“Buckgaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw…” you cry in agony. You want to call for help. But who can help you? Steel.
“Ste…. buckkkk…. Stee… buck…. STEE… BUCKGAAAA.” You can’t get the words out. The pain, the pressure, the agony of pushing. Its too much. Your brain just keeps interjecting chicken noises into your attempts at human speech.
But Steel is used to this. He’s been with his entire life. He’s seen you like this before. 6 times a day. Every day.
He walks over and knees down.
“Buckkkathroom.” You manage to get out. He understands.
His strong arms pick up your tiny body and he begins walking towards the bathroom.
You’re still pushing, still struggling as he carries you. You reach back with your arms and try to grab onto your cloaca. Maybe if you can just grab the sides and stretch it, just a little more, you can get the egg out. Your arms brush over a large, hard object surrounded by a ring a flesh. You try to grab but… You have no hands. Your feather covered arms aren’t arms. They’re wings. They just bend the wrong way for flight. But there’s nothing at the end of them. No fingers. No talons. Nothing. Just feathered nubs.
The muscles in your oviduct begin to tire and the egg slips back in. Not by much. Someone else probably wouldn’t even notice. But to you, it at least lessens the pressure, even if only by a little.
Steel enters the bathroom with you. In the mirror you see a tall bald eagle. The picture of anthropomorphic masculinity. In his arms he holds a small, chicken girl. Her stomach distended. Her eyes filled with desperation. And between her legs you see the beginning of an egg showing, spreading her wider than it looks like she should be able to spread. You see yourself.
You’re still wearing the glasses. You think back. With the decrease in pressure, you begin talking to Steel. It’s difficult, but between clucks you manage to ask about your history. He tells you that you were born like this, and he has been your slave your entire life.
That doesn’t seem right. You do have the faintest bit of memories of this life. But you still remember your old life. Your old name, your old job, your old family. Could it be that the goggles have a different effect on the owner? You don’t have time to ponder that before you can feel another contraction brewing.
You have an idea. You look right into your own suffering filled eyes. Eyes that are begging for release. Eyes that close, briefly, as another contraction begins. As you’re forced to start pushing against an impossible task. You imagine a bald eagle. Like Steel. A copy of Steel. Tall, manly. Not a slave. You don’t have the focus to think of more. You just picture a copy of Steel in your mind where that chicken girl is.