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"...could fit one right there above the bar, too. Perfect amount of space. Run a cable there for the satellite...it'd be easy."

The otter stared up thoughtfully at the empty space above the bar, and then downed the last dregs of his beer with a large swallow, gesturing to the barcat to refill the glass. He hiked his feet up onto his chair as he waited, drumming a couple of fingers on the bar and looking casually about at the other patrons. It was definitely going to be a slow evening; not even half the usual number for a night like this. It all added up.

As the barcat came closer with his fresh drink, the otter caught his eye and pointed a claw at him. "You guys gotta put a TV up in here, James," he said. The barcat hiked an eyebrow and slid the beer into his patron's paw. Ice-cold and wonderful; the perfect end to a day. He'd stop here, though. Just two, to take the edge off. "Look at this place," he continued, waving his free hand around. "Whenever a game's on, it's a graveyard."

The barcat nodded in understanding and rubbed at a non-existent spot with a cloth. "Owner doesn't wanna hear it, Hollan," he said in a resigned tone. "I told him again on Monday. Said people wanna watch the game while they drink, but he's just completely against it. He said it makes people raucous."

The otter chuckled. "Oh yeah, better not encourage that in a bar." He took a sip of his drink. "How about music, though, huh? He can't say no to music. Soft jazz? Everyone likes soft jazz. If anything, it'll calm people down. So then maybe if we put on something down-tempo, it'll cancel out the raucousness and...we can have both?" He wagged his eyebrows.

The big cat sighed. "Sure, Hollan. I'll give it a try. But don't get your hopes up. Might be better off finding another bar if it's a problem."

"Nah, no worries." He took a deep drink. "I like you guys. As long as Mr Boring doesn't stop the beer."

The barcat wandered away, and the otter amused himself by watching bubbles flow upward through the amber liquid. It was good shit. He took another mouthful, looking up at the wall again and wondering if a projector might work better. In his peripheral vision, he sensed someone slip into the seat next to him.

"Draught, please," a deep stallion voice said, keys and wallet clinking onto the bar. The otter's eyes slid to the side at that, checking out the new patron. He was a horse: a draft, well-built, with fine cream hair and a pale muzzle, wearing a suit clearly a size or two too large for him. The jacket seemed of a size, but the shirt was far too loose; his collar looked like it was trying to crawl up his neck and strangle him. Equally, his pants were loose, and the material rustled with every motion he made. Hollan wondered idly where this oversized horse had found a suit too big even for him. His mane was short, cut into a buzz cut, arcing stiffly over his head like a zebra's before melting into his thick neck. A good-looking guy.

The barcat delivered the stallion's drink, and the otter stared at the large glass, lazy evening thoughts congealing.

"Draught for a draft," he said softly to himself.

"What's that, bud?"

Hollan turned to see the horse looking at him with an expectant look. "Oh," the otter said, shaking his head and fobbing the line off with a dismissive paw. "Nothing. Sorry. Just a dumb joke. Draught for a draft. 'cos...horse and beer. Heh." The horse's expression didn't change, and Hollan dropped his muzzle back down to his own drink. "Sorry."

He took another gulp of beer to cover his embarrassment. It hadn't been that bad a joke. Guy could at least have smiled, sheesh. Maybe after another couple of beers, he'd relax as much as his clothes.

He sensed the horse taking a long, deep pull of his beer and putting the glass back down carefully. "You from Oz, bud?" the stallion asked in that unreasonably attractive voice. He could do radio.

"Hmm?" Hollan looked over at the horse again. "Oh, yeah. Well...originally. Been over here a good while now, you know. Still got some of the accent, though." He made a false mouth with his paw and flapped it as he chanted. "Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi Oi Oi!" Calling the stare he got in return lukewarm would be generous, and he let his paw fall. "Yeah...so." His feet slid back and forward on the smooth metal of the bar-stool footrest, and he clicked his tongue. "Can't really lose an accent, yeah?"

