Feathers

A gay story: Feathers I closed my eyes as I leant forwards to kiss him on the lips. We’d done it countless times before, and I was praying that it would still feel the same. There were his lips, delicately and sensitively moving over mine, the lips I knew and loved. But then there were the feathers, all around his mouth, tickling my cheek, the feathers which didn’t belong.

I pulled away from my lover. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I guess I’m going to need a little time to get used to… to the way you are now.”

His face fell. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh no, Fabien, you look beautiful. Stunning. It’s just… you’re so different, I can hardly recognise you under there.”

Over the last few decades, cosmetic surgery had sprinted forwards. No longer was a man required to accept the body nature had bestowed upon him, now the Reshapers could embellish it as his imagination saw fit, and even alter its very form, at only modest cost. It was nothing unusual to walk down the street and see fur or tails, webbed feet or claws, silver skin or even gleaming iridescent eyes on your fellow human beings. What people kept in their pants was even more surprising. And now Fabien had joined the Reshaped by fulfilling his lifelong desire – for a full coat of feathers.

As he stood there in our hallway, swathed in a still-dripping raincoat, all I could see of his new plumage was his face, standing a few inches higher than mine. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin, lips: all were covered in short, soft brown feathers, looking from a distance like neatly cropped fur. Around his eyes, they darkened to a deep black.

With a small, mischievous smile he threw back his hood, watching my reaction closely. He needn’t have worried – I was impressed. His hair had gone and in its place were more feathers: these ones long and brilliant orange, sprouting magnificently back and down across the sweep of his head. It gave the impression of a dancing flame engulfing him as they wavered gently in the breeze.

“Good God,” I said, unable to keep from grinning, “I’ve got an orange boyfriend!”

He ran a hand playfully through his vivid feather-hair, fanning the flames. “You nearly had a green one, Sam. I was torn.”

An understatement. He’d been drawing up all kinds of designs for months, ranging from the drab to the technicoloured. The final plan had been kept a close secret from all but him and his Reshapers; I’d never asked to see it, I knew he wanted to surprise me.

“You made the right choice. Green would have made you look like a tree. So what happens further down?” His clothes afforded a view of nothing lower than his neck, where a pair of black lines, delicately picked out against the brown, trickled down the curve of his throat on either side, leading suggestively down below his collar.

“Tsch. Impatient!” He winked, grinned. “You’ll see, all in good time.”

I knew him well enough to see that he was yearning to strip then and there and twirl in front of me, to show off his new body in its full glory. But Fabien was patient. He’d tease me. A little bit at a time. Drawing out the pleasure, lapping up my reactions, savouring his seconds, that was his way.

“Sam, I’m knackered. Mind if I go straight to bed?” It was nearly midnight. He’d been at the Reshapers since early morning, and I didn’t think he’d slept much the night before.

“Of course not. I’ll join you, it’s been a long day for me too.”

“Then: to bed.” And he surprised me, sweeping his right arm around my shoulders, taking my left hand in his own and leading me upstairs, wet coat and all. His hand felt warm and fuzzy against mine. I glanced down, noticing it for the first time: orange feathers across the back of the hand and fingers, like on his head, but much shorter and neater. The palms and undersides of the fingers were covered in a pale brown down, soft and pleasant to hold. I squeezed it, he squeezed back.

He looked beautiful. I could put to rest my fears that he would turn himself into a botched monstrosity or a psychedelic garish horror. But I still had the deeper fear, gnawing away inside me. The fear that I wouldn’t be able to see through the feathers. That they would stand immovably and unbreachably between me and the old Fabien, the man I’d fallen in love with.

***

It was nearly midday when I awoke. Looking over, I saw that Fabien was already up, with only a few loose feathers on the sheets to mark his having been there. The night before, he’d made me go to brush my teeth while he got himself undressed and into bed, and had himself tucked firmly between the sheets before I got there, leaving his new body a secret for a little longer.

