AnonxSammy5

"Oh, come on, Anon, it wasn't *that* bad," Sammy laughed as you both walked through the door to your house.

 

" '*Oh come on*' " you intone mockingly. "It was *terrible.*"

 

"If you say so~" Sammy says airily, shutting the door with a paw and giving you a little shove.

 

"Taking me to see **Catbirdemic** on my day off," you grumble, lurching into the living room. You peel your shoes off and collapse on the couch.

 

"Want a drink, mon pute?" he calls from the kitchen.

 

"Sure," you say. He has all sorts of pet names for you; some griffonian, and some.... French. You don't even know why they speak Cajun french in the Griffon Kingdom, but somehow, they do. You really need to get around to learning what he's saying...

 

After a few minutes of relaxing on the couch, letting the frustrations of the day ease out of you, you hear Sam put something on the coffee table. You look up, and it looks like his idea of "a drink" is pouring a soda into a glass.

 

"Really?" you say, incredulous. You give him a cockeyed glance as you take the glass from the table. Sammy returns your sarcasm.

 

"Yeah, really," he says, his voice dripping with derision. "Just trust me, okay?" he says, taking a sip of his own soda, the glass clinking against his beak. You're not really a soda guy, but whatever. It's cold, and you just walked a few miles in the spring heat, so anything will do. You lift it to your lips and take a sip. There's a tiny hint of the over-saccharine sweetness you've come to expect from Equestrian cola, but what you weren't expecting was the veritable paint thinner the griffon seems to have dumped in the glass. You hack and sputter, coughing for a moment as the rough alcohol runs down your throat. Luckily none got in your sinuses.

 

"What the hell!" you choke, setting the glass down.

 

"Are you ok?" Sammy asks, genuinely concerned, giving you a pat on the back, half out of condolence, half trying to help you get the liquor down.

 

"Yeah," you manage. "But what the actual fuck?"

 

"It's only 150 proof!" Sammy exclaims. "Nothing too strong!"

 

You manage to bark out a laugh between coughs. You knew Sammy liked to drink, but you didn't know he liked to drink *that* much.

 

"How did you even mix them?" you sputter.

 

"About sixty-forty," he says, nonchalant.

 

"That's like..." you begin, doing some mental math. "...Forty-five percent pure alcohol!"

 

"Forty-five percent *good* alcohol!" he cries in response.

 

"At 3PM on a Sunday?" you say, finally able to breath normally.

 

"When better?"

 

You ponder that for a moment. Really, you only have one day off, and you do have to get up early... So Saturday night and Sunday afternoon are probably your best bets for any debauchery.

 

"I don't really know," you offer meekly.

 

"Come on Anon," Sammy says, turning stern now that he sees that you're alright. "I made you a drink, now finish it."

 

You stare at the glass, which seems to have swollen to the size of a tankard. Inside lay a concoction more powerful than medical-grade cleaning agent. And your boyfriend expected you to drink it?

 

Well... He'd humored you when you tried to cook new dishes, or improvised in lieu of a crucial ingredient you forgot to buy, so you ought to humor him.

 

You pick up the potent drink, you arm trembling. Sammy takes a sip of his own. You close your eyes and take a sip. You hold it in your mouth, your taste buds protesting every second.

 

"*Avales,*" Sammy says softly. You don't understand what it means. You swallow, feeling the warm, vaguely acidic sensation run down your throat and into your stomach. Unlike most drinks you've had, it doesn't feel warm in your stomach. It doesn't roil, but as soon as it leaves your esophagus it feels more cold than warm. You look at your boyfriend again, wondering if you are done. You can see in his eyes that you're not done until the glass is empty. He casually drains his own glass, which seems a lot smaller in his claw than it does in yours, all the while maintaining stern eye contact. He raises an eyebrow.

 

"Are you mild, peekon?" he asks.

 

Trembling, your arm lifts your glass to your lips, and you finish the whole thing in two gulps. You can feel the cells being flayed off the skin of your mouth as it goes down. Finally finished, you hand the glass to Sammy.

 

"I have reevaluated the situation, and I conclude that you're not mild," he says in a deadpan tone. "You're WILD! Bouilla!"

 

He puts down both glasses and holds your head in his claws as he presses his beak onto your lips. You melt for a moment in his big griffon kiss, savoring his approval. You guess that this must be some sort of griffon manliness test. Sammy breaks out of the kiss, but still holds your face close to his.

 

"Anon, *tu m'excites*," he says. "*J'ai envie de toi*."

 

"Dude," you say, beginning to feel the first stirrings of the drink in your head. "What?"

 

Sammy kisses you again, more briefly this time.

 

"I love you," he says in a low voice. "Let's *fuck*."

 

You can't argue with that. But you need to peel yourself away from your boyfriend so you can... Prepare. You ease yourself out from under Sammy, who by now knows what's up, and scuttle away to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Sammy occupies himself by taking a couple gulps of the paint thinner he calls rum. No sooner have you finished with all the important stuff, you hear a thump hit the door. Outside you can hear purring.

