Welcome to the Horse Fair

Someone laughs. Someone cries.

Then still.

A sharp tug of my elbow and I'm moving, moving, moving, distance, direction, space, time, loosening, contorting, and then dislocating. Again, a brush of a hand against my cock, a squeeze of the balls, and my heart runs frantic and untamed.

This is new. It's never been like this. This is new. Never before.

Hood pulled tight, stretching my neck back in a sharp curve. Someone pushing me forward, stretching me over, hands, knees, face against soft leather.

Exposed, someone strikes my ass cheek. I yelp. And again. I yelp. Someone laughs.

'Fucking fag.'

Hands pull at my cheeks stretching me wide. I can feel the chill of the air against my crack, my ass. Someone spits thick drool, I feel it drip onto my cheek and then trickle along the crease of my ass crack. My hole winks.

'Nice,' someone says.

Wetness against my taint and then someone is lapping at my hole and I can feel my flesh thrum with static charge, my cock hardens, and I begin to open up.

'Needy cunt,' someone whispers, except right in my ear. A finger pressed sudden and deep, to the knuckle and beyond. I wince with an intake of breath.

'Tight,' someone says and I'm being lathered with lube.

'Grease him up,' another voice, close by and in front of me. And I wonder if it is the Stable Boy with the blonde ruffled hair.

I feel myself tremble. Tremble with anticipation. Tremble with fear. Tremble with desire.

A second finger, but rough. Then a third. It's too much and, without thinking it, I pull away.

'Hold him,' someone says, and hands against my shoulders pressing me in place.

'Open him up,' the same voice, or perhaps another, and more hands, this time on my ass cheeks, pulling me wide, exposing my hole.

Far off, someone groans long, low, and plaintive, perhaps with pleasure, perhaps with pain, perhaps with neither or all.

'Fag, you'll thank me for this.'

More lube, and three fingers again and he's proved true, this time I take it. With a stretched out whine, I take it. And he's turning his hand, wiggling his fingers, stretching me out, opening me up.

Out there, somewhere, a slapping sound punctuated by percussive grunts. 'Ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh,' or something like it.

'Fuck yeah,' the voice distant, far off.

The crack of flesh against flesh, loud, and someone cries out.

'Now he's ready. Hold him,' says my Stallion, and time slows to a steady drip.

Then his cock against my hole. He feels thick. Fat even. Too big for me to take at the first. And he's pressing, the pressure of flesh against flesh. Muscle resisting muscle. The pressure, the dull discomfort, and then a pop and a flash of pain.

I hiss through tight teeth.

'Steady, boy.' My Stallion is patient, my Stallion is kind, my Stallion knows how to fuck. He holds it, the head is, what, maybe an inch, stretching my hole. I try to relax, but I can feel my ass muscles involuntarily tighten.

'Fuck,' says my Stallion, 'He has a tight cunt, this one.' He pulls back and out, resting the tip against my hole, and there is now relief, but that same relief hits like a wave of pleasure. I groan without thinking or meaning to.

Someone sniggers, 'Fag whore,' and I feel myself flush with something like shame. My cock twitches beneath me.

He presses again, and this time it is easy, this time it takes, one smoothing stroke and he is in me down to the hilt, his balls against my balls, and I can tell that he's trimmed his pubes, but not shaved.

'Good boy,' my Stallion says as he withdraws, then, with a slow thrust, he's deep and back into me. I'm opening up and the burn is beginning to lessen, and instead there is only warm fullness and the realisation of what this is. Of what I am.

He bucks against me, and now I can feel the depth of him, the fullness, the need to expel him, but he will not. Then he draws out to the tip, toying with me, then back with a single thrust and I grunt. Again, and I grunt, no longer caring if people are seeing this or can hear. Once again, and now I groan, a low needy thing. This is why I am here. This is where I belong. This is what I am.

Harder and with intent, and now he is well and truly bottoming out and I can feel him press against my prostate with each thrust and I whimper, I whimper like a bitch in need, and this is where I belong.

And now he pounding me.

