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“Owl’s Nest” by Harry [18+]

[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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If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with Khaki on Twitter or Telegram!

Transcript
Khaki QOD:

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

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If that's not your cup of tea or there are youngsters listening,

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you can skip this one and there'll be a new story for you next time.

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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

Khaki QOD:

I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion, and Today’s story is “Owl’s

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Nest” by Harry, who writes and publishes under a few different names, but you

Khaki QOD:

can find most of his stories on SoFurry.

Khaki QOD:

Please enjoy

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“Owl’s Nest” by Harry

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I was loitering by the keg holding a plastic cup of

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nameless beer when I spotted her.

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I didn't know her name then, but I had seen her before--

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she was in my sociology class.

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Her and about 200 other people, I guess, but she was someone you noticed.

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Avians aren't all that rare as a group, but you don't see many owls.

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

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Look sort of like pricked-up ears or horns.

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

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all the attention to her eyes.

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Not that they needed the help.

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Her irises burned a vibrant yellow-orange, like the flesh of a ripe nectarine.

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And so, so perfectly round.

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The way her brows came down in a wide 'V' made her look a little

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

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I figured she'd never noticed me.

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Millions of grey mice around.

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She was in the kitchen, sipping something purple-red out of an

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actual glass with a straw that she held with her slender black beak.

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I looked around the room for Kevin, who had dragged me to this just-off-campus

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house party in the first place.

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I had been itching to leave until I saw her, having only a mild buzz and no real

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dedication to improve it using more of the lackluster [but free] swill in the keg.

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Her drink looked more promising, and it offered me a chance to talk to her for

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once, instead of watching and wishing.

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Normally I wouldn't have the balls.

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But it was late, I could still split if I struck out, and the buzz probably helped.

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When would I get another chance, right?

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I picked my way through the crowded room holding my cup at ear-height,

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which as a mouse isn't all that high.

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Made it to the kitchen without spilling it on anyone.

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

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

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She blinked, but didn't say anything.

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

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fine artisan um, 'lager'.

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Where'd you get it?"

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She tittered a laugh, the short downy white feathers on her throat fluttering.

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

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South Asian?

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I didn't know from owls, so it could be anything, and I wasn't about to ask

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her hey, so what kind of owl are you?

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Instead I asked about her drink.

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"What is it?"

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"Sangria," she said, taking another sip through her straw.

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I brought my cup to my lips, but the smell of the now-warm beer

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made me wrinkle up my muzzle.

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

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I've had enough of this...

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

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She looked at me, and I mean looked.

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It was unnerving.

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Especially for a mouse.

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

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

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My tail twitched and I felt an urge to bolt.

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

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Finally she said, "All right, you can come with me," in that lilting sing-song voice.

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"Where we going?"

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I asked, trying to keep my voice even as she crossed the

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kitchen towards a rear doorway.

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"Upstairs.

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The bottle is in my refrigerator."

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"You mean you live here?"

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

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

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

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We climbed up some creaky narrow wooden stairs.

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She explained, "Yes.

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We rent this house.

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I have my own room."

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"A single?

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I'm already jealous.

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I mean, Kevin is an ok guy, but I miss privacy," I babbled.

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We walked down a short dark hallway, and she opened one of the doors and flicked

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on the light as she passed within.

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I followed.

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She said, "Here is my room.

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Isn't it good?"

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

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It was paneled in some kind of light knotty wood, with a similar floor.

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Creaky in spots like the stairs.

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I saw bookcases, a TV, and the dorm fridge that must hold the promised booze stash.

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That all kind of took a back seat to the big fireplace taking

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up one entire wall, though.

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I perked my ears in surprise and said, "You get your own fireplace?

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Damn!"

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She giggled again.

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"Three rooms have them.

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It is an old house.

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Please, sit anywhere."

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

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

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

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and I did not want to screw this up.

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So I picked one of the neat oriental rugs decorating the

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floor and sat, cross-legged.

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

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I piped up, "Oh, uh, I'm John.

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I think we have SOCI 201 together."

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

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her tailfeathers at me in the process.

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

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She passed in front of me, then left the room, and I could hear

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water running down the hall.

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I gave my face a quick rodent rubwash and waited.

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"Sorry I have no other glass," she lamented upon her return.

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"Absolutely no problem, uhm...

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What uh, what should..."

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I stammered.

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"I am Tara," she helpfully answered, then opened her short fridge and took

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out a nice big jug of pre-mixed sangria.

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

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I took it with both paws.

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

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I finally noticed she didn't wear shoes, as her feet were a bit like talons.

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

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Those I could easily avoid staring at.

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I raised my mug and said, "Thank you, Tara," before drinking.

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Much, much better than the beer.

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

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I licked my mouth and whiskers and she drank some of hers.

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

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"Well, my room-mate Kevin brought me along.

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I'm not sure who he knows here.

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Could be a friend-of-a-friend thing, even.

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

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

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

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She lapsed into silence and I began to feel awkward, just looking around

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her sparse room and drinking her wine.

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But there are standard questions any undergrad can fall back on to keep a

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conversation going, and I used them.

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"What are you majoring in?"

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I asked.

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"I wish to study medicine," she answered.

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"Oh, pre-med.

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Cool.

