People keep daring me to write absurd love stories and, by gum, I shall deliver.
Her voice was chirping music throughout the sunlit home. Hearing it, even from her far-off perch on the bathroom sink, was a highlight of her days. It was hoarse now, after all these years, but she sang all the same, her joyous concert echoing through the halls. The dog had many options for amusement and made no secret of his preference for this one, bounding through the halls with the singing plastic duck and pausing regularly to savage it further.
Dove was impressed that it had lasted this long. Mallory’s body was riddled with holes and a few chunks were missing, and her decorative bowtie and eyes had long since lost their color, but her voice remained, and her concerts made every day better.
Not that Dove was much more of a catch. Her life had been long and fruitful, in the soap dish, keeping her owner’s hands clean, but age had taken its toll. She was a fraction of her former self, flat and sharp, her curves long faded into the past. She missed them, but seeing the signs of how long she had kept her saponified vigil upon this room did not bring her sadness. It was an honest life and she was proud to have lived it, to still be living it. But it was lonely, and she wanted Mallory.
The two were doomed to rarely meet. From the earliest day of watching Grumpus tear into her, back when her colors were bright and her hide unmarred, until now, Dove was smitten. Mallory’s every squeak awakened something in her, something primal and energetic and desperate. But Grumpus rarely took his chewing sessions in the bathroom, so Dove had to enjoy that dulcet hymn from afar, reminding her always of the beauty that could never be hers.
Until it was.
Owen brought Mallory to the bathroom absolutely pungent with something vile. Was it rot? From the look of things, Grumpus had managed to get Mallory sticky with animal drippings, likely from a carcass outside. It wasn’t like Owen to bring that to the bathroom, but here he was, and here she was. Grumpus remained excited as Owen turned on the water and grasped Dove with his other hand. Was this moment truly happening?
It was. Owen brought the two together under the warm tap, its bubbly rhythm a perfect pulse to go with the heart-pounding sensations to follow. Dove rubbed against the filthy Mallory in slippery, ecstatic congress, sinking her substance into the loud toy’s every crack, pore, and crevice. Her body dissolved into the one she so desired, filling her interior and coating her plastic skin, each molecular caress an escalating rush. Mallory squeaked with each flex, taking in soapy water and expelling it, her body pumping in compounded delight. The scrubbing was furious, intense, beyond mind and body as all thought failed and the sensation filled their nerves. Owen put special effort into the most difficult of Mallory’s crevices, driving a new eruption of pleasure between them, the encrusted filth of unwashed years adding a special dimension to this glorious encounter. Dove and Mallory lost track of how long it went on, the rhythmic pounding of the water and the frantic rubbing of Dove’s expending body into Mallory’s interior. It was eternal, it was beautiful, and it was far too short.
Owen left Mallory and the tiny sliver that remained of Dove in the soap dish to dry, and Mallory seeped with water from deep inside herself, her body relaxing after the many squeezes of the day. Dove was a shadow of a shadow of herself, what remained of her too small and too spent to endure the post-coital soak in Mallory’s drippings for long. This would be her final act, and she had no regrets. Watching her poultry comet of a lover recover from the experience, she thought her final thought:
At last, my love, we could be…squeaky clean.