'Take it fag, take it fag, take it fag.' Someone says it, and it's not him.

Wet warm spatters against my back and shoulders and I know that someone, impatient to wait their turn, has jerked and splurged over me as if I am no more than this, a means to an end, a thing to be used, a device to be discarded. And I feel complete.

My Stallion is now hammering my boy-cunt with force and intent. I can feel him stretching me and I try to guess at his length, his girth, but I cannot. I only know that I've taken smaller, and I've taken larger, but his fit is perfect for this, the beginning.

'You're milking me boy,' he say, and I'm not, but he prompts me to bear down and squeeze his shaft. 'Fuck, boy, I'm not going to last.'

He pushes deep, as if to hold it off, the inevitable, but then yields with a flurry of fuck-strokes, erratic, and then slumping sweat, slime, and all, pressing me into leather. He pulls out, slaps at my ass, I yelp. I am wet. I am open.

'He fucked you raw,' someone whispers. 'And now you're fucking oozing.'

I shiver.

Someone plays with my hole, fingers dancing through, gathering up my wetness. Then, under the hood, someone pressing into my mouth so that I might taste. I don't rim, I don't felch, only now I am. At first tentative and then I'm sucking at his hand as if it were a cock. I moan, I moan like a wanton thing, wanting this, wanting more, wanting it all.

Hands against my hips and a moment more of emptiness, and now I am full. And I don't need to see to know that this guy is longer. Not as thick, maybe, but with a single thrust, he is deep and he is taking no prisoners. He is fucking furiously.

'Take it.'

'Take it faggot.'

'Take my fucking cock.'

'Take it.'

'Take it all.'

'Breed that fag.'

And I'm whining with the pleasure-pain and I'm whining and pushing back into him, wanting deeper even though he's already turning me inside out. He grunts, savage, final, done, and then he slumps and releases and I can feel the splatter of lube and cum as he pulls away.

Someone else raises up the hood, not all the way, just to get at my mouth and I gag as he pushes beyond my lips, the spongy head of his cock against my tongue, my mouth, then pressing against my throat slipping deeper still.

I choke. I gag. Someone pushes into my ass, he's small, much smaller, but it doesn't matter, he hammers at me with force and momentum is pushing my throat deeper onto cock. I choke. I gag. My chin coated with drool and slobber.

'Huh, huh, huh, here it comes, boy,' not knowing whether its the guy fucking my throat or my boy-cunt. Not that it matters. Someone slumps over me from behind., thrusting once, twice before pulling out and away. The other clutches my head and fucks with deep and frenzied strokes until I loose count.

'Take it, take it, take it.'

I cough, I splutter, I gag. He pulls out from my throat a quarter inch or less and my mouth fills with salty seed. He withdraws. I swallow. He rubs his dripping cockhead across my lips, my cheeks, my chin, the hood falls.

From there it is a flurry and blur of cock.

Three other Stallions fucked my throat. That I remember. The third went at me with such violence that the world began to decentre and tip and I worried that I might pass out. Only then he thrust deep, deeper than all the others, deep that one and final time. He withdrew half-a-second early, his cock pulsing splooge across my mouth, cheeks, nose, eyes, into my hair, all of it hidden beneath the hood. The tenth cock, or maybe it was eleventh continued to rape my fuck hole as I chased after the throat-fucker hungry for my reward, desperate to lick him clean. He laughed, relented, and let me suck as his diminishing manhood as if it were a pacifier.

'Good fag,' he said, and, through the hood, he ruffled at my hair.

Good fag. This is what I am. This is what I am. This is what I am.

Later still, final Stallion took me with relish.

I lost count at fifteen, but I didn't need to see to know that his cock was spectacular. By that stage, the end of the night, the early hours of the morning, I was sodden with lube and cum and stretched out wide enough to take a fist. And so there was no need for preamble, no need to work it up, no need to ease me in. Instead he gave it to me from the first. I was empty, waiting, not understanding that he was there, and then I was overfilled, the suddenness of it causing me to cry out. He took my hips, pulled at my hair through the hood, fucked up with his pelvis, the force of it lifting my hips, his balls slapping at my balls, each blow causing a dull ache.