Getting up and dressed, I wandered across to the living room, hearing Fabien in the shower downstairs. It was a scorching hot day, the air still humid from yesterday’s rain, and I threw open windows. Then I cleared a space for breakfast on our little table, put on the kettle and two slices of bread to toast, got out plates and mugs. The toast done, I spread both slices squarely with butter and marmalade, and started on the tea. I was just stirring in the milk when Fabien came upstairs, rubbing his feathered head dry with a towel.

“Sam, we’re going to need to buy a lot more shampoo.”

He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, leaving his arms bare. The outer sides were forested with feathers of the same fiery orange that adorned his head, from long ones near his shoulder to shorter, denser growth at his wrist. The inner sides were brown, only slightly shorter than their orange counterparts. A few subtle black markings complemented the whole, just enough to break the monotony of his long slim arms without seeming to lose the simplicity.

“Orange and brown, with a bit of black,” I said, sitting down at the table in front of one plate, pushing the other towards the empty chair. “You’ve got a consistent colour scheme at least. Is it like that all over?”

“No,” he replied, throwing the towel to one side he sat down opposite me. His head feathers stuck out at odd angles from the towelling, giving him an appearance less of a flame than an explosion. He smiled, warmly and expectantly. “Well, do you fancy trying that kiss again? You quit half-way through last night.”

I didn’t want to kiss that feathered face again, attractive yet unfamiliar, but I couldn’t let Fabien know that. I smiled. “Oh, alright, if you insist.” He leaned forward, bringing his hand round to hold the side of my head; I rested my own on his shoulder, feeling the strange softness of the feathers on the side of his neck. My heart was racing. I kept telling myself: this is Fabien, the man you love, whom you’ve kissed a thousand time before. Just see through the feathers, see him. Our lips met, caressed, softly. The feathers on his face tickled all around my mouth as our lips slid over one another, like kissing a man with a full beard, but softer. Not unpleasant, but for me, an unwanted sensation. As we pulled gently apart, I felt ashamed to be glad that it was over.

“Are you alright, Sam?” His face was a picture of concern. “You didn’t seem to be fully into that.”

“Sorry, Fabien”, I replied through a mouthful of toast and marmalade. “I’m still getting used to the feathers. I’ll get there.” He frowned, and seemed about to take it further, so I quickly changed the subject. “You seem to be moulting,” I said, pointing to some loose feathers on the floor.

“They said that’d happen for the first day or two, then settle down. And I can go back for a refresh whenever I need it. So don’t worry! I’m not going to end up looking like a half-plucked parrot in a few months. This is forever.” As he said it, he grinned to himself, looking down at his arms as if in amazement.

Fabien had wanted feathers for as long as I’d known him. It was his foremost ambition, he was obsessed. Feathers fit his idealised self-vision, were to him a part of his identity with which nature had failed to equip him. And yet, he’d been willing to forego the procedure for my sake, to sacrifice his dream to keep me content. But I wouldn’t have it, I encouraged him, seeing that without feathers, he’d never in his own mind be a truly whole person. I helped him. I told him that if he was beautiful to himself, he’d be beautiful to me, and tried to believe it.

“Sam, what are we doing sat in here on a day like this? We have to get out there and show me off to the world!”

And with that, he was on his feet, downed his tea, and rushed out the room with his half-eaten toast in one hand, to ready himself for his first public appearance. I finished breakfast at a leisurely rate, listening to the sounds from the bedroom, which were suggestive of Fabien learning a lot about the limitations of a hairbrush. Wandering downstairs, I smothered my face in sun cream, and considered leaving it out for Fabien but then decided he probably wouldn’t need it.

A few minutes later he emerged, the earlier post-shower unruliness gone, every feather meticulously arranged, ready to be presented to the world. He’d changed his jeans for shorts, showing off his legs, feathered orange and brown like his arms, with the orange at the front, the brown at the back. And thick, getting thicker further up the leg, until by the thigh I could imagine sinking my hand into the voluptuous plumage and losing sight of the fingers.

