Lisa didn’t set out to ruin her new dress or her reputation, but sometimes sacrifice had to be made. Duck needed feeding.

She found the plump creature at the edge of the pond. “I won’t say no to your grain,” he said, “but I’d much prefer a taste of your juicy quim, your succulent cunt.”

“That so?” questioned Lisa. “What about Fox over there?”

“Him?” scoffed Duck. “He’s well over the hill. I happen to know he hasn’t had a bite since Gingerbread Boy. When his advances become overly pesky and pestiferous, I simply flutter out to the middle of the lake. Scrawny old Fox ain’t the swimmer he used to be. I doubt he lasts the winter.”

“That’s sad,” said Lisa.

“Nature’s way,” replied Duck. “Now how about you and me get it on? You’ve heard the expression ‘fuck a duck.’ Let’s make like Leda and the Swan.”

“Hmm,” Lisa replied. “I’m not Leda and you’re no Swan.”

“Do please take pity on me,” Duck entreated. “Since hunters gunned down my missus last fall, I’ve been so lonely.”

Lisa gave in. “Very well, but if we’re going to do the deed, I’d prefer to preserve my clothing. And why bruise my back on these hard stones when there’s a meadow of sinfully soft grasses not five hundred yards east of here?”

Duck agreed to the terms of the tryst, and truth be told, the fuck turned out to be a feast. Lisa came a good half-dozen times, each coaxing Duck closer and closer to orgasm’s divine precipice.

When it came, the climax was so powerful, the ecstasy of it all but finished Duck. Sated, indeed paralyzed by the pleasure, he succumbed to Fox without whimper or struggle.

Lisa and Fox celebrated long into the night.