his breath and then two hands came to rest on my shoulders, urging me downwards. Obediently I dropped down to my knees. The final buttons came undone – six, seven and eight – and the Jackdaw’s feathery coat parted to either side.

He visibly bulged from within a pair of black jeans, drawing my hungry eye, inviting me to unfasten him and delve inside. My fingers didn’t resist the temptation. I felt they should be trembling as they worked loose the buckle on his belt, but they were as steady as a mountain. They unhooked the button with ravenous ease and threw down the zipper with such force that they took the whole pair of jeans straight down below his knees in one smooth jerk. Now only a black cotton pair of pants stood between me and what I wanted, and two seconds later I’d sent them to join his trousers around his ankles.

His cock shot up to greet me as soon as I’d released it from its cotton prison. It was big – not the longest I’d seen but making up for it in breadth – and it was straight and shapely and pleasing to the eye. I couldn’t help but reach out a gloved hand to encircle it; it felt rigid and ready between my fingers. Carefully I peeled back the foreskin. As I gave the head a little squeeze, a drop of pre-cum emerged and trickled down onto the already-slick surface of the tip.

The Jackdaw stirred, taking a deep breath as I first touched him and letting it out as I peeled back his foreskin. I heard him take a deeper breath as I lapped the salty head softly with my tongue, and he exhaled as I kissed the tip of his cock with my lips. Then I felt a gloved hand on the back of my neck, pushing me insistently forwards, and I let my mouth slide sumptuously around his shaft.

It was a cock made for sucking – broad enough to feel massive and substantial inside my mouth, but not so long that I couldn’t fit nearly all of it in one mighty mouthful. My tongue lapped eagerly against its underside, and then I began I began to suck on it in earnest like a big naughty lollipop. My lips and tongue worked in unison, my whole head easing back and forwards, my entire being focused on milking that exquisite shaft. As I sucked my hands found interesting places to hang on: one gripping a bare buttock; the other fondling his balls.

My eyes drifted upwards. The Jackdaw shifted expressively as I worked him, the beak of his mask silhouetted black against the white glow of sun-drenched canvas from my unique perspective. Whenever I suckled particularly earnestly on his cock his shoulders would twitch backwards and his buttocks would clench. His hand stroked the back of my head, encouraging me, urging me on, making sure I didn’t pull away.

He was breathing heavily now, his body moving responsively with my every devotion. His hips began to twitch backwards and forwards, first subtly but then more definitely, pulsing himself in and out of my mouth. His breathing and the movement of his hips was becoming faster, deeper, more urgent, until finally both came to an abrupt stop. His buttocks clenched and his hand gripped hard on my neck, and in that same moment I felt a warm stream gush against the back of my tongue and I tasted salt. I stopped my ministrations and let him come into me, grunting softly in pleasure, spurt after spurt of cum flowing into my thirsty mouth and disappearing down my throat as I swallowed.

Moments later I was back on my feet and kissing him deeply. I wondered if he could taste the salty tang of his own seed as his lips slid tenderly over mine. Just in case he couldn’t I pushed my tongue forwards, his lips parting to let me penetrate him, his mouth still and passive as I explored it, his tongue touching mine in greeting when they chanced together.

And then without warning he was pushing me backwards, hands flat against my chest, until I stood with my back pressed against one of the vertical supports for the canopy. I sensed it was my turn to receive his attentions as his hands began a downward quest across my body: flowing over my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my sides, the small of my back; fingers combing through stiff white feathers, never lingering in the same spot for longer than a single sweet moment.

He dropped to his knees as his hands glided over my bottom. They traced the contours of my hips to converge over my straining cock, but they didn’t stop there; instead they carried on downwards, running down my legs until they reached the bottom of my robe where it trailed close to the floor. When they caught it they pulled it up and the Jackdaw ducked his masked head underneath.

His head and shoulders rose under my loose-fitting cloak; a surging swell in a sea of white feathers. I felt his beak rub between my thighs and hands grapple with the button of my trousers. I felt my clothing tugged down my legs and gloved hands feeling my cock and balls, touching them in all the right places.

If I was going to get a blowjob I wanted to be able to see. I wanted to watch as my manhood disappeared inch by inch into the Jackdaw’s mouth, I wanted to stare into the dark eyes of that masked face as I spasmed into him. My fingers really were shaking this time as I opened the buttons on my coat one by one, top to bottom, until finally I flung it open and looked down. White T-shirt; white trousers and pants around my ankles; and a black Jackdaw hunched down in-between with his attention fixed on my needy cock.

I’d thought I was going to get a blowjob. I was wrong: he had other plans for me. In his hand he held what looked like a thick, anal-grade condom, and as I watched he slid it onto the tip of my cock, peeling the rubber back over the sensitive head. Then his mouth closed around it and he eased the condom all the way up my shaft with his lips.

I should explain something at this moment: up to this point in my life, when it came to sex I’d always been the one on the bottom. Being top was something I’d always thought wasn’t for me. But right then, as soon as the Jackdaw slid that condom onto my cock, I knew not only that I could do it, not only that it felt right, but that I was desperate for it.

There was none of the usual tiresome logistics that accompanies a couple’s first fuck (“How’s this position for you?” “This is a bit uncomfortable.” “Hang on, maybe if we just…”) Everything flowed naturally and passionately, and we eased fluidly and wordlessly into a position with him kneeling over the edge of the stage, his elbows planted in front of him and me looming behind him.