“Looking good, Fabien. Ready to turn some heads?”

“Not unless you do something about that sun cream, look at you, you look like you’ve just been hit by a cream pie. Hold still a minute.”

He was in front of me in an instant, frowning in concentration as he moved his downy palms back and forth across my face in gentle, rhythmic motions which tickled me and made me giggle despite myself.

“There,” he said, pinching my cheek affectionately once the last of the thick white cream had been spread, “pretty as a postcard. Now let’s get out there before you manage to spoil those good looks all over again.”

He offered his arm, and I took it as we walked outside into the summer heat.

***

We’d turned a few heads, received a few stares, but not so many as one might expect. There were stranger things than Fabien walking the streets those days.

The tall gorgeous stranger with whom I walked arm-in-arm was not my lover Fabien. He didn’t look like him: Fabien had had smooth, pale skin, chaotic brown hair and brilliant green eyes; it startled me how much I was discovering that my bond with him was tied up in my mind with that image. I’d presumed that I could learn to see the same man through the feathers, but it was more than that, Fabien himself seemed a different person. More confident. Gone were his slight shyness in public, his desire to be led. Perhaps, to his way of thinking, this was the first time in his life he’d been anything other than naked?

We’d stopped in the park, thronged with people on the bright summer’s afternoon, and sat on the grass to enjoy the sunshine. Fabien talked at length, chirpily, bouncing haphazardly between subjects. I listened only intermittently. Whilst he talked, he held my hand, gently caressing it absent-mindedly with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth. Something in me told me that I should be enjoying this time together, but I just felt a little cold inside.

Then: “Sam, I’m too hot,” and glancing round to make sure I was watching, he pulled off his t-shirt, letting his full feathered chest free.

It followed in outline the same colour scheme as the rest of him: an incandescent orange over his back and shoulders, and soft brown on his chest. Both were thick and shaggy, padding out his thin frame and giving him a curiously cuddly look. From his neck, two black lines of feathers diffused into a mottling of black amongst the brown across his chest. Moving down, the black feathers became more sparse and white ones began to appear, until by his stomach he was speckled white, a pattern which continued to thicken downwards at least as far as the belt of his shorts.

“You look terrific, Fabien.” I meant it, but I could feel a tear in the corner of my eye. Every feather I saw seemed to distance him from the old Fabien, my Fabien.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” He took my hand again, in both of his.

“It’s the feathers, Fabien.” I took I deep breath. “They look lovely, I really mean it, but I feel like… I feel like I’ve lost you.”

He frowned, puzzled.

“I mean… I can’t see through the feathers, to see you, not yet.”

“Why do you want to see through them? I thought you liked them.”

“I do, but… maybe that’s not what I meant, I meant to say… it’s like there’s an old Fabien, and a new Fabien, and it’s like the old one’s drifted away.”

“Oh. Oh, Sam, why didn’t you tell me the feathers bothered you so much? Tomorrow, I’ll go back, they’ll be gone, you can have your old Fabien back.”

“No, oh no, I don’t want you to do that, please!”

He studied me for a moment. “What do you want?”

“I want… I just want…” I floundered. “I don’t know! I’m all muddled up, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t feel close to you any more!” I stifled a sob that was fighting to escape.

“Sam! Stop.” He took his hands and gripped my head firmly, one on either side. The surprise stilled me. “Your mind’s overclocking, and running in circles again. Remember the last time?” I nodded. “Close your eyes. Breathe. Relax.”

I shut my eyes and breathed deeply. And again. And again. I opened my eyes.

“Are you OK now?” I nodded. “Good. Now look me in the eyes.” I caught them and stared. Brilliant green eyes staring back into mine. Fabien’s eyes, beautiful, unchanged.

