tagNonHumanMare Minding

Mare Minding

byAmethystMare©

This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.

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Mare Minding

Flicking my tail, I munch from the hay bar in the back corner of the roomy stable, my head lowered to eat naturally. It's much better than my usual hay net and I approve of the decision to install a hay bar within easy reach of my shorter stature. Not that I would object to a hay net, of course, as long as it is stuffed full with fresh, sweet smelling hay. The stable is quiet and all annoying two-leggers have left for the day. That is good. I prefer that they leave me alone to my stable and my field and my peace. A black Shetland pony doesn't need anything more than her own attentions, particularly when she is season.

Well, some attention is good but only when I want it, don't get me wrong. I like teasing the stallions and flagging my tail at them, especially when the stable door is open, secured with only a rope to stop me wandering as I please. Such a silly idea. Sometimes the stallions are led past my stall and they prance and prance, letting me swing my hind quarters around and wave my tail at them. Instinct tells me to do it yet I nevertheless feel a flicker of pleasure as they peel back their upper lips and drop for me. They're never the right studs for me though and are hauled away, regardless of who wants to breed who. But that's no problem to me, that kind of attention. It's simply irritating to be fussed over constantly. Perhaps the lanky horses - inferior to us ponies - enjoy prolonged fussings. Why, they even let two-leggers get on their backs and make them work. What lunacy is that?

The hours roll on and the last of the liveries leaves the yard, slamming the car door loud enough for my ears to flick in its direction. So disruptive. Have they no mind for my peace and quiet? Apparently not. Some of them have little mind for anything.

There are footsteps approaching. My ears prick and I turn my head expectantly towards the stable door as the top bolt slides back and it swings outwards. I am keen to not appear too eager, however, whoever it is. Something like that would not do.

Ah. It is the bringer of food: my two-legged horse owner. I have many names for him, including 'stable pest', but this is the one I have currently given him. It is fitting as my owner is carrying a black rubber tub of feed in both paws, those strange things with hard tips that could have been hooves a long time ago. Poor thing, not to have proper hooves. He doesn't even stand on hooves like me or some of the other horses with two legs. Peculiar things.

He pads into my stall, lips pulled back in that smile two-leggers are fond of. He looks ridiculous. I snort and turn away to make sure he knows this. Wearing his usual loose 'stable' jeans - or so I have heard them called - and a blue 'check' shirt, he drops the bucket at the stable door, pushing it to the side with a booted foot. My lips quiver and I want to lean towards the food, taste the sweet grain on my tongue. It belongs in my stomach and I need it now. I nicker and stomp, though the straw annoyingly muffles the sound. I'm proud of how many words I know but 'food' is the most important one of all.

Conceding, I swing around to the rubber bucket and drop my muzzle to feed, shoving it in deep to dig out delicious chunks of apple and carrot. I snort, the scent of food overpowering me as I chomp noisily, tail swish, swish, swishing. I feel my owner's eyes follow it and know his attention has dropped lower to what nestles beneath my tail. He runs his paw down my back from withers to rump and I lean into his touch, if grudgingly. It does feel kind of nice, even if I will not admit it to him. He gets cocky when he thinks I need him. But the two-legger should know that every mare can take care of herself.

Except for treats. He should always bring me treats.

He picks up a brush from mare knows where - sometimes there is one hidden behind the water bucket - and grooms my coat in long, sweeping strokes, getting into the rhythm. Against my will, I nicker into the bucket, digging out the sweetest treats before devouring the grain mixture in great, big snatches and mouthfuls. My jaws work around the deliciousness as he grooms my body, avoiding my neck for the time being. I suppose it's because my head is thrust into the bucket but it annoys me all the same that he is missing one of the best spots. What pony wouldn't want her neck scratched and groomed? Why, it should be demanded, not forgotten by their hapless owners.

Jerking my head up from the bucket, I feign a bite at his thigh, pulling back at the last moment. It is more a threat than anything else but it makes him stand up and take notice. I pin my ears back to my head and raise a hind hoof, playing the toe on the stone floor. Better grooming! Now! The two-legger just doesn't get it sometimes. He has to do it right.

He chuckles and scratches my withers with his rough fingertips.

"Quiet there."

His voice is slow and melodic, a stable drawl rolling from his lips. Yet I have heard it all before and it has no effect on me. If I could have done so, I would have rolled my eyes. I can't do that though. That annoys me too. Yet there are other ways to convey my displeasure and I have no worry about that at all.

The two-legger puts the brush aside and, taking advantage of the respite, I nuzzle the bottom of the bucket, licking up the last scraps of grain. My feed is too small again. I swear he is trying to starve me, he must be. What else could that silly horse be trying to do? I look at my bucket and then up at my owner, squealing. Surely he must know that he has underfed me?

My owner pushes his black forelock out of his eyes and smiles again, lips pulling up. I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me think that he has something on his mind and, frankly, even a mare in season can tire of all the stallions making eyes at her. They all have the same eyes and eager, questing lips. Sometimes it can be nice. Other times...well...what's a mare to do? It's what we do.

