Coach Kyln's Cumdump, Ch. 4
Chapter 4: Playing Mare for Him
There is a deviant satisfaction in laying on the floor of the
shower.
Of the various peoples who humanity
now shares the world with – and lives with, as well, in their own world –
there’s always been a vague stigma around the more bestial ones. Some groups
blended readily, like the elves, and even the orcs (who, contrary to
expectations, are closer to sexy muscular exotic-skinned humans than
hunch-backed brutes), while others – dwarfs come to mind, and halflings, and
gnomes – found more difficulty (particularly the men, being so short.)
It's part of what surprised me with Jen,
to go for Marcus, but one of the things I always liked about her was her
tolerance and kindness and generally unique approach to things. Because Marcus,
as a minotaur, was always seen with a certain amount of concern. Same with the
wolf people, or the horse-folk, or the various draconids.
It’s no secret – it’s part of our
education now – that these people have bodies incorporating things that can
only be described as “animal” in nature. Muzzled faces, furry bodies (even if
the fur is so fine that it might as well be slightly velvety skin), scales,
bestial orifices and organs. But even then, even with someone like Marcus, he’s
anthropoid in nature. Or most of him is.
Yet here I am, on the tiled floor,
slowly coming to my senses, with a bloated stomach roiling and churning with
litres of the thickest and richest virile semen produced by a
middle-aged centaur stallion. A centaur, of all things.
Kyln, of all centaurs.
Jesus Christ.
But…but it feels good, feels
fucking great, to be digesting him. To lick my lips and taste the memory
of his monstrous phallus, his salty pre-seed. To sniff and find my face marked,
to get yet-potent whiffs of the older beast’s dominant muskiness.
My belly is still a little distended,
so thoroughly did he pack it with potential foals. I give it a pat and picture,
with a naughty blush, the mental image of trillions of his fat white tadpoles
melting away inside of me, becoming one with my body, the ultimate acceptance
of this dangerous and dominant male of another species.
It makes my cock hard. Makes me begin
stroking myself, finding easy relief as I tug away and recall the sensation of
his erect horse-cock between my lips, and that expulsion of such a volume of
centaur spooge as a reward for my efforts.
I…I want to do it again. Want to suck
Kyln’s cock again.
I’d just wanted to be mounted, just
wanted to sit back and have him pleasure me, but there’s something in the act
of sucking dick, especially when the man being serviced is the centaur Coach,
that I never expected I’d come to desire. Gay, and straight, and all that, is
the least of my worries now.
When his load has sufficiently
settled I rise and shower, get changed into my school uniform, and head to the
train station. It’s a beautiful day, summery and bright, endless blue skies and
a golden hue to all things, and yet my mind is in the gutter. I keep giving my
– much smaller – belly the occasional rub or pat, my own private secret, no
matter who happens to watch the motion.
I know, on some level, that this is
wrong. Coach Kyln shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing, and I shouldn’t be
involving myself in this vulgar disparity of power. He should know better,
should be restrained, should be…
…but he’s not, and I’m glad of it.
I’ve never been so sexually satisfied
before.
I don’t eat much that evening, full – though no longer
showing it – from my earlier meal.
Porn is one of the weird things,
post-merging of worlds. The UK government, prudish to begin with, were caught
between allowing these fully sapient beings to partake in the making of
pornography and in the process allowing the production of content that
previously might’ve been classed as bestiality – at least in some cases – or
otherwise denying the same rights that humans have to cognitively similar and,
in some cases, superior beings on the basis of pre-existing moral norms.
Suffice to say that stuff is still
being worked out. But you can, with the right keywords, find what you’re
looking for.
And…there’s a lot of stuff with
people having sex with centaurs.
Centaurs are interesting, to be
blunt. They live longer than humans by three or four lifetimes, and – rare for
a non-supernatural species from their home realm – are capable of
omni-breeding, able to create hybrids with every other known sapient form of
life. They’re faster than Earth’s horses, and exceedingly strong, despite on
some level appearing to be mere human torsos attached to equine bodies.