“Everything’s perfectly simple. There’s nothing whatsoever to worry about. It’s me! And I love you, Sam.”

And there he was. My Fabien. My fabulous feathered Fabien, and I loved him.

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t because I found myself crying, the pent-up worry and anguish and self-imposed mental torture washing away in tears. He put his arms around me, and I buried my face in the thick, warm, shaggy feathers of his chest.

***

I must have fallen asleep, for presently I awoke, lying with my head pillowed on Fabien’s chest and the sun gently toasting my arms. I didn’t get up straight away but stayed still, feeling my head rise and fall with the rhythm of his breath. I felt sleepily tranquil, and idly watched a butterfly as it flitted distractedly over the feathers of his arm, perhaps having mistaken them for flowers.

“Are you feeling better now, Sam?”

“Mmmm. Much better. A whole world better.” I sat up, and shuffled over to sit close besides him, him lying in the grass on his back. Lazily I extended one hand and sifted my fingers through his feathers, feeling them, connecting to them: the thick, warm blanket of his chest; the velvet rustle of his arms; the soft tickle of his neck and chin.

“So are you sure you don’t want me to get these out tomorrow?”

“Don’t you dare,” I reprimanded him, and kissed him on the nose, which tickled pleasantly.

He reached up his arms to take me by the waist, pulling me over him. Cupping his head in my hands, relishing the feel of feathers between my fingers, I gazed down at my lover’s face with its striking orange blaze and its gorgeous green eyes. And then I kissed him, softly at first, our lips dancing over one another, but then more urgently, passionately, pulling him towards me, my whole body moving with the intensity of the kiss. His fingers squeezed and massaged my hips as we squirmed on the grass, throwing everything into this long and delicious moment.

Sated, I pulled away, breathless, aroused. Fabien, panting quietly, lifted a finger to stroke my cheek with his feather touch. “We’d better go home then,” he said.

I glanced around at the crowded park, and nodded. Stiffly I stood up, offering a hand to help Fabien to his feet, and we set off towards our home, him with an arm around my shoulders, me with an arm around his waist, my fingers buried in the thick feathers of his side.

As we walked I felt as though my mind were emptying, cleansed of everything but simple contentment, and a serene consciousness of the majestic man walking besides me, the complex rhythm of his limbs, the rustle and tickle of his fine feathers.

***

He threw me down onto the bed and kissed me again, hungrily, wetly. This wasn’t the old Fabien: he’d always wanted me to take control. This Fabien was on top of me, pawing my face with his hands and kissing me again and again. And I liked it.

Raising my hand to his chest, I burrowed my fingers in the thick feathery warmth, feeling the urgent racing of his heart. I moved to take off my shirt, but he batted my hand away and began unbuttoning it himself, from the top down; first a button, then a pause for another pressing and passionate kiss, then another button, and so on down the shirt. I gripped hard now on the long feathers of his lower back, now the back of his thigh. My shirt gone, he unbuckled my belt and slid off my trousers. Reaching up I unfastened his own belt and pulled off his shorts, sliding them awkwardly down the heavily feathered legs, leaving us both in nothing but our underpants.

Fabien bulged with excitement, as must have I. I laid my left hand over the rounded fabric covering his shapely buttocks, feeling more feathers underneath. My right hand I moved to push the fingers into the soft white-dappled feathers of his belly, and then worked it downwards, sliding under the elastic to find his groin. The feathers seemed to become softer, downier, until at last I found myself gripping the solid bar of his erect penis, and here at last I was grateful to feel bare flesh under my fingers.

He squeaked with pleasure as I massaged the shaft briefly under the fabric, before moving down to fondle his testes. A soft downy fuzz covered them, and I luxuriated in the feel of it against my skin as I kneaded them gently.

