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Ficced in the Ass by the Handsome Living Award-Winning Archive (Who is Also a Dinosaur)

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"And the award for Best Related Work goes to…"

All around me, cheers erupt. People are smiling, clapping, laughing—and all I can do is sit there, stunned, helpless and betrayed.

How could my own peers have done this to me? To us? How could the World Sexy Science Fiction Society have betrayed its roots as a dignified and serious organization with so little protest?

My lip curls. My palms are sweating. The Ass-chive of Our Own, being awarded a Huge Hole award? It’s a thought far too ludicrous for even the strangest sci-fi—and now it’s happening here, right in front of me.

My best friend, Burg Nugbus, is clapping enthusiastically next to me. I grab one of his thickly-furred bigfoot arms to stop him.

"Reginald? What’s wrong?"

"How can you clap for this?" I hiss.

He frowns. "Why wouldn’t I? We should all be celebrating their achievement. They’ve worked hard."

Celebrating! "There’s nothing to be happy about here," I grit out. "We celebrate pounding, Burg, the craft and the art of it! Not… this."

When I first heard the Ass-chive of Our Own being talked about in my Huge Hole circles, I was certain it was a joke—a collaborative butt that anyone can pound? It’s fine for those silly, unserious pound-lovers out there, I suppose… but people like myself and Burg should be above using something like that. There’s nothing dignified, nothing exclusive or well-crafted or stunning about a butt that can be pounded any which way; it’s a mockery of everything the prestigious Huge Hole award is for.

Burg’s furry brow is creased in confusion. He lowers his voice to a low rumble as the first of the delegates for the Ass-chive of Our Own begins to take the stage. "What’s gotten into you, Reginald? I thought you loved pounding! Haven’t you and I spent all our lives working to help everyone learn the magic of their preferred pound?"

"That’s different," I say. I point to the clean lines of his tweed shirt, the elegant gold of his wire-rimmed glasses. "We’re dignified buckaroos, Burg. We know the art of the pound. The people up there"—I gesture towards the stage, where one of the beautifully erect Huge Hole awards is being forfeited into the hands of those fools, its proud length gleaming despite the filthy fingers clasped around it—"you don’t know what they do! I looked up the Ass-chive, saw some of the pounds that collaborative butt took… those people use fingers and wands and dildos! Wax and electricity and paddles! Ropes and leashes and ginger roots! There’s been tentacles up that award-winning butt, Burg! Tentacles!" I suck in a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice low. Already, the people in the rows ahead of us are turning around to look at me. "I want to help people find their preferred pound, Burg—but I want them to prefer the right pound. Don’t you see?"

Surely, I think, my heartfelt speech will make Burg understand… but instead, his warm bigfoot face goes cold and stern and strict. "I do see, Reginald. I think it’s you who doesn’t."


He turns to face forward once more, blatantly ignoring me. "We’ll talk later. For now, I think it’s best you wait outside."

I can’t believe it! Burg Nugbus, my bigfoot buddy, brother buckaroo in the beautiful bountiful boon of butt-pounding… betraying me! My heart aches, and for a moment I want to apologize—but then I catch sight of the stage once more, and the absurd pseudo-pounders standing there. My resolve firms.

"You’re right, Burg. It’s better this way."

And with that, I turn and leave the hall. Whispers ripple out behind me, but no one else is brave enough to take a stand.

Outside the hall are displays showing, proper, dignified pounds: a unicorn pounding a human while both of them stare, frowning, into the middle distance; a rock hard king reaming his beloved knight in the instance before the cold indifference of the grim medieval universe they live in claims them both; a nihilistic alien wrecking apathetic ass…

The pounders of that communal butt could never appreciate the beauty of these. And right now, my heart shattered by Burg’s cruel words, neither can I. I press my hands against my face, unwilling to look at these works of art, and flee to the bathroom.

There, at least, I’m safe; the sinks are simple white tile with nothing suggestive about it, and the pound-themed images on the wall are simple kitschy prints that have no artistic value and claim no prestige. I sigh, the tension finally dropping from my shoulders, and bend down to splash cold water onto my face.