Their semen and breast milk are
heavily prized back home, and the latter is slowly becoming a popular – and,
technically, vegan – alternative to dairy milk on Earth, but the “semen
as food” market is going to take a generational shift before people come to
accept it, to say the least. But just as breast milk is highly nutritious to
feed babies, and centaur milk even more so given the size of what they call
“foals”, centaur semen is…well, special. Apparently, centaurs evolved
nutritious and calorie-dense jizz to feed their mares during pregnancy, which
explains a lot about why Kyln’s semen was surprisingly delicious.
No wonder it tasted so good. No
wonder it was so filling.
Kyln’s mare obsession makes more
sense, in that light. A cursory glance at the more sociological and
psychological aspects paints the centaur species as sexually hierarchical,
studs having mares, and to be fed by a male is in a sense to become that male’s
mare, I suppose in the way that some people, who otherwise despise the idea of
having kids, involve themselves in breeding roleplay.
And there’s a lot of stuff focussing
on the consuming of centaur semen and becoming a mare, with a particular market
for it in gay porn. But the males, as impressive as they are, are just not
equivalent to Kyln.
All but a handful have only two
testicles, each smaller than any one of the Coach’s four. Their cocks, while
still massive and bestial, are obviously shorter and thinner than Kyln’s, and
the colouration isn’t as attractive. I bite my lip at the thought, that new
thought, that first-time-ever casual appreciation for the penis of another man.
He…he really has woken something, hasn’t he?
And the appreciation for Kyln’s
unique qualities only deepens as I do a bit of reading, to find that of the
centaurs – and you have various sub-breeds, like zebra types and warrior types
– the stallions and mares, the most virile and fertile of their species, make
up about five-per-cent at a push. And of those, ninety-per-cent stayed back in
the other world, where they more traditionally keep harems.
That such a peerless specimen of
masculinity would pick me as his…as whatever I am…it fills me with a dirty
fluttering of the spirit. I was so ashamed at the beginning of this,
questioning my sexuality, doubting myself despite having a natural attraction
to the centaur stud. It seemed wrong on so many levels, being inter-species,
being old on young, being a mismatch of hierarchical authority.
But the Coach is right, about so many
things. It’s in my nature to submit to him, to be a slut for him, to call him daddy
and fall to my knees and worship his powerful, superior body. There are whole
message boards of human women – and not a lack of human men – who seem to crave
the attention of centaurs, and stallions most of all. And these people accept
that, likely, a stallion will never show interest in them. The competition is
simply too great.
They almost remind me of incels, in
some cases, the way they talk! The hopelessness, the genetic factors, the
“evils” of the way things work.
And yet, here I am, smiling stupidly,
knowing that I have a stallion in my life.
I…want to see him again.
I do as Kyln asked. No packed lunch.
My stomach is rumbling before
lunchtime, but I remind myself that the wait will be worth it. Daddy’s going to
reward me for my efforts. Regardless of whether that leads to him mounting me,
it’s difficult not to be excited for the end of the day. But, as the lessons go
by, and my hunger grows worse, maybe it’ll be wise to eat a bigger breakfast,
going forwards. If…if this is going to be a regular thing. Which…which I hope
it is.
When the bell rings at the end of the
last lesson, I reflexively blush. Will that bell, in time, have a Pavlovian
effect on me? Because, fuck me, I really need to eat.
Everyone else starts heading home,
but I go to the PE block. To the centaur Coach’s specialised office, suitably
resized to accommodate a man of his stature. To that secluded place at the back
of the school, where it verges into the surrounding woodlands, where we can
enjoy our time together without interruption.
The door’s open when I arrive, and Kyln
is stood by the window looking out. Tall and muscular, his black hair, greying
at the temples, falls behind his head in a long ponytail. With arms crossed,
the definition of his broad shoulders, powerful back, and bulging biceps is
impossible to ignore. The centaur’s equid lower half, brown-furred and
similarly robust, shows off his hefty sagging loins when his tail slowly flicks
left and right.
‘Greyson,’ the Coach says. ‘Shut the
door.’
I do as he asks, and lock it for good
measure. Hearing the click, Kyln turns towards me, twisting only his human
torso. The flexibility of that upper portion is impressive, perhaps even more
so than a human’s body. In profile he has the faintest paunch, a frame closer
to that of a powerlifter than a bodybuilder. ‘Did you eat today, sissy?’
Beneath his powerful verdant gaze,
that fear of old returns in a muted form. I’m stricken with a hot flush to my
cheeks, and an urge to lower my eyes, to look anywhere but at the brawny
middle-aged stallion.