I shivered as Fabien touched me back, patting and stroking my cock and balls through the material. Then, reaching for the elastic he eased them down, over my knees and feet and off. My cock sprang up, eager and erect. Following the example I slid off his own pants, leaving him fully naked in front of me for the first time. I could see, now, that his groin and testes sported a mane of fluffy white down, brilliant and bright, right up to the base of his penis, and which continued in a stripe between his legs and up to the small of his back. Around it, more vivid orange feathers continued across his buttocks and sides down to his legs.

“What do you think? That bit’s just for you.”

“Fabien, I love it! Hang on, don’t move…”

Holding onto the shaft with one hand, the other hooked over his back, I sat up a little, bringing my face close to his cock. It dripped in anticipation. Carefully, I planted a kiss on the tip, tasting the salty fluid with my tongue. Fabien squealed, then laughed, hugging me tightly. Impulsively I thrust my face forwards into the fluffy pubic down, inhaling, enjoying its rich scent of sweat and sex and shampoo.

Meanwhile his hands had found my cock and he began to work the shaft, ever so slowly, the down of his palms brushing the sensitive skin, invigorating my excitement.

I turned my attention back to his own penis, bringing my mouth around the tip, running my tongue over it, and then drawing the whole shaft slowly inside me, until I felt feathers tickling my nose, and I could not take any more without choking. Then slowly, as slowly as I knew he liked it, I began moving back and forth, working his manhood between my tongue and the roof of my mouth as deftly as I was able, savouring the taste and the sensation.

I was just settling into a rhythm when I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder. Fabien. “That’s great,” he gasped, “really great. But pull out. I’ve got a mind for something else.”

I pulled away, and he leapt off the bed and dashed to the bedside drawer from where, after a quick rummage, he pulled a jar of lubricant.

“Lie back,” he instructed, and I did, leaving my highly excited cock standing upright, barely even lolling to one side. He leapt onto the bed and straddled me, facing towards me, one feathered knee either side of my chest, his buttocks hovering a few inches above the tip of my penis.

“Oh,” I said a little weakly, grinning, “I see.”

For a while he just held himself there, his emerald eyes beaming down affectionately on me out of his striking flame of a face. Then he offered me the lubricant. “Would you like to do the honours?”

I lifted my shaking middle finger and swirled it through the viscous liquid. Lifting it out, the finger remained glossed and shining with it, slowly dripping from the end. Fabien put the jar to the side and spread his legs slightly wider, proffering himself to me.

I reached out my dry hand, curling my fingers through the fluffy white feathers of his crotch, stroking the back of his testes. My other hand too I brought into the space between us, nudging my own cock to one side to make room. A drop of lubricant fell onto my groin, an electric splash of cold. I worked the dry hand back slightly, pushing aside the feathers to either side of his anus, clearing a path. Above, Fabien breathed sharply and heavily in anticipation. He shrieked in pleasure as I brought my finger into contact with his hole, pushing upwards, and moaned as I felt the resistance give and it slid inside him to its full length. I twisted it, moved it in and out, flexed it, working him, rewarded by his gasps and cries of delight.

I pulled out, feeling his slippery sphincter close elastically after me. He bent down to kiss me, briefly but enthusiastically, our cocks rubbing against one another, and then he was back upright, positioning himself to drop down onto me.

He had both hands below him, one to hold my cock in place, one to hold himself open, pushing white and orange feathers aside. I rested my own hands on his hips, finding easy purchase amongst the long feathers, as though to guide him down. He descended tantalisingly slowly, I watched the space between us narrow, his feathery frame dropping to engulf me, but then I glanced up and saw his face, smiling, beautiful, looking back fondly at mine. I saw it twitch, almost imperceptibly, as my tip first touched him, then as I penetrated his sphincter he gulped, his eyes bulging slightly, and as I slid fully inside him he closed his eyes and exhaled, his burning head lolling gently to one side in bliss. There was a faint crackle of feathers as his crotch came to a rest on my groin.

