Rhonda awakened with a loud belch that brought with it one last taste of yesterday's meal. She'd been a kicker, but it had all been an act - judging from how much the kitty had purred once she'd finally settled down. Rhonda giggled as she made her way to her tub.
Rhonda mused, as she squatted, on the new pred, Zetro. He was a fine specimen - so muscular, and so... wild. Not like these city folk - all too clean, with false flavours and scents. And when she'd done the customary thing and asked if he'd wanted a go with her - Johnny said it was better for business if the preds had sex with each other at least once, for god knew what reason - he'd not only consented, but genuinely enjoyed it. Not that he'd said so... but Rhonda could tell. After four decades of sleeping with people for a living, she'd learned how to detect minute variations in peoples' scents - she could always tell, for instance, when someone was disgusted with her. She delighted in it - she wasn't "Rhonda the Filthy Alligator Slut" for nothing, after all, and she'd learned over the years to glory in it.
After she'd finished disposing of yesterday's meal, she absentmindedly rubbed a hand between and underneath her breasts. Yvette had told her that "big girls" like them could get fungi and all sorts of nasty things growing in places like that, but a quick brushing was usually enough to knock it loose. Enough of it, anyway. Yvette was another good one - as wild as Zetro, and twice the hump. Still, Rhonda wasn't truly bisexual, and there were some things that only a man could do for her.
The creak of the door upstairs was all the warning that Rhonda got... or needed. Despite her size, Rhonda could be very spry, having had this bulk or greater all her life. By the time the prey came into view, Rhonda was sprawled across her cardboard mat suggestively, awaiting whoever it might be.
The prey was Stan, a slightly overweight seagull who worked at one of the city's Burger Kings. His employment had been a stroke of luck, and the suggestive comments he got through the drive-thru intercom had been enough to satisfy his vorish fantasies... until now. He'd finally saved up enough for Rhonda, for whom Johnny charged an outrageous two hundred bucks, purely due to reputation. He reached the basement and stopped dead upon seeing Rhonda.
"Well, are you just going to stand there, or come over here, where it's... warm?" She let off a fart and giggled, knowing perfectly well that whatever his fantasies, Stan was thoroughly disgusted. Still, there was arousal there, if she could just... tease it out.
"I-I'm sorry, there's been some mistake," he said.
"Oh, you're one of those," said Rhonda. "Unwilling, right? Okay, I'll play along." She got up on all fours and said, "Now take off those clothes or I'll take them off for you, meat." The prey's arousal rose considerably, judging both from his scent and from his erection. The disgust was still there in full-force, though.
"N-no, seriously, stop," said Stan, repeating that last word even as Rhonda pounced. His voice got higher and higher-pitched, ending in a shrill squawk as she tore his clothes off with her claws, leaving not a mark on his body. He gawked.
"Now, we can do this one of two ways. You cooperate, we have some fun, or you don't cooperate, and I eat you now. You struggle too much anywhere, I might be forced to get... rough." She grinned, showing off her relatively sharp yellowed fangs, and Stan gulped, stammering that he'd cooperate. "Good," said Rhonda before lifting Stan up in her mouth (earning another squawk) and settling down on her cardboard, depositing him on her greasy gut. The smell hit him like a truck and he gagged. Rhonda directed him to her vagina, and he put it in her without having to be told. Good. So few prey were willing to listen properly, and Rhonda seldom had the patience to deal with them. She moaned deep in her throat as he began to thrust, but soon enough she'd grabbed him, helping him thrust fast enough for her. He came with yet another squawk.
"Squawker, are you?" she said, before getting on all fours and presenting her ass. "Now, let's see how good you are with that beak. Be careful with the damn thing, or I might... retaliate." He gulped and carefully guided his narrow beak into her anus, earning a sharp gasp. He opened his beak, more out of shock that he might have hurt her and earned some "retaliation", and gagged on the smell - and taste - of her bowel.
Rhonda, however, was loving every minute of it. Stan's opening beak had sent her arousal through the roof, and she growled for him to continue, which he did. For some things, you didn't have to be the same species to get the message. Open and close, open and close, Stan hoped and prayed she wouldn't send a turd down his way - the taste of the fumes was bad enough as it was. He was half-surprised to see that he was still as erect as ever.
Finally, Rhonda indicated that it was time to stop that, and Stan did. She lifted him by the wing-pits and lowered his feet into her maw - no anal vore, not with that beak and those talons, and certainly no head-first vore with that beak. She began to swallow, making sure that his feet were clasped together first.