‘No, uh, daddy. I did as you
asked.’
Kyln chuckles, the sound warm,
baritone. ‘Good answer, slut. I like the change in attitude. Unsurprising,
really, given how fat that cute little belly was after I stuffed it.’
The mature stud turns fully towards
me, giving me a better look at his salt-and-pepper hair in the form of a thick
mat of the stuff on his chest and his dense close-cropped beard and moustache.
He saunters over to me, the paralysed human boy just inside the entrance of his
office, and puts his sturdy hands on each of my shoulders.
‘I didn’t expect you to show up, to
be honest,’ the Coach says. His male stink, wild and characteristically
cock-twitching, fills my nostrils. ‘You humans are such scared little creatures
in my presence. The only ones of my kind you’re happy to see on your TV screens
are those that cover their bodies and quell their instincts to the point of
being pathetic.’
His frame is so much larger than
mine, so rippling with musculature, broad-chested and cannon-armed, each
movement of his upper humanoid torso resulting in the bulging of some dense
muscle or other. I can barely look at his face, so passively fierce it is, so
smug and proud those vivid greed eyes, coloured the same and every bit as
lawless as the endless green fields that doubtless this man would be a lord of,
back in his home realm.
‘You still scare me,’ I say, eyelids
fluttering in my attempt to meet his gaze. ‘But…but I was wrong before. I…you
showed me things I never want to forget.’
The Coach runs a brawny hand up my
throat, hairy fingers tickling my skin. ‘I felt such pride, to see your belly
swollen with my seed, Greyson. To claim you is my right, and your privilege,
and you realised that yesterday. You looked happy, despite how reluctant you
were when this began.’ He cups my jaw, easily lifts my chin so that our eyes
lock, and my cheeks redden. ‘If we yet lived in better days, I’d keep you for
myself. You’d never stand in my presence, only kneel. Your line would end with
you, sissy, and all our attempts at breeding you would obviously end in
failure. But your life would have meaning, as the personal outlet of a
stallion.’
The mental image of this man, as some
khan-lord in his fantastical home dimension, taking me as some cumdump for his
own personal harem, is at once both fitting and all-consumingly appealing. I’m
reminded, passingly, that the sperm which I tasted, which I swallowed, carried
this stallion’s feral magnificence etched into their genes.
I…I have to resist the powerful urge
to lick my lips.
‘Coach, uh, daddy…’
‘Be my mare, boy,’ Kyln says. His
face has no humour to it. This is serious. This has great meaning in the
dominant mind of this sexily arrogant stud. ‘You know that this is right, slut.
You were clearly made for this purpose.’
I should be upset. Should be opposed.
For all the attraction there’s that other element, that realisation that for
the Coach, this is nothing short of some vital natural order. Handsome as I am
starting to find him, there will never be love here. Affection, in Kyln’s
world, involves the honour of being allowed to service his equid
manhood, and swallowing the voluminous produce of his loins that results. It
might, if I am so lucky, result in being fucked until I walk funny. Or, per
experience, pass out.
But…but…but he’s pushing on my
shoulder. And maybe it’s his musk, or maybe I’m just wired in this terrible
submissive way, but it doesn’t seem so ill a fate. If there’s such a thing as
fate, perhaps this is just mine.
And as my knees touch down upon the
rough carpet of the centaur’s office, the only thought on my mind is that holy
shit his cock is gigantic. It hangs there, half-erect, creamy white and
brown velvet flesh, slick with whatever oils naturally glaze that thing which
ordinarily inhabits his leathery brown sheath. A horse cock. A centaur cock.
Coach Kyln’s penis.
I reach forwards and touch his
forelegs, feeling the raw heat of his mighty body against my palms, and lick my
lips. A thunderbolt of thought strikes, a realisation, an instantaneous desire
that surely I must follow.
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, nodding weakly,
attempting to meet his gaze but failing to look away from that big intimidating
stallion schlong. ‘If it means…if it means I have the privilege of serving you,
daddy. Of sucking your incredible cock.’
His penis, hearing my intentions,
throbs and thickens that much closer to full firmness.
‘It does, Greyson,’ Kyln says. ‘I’ll
teach you the most important knowledge in this life, sissy. The way to behave,
and live well, as befits your station in this world.’