I pulled up the trailing length of his robe and folded it neatly over his hips, revealing his naked arse to my ravenous eyes. As I let my gaze feast on its handsome contours he reached back to hand something to me: a small sachet of lubricant. I pulled off one glove, tore the packet open and let the liquid flow out onto my fingers, feeling chill against my skin.

Slowly I brought forward a single lube-smothered digit to rest its tip against his arsehole. I felt him tense for a split second as the cool liquid touched that sensitive spot, then he relaxed and let me slide the whole finger easily inside him. He made a slight noise – half moan, half mumble – as I slipped it in and out several times, and especially when I tried flexing my finger slightly to one side and then the other. The moaning, mumbling sound grew a little more distinct as I pushed in a second well-lubed digit alongside the first, his arsehole feeling much tighter now as I slid in and out, his rips rocking backwards and forwards in rhythm with my attentions.

Pulling my fingers free, I wiped the last of the lubricant off onto my rock-hard cock and replaced my glove. Placing my hands securely on his hips, black feathers tickling between my fingers, I positioned myself ready for a penetrating thrust, with the head of my cock nestled against the nest of his anus. I felt him relax himself, inviting me to push forwards into him, but first I paused to look him over one more time. His arms and back were still swathed in a rich coat of black feathers, but from the waist down he presented bare, vulnerable skin to me. I could see a faint tremble shivering through that skin, whether from nervousness or just arousal I couldn’t tell. As I regarded him his head bent round to look back at me over his shoulder. Dark black eyes in a black beaked mask – unreadable, staring expressionless at me as he waited for me to get on with it and impale him.

I couldn’t hold myself back any longer, nor did I want to. Clenching my buttocks I pushed forwards, the head of my cock nudging insistently against his hole. For a moment his sphincter seemed to resist me, then I found myself sliding easily inside, the Jackdaw moaning as I pushed my whole length inside him.

Just for a few seconds I paused, feeling the tight squeeze of him around me, feeling his firm buttocks pressed against my groin, feeling his whole body stir and shift in appreciation. Then I began to fuck him. It was a slow fuck at first, with me relishing every sumptuous slide inside him, and the Jackdaw breathing deeply in rhythm with my hips but otherwise silent. But it quickly transitioned into something more urgent, more vigorous, more animal, and even more pleasurable.

At last I settled into a steady rhythm, with my cock sinking deep inside him about once every second. Even at the pinnacle of my earlier arousal I hadn’t suspected just how good this was going to feel. Every penetrating push of my hips seemed to send a pulse of pure liquid pleasure straight into my veins, flushing out through my groin and flooding every part of me in warm, throbbing excitement. As I fucked him I found myself crying out, a little wordless gasp coming forth in response to every unbearably satisfying thrust. And he was making his pleasure audibly known as well: a grunting moan of a sound, in perfect time with my own vocalisations.

It was those little moans that I focused on, as much as on the waves of pleasure flooding up from my pumping cock. His noises seemed to get louder and more intense as I carried on, and I found myself actively trying to provoke them: thrusting myself into him in motions as deep, fluid and delicious as I could manage, and hearing his voice moan even louder in response.

I bent forwards over him, my forearms circling round his waist and the beak of my mask pressing between his shoulders, needing to hold him closer as I picked up my pace for the final push. Now I could really feel the urgent throb of his breath, the way his whole body twitched and flexed in response to my humping hips. I was hammering into him as fast as my body would allow; all restraint was gone now, washed away by the ever-rising tidal wave of sheer ecstasy sweeping my mind clean of everything but the all-important task of fucking this beautiful man until I came. I could feel it was mere moments away, even as I listened to his vocal protestations of pleasure: no mere grunt or moan now but a gasping, groaning scream of undiluted rapture.

My own reservoir of pleasure was rising faster than ever now, reaching levels of devastating delirium that I’d never reached before, making me shout out so loud I was almost screaming, but all the time rising, rising towards the top of the dam holding it in check, getting nearer and nearer with every desperate thrust of my hips…

The dam shattered. For one glorious, terrible moment I teetered on the knife-edge of ecstasy, and then the flood broke as I came inside him. I let myself be overwhelmed by the surge of undiluted pleasure saturating my mind and washing everything else away, feeling my cock splurge out its seed in sumptuous squirt after squirt, neither knowing nor caring what feral sounds might be escaping my lips. Gradually, inevitably, the tempest died down, the unbearable pleasure settling into still pools of satisfaction as I slumped wearily over the panting figure of the Jackdaw, who seemed every bit as tired and fulfilled as I was myself.

* * *

When we emerged, hand in hand, our costumes back in place, we received a round of enthusiastic applause from the crowd. Presumably they could easily guess what had been going on inside… or had we been so loud about it that they’d heard us even over the roaring gale?

“Excuse me, Mr Jackdaw? And Mr… um… Mr Swan?” It was Siân. “Do you mind if I…?”

In a moment, she had wedged herself between us and was holding her phone out at arm’s length for a selfie. I draped a white-feathered arm over her shoulders and the Jackdaw hooked a black-feathered arm around her waist.

Click. “Neat! Thanks!” Siân dashed off back into the crowd, apparently happy with her latest photo. I looked around. People were gearing up for the parade, everyone trying to stand in the wind-shadow of everyone else.

I met the Jackdaw’s eye. He took his hand in mine, and together we marched forwards, our costumes flapping behind us in the wind, to take our places at the head of the parade, our hearts full to overflowing with the very thing we were marching for: pride.

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