In the lull between frenzied fuck-strokes, 'I've been watching you all night, boy. And I've been saving up this load.'

'Yes,' I said, my voice whiny, desperate, not my own. He took my hips, then reached around for my nipples and what had earlier caused pain now drove me back and harder onto his cock, riding him, milking him, needing this with a desperate agony.

'Tell me you want it,' he said.

'I want it.'

'Beg me,' he said.

'Please.'

'Please what?'

'Please, Sir,' I said, 'Please breed me.'

He thrust again, deep, deep enough to hurt, his head next to my ear, his body against mine. He groaned and I could feel him empty, and then his warmth, and the warmth of countless other loads, slosh, seep and then drip as he withdrew.

I waited, the room stilled to little more than a whisper.

A hand scrabbling at the hood.

'Boy, it's over,' then lifting, air laced with the stench of sweat, cum, and fuck-juice, dull blue light bleeding through the black.

The Stable Boy, an older guy, released my hands and helped me up, my legs cramping momentarily before easing.

'Fuck,' he said, studying me, 'You've outlasted most of the rest. What did you take?'

Mute, stupid, too exhausted even to shrug, and not knowing the answer.

'Well, I counted twenty-five, boy.'

Through into the locker room, the last Mare standing, the room a mess of papertowels, wipes, and discarded hoods. There were no showers, at least not available to this event, and the towels were used up and done.

I was a mess, a ruin, face, hair, body, slavered in jizz, filth, and fuck-slime. My cunt, gaping, oozed as I walked.

As I reached down and turned the locker key, I was grabbed from behind.

'Where do you think you're going,' someone hissed, 'You're not fucking done yet.'

Hands scrabbling at a belt buckle, a zipper, clothes loosened, as he pressed me against the lockers.

A thrust, a single effortless thrust, and he was in, balls deep.

'You cunt is gaping,' he said, 'Like a fucking whore.'

His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me back, back onto his cock. And this, this truly, was the final indignity, and the moment of completeness.

His lips against my neck, then biting, not caring that he might leave marks and that Sarah might see. I leaned into it. His hands against my nipples, twisting, tearing, I groaned like fuck-slut. The slap of his pelvis against my sodden ass, his fuck-stroke steady but quickening. He reached around and lubed up my cock with my own ass juice.

His fingers still in my hair, I licked for his tongue, finding it. His face, the crystal blue of his eyes, the ruffle of blonde hair.

'I warned you,' he said, his pace quickening, his breath shortening, neither of us likely to last long.

'Take it,' he said, 'Take my load.' With a final push, deep, and then holding it, holding it, holding it, and the truly, finally breeding me.

He stayed deep, the after-pulse of his cock causing me to shudder, as he continued to beat at my cock with maddening intensity. And now, now it came, a spark, a flicker, and then a wave, a wave of white-hot gibbering sensation. Embracing it, I came with something like a sigh and I saw the distant stars of a new-born galaxy.

He held me through the comedown, his strokes slowing, milking my cock into his open palm. I was done.

'Your prize,' he said, lifting his palm and smearing it across my face, my hair. This final indignity. He held his slimed palm open and, with nothing left, I lapped at it like a ruined thing.

I dressed, my clothes sticky and sodden with cum, and staggered back to the hotel, reeking of sex, sweat, and fuck-filth. It was gone two and the lobby was empty. Behind the reception desk, the security guard leaned towards a receptionist who tapped at her keyboard.

They both looked up, their eyes following me across the lobby, from the entrance to the lift.

'Hope you had fun night?' the security guy smirked as I entered the lift, the doors sliding shut and the steel mirrored surface reflecting back the recollection of what I had done, and the realisation of who I had become.

I smiled at the image of me, ruined, spoilt, done, but still fuck-drunk and still hungry. And my hand, my hand reaching to the swell of my jeans as my cock hardened.