"Ass-chive," I mutter angrily as I do. "Don’t they understand what’s going to happen? Those people will burn the Huge Holes to the ground if we let them. They’re no better than rabid dogs!"

"Au contraire, my buttoned-up friend," rumbles a low, sexy voice from behind me. "I think I’m quite different from a dog."

My knees go weak at the sound of that voice. But this interloper’s a fool if he thinks he can distract me from the truth like that. I whirl around, my cheeks flushing red, and shout, "How dare—!"

Halfway through my shout, I choke on my words. There’s nothing I can think to say in the face of this: the hardest, handomest dinosaur I’ve ever seen in my life.

He’s standing against the far wall of the bathroom with his arms folded across his chest, and wearing nothing but a pair of thick denim jeans. Under layers of feathers, his rock-hard abs ripple. One side of his mouth tilts up in a crooked, beaky smile as he sees my reaction to him.

Oh, I think, entranced, looking at the play of brown feathers across his massive biceps, the long and equally-feathered tail hanging out from his jeans, He’s even scientifically accurate.

"Who…" I ask. "Who are you?"

Surely, with a pound-partner like this I could show Burg true dignified pounding, make him finally understand…

And then the sizzlingly handsome velociraptor breaks into a full and fully toothy grin, and I realize.

"You! You’re that website! You’re the communal butt that everyone and their dentist has been lining up to pound!"

"I prefer collaborative," preens the raptor, "but yes, you’re right." He catches my gaze with a playful stare. The simmering heat in his eyes holds me in place and sends an equally powerful heat down my spine. "And you… Reginald Smythe, wasn’t it?"

"That’s me. And I want nothing to do with you, you—worthless lizard."

I wish it were true. Oh, how I wish it were true! But both myself and the Ass-chive can hear, clear as day, the waver in my words.

The Ass-chive licks his dinosaur lips. "You say that, Reginald—but when I was first nominated, there was one name in particular I saw pop up again and again… browsing my chapters, stroking my tags, clicking my kudos over and over and over again—!"

"No!" I snarl at him. "You liar! I’m dignified, I’m not—!"

"You looked up fingers and wands and dildos!" he roars, steamrolling right over my pitiful objections. "You searched for wax and electricity and paddles! You clicked on ropes and leashes and ginger roots! And tentacles, my good, buttoned-up man, the tentacles! You couldn’t get enough of watching my collaborative butt taking those collaborative tentacles."

Tears spill over my cheeks roll down my face. I feel so weak, so shamed. "Please…"

To my surprise, the Ass-chive’s face gentles. He takes one taloned step forward, being sure to leave me room, and pulls a tissue from his pocket to pass from me.

"I’m sorry," he says softly as I blow my nose into the tissue. "I didn’t mean to upset you. Your preferred pound is your preferred pound, after all—that’s the way of proving love. I just… I’m so confused, Reginald!" He looks at me beseechingly, his handsome velociraptor eyes wide and soulful. For the first time, it occurs to me that I’m not the only one who feels hurt today—the pain in those beautiful, crystalline, chocolate orbs is too obvious to ignore. "When I first noticed you exploring me, I thought I’d found a new true-blue buckaroo… but you don’t want to be my bud at all, do you? Everything you said today—I’m just a disappointment to you. Aren’t I?"

"That’s not," I start, but of course he feels this way—how could he not, after what I said? "It’s not like that." I shake my head. "It’s true, I liked seeing your way of proving love… but it’s not proper pounding, is it? It’s not serious, dignified, experienced pounding. You have amateurs pounding you, day in and day out! You can’t possibly enjoy that!"

"Of course I do!" he retorts. "I do, and it’s wonderful. I’ve had tender poundings and brutal poundings, inexperienced poundings and expert poundings, quick fast poundings and long drawn-out poundings. All poundings are beautiful in their own way."

"But they can’t be. There’s a craft to it." I frown. "Now that you’ve won, no one will take the art of pounding seriously anymore! What if amateur butt-pounders hear about this and think they can claim to be experts, just because they touched a finger to your rim once?"

