[18+]

John the mouse finds the courage to talk to an owl girl at a party and she invites him up to her room

Today’s story is “Owl’s Nest” by Harry, who writes and publishes under a few different names, but you can find most of his stories on SoFurry.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

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Today I'm reading an adult story for mature listeners.

If that's not your cup of tea,

or if there are youngsters listening,

you can skip this one

and I'll have a new story for you next time.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is

“Owl’s Nest” by Harry,

who writes and publishes under a few different names,

but you can find most of his stories on SoFurry.

Please enjoy “Owl’s Nest”

by Harry I was loitering by the keg holding a plastic cup of nameless beer when I spotted her.

I didn't know her name then,

but I had seen her before--

she was in my sociology class. Her and about 200 other people, I guess,

but she was someone you noticed.

Avians aren't all that rare as a group,

but you don't see many owls.

And she was the sort with those feather tufts, you know?

Look sort of like pricked-up ears or horns.

Her face was a dark-edged mask of white feathers,

drawing all the attention to her eyes.

Not that they needed the help.

Her irises burned a vibrant

yellow-orange, like the flesh of a ripe nectarine.

And so, so perfectly round.

The way her brows came down in a wide 'V'

made her look a little serious,

even stern, but I'd seen her laugh, across the lecture hall.

I figured she'd never noticed me.

Millions of grey mice around.

She was in the kitchen,

sipping something purple-red out of an actual glass with a straw that she held with her slender black beak.

I looked around the room for Kevin,

who had dragged me to this just-off-campus house party in the first place.

I had been itching to leave until I saw her,

having only a mild buzz and no real dedication to improve it using more of the

lackluster (but free) swill in the keg.

Her drink looked more promising,

and it offered me a chance to talk to her for once, instead of watching and wishing.

Normally I wouldn't have the balls.

But it was late, I could still split if I struck out,

and the buzz probably helped.

When would I get another chance, right?

I picked my way through the crowded room

holding my cup at ear-height, which as a mouse isn't all that high.

Made it to the kitchen without spilling it on anyone.

She swiveled her head in my direction in that spooky way only an owl

can and I gave her what I hoped was a winning whiskery rodent smile.

She blinked, but didn't say anything.

So I said, "Uh, so, that looks a hundred times better than this, uhm...

fine artisan um, 'lager'.

Where'd you get it?" She tittered a laugh, the short downy white feathers on her throat fluttering. "Private stash,"

she said, in an exotic accent that I couldn't quite place.

South Asian? I didn't know from owls, so it could be anything, and I wasn't about to ask her hey, so what kind of owl are you?

Instead I asked about her drink.

"What is it?" "Sangria,"

she said, taking another sip through her straw.

I brought my cup to my lips, but the smell of the now-warm beer made me wrinkle up my muzzle.

I said, "I don't suppose you'd share some from your stash?

I've had enough of this...

stuff," and set the cup down on the counter.

She looked at me,

and I mean looked.

It was unnerving.

Especially for a mouse.

Which sounds all primitive and whatever, but I couldn't help it.

She was taller than me and those eyes were just short of

hypnotic. My tail twitched

and I felt an urge to bolt.

I wondered if she only blinked like once every ten minutes or something.

Finally she said,

"All right, you can come with me,"

in that lilting sing-song voice.

"Where we going?" I asked,

trying to keep my voice even

as she crossed the kitchen towards a rear doorway.

"Upstairs. The bottle is in my refrigerator."

"You mean you live here?"

She didn't look back, so I followed her out into a back hallway,

watching the long brown-banded feathers that draped from the backs of her arms flutter.

The loose yellow tank top she wore hid most of the ones that covered her back.

We climbed up some creaky narrow wooden stairs.

She explained, "Yes.

We rent this house.

I have my own room."

"A single? I'm already jealous.

I mean, Kevin is an ok guy,

but I miss privacy," I babbled.

We walked down a short dark hallway,

and she opened one of the doors and flicked on the light as she passed within.

I followed. She said,

"Here is my room. Isn't it good?"

Compared to my almost literal rat's nest it was tidy and spartan.

It was paneled in some kind of light

knotty wood, with a similar floor.

Creaky in spots like the stairs.