"Yeah...that's what I picked up on." The horse was looking at him oddly now, and the otter met his eyes directly for a moment before looking away, back to his beer. Good-looking fella, but a bit on the big side for the otter. He could probably compress Hollan into a tight ball consisting solely of nose and paws and tail with just one gigantic squeeze of those hands. He kept talking. "Don't see a lot of Aussie otters around here. What do you do, mate?" He picked up his glass again.

The attempt at vernacular was something, at least. "Oh, I'm a teacher," Hollan said nonchalantly. That usually got a good reaction. People liked teachers. "Final year Biology in high school."

The horse chuckled, a thrumming sound that seemed to run through the bar and up the otter's beer glass and into his arm. Shit, what a voice. "That's it," the horse said, gesturing with his raised glass at the otter. "Thought I knew you. Sir."

Hollan blinked, putting his glass down and peering a little closer at the horse. "Oh, I taught you?" He honestly couldn't remember. Senior's faces all tended to blur together after the first thousand -- plus they changed so much after school. This handsome stud had probably been a bespectacled nerd with more acne than pores. He quickly estimated the horse's age and guessed a likely decade. "Yeah...class of, two thousand and...uh..." He trailed off, hoping the horse would step up. But the stallion just smirked and turned away, finishing his beer.

"I'm hurt you don't remember, sir," he said. The barcat came over to offer the horse a refill, and he took it. "All that...hard work I did. I was sure you noticed."

"Oh, well," the otter blustered, a little annoyed at being on the back foot with an ex-student -- not to mention the slightly mocking tone he was using. "I always notice hard-working students. Just been doing this so long now, you know? So many faces. Uhm..." The stallion still wasn't giving him anything. "What's your surname?" he asked, settling for the easy option. "That should help me remember."

He took a sip of beer, and then almost choked on it when the smooth-voiced stallion said, "That would be Grantleigh. Sir." The otter let the glass thud to the bar and held the back of his paw to his mouth, coughing up droplets of beer as the stallion said nothing. He didn't even turn to look at the hacking lutrine; simply sipped on his beer and let the otter recover. What a dick.

What a fucking dick.

Hollan couldn't recall what the horse's first name was, but at that surname, all the memories flooded back. He'd almost forgotten about that kid, despite everything. "Grantleigh! Stop talking! Grantleigh! Where's your homework!" An extremely average student -- in terms of coursework, at least. He'd had a much longer mane back then, the brown hairs always hanging loose around his neck like some kind of horse hippie, framing his pale face. He'd been shorter, too; he looked to have put on a foot or so after he graduated. With a squint, Hollan could see the face of the colt he'd been in the stallion he was now. A face that he'd spent altogether too much time thinking about, in the second half of that final year.

Grantleigh had coasted through the first six months, not even trying. Hollan knew the type, and while he'd tried to make his student understand that final year didn't mean doing the bare minimum, the horse had completely ignored him. But he must have seen the writing on the wall eventually; his marks weren't great, and if he didn't get a minimum grade, he'd be back in school the next year instead of running around in fields, or pulling heavy things, or whatever horses did when they graduated. Hollan had no idea.

The stallion had concocted a scheme.

Suddenly, one day, the horse had started focusing -- or so it seemed. He'd moved closer to the front of the class and actually appeared to be paying attention when the otter spoke. It had been very gratifying; Hollan had thought he'd finally gotten through to him. But it didn't take long before he noticed that the horse adopted a very particular position when seated -- one that let one of his legs splay out into the walkway between the desks, and also let him slouch down, hiding one of his hand from the sight of anyone except the short, blinking otter at the front of the class. Whenever the otter addressed him, or merely caught his eye, he'd meet it back -- even as his hand slid down, and gripped, and gave the otter a prime view of the outline of a tremendous tube of horsecock. He couldn't possibly have been hard when he did it; it would have been impossible for him to stand when class ended. So that meant he was at most showing off a semi when he did it...which made the thoughts of its full size a constant distraction for the otter. Had Grantleigh known the otter had an especial fetish for stallions? Probably not: he likely assumed anyone that liked males would like him. An entirely fair assumption.