That suggestion, at least, provokes
enough concern to ignore his phallus for a moment and pay the smug smirking
centaur some attention. ‘Befits my station?’
He reaches down and pats my head. ‘Of
course, sissy. The moment you graduate, you’ll move in with me. You’ll cook for
me, clean for me, wash my body, take care of my sexual needs. You’re my mare,
slut. You will do what I want, when I want it. I will sculpt your mind, and
your body, into accepting its true purpose. You were born to be a dumpster for
my cum, and in return, you will want for nothing. Do you understand me, Greyson?’
His baritone voice, harsh with demand,
makes me tremble, makes a shiver run up my spine. I want to scream “no!” atop
my lungs, but as my eyes make their way down his heavily sculpted human torso,
down between his equid forelegs, and set themselves anew upon his
cream-and-brown erection and those huge hanging balls behind it, I’m caught up
in confusion.
Confusion, because this suggestion of
what amounts to voluntary servitude would not so long ago have had me in
something like frantic rage, but it now elicits little more than faint shock, and
even then, it does that poorly.
Would it be so wrong, to become his?
Since that Friday, my hopes to find a girlfriend, my attention towards women
generally, has been muted. And since yesterday, since sucking his mammoth horse
cock for the first time, I’ve not even thought of girls. Not even Jen. Not even
the girl I thought that I loved.
My entire focus has been, without a
moment’s failure, Coach Kyln.
Coach Kyln, who is a stallion
centaur, who is so much older than I am, who has the biggest dick I’ve ever
seen, who has the largest balls I’ve ever seen, who shoots the most voluminous
loads I’ve ever seen. Would it be so wrong to be his, to belong to this man? To
have an easy life, and to be his fuck-pet, and to tend to his ever-present
needs?
I…I felt so good, yesterday. Enjoyed
blowing him so very much. Enjoyed the taste, the smell, the sensation of his
ejaculate, the feel of it as it bloated my belly to the point of distension,
utterly packed with his hot fresh sperm as I was.
I’ve been looking forward to this all
day. I…
‘I understand,’ I say, wetting my
lips, silencing my doubts. ‘I’ll do it.’
The Coach snorts. ‘You will? So
easily?’
I nod slowly, stroking my hands down
the fine fur of his front legs. ‘Nobody else can give me what you do. Nobody
can compete with you, daddy. Beyond your ego, you know I’m not wrong.’
The centaur’s tail flicks about, and
his cock drools. Praise results in bodily outcomes, even if the smug smiling
face above will never truly own how pleased he is to have me say such things.
Kyln musses up my hair. ‘Impress me,
sissy. Take care of your stallion. Be a good little mare.’
Nothing more needs to be said between
us. Those remaining doubts, problematic though they may be, get lost in the
shadow of my rising lusts. I crawl forwards – of course I do – and the stink of
his wild manhood singes my nostrils with its humid potency, the lance of equid
meat radiating heat and musk into the space beneath the centaur’s horse body.
There’s something lasciviously
impersonal about servicing a centaur in this way. No eye contact, no
interaction at all with the human upper half. He could so easily focus on
anything else in the world and leave me to it. Perhaps they did, back home.
Perhaps it was not so uncommon to have a suck-slave tending to a beast like Kyln
while he went about his other daily functions.
Daddy twitches as I take him in hand,
throbs against my palms. He bucks needily, tail swishing, as I size up the
turgid equine erection. Thicker than my wrist, the vein-laced pole is
ridiculously long, its flared all-but-blunt glans drawing the full attention of
my eyes with its cum-vein’s intriguing protrusion in the cleft below an
overhanging upper prominence of thick cream-and-brown glossy flesh.
To hold his penis is wonderful. To
take big inhalations with my nose, to fill my head with his tangy bestial musk,
only makes it better. And to lean in close, so near that the thing warms my
face with its proximity, makes me grin.
‘Fuck yeah,’ I think aloud, so lost
in arousal that I don’t truly register myself say it. Kyln, if anything, makes
a sound of approval, but that might be because I begin the act with a wet kiss
upon his goo-slicked crown. ‘Mhm.’
His cock-flesh has no right to be as
pleasant as it is, so pearly smooth against my intrepid lips. The centaur’s
glans eagerly spreads its sticky salty oils across my mouth, the merest contact
eliciting a generous helping from his flare-helmet’s eyelet. I lick my lips,
dirty grin growing deeper as a result. Delicious.