I saw bookcases, a TV,

and the dorm fridge that must hold the promised booze stash.

That all kind of took a back seat to the big fireplace taking up one entire wall, though.

I perked my ears in surprise and said,

"You get your own fireplace?

Damn!" She giggled again.

"Three rooms have them.

It is an old house. Please,

sit anywhere." I looked around, and besides the bed there didn't seem to be anyplace to sit.

I was hoping what any young male hopes when he's invited into a girl's room,

but I figured that going straight for the bed would make a bad first impression,

and I did not want to screw this up.

So I picked one of the neat oriental rugs decorating the floor

and sat, cross-legged.

She was busy finding me a glass since I had abandoned my beer cup in the kitchen.

I piped up, "Oh, uh,

I'm John. I think we have

SOCI 201 together."

She leaned over her bed to fetch a coffee mug from the windowsill,

fanning her tailfeathers at me in the process.

I had to drag my eyes back up to her face when she turned back around.

She passed in front of me,

then left the room,

and I could hear water running down the hall.

I gave my face a quick rodent rubwash and waited.

"Sorry I have no other glass,"

she lamented upon her return.

"Absolutely no problem,

uhm... What uh, what should...

should..." I stammered. "I am Tara,"

she helpfully answered,

then opened her short fridge and took out a nice big jug of pre-mixed sangria.

She poured some into the coffee mug and handed it to me,

and I took it with both paws.

She sat on the next rug over and crossed her legs too.

I finally noticed she didn't wear shoes,

as her feet were a bit like talons.

Long and scaled and sporting impressive claws at the tips of the toes.

Those I could easily avoid staring at.

I raised my mug and said,

"Thank you, Tara," before drinking.

Much, much better than the beer.

It was sweet and fruity

and warm like wine going down even though it was chilled.

I licked my mouth and whiskers

and she drank some of hers.

She asked, "How did you hear about our party?" "Well,

my room-mate Kevin brought me along.

I'm not sure who he knows here. Could be a friend-of-a-friend thing, even.

I didn't really know a lot of people downstairs."

"I have not seen you here before, no."

"I feel very welcome though, so thank you again."

She lapsed into silence and I began to feel awkward,

just looking around her sparse room and drinking her wine.

But there are standard questions any undergrad can fall back on to keep a conversation going, and I used them.

"What are you majoring in?"

I asked. "I wish to study medicine,"

she answered. "Oh, pre-med. Cool.

I'm uh, still sort of undecided.

Probably end up in managerial english poli-sci history studies.

Or art. Heh." "Oh, do you paint pictures, John?"

"If I drink enough of this sangria, maybe."

That got a laugh from her and I grinned.

She asked where I was from,

and I asked her the same.

I was a local, she was most definitely not.

My south Asian guess had been accurate.

We compared classes,

spoke spitefully of professors we had both endured.

She complained of not being able to find any food near the university that was even close to what her family made back home.

Her housemates didn't appreciate her attempts to cook in that style herself.

We both complained about the on-campus cafeteria.

We polished off the bottle of sangria.

As the night grew later

I ended up lying on my back with my knees bent staring at her ceiling as we talked.

The dull beat of the music downstairs had ceased at some point,

and the house had been quiet for a good while.

I turned my head

and noticed she was no longer sitting on her rug.

She had got up without making a sound

and moved to sit on the edge of her mattress.

I glanced at the clock on her night stand.

It was a little after 2AM.

I looked up and back at her wide orange eyes

and she said, "It's time for bed."

The wine had made me feel warm and a bit fuzzy,

but even if I had been sober,

I don't think I would have known for sure if that was an invitation or a dismissal.

I sat up, too fast.

She noticed me wavering and offered one of her hands.

I stared at her beautiful arm-feathers

and she made a chirping cluck sound and said,

"Poor mouse John, come here."

I took her hand and she pulled me up.

I staggered, then sat down next to her on her bed.

I mumbled an apology.

She surprised me by preening my ear gently with her beak,

then wrapping her wing-like arm around my shoulders.

The touch of her sharp beak sent

shivery tingles along my ears and down my spine-

I knew she could notch my ear easily.

But she didn't. It was so easy to just lean over against her.

