Opening up the fridge, Troy was really digging an omelet for breakfa… for lunch. Didn’t matter, he still wanted an omelet, but as when he picked up the carton of eggs he noticed that it felt suspiciously light. He gave it a quick shake, then opened it to confirm that, in fact, someone had eaten all of the eggs and just put the empty cartoon back in the fridge.
RK must have seen Troy playing around with the egg carton because he said, “Rusty ate the last eggs before he went to work, you’ll have to go out back and make some more.”
Fucking Rusty eating all his eggs.
Troy turned and looked towards their backyard. Had their house gotten smaller? He vaguely remembered their house having a slight L shape to it, with a few rooms being positioned to the right of their porch but looking out through the back window there was nothing next to their porch except for the chicken coups.
Of course, there wasn’t anything next to the porch, that’s where they kept the chickens that made their eggs.
As Troy walked over to the backdoor he noticed that his pants had started to become loose. That was weird, Troy remembered them being so tight when he stuck the Boost of Beasts under them. Pulling his pants up, he felt the inseam of his pants press up into his cloaca. Damn.
Of course, his pants were too loose - he’d somehow put on the pair of pants that he’d accidentally bought last month that were designed for mammals. He thought he put those at the bottom of the drawer. Avians like him needed pants that were over-tight in the waist. Fuck. He must be high to have picked those out.
Opening the door, Troy began to step out into the backyard, but as soon as he walked outside, he felt a gurgling, followed by a slight cramping in his stomach. And the closer he got to the henhouse, the more intense the cramping grew.
“Man what did I eat last night?” Troy thought as he rubbed his hands over the white feathers on his stomach, an image of RK’s ass popping into his mind, “… other than that.”
At least he wasn’t bloated.
Troy walked up to the chicken coup and undid the latch on the side.
“Lets see how many eggs you girls have laid for me,” Troy said as he grabbed the top of the coup and tried to lift it open. But his hands just slipped along the top of the roof, like it was passing through his fingers.
“What the…?” Troy tries to flex his… fingers? He looked down at his feather covered arms. He tried rotating them along his shoulders, no problem. He tried bending his elbows, again, no problem. He tried to rotate his wrists… why would he have wrists? That was such an odd thought, avian anthros like him didn’t have hands, their arms just ended in blunt stubs, so why would he have wrists?
Just since he felt the strange need to confirm, he ran his right arm over his left arm stub. Ya, no hand. No wrist. Just like always.
The wrinkles in Troy’s brain began to smooth over. Troy’s mind felt so fuzzy. He felt so fucking high. Why did he even come out here? To open the chicken coup? He knew he needed help for that.
Troy was staring at the chicken coup, trying to remember what he was doing, when an intense cramp came from his stomach as powerful muscles strained against a small, hard object inside of him. That was right, he really had to take a shit.
Slightly hunched over from the cramp, Troy looked around for a suitable place to do his business. Walking behind the chicken coup, he found a large bed of straw tucked in between the coup, Rusty’s house, and a hedge running along the yard’s fence, the combination of which offered him a quiet, private spot to do his business.
Troy centered himself in the straw when a thought flicked into his mind, “wait… don’t I need someone to help me get my pants off?” But Troy’s concentration was broken by the sound of a large, heavy object rustling through the straw.
Looking down, Troy saw that the Book of Beasts had fallen into the straw and slid down towards the edge of the bed. How did that get there?
Cool air blew through his feathers as he gave his short tail a wiggle, fanning the tail feathers out then relaxing them a few times. Why had he been thinking of pants? Troy knew he wasn’t even allowed inside the house, much less to wear clothes.
Something was wrong with all this. He’d never been this high, this…. confused before. Everything seemed wrong until it seemed right. Nothing felt out of place, but at the same time everything did. Wasn’t he supposed to be…? Another cramp hit his stomach as he felt the object inside of him sink a bit lower.
Troy could think about that later, right now he had to go. He spread his legs as far as they could go, dug his yellow, scaley talons into the straw, and squatted down into his usual laying position as he began to push on the thing inside of him. The muscles around it felt so small, and the object itself felt so big, but as he ran his arms over his flat stomach, he couldn’t feel anything pressing out against her skin. Shouldn’t she be able to feel a slight bulge from the egg?
The egg? The egg! Troy tried to refocus her mind, she’d come out here to get more eggs for… the person who lived in the house? She couldn’t remember their name, but she could remember that she was supposed to be getting eggs not laying them!
It was the reality auditor, something about the last spell he had cast was causing her reality to be rewritten.
The chicken felt the egg push further down and the world around her seemed to get bigger. No, the world wasn’t getting bigger, the chicken was shrinking. The further the egg descended, the bigger the world got, all while the wooden walls of a new chicken coup began to materialize into existence around her.
It was the egg, the chicken realized! The closer she came to laying, the more she turned into a chicken! But hadn’t she always been a chicken?
Her skull shrunk, squeezing the memories out of her brain. She couldn’t remember her name; couldn’t remember why she was here. She couldn’t remember anything other than laying egg after egg in this chicken coup… and the book.
The book! Looking at the book reminded her that this wasn’t normal, that this was a punishment for a poorly thought out wish, that her only hope to save herself was to somehow keep the egg in. So while she didn’t know what normal was right now, she knew that couldn’t lay this egg, that she had to somehow hold it in. But that was easier said than done.
Her muscles kept squeezing, kept straining, kept painfully bearing down as the egg pushed closer and closer to her exit. No matter what she did, no matter what command her little bird brain tried to send, the egg just kept coming.
She could feel it pressing into the back of her cloaca. She could feel herself stretching as the egg parted her flesh on its way out of her body. Her teeth melted into her beak, her back shortened, her chest plumped up, her butt pushed out. She was almost fully chicken, almost fully gone. Thinking was so hard, memories were so foggy. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to stop the egg. She threw up her arms and let out a loud cluck in frustration.
The egg kept coming, slowly and relentlessly. Whatever pain it was causing her eased the further it stretched her, like she had grown used to it. Her elbows popped and reversed painlessly, growing into wings.
Her chicken coup fully materialized around her as the tip of the egg bumped the wood below her straining pelvis. She realized there was no way for her to stop this, her cloaca taut as the widest part of the egg began to pass through. The hen shivered in ecstasy as the shell brushed her clitoris. She shrunk more, mind addled as waves of orgasmic warmth emanated from her opening.
She knew that the egg would be her end, but there was so much pressure and pleasure down there that she couldn’t tell if relaxing or straining would get the egg out faster. Another rolling orgasm emanated from her cloaca, the egg slipping closer and closer to freedom. She pressed her body down against the wooden boards below her, trying to get the egg to go back up.
Instead of going back into her, it just jostled the egg against her cloaca, triggering another cascading orgasm. Fluids dripped around the egg, lubricating it. It slipped a bit more, forcing her to clench o keep it in. She squawked as her entrance spasmed rhythmically. The hen couldn’t take it anymore. With a cluck of pleasure, she relaxed.
The egg slipped free of the hen, giving her momentary relief. Then she felt another egg make its descent. She clucked happily, bearing down on it. The hen was RK’s and Rusty’s greatest prize. A super producer, all she did was pump out egg after egg.
Her Book shimmered and disappeared, seeking a new owner.