Crazy to think how scared I was just yesterday,
and now, so eager. Somewhat selfishly eager, yes, but I cannot ignore how his
horse tail flicks, how low grunts emanate from that smug mouth, and how his
throbbing lance strains at my hands, veins bulging and broad crown oozing
tastiness.
‘Good mare,’ Kyln says, rich voice
pleasing on the ear. ‘Good little sissy mare. Take care of your mate.’
I will. I want to. ‘Mhm. Smooch.’
I run my tongue around the broad
flared tip, the thick band that rings his glans apparently extra sensitive,
given how he trembles. A gooey wad of pre-seed drools out and I slurp it up,
loading my mouth with saltiness. And then I find myself hesitating, unsure. I
pull back and take in the full vista, wondering quite how to proceed.
‘Daddy,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to rush
this.’
The Coach chuckles harshly. ‘I
thought you were hungry, slut?’
‘I am, but…’
He shifts his hips, cock dancing left
to right ahead of me, and thrusts just enough to smack my cheek with the
swollen flare, splattering it in his oily juices. ‘Come home with me after
school tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Spend the weekend with me. Get to know your
future.’
The thought of being in his presence
for two whole days provokes another mixed bag of hopes and worries. I’d be so
fucking full, all of the time.
‘Daddy, I–’
He thrusts through my hands, by luck
or talent slamming straight into my briefly open lips. That dangerous lance,
intended for nothing more than sexual warfare, easily barges clean into my
mouth and spits a fat quantity of his lubricating stickiness across my tongue
and right at the back of my throat. God, he tastes so fucking good. It’s even
better when it just drools out straight onto my tastebuds.
‘Mumph.’
I begin moving back but before I can
push off of him, Kyln shifts his body, and highlights our ridiculous imbalance
in terms of physical might. I’m forced downwards as he drops his front half,
rock-solid cock bringing me along with its movements and entering the tightness
of my throat with worrying ease. My insides so readily accept him, so
comfortably accommodate him, welcoming his manhood as if it belongs inside me.
‘That’s it, you little slut.
You–ugh–fucking cumdump.’
Kyln grunts, and drives his raw heat
into my gullet. A slick, sloppy sound escapes from the sordid and sudden union,
echoing back at us from the walls. A sexy noise, a vulgar addition to the
grunting and groaning of the older inhuman man.
‘Glugp. Schlup. Glugp.’
I’m pushed back against his
downturned underside, forced onto my haunches beneath him while his upturned
backside pumps and thrusts, searing horse cockmeat driven back and forth
between my lips and deep into my throat. The sensation of fullness, of being
orally skewered, makes me shiver and tremble. It shouldn’t feel so good. So right.
Ahead of me, against a backdrop of
summer sunlight, his heaving nuts sway and swing, back and forth which each
powerful shove of his hips, angled towards me. The centaur’s tail swishes side
to side, his happiness accentuated by the sheer dominance of the face-fucking
he’s delivering me. I put my hands on his back thighs, digging into the furred
muscle, but it’s useless. By cock alone, he has me pinned. I’m at his mercy.
‘Glugp. Schlup. Glugp. Schlup.’
The filthy sounds coming from my
mouth pair with the full fire that stretches my throat and make my dick hurt,
the arousal causing it to strain against my boxers. Spit dribbles down my chin,
mixed with his flavourful precum, as my throat radiates with the sheer warmth
of his impressive length and its deep, powerful excavation of my insides via my
face.
His manhood flattens my tongue,
tasting salty. It strains my lips, the fat flare long past but the core breadth
of his penis is sublimely thick by itself. Back and forth it goes, rough and
uncaring, treating my face like little more than a pussy, to be ravaged and
ploughed. I’m not a person here, not really. And…and…I might like that.
‘Don’t you–ughn–ever ask to slow
things down again,’ he says, grunting, exhaling forcibly. ‘Your place is to serve,
mare. To be–ugh–the caretaker of my loins. To be the–ughn–cum-drunk little
sissy nature intended you to be.’