Dropping to one knee at my side, he runs his paw down the inside of my leg to the fetlock, lifting in a smooth motion. Obliging, for a stone has been aggravating me for some time, I lift my hoof for him and let him dig a pick into the clump of mud nestled between hoof and frog. I lick my lips. Maybe he isn't so bad after all. I could warm to him if he gave me enough good attention like this. As the stone is removed, I heave a sigh of relief, muzzle dropping lower. Leaning on my owner, I let him continue his work without complaint or interruption.

He takes care of my other three hooves in like manner and, if I must be honest, I warm to his touch, pushing into him without resting my weight on his shoulder as I am usually apt to do. It is funny to see him grumble and step away to make me stand sensibly. I repeat the move several times while he tries to keep his balance, just for my own entertainment. Unlike picking out a taller horse's hooves, he has to kneel to sort mine in comfort as he no longer likes to crouch for longer spells of time. I sometimes wonder why.

When he is done, he scrambles to his feet, boots scraping through straw. He puts the hoof pick aside and quickly secures a head collar around my nose and over my poll, too swiftly for me to voice an objection. And I sure have objections to that halter!

"Come on, darling, time to get going."

He pulls the lead rope taut and walks away, expecting me to follow. Though I resist for a moment, I feel that I have no choice and walk behind him with a lowered head, mouthing at the lead rein. Stupid horse, thinking he can take me wherever he pleases. Stallions.

Taking me presumably to the paddock, Fuzimir hums a tune as he leads me through the deserted yard with no car other than his left behind. We are well and truly alone, my owner and I. I don't use his real name often in my thoughts but it's who he is to me; there's no reason to make it anything else. Though 'bringer of food' is still a better name for him in my eyes.

The gate to the paddock swings open at his touch and we step inside, me giving him a dirty look as I pass. I pull at the lead rope, eager to be off - may as well be with so much fresh, luscious grass all around - and he obediently unclips the rope, letting me roam with the head collar still buckled. That doesn't matter though as it isn't really much of a hindrance to me. You can usually forget it's there.

As I lower my head to the grass and snatch up greedy mouthfuls, my owner drops the lead rope and moves closer. Though he is easily ignored, I twitch at the touch of paws on my withers, running down my spine to my hindquarters as if he was grooming me with his fingertips. But there is no dandy brush or curry comb in the field to tease out knots from my mane and tail. He briefly disappears somewhere - I am focused on the grass - and comes around to my head with an armful of hay, which he places with due reverence in front of me. Satisfied with the tribute, I turn to it over the sweet grass and chomp deliciously, jaw and tongue working to push it down my throat. It is better in my stomach than before my hooves.

I eat quietly, tail flicking, as Fuzimir rests his chin on my backside with a light giggle that sounds like a filly's first whinny, shrill and grating. He snorts breath over my hindquarters, ruffling up my tail, and I shift my weight from hind hoof to hoof, swaying against him as he shuffles in closer, paws sliding down the backs of my hind legs. He nuzzles under my tail and I instantly flag it high, my body beyond the will of my mind as he snuffles over my suddenly winking sex.

Ah. So that is what my owner is again after.

I'm at the tail end of my season but the body wants what the body wants. I huff softly and satisfy myself with eating as he laps over my teardrop sex, my tail hiking up further at the familiar teasing sensations. It is as if it only takes the lightest of touches to get me as ready and eager as a mare in her first season, though less flirting is required when my owner wants me as we are so familiar with one another.

I sigh wistfully, remembering my first season. Oh, what a time that had been. I had winked for all the studs and driven a whole stable wild with desire for me. One of the stallions had even kicked down his stable door in an effort to reach me. He had been a quarter horse, however, and restrained before he got within ten feet of me. A pity, really.

My owner dips his tongue into my passage and I quiver, attention upon on hay. It is distracting really, to be bothered while I am eating. Can't he leave it to later. Like a stallion of my four-legged kind, the natural sort, he whuffs breath over my sex, lipping at my folds as if to test my readiness. He knows how to treat me by now - we have performed this dance many, many times before. And, oh, I am ready. Bracing my legs, I think of a stallion leaping on to my back, his shaft driving into my folds, all for the act of foals. My ears flick back and then forward again as he lingers, teasing my sex. Why is this stallion not as ready as I am?

As if reading my mind - perhaps this one has known me for long enough after all - he scrambles to his feet and rests his paws on my rump, jeans slipped down to reveal his horse cock. For a pony, it's a good size, and I tremble as the head rubs over my folds, muzzle still dropped to the pile of hay. There is no sense in wasting good food. While I eat, he can have his way with me. I chew a flake of hay as his cock slides over my rump, moisture from my sex slickening the underside of his shaft. I won't need any more preparation than this. My body sorts that part out for me as soon as a stud is in range. I pay him no mind as the tip presses to my entrance. Let my body take care of that work. I am hungry.