For a long minute he stayed perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Savouring the moment, perhaps just relishing the feeling of me inside him. I was restless, excited beyond patience by the tight grip of him around me, anxious to piston and pound into him, to reach a climax. But in this position the initiative was all Fabien’s and I had to wait. Fabien did things slowly. Savouring his seconds.

At last he opened his eyes, and beamed down at me. He didn’t say anything, but he took my left hand in his own, and squeezed it. I nodded, understanding. And he began. Slowly he rose, his long legs pushing him up a couple of inches, and then he let himself drop back down at the same slow speed. I cried out slightly as he came back down, sliding over me in a wave of slow pleasure. And he did it again, and again, and again, keeping up the slow, ever so slow rhythm, each downward crawl sending a shiver of sumptuous sensation up my spine. After a few ups and downs he dropped his free hand to his own penis to work it, but I intercepted him and began palpating it myself, determined to do my small share of the work. I tried to massage it slowly back and forth, in rhythm with his own actions, the tortuous speed I knew he liked, but my excited hands couldn’t maintain it, and I soon found myself pumping at him furiously.

Fabien increased his own pace, perhaps a result of the rapid stimulation I was giving him, or perhaps because his excitement had breached even his own impressive limits of endurance. Either way, he was now thrusting himself lithely upwards and letting gravity drop him back down onto me, up and down, up and down, faster but still restrained, drawing out the pleasure, making me whoop and scream as he rose and fell. I watched the rhythmic motion pass up his body in a wave; from the thrusts of his orange legs either side of me, through his energetic groin riding me up and down, its white pubic feathers flashing, up his long mottled chest in perfect rhythm with his gasping breath, and up to the flame-rimmed face, mouth open, eyes staring in ecstasy.

He kept up the new rhythm inexorably as we neared the climax, our cries getting louder, my legs writhing, undulating; his hand gripping mine harder and harder. Fabien came first, sending a spurt of white seed shooting in an impressive arc, striking me across the chin and cheek.

My tongue whipped out to sample the salty liquid strewn across my face. I was almost there, I could feel the orgasm building in my groin, a potent wave of pleasure ready to sweep over me. But Fabien was slowing, stopping, slumping in the orgasmic aftermath with a smile on his face. The wave of pleasure was still struggling in my groin, tremendous yet trapped, not quite able to be released. I gripped him hard and insistently, to send him a message: more.

He responded, resuming his up and down motion but, freed from the pressures of his own sexual urgency, at his original, tortuously slow speed. I screamed as he ground up and down my hypersensitive shaft at an almost unbearable rate, maintained on the brink of an orgasm that could never quite escape but built itself up higher and higher, the pleasure multiplying mercilessly.

And suddenly, it broke out. I felt myself spurt violently inside him, and the wave of pleasure, held back so long, became an uncontrollable tsunami, flooding my whole body with tidal waves of glorious, unbearable ecstasy, again and again as I pumped my love into him, ebbing away, finally falling flat and leaving me panting with serene satisfaction.

Fabien lifted off and slumped exhausted besides me, one trembling feathered arm resting over my sweating chest. We lay there for some time as we recovered our breath, and then for longer still, as we stared upwards, immensely satisfied; sated. Eventually, he turned his head to look at me and laughed.

“Sam! Just look at you! Hold still.” And there he was in front of me, his gorgeous feathered face frowning in concentration, his hand moving rhythmically and delicately against my chin and cheek, mopping up the semen which still clung there. And tickling me, making me laugh and wriggle, making the whole process much harder than it should have been.

“There,” he said as he finally finished the clean-up, “pretty as a postcard,” and he pinched my cheek affectionately. But he kept on looking at me with a new glint in his eye, as if measuring me up by some entirely new scale.

“Sam?” he said cautiously.

“Mmm?”

“You’d look fabulous in feathers.”

I laughed. “I’ll think about it. Let’s get to sleep.”

And we snuggled up to each other, arms looped over shoulders, feathered legs and bare ones intertwined, and slept.