Rhonda's breath hit Stan and he gagged once more, the smell of rancid meat and the acrid smell of digestive fluid doing nothing to turn him off. He climaxed before his member was even in Rhonda's mouth, and the cum landed on her face. Rather than being angry, however, Rhonda just giggled, freeing one hand to wipe it off and wipe it on Stan's back, the part that would soon be on her tongue. He managed an avian grin and she winked at him.
Stan was pushed down Rhonda's esophagus at a quick clip, the musculature undulating around his feet and thighs as he was sent down. He was coated with saliva, and his feet were already in her stomach, coated in bile. The smell grew worse, but Stan, despite finally puking, kept masturbating as Rhonda's maw closed around him. Soon enough he was in Rhonda's stomach, her concentrated acids dissolving his feathers in a matter of seconds. She kept sending him air, enjoying his struggles. The prey eventually settled, realizing that he was now nothing more than another lump of meat churning in a gut that had processed tens of thousand of them in its time.
As Rhonda dozed off, she dreamt of the bayou, where she'd lived until '65, when that fast-talking pimp had talked her out of eating him. She'd always enjoyed the meals she ate, but he managed to convince her for a full eight years that she liked sex better, until she finally ate him. Despite this, she remembered him fondly, so flashy and so good with his mouth.
In '73 she'd been rescued from arrest by Kinky Pleasures' then-manager, Leroy. Johnny had been around, as a sort of assistant; Kinky Pleasures had been decentralized, travelling where the hippies congregated until '81, when it opened up its first permanent American chapter since before the Salem witch trials; this had been in California, until in '93 when it had finally shut down. Leroy had then run a tight-knit operation of back-alley hookups and sleazy barroom pay-offs before finally being cornered in '05, where he was shot to death by police. Johnny had taken over, moving to New York and opening the current chapter, with a side-chapter in Detroit.
Rhonda woke up with a start when her body told her it was time to dispose of the bird. She squatted, and he came out, more shit to add to the tub. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the tub full of former flames before she went back to her cardboard to await the next customer.
Rhonda mused, as she squatted, on the new pred, Zetro. He was a fine specimen - so muscular, and so... wild. Not like these city folk - all too clean, with false flavours and scents. And when she'd done the customary thing and asked if he'd wanted a go with her - Johnny said it was better for business if the preds had sex with each other at least once, for god knew what reason - he'd not only consented, but genuinely enjoyed it. Not that he'd said so... but Rhonda could tell. After four decades of sleeping with people for a living, she'd learned how to detect minute variations in peoples' scents - she could always tell, for instance, when someone was disgusted with her. She delighted in it - she wasn't "Rhonda the Filthy Alligator Slut" for nothing, after all, and she'd learned over the years to glory in it.
After she'd finished disposing of yesterday's meal, she absentmindedly rubbed a hand between and underneath her breasts. Yvette had told her that "big girls" like them could get fungi and all sorts of nasty things growing in places like that, but a quick brushing was usually enough to knock it loose. Enough of it, anyway. Yvette was another good one - as wild as Zetro, and twice the hump. Still, Rhonda wasn't truly bisexual, and there were some things that only a man could do for her.
The creak of the door upstairs was all the warning that Rhonda got... or needed. Despite her size, Rhonda could be very spry, having had this bulk or greater all her life. By the time the prey came into view, Rhonda was sprawled across her cardboard mat suggestively, awaiting whoever it might be.
The prey was Stan, a slightly overweight seagull who worked at one of the city's Burger Kings. His employment had been a stroke of luck, and the suggestive comments he got through the drive-thru intercom had been enough to satisfy his vorish fantasies... until now. He'd finally saved up enough for Rhonda, for whom Johnny charged an outrageous two hundred bucks, purely due to reputation. He reached the basement and stopped dead upon seeing Rhonda.
"Well, are you just going to stand there, or come over here, where it's... warm?" She let off a fart and giggled, knowing perfectly well that whatever his fantasies, Stan was thoroughly disgusted. Still, there was arousal there, if she could just... tease it out.
"I-I'm sorry, there's been some mistake," he said.
"Oh, you're one of those," said Rhonda. "Unwilling, right? Okay, I'll play along." She got up on all fours and said, "Now take off those clothes or I'll take them off for you, meat." The prey's arousal rose considerably, judging both from his scent and from his erection. The disgust was still there in full-force, though.
"N-no, seriously, stop," said Stan, repeating that last word even as Rhonda pounced. His voice got higher and higher-pitched, ending in a shrill squawk as she tore his clothes off with her claws, leaving not a mark on his body. He gawked.