Hollan should have marched the horse to the principal on the first day he did it. Had him drawn up for detention for the rest of the year, and put an end to that unacceptable behaviour on the spot. But he'd been so flustered, he'd not been able to collect his thoughts. No student had ever done anything that forward to him before. He'd thought about it on the way home, and again that evening over dinner, and at length while lying in bed. He determined to do it first thing the next morning. Absolutely. Yes. And, sure, maybe as he was lying in bed, he'd let a finger stray under his tail, and perhaps a few images of the stallion's long cock had flashed through his mind, but that was normal. The colt was eighteen, at his physical peak, and hung with the meat his father gave him. He was just hot. And so hung. Fuuuuck. Fucking stallions...but, no. Hollan was resolute. The next day. First thing.

That's what he told himself the first night -- and the second. And third. It was only once he realised a full month had passed that he had to admit he didn't really want it to end.

His fucking dick, though. Fuck.

"I'm kinda curious, sir," Grantleigh said, and the otter's eyes flicked over, wide and confused. The way this hunk kept calling him "sir" was messing with his head. The horse had worked through the bulk of his third beer as the otter revisited memories; the bulky bastard could probably put away six before he even felt tipsy. Hollan stared at the stallion's hands as the horse spoke. "I passed Biology...only just, but I did." He downed the last of the beer, smacking his lips and swivelling in his seat to face the otter. His legs spread open, and the lutrine gulped at the sight of the bulge between them. "Did I actually do that by myself...or did my, heh, my hard work pay off in the end?"

Hollan couldn't say it, but his face spoke for him, and a huge grin split the stallion's face. "Least I did one fucking thing right in school then, huh?" He opened his wallet and slapped some notes to the bar before pushing himself to his feet, one hand holding onto the edge to steady him; not quite as immune to the alcohol as he seemed, then. The tall horse leaned in closer to the otter, beer on his breath, still grinning. "Got you to thank for saving me from another year of that learning shit, then, sir," he murmured. He reached out, tugging on the otter's whiskers and giving him a wink. "I'm no good at all this real-life bullshit"--he picked at the too-large suit he had on--"but I'm really fucking good at..." He swayed, and chuckled, and grabbed his dick through his pants. "At this."

Hollan couldn't look away from the outline of cock the horse was showing him. It was just as big as it had been. Oh fuck. Fucking stallions, and their fucking dicks...

He looked up, meeting the stallion's eyes, and found horniness.

"I got more beer in my apartment, sir."

---

The horse's apartment was close. Hollan wondered why he even went to the bar. The company, probably. He would have asked, but his throat seemed to have seized up ever since the horse asked him if he'd pushed him through the subject because of his horny flirting. It was embarrassing to think about -- and he was being forced to think about it, over and over. Every time he looked at the stallion and saw the same bulge in his pants. Fucking hormones. Fucking stallions!

Getting fucked by stallions.

They stumbled into the apartment together; Hollan could feel the alcohol hitting him now. Everything was that little bit warmer and brighter. And smelled so good. Oh, no -- that was just Grantleigh's apartment. It reeked of him. Of stallion. The otter looked around with wide eyes when the horse slapped a wall switch and turned the lights on. The horse's old clothes lay everywhere: shirts, pants, vests, underwear. So much underwear. Huge, well-padded horse jocks. For the discerning overhung equine. Hollan released a little whimper and felt his pants tighten.

Grantleigh almost seemed to have forgotten the otter was there. He weaved through the apartment, taking off his jacket, dropping off his keys and turning on various other lights. The otter stood still for a while, unsure if he should wait for something, or act. Eventually, he found his voice again.

"Um..."

The horse was in the bathroom, the sound of a massive piss drifting into the living room. "Yeah, sorry 'bout the mess," he called. "Don't get people over very...ever." The piss slowed to a dribble, and the toilet flushed. Grantleigh stepped carefully out, picking up a piece of his underwear off a table. "Wash day's Wednesdays," he said by way of explanation, tossing the item at the otter as if a close-up would explain everything. Hollan snatched it out of the air as it went by, though, and stared at it, nose twitching, eyes wide. Fuck. It smelled too good. He glanced up at the stallion who was looking at the otter holding his underwear with a curious but cocky expression. The otter loved it, honestly. Same attitude as he'd had in school. The guy just fucking knew he was a stud. Probably didn't even think about it on a conscious level. Just went to a bar, got drunk, found a horny guy, and took him to a dark corner to...