God, I’m fucking dirty. The fiercer
he is, the more vulgar his demands, the more turned-on I get. To watch his big
beautiful balls swinging and wobbling, something about their shifting ever so
appealing, and to feel the fire of his lance as it goes back and forth in great
lengthy thrusts, makes my dick hurt with need.
I can’t hold back, can’t stop myself.
I take a hand off of his thighs – useless that such a gesture is – and
frantically pull out my cock.
‘That’s it, sissy,’ Kyln says. ‘Wank
yourself off while I–ughn–fuck your face.’
He chuckles viciously, and gives me
an uncaring slam that forces me against his underside, swinging his bloated
bollocks so close to my face that I get this faint breeze, perfumed with
loin-musk and animal potency.
‘Glugp. Mhm. Schlup. Glugp. Glugp.’
Yes. Do it. Fuck my face. I shut my
eyes and lose myself in the pleasure of it, the raw presence of his penetrating
lance, the musky – and growing richer by the minute – tang of his virile loins,
the saltiness of his abundant precum.
I stroke his thigh with one hand and
stroke myself with the other, mouth sloppy with our combined juices, torso
pleasant warm with his sublime male presence deep inside of my gullet. God, I
wish I could see myself. Wish I could see how depraved we must look, this mere
human and this pinnacle of manhood stallion, the older and greater treating the
younger and lesser like a mere pocket pussy.
‘Mhm-hm. Glugp. Schlup. Glugp.’
‘Do you have any idea how–ugh–satisfying
it is, making you look pregnant?’ the Coach says. ‘You truly are a born mare,
sissy. It suits you so well, being fat and gravid with my–ughn–foals.’
Yes. Feed me. Do it, daddy!
‘Mhm-hm.’
Kyln chuckles. ‘Good little mare. The
enthusiasm will get you far.’
As he enunciates the last word in his
low baritone manner, the centaur slams so deep into my face that I’m forced to
open my eyes in shock. All is darkness, the world gone, replaced by sweaty
humidity and the sheer presence of engulfment that in some vague senese is
familiar.
Thwap. Thwup. Thwap. Thwup. Thwap.
His…his…Jesus Christ.
Kyln’s balls are buffeting my
chin, bouncing heavily with each of his – now slowed – pumps and thrusts, his
all-too-close underside enveloping my world with such ease, smothering my world
and pinning me inescapably. I shiver and shudder, the sloppiness added to by
the meaty impact of his great heaving loins driving my perverse mind to
filthier depths.
‘Ughn. Such a slutty sissy mare.’
I want what’s in them. I want his
genes. I want his sperm inside my belly. I want to look pregnant with this
stud’s recipe, I want to taste his thick creamy load. I want to be his. Want to
be his mare. Jesus. He must be right about me. This feels so natural.
‘Glugp. Mhm. Schlup.’
Thwap. Thwup. Thwap. Thwup.
How can I be this filthy? God, they
feel great. The weight of them, the sagging swing, the way they slap and
spring against my bare flesh, the front pair being driven forwards by the rear
set to flop against my cheeks while the latter settle for smothering my jaw.
All the while the second of his thick
bands of tissue, that of the leathery sheath, presses against my lips. I must
have several feet of centaur cock inside of me, and that alone is a
disturbingly fantastical thought. The rules really did change, didn’t they?
Thwap. Thwup. Thwap. Thwup.
I groan around his dick as the
welcome cloying tang of his testicular musk and the warm damp presence of those
great sweaty loins, not to mention the sound of something so sordidly sweet,
drives me within a few moments of orgasm.
‘Cum,’ Kyln says. ‘Cum, you pathetic
little slut. Milk your meagre human cock while a true specimen prepares to seed
your belly. Ughn. Cum for daddy, you slutty little mare.’
His words are enough to go on. His
voice, in my ears, so deep and powerful, and the sloppiness of my mouth, and
the meaty slapping of his balls, finish the job. I shiver and tremble, starting
to bust a – for me – particularly heavy nut, and the Coach makes a deeply
appreciative sound.
‘Mhm-hm. Glugp. Mhm. Schlup.’
‘Ughn. Little fucking cumdump.’
There’s a new heat, something above
and beyond his incredible penis. My stomach starts to roil, and the first
thought, cutting clean through the haze of orgasm, is: no, I want to taste it!