Her feathers were warm and soft,

though I could still feel the stiff cores that gave the large ones their shape.

Her chest ruff was mostly soft down.

She had lost the tank top--

I don't know when that happened.

I nuzzled at her chest with my whiskers and nose,

making her giggle-chirp once again.

She wasn't like a mammal--

no breasts. But I didn't mind at all.

She had barely any scent of her own--

mostly I smelled the wood of the walls

and floor and the little stack of firewood on the brick hearth.

She lifted her head and told me to lie down

and I got myself nice and comfy,

not knowing what to expect.

She climbed over me,

straddling my legs,

then spread her arms and feathers and covered me up while looking down.

I reached up to stroke her chest and stomach

and she gave a trilling sort of coo at that.

Encouraged, I did it again,

and strayed lower,

to where her jeans still covered her.

I stretched my paws out to hold her hips,

pulling her closer until I could rub her bottom.

She cuddled against me while I massaged her,

feeling her tailfeathers twitch

where they sprouted just above the denim.

She was back nibble-preening my ear again.

I was growing stiff from the heat and friction,

despite the alcohol,

and I knew she could feel it.

She pushed herself up once more,

looking at me with her beak open in an

avian sort of grin.

She looked down and unbuttoned my jeans,

then slid the zipper down.

Then she hopped to the floor

as I raised my head to watch.

She undid her own jeans and pushed them to the floor.

I made sure I rid myself completely of mine before she had to wait on me--

it seemed she was done playing around.

My aching mousehood stood up from my groin as I lay there,

still wearing my stupid band t-shirt.

She didn't care about the shirt.

I watched her climb back onto the bed and onto me,

and I caught a glimpse between her thighs.

Avians are a little different, and I had never seen one up close and naked before.

Before I could get a better look she was pressing her unseen mysteries against the root of my dick,

which was anything but enigmatic.

She felt hot and slippery,

and that was plenty familiar enough for me.

With her hands supporting her weight on the bed on either side of my shoulders

she rocked back and forth slowly,

coating me with her warmth and making a low hooooooo.

hooooooo... sound with each exhale.

Without a word she paused

and lifted up slightly,

catching my tip and easing herself down onto me.

I gasped. She warbled.

She let me get used to her inner heat for a moment,

then she took the lead.

She moved in smooth silence except for occasional chirping sounds,

her eyes closed for now.

I met her with slow

but eager thrusts of my own,

but when I got too rambunctious she would press me down into her bed

and hold me there for a moment.

Unable to control the pace,

I was at her mercy.

When she sped up I began to squeak quietly,

as it brought me far closer to the edge than I wanted.

Even tipsy I could feel the insistent burn of an orgasm that wanted to escape.

"Tara," I gasped, then swallowed, trying to warn her.

She stopped her rhythm and pressed down,

holding me deep inside her.

She panted with her beak open,

saying nothing. "Close,"

I whispered. She nipped my ear

and gyrated her hips against mine.

I whimpered. After a minute or so of that she resumed sliding up and down my shaft,

punctuating each downstroke with a firm grind.

I could feel her getting tighter,

and her tailfeathers began to flare out behind her like a striped fan.

I moaned her name again and this time she didn't pause for me.

She meant to have me,

and I stopped trying to resist.

The burning urgency deep in my groin erupted before I knew it was happening,

my copious rodent seed spurting into her.

She could no doubt feel me pulsing,

but she kept up her unsteady humping until she, too, found her own shuddering peak.

It grew painful for me as mine ebbed away

but I couldn't very well stop her.

I was grateful when she finally lay atop me,

panting and hot, recovering.

I reached under her armfeathers and stroked her back, only half-conscious.

I let my eyes close.

Enjoyed the heavy bliss of relief.

As I was falling fully asleep,

she suddenly laughed.

"I work in the morning,"

she said. I opened my eyes a crack,

trying to interpret what she meant.

I was dead tired, even though she had done most of the work.

But I figured she wanted me gone.

Didn't want to deal with me in the morning.

I said, "I don't. Do you uh...

need me to go? I can go sleep downstairs on a couch or in the bathtub or..."

"Stay," she said, and I did.

She was gone when I woke up.

This was “Owl’s Nest” by Harry,

read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.