Hans The Chicken Fucker

Story Excerpt

The lantern’s flickering glow barely pierced the heavy shadows of the chicken coop, casting jagged streaks of light across the straw-littered floor. Hans Müller knelt in the corner, his broad shoulders hunched, his breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts. The air was thick with the earthy musk of feathers and guano, a scent that had long since become a trigger for the heat pooling in his gut. His rough, calloused fingers trembled slightly as they moved with obscene precision, sliding along the warm, slick cloaca of the hen he held gently but firmly in his lap. He’d named her Klara, a name whispered now under his breath like a lover’s secret, as the delicate vent pulsed under his touch.

Klara’s small body shifted, a soft cluck escaping her beak, her glossy feathers brushing against Hans’ wrist with every subtle movement. The texture was maddening—soft down giving way to the damp heat of her opening, tight and yielding as he probed deeper with a single digit. His finger curled slightly, exploring the snug warmth, feeling the faint quiver of her inner muscles. A low groan rumbled in his throat, his free hand steadying her trembling frame, pressing her against his thigh to keep her still. The sensation was electric, a forbidden intimacy that sent a shiver racing down his spine, his arousal straining painfully against the rough denim of his overalls. Every slight resistance, every tiny contraction around his finger, fueled the fire in his core, a primal need that drowned out the world beyond these creaking wooden walls.

“Mein Schatz,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust, the German endearment rolling off his tongue as if Klara could understand the depth of his obsession.

His dark eyes, half-lidded with desire, traced the curve of her feathered back, the way her wings twitched instinctively under his touch. He imagined she felt it too, some unspoken bond, a connection beyond the physical—an illusion he clung to as his finger worked deeper, slick with the warmth of her body. The taboo of it, the sheer wrongness, only sharpened the thrill. It was a secret carved into the silence of this barn, a deviance no one else could ever grasp. His mind flickered briefly to the first time he’d given in, a stolen moment years ago with another hen, the rush of guilt quickly buried under raw need. But tonight, with Klara, it was different—purer, hungrier.

The coop around him was a cocoon of sensory overload. The rustle of other hens stirring in their nests, their low clucks a background chorus to his transgression, mingled with the creak of old timber as a cool draft seeped through the cracks. Outside, the Black Forest loomed, its endless darkness a mirror to the untamed urges