"Oh, Reginald," the Ass-chive sighs. "Is that what you’re worried about? The craft?" He takes one more step closer, and then—slowly, gently—wraps his muscular, feathered arms around me. I can’t help but relax in the embrace of his soothing and erotic bulk. The scent of his thick dinosaur hits me then, and I shiver. "Your dignified way of proving love is powerful. I’ll always respect it and the World Sexy Science Fiction Society. But it’s okay to like all kinds of pounds. Everyone who loves to pound should pound in the way that makes them and their poundees happy. There’s room for all of us at the orgy." He winks. "Metaphorically speaking."

I’m not so sure I want it to be a metaphor. The heat that I’ve been trying to hold back rises in a wave of lust at the Ass-chive’s words. "It it really true?" I ask. "Can I pound in an undignified way and still be a respected World Sexy Science Fiction Society member?"

The Ass-chive’s eyes twinkle with mischief and hope both. "Well," he says, pressing his mouth so close to my ear that I can feel his breath puff over me, "I’ve got two options for you. One is that we both leave this bathroom and pretend like nothing ever happened here."

My heart quavers. "And two?"

"Two is that I pick you up right now and pound you up against this wall"—he points to the wall behind me—"this wall"—he points to my left—"this wall"—now to my right—"and that wall"—he jerks a thumb over his own shoulder—"until you can’t stand up straight."

"All four walls?" I gasp. "Couldn’t that be dangerous? What if something breaks?"

The Ass-chive gives me a daring dinosaur bad-boy smile. "Want to find out?"

"Yes," I admit, finally able to say it out loud. "I do! Pound my butt, Ass-chive of Our Own! Shish-kebab my gaping hole on your majestic dino-cock!"

"That’s the spirit!" roars the Ass-chive delightedly, pulling me forward until I’m pressed against his denim-clad meat rod.

I can feel his erection even through the denim, but something about it is… strange. Powerful. I grope his crotch, feeling carefully at the shape contained there, and can’t hold back a sharp cry. "Ass-chive," I ask, "Is that a rocket ship in your pocket, or a Huge Hole Award statuette? Or are you just happy to see me?"

His tongue snakes out past his lips in a display of primal lust. "We’re well into the world of science fiction by now," he says. "Why can’t it be all three?"

And with that he grasps his jeans between his powerful raptor claws, and tears them apart to reveal his proud, erect rocket rocket ship of a cock.

"Amazing," I groan.

He winks at me. "Been this way since 1953, baby." He pauses. "Well, except in 1958. 1958 was an experimental year. Good times."

"Experiment with my needy ass!" I beg, throwing myself forward into those beautiful claws.

He tears the clothing from my body as easily as he did his own, then lift me up like I weigh nothing to position his erection between my cheeks and sinks right in. I moan, deep and needy and wanting, as his dinosaur rocket ship award of a rod sinks right into me until I’m bottomed out and can feel the fins pressing against the inside of my ass.

"Is that okay?" he asks gently. "Are you feeling good?"

"Yes," I groan, trying to slide up and down on his cock with what little leverage I have. I want more, need more. I never knew a pound in a bathroom could feel so perfect.

It’s silly, to be fucked on the award statue cock of a handsome living archive who’s also a dinosaur. I know it’s silly. But I'm discovering that I love it anyway, with all of my heart and butt—because being passionate about something makes it wonderful, I finally realize, no matter if it’s dignified or not.

There doesn’t have to be a schism between dignified and undignified, I realize, because both of them can coexist at once in the same person, or bigfoot, or handsome living archive. That’s inner harmony. In fact, the entire concept of dividing pounds into dignified and undignified is missing the point entirely!

"Oh! Oh, oh, oh!" I shout and moan as the Ass-chive fucks me roughly—first up against the wall beside me, then the one to my left, then the one to my right, and then finally he presses me up against that final fourth wall, the one that had been behind him as we argued, and fucks into my tight needy hole some more. "Please! Fill me with your space ship load! Fuck my ass full of velociraptor cum!"

The Ass-chive moans as he pumps into my tight, needy butt. His breathing is hot against my neck; his muscles ripple with every thrust, giving my own cock wonderful friction against the layers of feathers there. I’m leaking precum onto the smooth downy feathers of his stomach, so much that I feel sticky with it.