 

"*Tu me rends fou la,*" he groans, scratching at the door. You still have no idea what he's saying, but damn, he's good at saying it. After a few minutes, you can feel the booze really hitting you hard, sailing right past a buzz and coming to dock somewhere in tipsy territory. You open the door and fall into Sammy's arms. He squeezes you tightly; you can feel his soft feathers against your skin, and you can feel his rising cock pressing into your stomach. You pull your hips back a bit, then wrap your legs around one of his.

 

"*On s'envoie en l'air?*" he asks.

 

"Just shut up and fuck me, bird!" you whine.

 

"*Oh, Anon mon amour, je vais,*" he said in a sultry tone. He falls down on all fours, leaving you laying down on your back beneath him. He gently let your backside fall down as he motions for you to flip over. You oblige and wiggle with excitement, the booze making you feel like it's the first time all over again. Sammy teases you for a few moments, before slowly plunging himself in. You can feel his warm balls rest on your cheeks as he pushes in as far as he can manage. He leans down to you and whispers in your ear.

 

"Tu etes parfait," he says, almost too soft for you to hear. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, and in your state, you try to bend backwards to kiss him. You don't have much luck, but you feel him kiss your sloppily on your cheek as you try.

 

Sammy begins to pull out, and push back in again. He's slow at first, feeling how you respond. Normally it takes a few strokes, but it seems the alcohol has relaxed you completely; you quiver from his touch, but you try to push yourself onto him further. He appreciates the effort, and slides his claws under your hips. Insodoing he falls face-first onto your back, but he doesn't seem to mind, instead pushing with renewed enthusiasm. He pulls your ass up into his crotch with his claws, bracing his back from holding himself up with only his neck and back legs.

 

"Oh, Sammy," you moan, feeling him begin to tantalize your spot. Just a *little* farther down.... OH! He's randy, but he knows what he's doing.

 

"*Tres bon!*" he says in a strained voice, obviously having a hard time talking through the pleasure, exertion, and alcohol. He grunts in satisfaction with every thrust, thanks in part at least to you synchronizing with his thrusts. His claws, cool and hard, squeeze your hips harder. "*Tres bon!" he repeats.

 

You feel like he's pushing you to climax the entire time, but for some reason, your body won't let you go over the edge. Maybe whiskey dick is a thing for bottoms, too.

 

"Sammy, please, baby, let me finish" you moan. He hears, and shift his arm so that it's holding your hips in to him by itself, and maneuvers his other claw around to *your* penis, which was in that wonderful, half-erect state it gets when you're about to have an anal orgasm.

 

"*Juste une minute, mon cher,*" he grunts. *That* you understand. He squeezes it and teases it, which sets you stiffening.

 

Sammy can't hold it any longer, and begins to cum into you.

 

"Desole, je ne peux pas-" he starts to say, before you cut him off.

 

"Oh!" you shout as you begin to orgasm in time with him. His throbs sent you over the edge, and now you're having a low, slow-rolling orgasm that squeezes him long and hard. You quiver in between pulses, and Sammy pulls you in close to him, pressing down right where you both want. He involunatrily spasms, pushing himself into you, harder and faster than you expected. Your eyes open wide for a moment, not sure whether it's pain or pleasure that he's given you. After a full second, you recognize it as pleasure, and intense pleasure at that.

 

"Anon..." he says, nearing the end of his stamina. You squeeze him one last time, longer and harder than before like the climactic 'Amen' at the end of Mozart's Lacrimosa. He shudders and collapses, falling off to your side. He tears himself from you in the process, giving you one final pulse of warm, radiating *sex* before you collapse next to him. He says something to you, but you're too enraptured to hear it, making incoherent noises in response after being fucked silly. He chuckles and pulls you close into him, kissing you on top of your head. You snuggle down in his chest feathers, feeling warm and content as your cocks grow soft against each other.

 

"Nous ne devrions pas plus baiser sur le tapis," he mused. You hug him tighter.

 

"You talk too much," you say in a small voice, enjoying the afterglow while enjoying the warm sensation in your head from Sammy's goblet of pure alcohol. Maybe his test of manliness wasn't so bad after all. "Is that a griffon thing?" you ask.

 

"Hm?"

 

"Is finishing all that alcohol a griffon rite of passage or something?"

 

"Oh, no. I just think you're cute when you're drunk," he says, hiccuping. Your temper flares for a moment, but you cool off as fast as you got mad. You squeeze him in petty revenge. You bury your face in his feathers and do your best to scrunch like ponies do. He tickles your back with his talons and wraps a wing around you. He gives you another kiss on the head.

 

"Do you... Uh.... Want to watch a movie?" Sammy asked. You open one eye and glare at him.

 

"I don't trust your judgement, film degree or not," you grumble.

 

"But it's about a chef who-"

 

"Done. Shut up. Done."