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I'm uh, still sort of undecided.

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

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Or art.

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Heh."

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"Oh, do you paint pictures, John?"

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

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That got a laugh from her and I grinned.

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She asked where I was from, and I asked her the same.

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I was a local, she was most definitely not.

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My south Asian guess had been accurate.

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We compared classes, spoke spitefully of professors we had both endured.

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She complained of not being able to find any food near the university that was even

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close to what her family made back home.

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

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We both complained about the on-campus cafeteria.

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We polished off the bottle of sangria.

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As the night grew later I ended up lying on my back with my knees bent

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staring at her ceiling as we talked.

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

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house had been quiet for a good while.

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I turned my head and noticed she was no longer sitting on her rug.

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She had got up without making a sound and moved to sit on the edge of her mattress.

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I glanced at the clock on her night stand.

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It was a little after 2AM.

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I looked up and back at her wide orange eyes and she said, "It's time for bed."

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The wine had made me feel warm and a bit fuzzy, but even if I had been sober, I

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

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I sat up, too fast.

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She noticed me wavering and offered one of her hands.

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I stared at her beautiful arm-feathers and she made a chirping cluck sound

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and said, "Poor mouse John, come here."

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I took her hand and she pulled me up.

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

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I mumbled an apology.

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

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her wing-like arm around my shoulders.

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The touch of her sharp beak sent shivery tingles along my ears and down my spine-

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I knew she could notch my ear easily.

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But she didn't.

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It was so easy to just lean over against her.

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Her feathers were warm and soft, though I could still feel the stiff cores

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that gave the large ones their shape.

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Her chest ruff was mostly soft down.

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She had lost the tank top-- I don't know when that happened.

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I nuzzled at her chest with my whiskers and nose, making

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her giggle-chirp once again.

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She wasn't like a mammal-- no breasts.

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But I didn't mind at all.

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She had barely any scent of her own-- mostly I smelled the wood of the

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

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She lifted her head and told me to lie down and I got myself nice and

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comfy, not knowing what to expect.

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She climbed over me, straddling my legs, then spread her arms and feathers

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and covered me up while looking down.

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I reached up to stroke her chest and stomach and she gave

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a trilling sort of coo at that.

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Encouraged, I did it again, and strayed lower, to where

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her jeans still covered her.

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I stretched my paws out to hold her hips, pulling her closer

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until I could rub her bottom.

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She cuddled against me while I massaged her, feeling her tailfeathers twitch

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where they sprouted just above the denim.

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She was back nibble-preening my ear again.

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I was growing stiff from the heat and friction, despite the alcohol,

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and I knew she could feel it.

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She pushed herself up once more, looking at me with her beak

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open in an avian sort of grin.

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She looked down and unbuttoned my jeans, then slid the zipper down.

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Then she hopped to the floor as I raised my head to watch.

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

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

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it seemed she was done playing around.

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

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wearing my stupid band t-shirt.

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She didn't care about the shirt.

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

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a glimpse between her thighs.

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

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Before I could get a better look she was pressing her unseen mysteries

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against the root of my dick, which was anything but enigmatic.

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She felt hot and slippery, and that was plenty familiar enough for me.

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With her hands supporting her weight on the bed on either side

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of my shoulders she rocked back and forth slowly, coating me with her

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warmth and making a low hooooooo...

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sound with each exhale.

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Without a word she paused and lifted up slightly, catching my tip

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and easing herself down onto me.

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I gasped.

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She warbled.

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She let me get used to her inner heat for a moment, then she took the lead.

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She moved in smooth silence except for occasional chirping

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sounds, her eyes closed for now.

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I met her with slow but eager thrusts of my own, but when I got too rambunctious

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she would press me down into her bed and hold me there for a moment.

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Unable to control the pace, I was at her mercy.

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When she sped up I began to squeak quietly, as it brought me far

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closer to the edge than I wanted.

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

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

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She stopped her rhythm and pressed down, holding me deep inside her.

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She panted with her beak open, saying nothing.

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"Close," I whispered.

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She nipped my ear and gyrated her hips against mine.

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I whimpered.

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

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each downstroke with a firm grind.

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I could feel her getting tighter, and her tailfeathers began to flare

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out behind her like a striped fan.

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

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She meant to have me, and I stopped trying to resist.

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

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my copious rodent seed spurting into her.

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She could no doubt feel me pulsing, but she kept up her unsteady humping until

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she, too, found her own shuddering peak.

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It grew painful for me as mine ebbed away but I couldn't very well stop her.

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I was grateful when she finally lay atop me, panting and hot, recovering.

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

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I let my eyes close.

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Enjoyed the heavy bliss of relief.

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As I was falling fully asleep, she suddenly laughed.

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"I work in the morning," she said.

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I opened my eyes a crack, trying to interpret what she meant.

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

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But I figured she wanted me gone.

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

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I said, "I don't.

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Do you uh...

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need me to go?

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I can go sleep downstairs on a couch or in the bathtub or..."

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"Stay," she said, and I did.

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She was gone when I woke up.

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This was “Owl’s Nest” by Harry, read for you by Khaki, your

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faithful fireside companion.

Khaki QOD:

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

Khaki QOD:

show wherever you get your podcasts.

Khaki QOD:

Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.

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Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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