"I get it now," I murmur into the recess of his dinosaur eardrum, "the meaning of what we’re doing here today."

"Isn’t it wonderful?" He gasps back, still sliding in and out of me with incredible force. "That’s the beauty of being the Ass-chive. Anyone can pound me, expert or amateur, buckaroo or ladybuck or nonbuck"—he arches one eyebrow ridge, staring into the middle distance, at the space somewhat might be watching us if we were being watched—"and by nonbuck, of course, I’m intending a portmaneau of nonbinary and buckaroo, not saying that anyone could fail to qualify as a buckaroo."

"Of course," I agree, and then, with a creaking groan and the snap of wood and plaster and pipes, the fourth wall of the bathroom gives way behind my back.

We tumble, head over heels over tail over claws, my beautiful living archive velociraptor lover’s spaceship cock still firmly seated inside me, and as the ground comes up to meet us I feel a tightening in my stomach, a jolt in my cock—

We come, the Ass-chive and I, as we hit the floor of the hallway outside the men’s bathroom. For a moment I almost feel as though I can sense an audience, faraway and ethereal—some of them delighted, some disgusted—watching from some strange place I can barely comprehend, and then the ringing in my ears clears and I realize that what I'm seeing is the attendees of the Huge Hole convention, standing in a loose circle, all of them staring down at the naked and plaster-dusted figures of the Ass-chive and I bound together here on the floor.

"What?" asks one attendee, their voice sounding strange to my ears after the dinosaur baritone of the Ass-chive. A murmur ripples through the crowd.

"Wait," I beg, "please…"

For a moment I want to tell them this has all been a mistake—that I’m dignified, that this isn’t me—but then I square my shoulders and raise my head high.

"Please!" I say. "Please, if you haven’t given the collaborative butt-pounding project a try…" I rest a hand on the Ass-chive’s flank, "I highly recommend it. It’s not wrong to be passionate about your pounding! It doesn’t make you less dignified! And"—I smile at the velociraptor next to me—"I've finally learned that thanks to him."

For a moment, there's silence—and then the deep brassy cheer of a bigfoot call echoes through the crowd. "Yes! I agree! Let’s all pound and be pounded in our own preferred ways, my friends!" My heart soars when I recognize Burg’s voice.

One by one, the Huge Hole crowd takes up the cheer, and then the party begins in earnest.

In one corner of the conference hall, there’s space for those who would prefer not to pound today; they discuss drinks or movies or other pounds that won Huge Holes of years long past. In another corner, those who’ve already pounded to their heart’s content sleep off the day’s wild entertainment.

And there, in the center… there are fingers and wands and dildos. There is wax and electricity and paddles. There are ropes and leashes and ginger roots. And, of course, there are tentacles.

The Ass-chive is the life of the party, but his presence has freed people to love their various pounds in the ways they never could before; we pound without dignity and without shame.

When I’ve finally reached the limits of what my butt can take, I migrate to the corner. Burg finds me there, and when I reach up sleepily for him he lets me curl my fingers into his thick bigfoot chest hair. Normally I'd be getting ready to attend the Huge Hole Losers Party by now, but this year every single one of us is a winner.

"This has been wonderful," Burg grumbles happily. "I’m so glad for what you did today, Reginald."

I smile. I’m too tired for more pounding right now, but I curl up around his muscular form anyway. Maybe later, once I’ve got my energy back. I so want to see what pounding my oldest, handsomest bigfoot friend will be like now that I’m not afraid to let loose.

"And tomorrow," he adds, "we can use my lawyerly bigfoot powers against the people who are actually profiting financially in inappropriate ways from off of the name and shape of the Huge Hole Award."

And what a good shape it is. I nod vaguely, eyes already half-closed. "That’s what we should have done… in the beginning."

From far away, I can hear the complaining of a dissatisfied guest—"Is that a Final Zone II quote? Seriously? I knew breaking that wall was a terrible idea, someone tell me who the hell thought that was an accessible reference"—but already my eyes are falling shut, my breathing is evening out.

I fall asleep there, curled up in the arms of a bigfoot buckaroo.