After breakfast I was still standing there with morning wood pushing out of the sheath, and Mum and Dad both laughed the same way they always do—“your eagle’s coming out again.” I just flicked my tail, grabbed the lube off the shelf by the wooden station, and walked the short garden path. The last user had already pulled the removable fake vaginal sleeve out of the hole and left it in the wash basin; I rinsed it, slicked the inside and the rim with a thin coat of lubricant, then slotted it back in. Stepping up, paws on the box, I eased in. The first stretch pulled a low breath out of me—warm, tight, nothing dramatic, just the body finally getting what it had been asking for since I woke up. A few unhurried thrusts, the morning sun on my fur, two neighbours passing on the stone path without even slowing down. When I finished I stepped aside, popped the sleeve out again so it could be washed, and nodded to Dad. His turn next.