"Now, we can do this one of two ways. You cooperate, we have some fun, or you don't cooperate, and I eat you now. You struggle too much anywhere, I might be forced to get... rough." She grinned, showing off her relatively sharp yellowed fangs, and Stan gulped, stammering that he'd cooperate. "Good," said Rhonda before lifting Stan up in her mouth (earning another squawk) and settling down on her cardboard, depositing him on her greasy gut. The smell hit him like a truck and he gagged. Rhonda directed him to her vagina, and he put it in her without having to be told. Good. So few prey were willing to listen properly, and Rhonda seldom had the patience to deal with them. She moaned deep in her throat as he began to thrust, but soon enough she'd grabbed him, helping him thrust fast enough for her. He came with yet another squawk.
"Squawker, are you?" she said, before getting on all fours and presenting her ass. "Now, let's see how good you are with that beak. Be careful with the damn thing, or I might... retaliate." He gulped and carefully guided his narrow beak into her anus, earning a sharp gasp. He opened his beak, more out of shock that he might have hurt her and earned some "retaliation", and gagged on the smell - and taste - of her bowel.
Rhonda, however, was loving every minute of it. Stan's opening beak had sent her arousal through the roof, and she growled for him to continue, which he did. For some things, you didn't have to be the same species to get the message. Open and close, open and close, Stan hoped and prayed she wouldn't send a turd down his way - the taste of the fumes was bad enough as it was. He was half-surprised to see that he was still as erect as ever.
Finally, Rhonda indicated that it was time to stop that, and Stan did. She lifted him by the wing-pits and lowered his feet into her maw - no anal vore, not with that beak and those talons, and certainly no head-first vore with that beak. She began to swallow, making sure that his feet were clasped together first.
Rhonda's breath hit Stan and he gagged once more, the smell of rancid meat and the acrid smell of digestive fluid doing nothing to turn him off. He climaxed before his member was even in Rhonda's mouth, and the cum landed on her face. Rather than being angry, however, Rhonda just giggled, freeing one hand to wipe it off and wipe it on Stan's back, the part that would soon be on her tongue. He managed an avian grin and she winked at him.
Stan was pushed down Rhonda's esophagus at a quick clip, the musculature undulating around his feet and thighs as he was sent down. He was coated with saliva, and his feet were already in her stomach, coated in bile. The smell grew worse, but Stan, despite finally puking, kept masturbating as Rhonda's maw closed around him. Soon enough he was in Rhonda's stomach, her concentrated acids dissolving his feathers in a matter of seconds. She kept sending him air, enjoying his struggles. The prey eventually settled, realizing that he was now nothing more than another lump of meat churning in a gut that had processed tens of thousand of them in its time.
As Rhonda dozed off, she dreamt of the bayou, where she'd lived until '65, when that fast-talking pimp had talked her out of eating him. She'd always enjoyed the meals she ate, but he managed to convince her for a full eight years that she liked sex better, until she finally ate him. Despite this, she remembered him fondly, so flashy and so good with his mouth.
In '73 she'd been rescued from arrest by Kinky Pleasures' then-manager, Leroy. Johnny had been around, as a sort of assistant; Kinky Pleasures had been decentralized, travelling where the hippies congregated until '81, when it opened up its first permanent American chapter since before the Salem witch trials; this had been in California, until in '93 when it had finally shut down. Leroy had then run a tight-knit operation of back-alley hookups and sleazy barroom pay-offs before finally being cornered in '05, where he was shot to death by police. Johnny had taken over, moving to New York and opening the current chapter, with a side-chapter in Detroit.
Rhonda woke up with a start when her body told her it was time to dispose of the bird. She squatted, and he came out, more shit to add to the tub. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the tub full of former flames before she went back to her cardboard to await the next customer.
Rhonda has the distinction of being Kinky Pleasures' longest-serving pred, a title she had to work hard to earn. In a business where a pred can quickly become prey for a client's discriminating appetite, Rhonda has outlasted, and countless hundreds have met their fate at her rancid jaws. This week, a loser seagull finally gives in to his sexual fantasy, much to the delight of Rhonda, who dispatches such customers indiscriminately. In vore, everyone is truly equal.
Another Rhonda story - I've been feeling like writing about her lately, and I've got another story set up featuring her. I've always been drawn to more disgusting preds, and Rhonda certainly fits the bill on that one. Also an experiment with avian prey, which I haven't used much before. Well, enjoy, comments always welcome.
Please login to post a comment.
No comments yet, make a comment please