But Kyln holds himself steady, cock
throbbing and pulsing away, straining my lips and pumping a thick virile stream
of delicious centaur seed straight past my eager tongue and right into my
hungry belly. I grumble, moan pleadingly, but amidst his grunts of pleasure the
old stallion only chuckles.
‘I decide these things, slut,’ he
says, with surprising lucidity. ‘Ugh. You take what you fucking get. Do as
you’re damn told.’
And I try to find pleasure in it, do
indeed find pleasure in it, but still long for the better end. I want to please
Kyln, want him to be happy, but…it seems almost wasteful, for his delicious
semen to miss my dutiful tongue so utterly.
I’m not sure how long we stay locked,
my belly slowing growing, bulging out with his produce. Eventually he does
retreat, standing aright and freeing me, and like a frantic starving fool I
reposition to get his generous crown round between my lips where it rewards me
with a healthy helping of thick, rich, salty spooge.
‘Mhm-hm. Mhm.’
The stuff comes out in heavy pulses,
gravid with his seed. It sticks to my mouth, plasters my tongue, easily covers
every inch of tooth and tastebud. God, cum shouldn’t taste so good. The inhuman
virility of this bestial man is too much. I…I think I–
But before I can settle back into
enjoying it, Kyln pulls back and topples me, jamming a hoof on one shoulder.
‘That’s all you get. Lick the rest of your–ughn–body.’
The sensible thought, in beholding
that engorged and seed-spitting length, is to worry about my uniform. To worry
about washing it. To worry about staining it with thick musky centaur cum. But
the slut in me, the seed-slave the older beast is cultivating, wins out.
I watch that beautiful cock throb and
swell and then spit, slinging fat white ropes of man-milk all across my shirt
and blazer, the odd bit hitting my face. The equid cock, the bloated balls
behind it, swell and pulse as they deliver me my reward.
‘T-hank you, daddy,’ I say, mad with
lust. ‘Thank y-ou!’
The Coach chuckles as I scramble to
scoop up the warm produce of his centaur loins, collecting frantic handfuls of
his gooey gluey load up in palms and smattered across my fingers, devouring it
with reckless hunger, surely embarrassing myself if I had but the smallest lick
of self-respect remaining in me.
‘That’s it, mare. That’s a good
sissy. Don’t miss a drop.’
I coat my tongue with his semen,
putting his foal gravy where it belongs. This my privilege, being his mare.
This is right, and natural, and so, so good. To taste and savour the thickly
rich nut-butter of the powerful stallion, the creamy produce of his intensely impressive
lance, is something divine.
‘Mhm. Schlup. Mhm.’
I have no shame, eating like a pig,
gorging as he splatters me, marks me as his mate. The thick white ropes spurt
down, covering me, covering my clothes, a ridiculous contrast to the meagre
load my own ball released.
And yes, there will be stains. And
yes, I cannot help but stink now of cum, and not mere human cum with a fainter
smell but this musky male produce of an inhuman body with inhuman virility.
That must be part of it, surely. The psychological thrill of claiming me like
this, of degrading me, of marking his territory.
God, it’s hot to think about. To be
the subject of this depraved stud’s fantasies.
And when the last of it is done, when
his final shot produces a heavy splatter intended right for my face, I stick
out my tongue to catch as much of it as possible, and then lick hungrily around
my mouth for the rest, collecting up whatever misses with frantic and
now-sticky hands. I’m past caring, past concern.
The Coach chuckles, moving away from
me. It is, at least, a warmer sound. ‘What a cute little cumdump, sissy. Such a
dutiful mare. Stinking to high heaven of me.’
He plants himself down, sitting like
a horse, parallel to my body. And with such easy strength of those powerful
arms, the older man hoists me onto my backside and positions me such that I can
lay against his flank, amidst the warmth and surprising comfort of his sturdy
equid lower half.
‘You can lay there for a while,’
Daddy says, stroking my head. ‘Digest me, slut. Your body’s finally got real
sperm inside of it.’
I nod dumbly, eyelids heavy, world
blissful like it was yesterday. ‘Thank you, Daddy. So good. Mhm.’
Kyln chuckles. ‘You will come
with me tomorrow. I may not teach you much at school, but you’ve a lot to learn
in my presence.’
All I can manage, resting against his
body, is more pleasured moans.
‘Good boy,’ he says. ‘We’re making
good progress.’
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