He slides in smoothly and I grunt, shifting my weight. It is nice to be filled again but hay tastes sweeter than this coarse, quick pleasure. Leaning on my hindquarters, Fuzimir groans deep in his throat, a lusty sound that I sometimes hear from other, bigger studs. He rumbles softly as he starts to thrust, long, languid strokes rocking my body so that I steady myself with a slightly more spread stance - nothing like what I would have to do if I had a stallion upon my back. He runs his paws down my back over and over again, massaging, as he rolls his hips, flat cock head spearing good and deep.

The hay is very sweet today.

Now, don't get me wrong, I enjoy coupling as much as the next mare, but it's such a chore when you come right down to it. Being in season makes me want to wink at every stallion in a ten mile radius and it's no doubt that this one wants me every time the yard is deserted: funny thing that. I'd really just rather have my hay and let him be done with it, thrusting and thrusting until he spills his seed in me, deep enough to ensure a foal is sired this time. My tail flicks, slapping his abdomen with a thick swish of hair.

Yet the stallion keeps going and going, thrusting for far longer than it would take one of my kind to get off. Huffing through flared nostrils, I lip at the hay, starting to lose interest. There isn't enough of it. Why hasn't he given me more? He snorts and pushes deeper into me, the full length of his shaft pressing in. It doesn't stretch me and is almost quite comfortable just sitting there, my walls twitching around it. Resilient as ever, he drives in with a grunt and draws back with a groan, tail lashing the air as if he is gearing up for a great hurdle. What is up with my owner today? He's not usually like this. And why isn't he done yet? Get on with it!

Shaking my head, I sigh. Just what is taking so long? Can't he just finish mounting me good and hard and get it over with already? This stallion takes too long about his damn job!

A flicker in my body makes me jerk my head and stiffen suddenly, the mating going on for far longer than is natural for an equine like me. Something is different this time, stirring along my skin and deep in the pit of my belly. Unknowing, I shift my weight and lift my head from the scraps of hay, blinking back at the stallion with a screwed up muzzle pounding away at my rump. He looks like he's concentrating very, very hard. Is mounting a mare so difficult for him? My owner doesn't usually seem to have this much trouble with me. His fingertips dig into the muscle of my hindquarters and I nicker, muzzle bobbing in the air.

It feels...good?

Grunting, I push my hindquarters back at my owner, tail flagged high. I don't think it will drop if I want it to. Though I must say that I am still most annoyed at him for taking so long about the business of making foals, this development itself is...interesting. I think I will see it out rather than launching a kick into his stomach. Not that I would ever do something that crass. I'd get one of the colts to do the deed. The extended mounting strokes a greater need in me and my whole body quivers as he pounds me, heavy, heady breaths washing over my rump.

It can't be long now, although I don't know what exactly I am waiting for or expecting. This is all new. My stallion stud has not lasted for this long before. I lick my lips and roll my head to the side as the tickle builds and builds like pressure from a hose, the sensation nearly too much to bear. What is this? His thrusts come more quickly with a sense of urgency behind them. He is close to finishing himself, I can feel it. I hope he doesn't spend himself before I see this to the end, whatever that may be. He has my attention now. Whickering softly, I rock with his thrusts and half-close my eyes, letting the pleasure envelop me, skin quivering.

Something is coming! I don't know what it is but I take a deep breath and steady myself, my owner's long, driving thrusts increasing the tension. Every muscle in my body tightens and I duck my head down to the grass, body striving to contain what I don't understand. Fear flickers for the briefest of instances at the unknown but then I don't have any inclination to think at all.

I throw my head back as it hits and I am sure the whites of my eyes are showing. Caught by muscles I no longer control, my passage spasms and clamps down roughly on Fuzimir's cock, drawing him in and crudely hurling him over the edge. Neighing loudly enough that he would have been spotted had anyone else been on the yard, he shudders bodily and empties his balls in my cunny, a warm splash of stallion seed that makes me tremble in this state. The throbbing 'good feeling' tingles over my skin as if I am covered by a million flies - good flies - and my owner moans, collapsing over my hindquarters in a daze. He blinks and shakes his head from side to side as if to clear water from his ears, muzzle gaping soundlessly as his cock slowly softens. I huff and rock back into the lingering thrum of 'good feeling', yet one is as spent as the other this time.

Breathing heavily, I look at my owner and mate for the evening. Who would have thought a stallion could do that to a mare! Panting for breath, Fuzimir nuzzles my hindquarters in what he thinks is a loving manner and lets his softening cock slip from my passage, drooling cum down my back legs. Not a bad show for a stallion, I must say.

Back in the stall, my owner grooms the knots from my mane and tail with his fingers as I drink water from my full bucket and settle in my mind what has just occurred. And I know it doesn't matter as he scratches my neck with a familiar paw. It simply felt good. Very good. Exceptionally good. My cunny still feels funny as if it has squeezed down too hard on a large cock. I don't mind the feeling at all. It's a good reminder. I want to feel that again!

Looking up at my owner, I roll my eye ever so slyly. The poor horse doesn't know what he's in for, oh no he doesn't. He cannot know, for it is of my design.

Fuzimir certainly can visit me again...

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