Valeford doesn’t have a whole lot of canon. But among those things that are canon are these: he’s gay, he’s a dockworker who lives by the sea, he keeps mostly to himself, he does art as a hobby, he has a drinking habit, he sweats, and he eats mostly fish. You can pick a few things from that, but most of you have already figured out where I’m going: Valeford STINKS. In a way I often describe as “fish stored in an armpit.”
Most of his days after work, he spends a couple hours at a nearby bar for a drink. Sometimes with coworkers, sometimes alone, lost in thought for a while before heading (or stumbling) home to toss a fish on the skillet for a simple yet satisfying meal. Then it’s another drink, some scrawlings on paper, a new cum stain on his recliner after a good jack-off, and then bed. Rinse and repeat. Shower is optional. Er, “suggestible,” is a more likely term. Or would that be “a fleeting thought”? I guess “just a tall, pristine fixture next to the toilet” would be best, if we’re going for accuracy.
Valeford may sound he doesn’t get along with people, but he does make friends along his hazy road! Many of them, he makes at the bar, or on the way from it when his judgment is as impaired as his eyesight. One of his FAVORITE encounters, however, occurred one day while deciding dinner was going to be whatever he can scrounge together at the bar because he was in no condition to handle anything more complicated than a doorknob.
He navigated his way to the restroom to piss out the last four drinks, opting to just drop his pants to the floor because zippers can be quite difficult by then! But in walks a little two-and-a-half-foot-tall stoat, who’s immediately hit with a SAVORY aroma. It was so tart, so heady, so fishy, so humid, and so very, very MUSKY! The little mustelid HAD to find it!
Following the sound of a thick stream of fluid punching toilet water, the stoat curled his long neck to peek under a stall occupied by gray, scaly feet, and, judging by scent wafting from under the door, what he presumed must have been a CLOUD of the sharp stench. At first, he figured the feet would belong to a lizard or dragon, but they ended up belonging to a bird! A seabird, to be more precise, leaning over wearily with one big brown wing planted against the wall as a seemingly neverending stream of golden piss poured out of him into the bowl.
But the aroma was coming from neither the bowl nor the stream… it was that tail. That bushy cluster of feathers adorning the underside of his brown-and-white-striped tailfan, but they were in no way fluffy. No, they were unkempt, curled, matted, and grungy, clinging to each other in twisted, pointy clumps, like gutters of avian sweat dripping from his anal crevice. In fact, a murky droplet of that fetid sweat sparkled in the dim light of the dingy restroom, juuuust waiting to fall from the osprey’s filthy crissum…
So the sneaky stoat, unimpeded by any manner of barriers to get a noseful of pungent tail, used the sound of urine splattering to mask the clattering of his claws on the tiles as he crept under the door to the stall… he arced his neck upward toward the seahawk’s feathery butt… riiiight underneath that hanging droplet of under-tail sweat… and lost his composure.
That very first breath flooded his nose with a thick coating of bird stink like a knocked over paint can atop a wall. This bird was RIPE! Even if he couldn’t see it, there had to be a fog of musk permeating from this osprey’s ass fluff, one that was punchy and thick with DAYS worth of vinegary avian sweat, warmed and meshed with greasy down for hours on end then steamed with body heat, reapplied over and over and over again! The fishiness of his diet was more than apparent in the lowtide tones of the odor wafting out from the grizzled plumage, and it lulled the stoat into a dream without him even needing to sleep. What he needed was as much of that feathery funk as he possibly could take before the stream could end, causing his quick sniff to turn into a sharp draw of air into his little nostrils… one loud enough to make the osprey look over his shoulder.
It took a moment for the stoat to break out of his musk-induced hypnosis before he noticed he had been found out. Usually, in this situation, the long fuzzy sneak would be screamed at, kicked at, grabbed by the neck and tossed out like a bolas. But instead, the osprey spread his legs further apart, hoisted his tailfeathers higher up, and exposed his anal pit all the way down to his moist, glistening, puckered, invitingly-winking anus tucked deep inside.
“Yeh gotta ged thad nose ALL th’ way in there. Th’ GOOD stuff izz ON th’ hole.”
It was a slurred, drunken mess, but the stoat didn’t need a single instant to second-guess the message. He THRUST his snout DEEP into the osprey’s thicket of foul, unwashed, grimy rump plumage and crammed his nose FIRMLY against the seahawk’s shitter. As bird-ass sweat that had stewed in tangled fuzz to the point it was a salty, bitter oil rained on his white-fuzzed snout, the stoat’s black nose drew in a breath of thick, raunchy air that may have been trapped against the hawk’s sticky anus for months. The pure, raw, unfiltered stench of osprey asshole wafting into his nostrils was like flicking on every breaker switch of a rave pounding in his mind. It was as if he could smell flashing colors and throbbing sounds, and the olfactory region of his brain was was dancing to them.
“Is he just toying with me? Or is this REAL?” thought the stoat the moment he could even manage to form words in his head. But before he could even ponder his next step, the bird towering over him bent his legs and pressed down onto the stoat’s nose to firmly grind his slick, smelly sphincter against its two flared orifices.
“THAAAAAS th’ spot,” babbles the osprey, rocking his hips back against the stoat’s sniffer. As the rank, sweaty scum coating the bird’s asshole was scraped into the stoat’s nostrils to be snorted and spackled all along the interior walls of his nasal passages, the sound of the osprey’s dribbling urine stream raining on tiles and fixtures was suddenly accompanied by an additional spattering of liquid-- one of mustelid semen spraying against porcelain and linoleum. That’s ALL it takes to make that stoat’s pink rocket blast off.
Needless to say, it was one of those rare nights Valeford didn’t go home alone, and one his recliner was saved another cum stain. That’s what happens when you’ve found a better chair.
www.youtube.com
www.youtube.com