"What are you gonna do with that, sir?" Grantleigh asked with a hint of excitement.

Hollan pressed the jock to his nose, not breaking eye contact with the horse, and nearly screamed with pleasure at the raw, masculine musk of stallion that flooded into his nose when he breathed in.

Grantleigh's face split open with a disbelieving grin. "Oh, shit! You like how that smells, huh?" He looked about for more pieces of underwear, grabbing some and throwing them at the otter too. Hollan tried to catch some, but he had -- had -- to keep the first one pressed to his nose, and he only caught one other one. He scrunched one up in each paw, concentrating the scent, and pushed them so hard against his nose it was as if he was trying to inhale the very material. It was just...stud. The everyday smell of stallion hunk. He could hardly believe that stallions smelled this good as a matter of course. How did anyone work alongside them without constantly dragging them into rooms to fuck? He tried to visualise how the scent had formed: the stallion's cock and balls growing loose and sweaty in the heat, and imparting their musk to the material. Powerful and animalistic and so...fucking...perfect...

"More," he croaked. He wanted to die with this scent in his nose. The alcohol was nothing now; this was making him drunker than any liquid could. And as horny as only a subby otter could be.

Grantleigh stared at him, then laughed and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Shit, sir," he said languidly, "if I'd known you liked my smell so much...could have snuck some jocks into your drawer after sports practise." Hollan groaned, his legs going weak at the thought. "Oh yeah," the stallion continued, clearly enjoying the state his guest was being driven into, "usually just tossed 'em into the wash hamper at home. All that sweat and grime from hours running around the rugby field. Tackling all those other big muscled guys, gripping and grunting and smearing their smell all over me...I bet I smelled like the whole fucking team by the end. My jock was probably twenty-five percent musk by weight."

He reached the last button on his shirt, pulling the fabric apart to reveal a stunning chest. The looseness of the shirt had hidden just how defined he was, and Hollan's mouth began running at the sight. A thick chest, dashed with hair, and a solid muscle gut with a teasing line of hair running down the centre towards...heaven. Hollan's head was spinning a little now. Beer or musk? Probably both.

"You should have visited after practise, sir," the horse said, still teasing him. He was stepping closer to the otter now, one hoof at a time. "The gym room was always a riot. Bunch of half-nude guys showing off, being cocky bastards." He got close enough to lift the otter's chin in one hand. "You like cocky guys, sir?" he asked softly. Hollan moaned his assent, paws still gripping the stallion's underwear as if it was a lifeline. "Makes sense," the horse said. "Slim little guy like you...bet cocky studs make your little dick wet. So, what about cocky, musky studs...?"

He lifted his hands over his head, affecting a yawn and exposing his deep armpits to the otter. Hollan's mouth fell open, and one of his hands dropped the item of clothing it held and rose to reach for the dark, hairy hollows. His fingers brushed through the fine hairs, feeling the slight dampness and the silky thickness. The otter whimpered, stepping forward and letting himself fall practically nose-first into the stallion's underarm.

Calling it a scent, or even musk, was entirely wrong. It was a total sensory experience. The heat of the horse, and the softness of the hair. The sight of the muscles flexing around it as his arms strained into the air. The smell, yes, of course...the marvellous, peerless smell of natural stallion. But also, the taste when his tongue dared lap out to sample it, and the sound of his satisfied grunting. It was too much, in truth. With a few strokes, the otter could have finished himself right here, spraying his too-white spunk all over the stallion's pants. But that would be wrong -- and it wasn't the only thing that was wrong. The way Grantleigh called him "sir" was wrong, too. The otter needed to fix that.

Hollan found the strength to drag his muzzle away from the horse, and looked up at his confident, handsome face. "I fucking love musky studs," he said, before adding in a clear, direct voice. "Sir."

Grantleigh's smile turned into a greedy smirk at that. "Say that again," he growled.

"I fucking lo--"

"No." He slapped the otter lightly across the muzzle. "Not that. What you called me."

"Sir." It never felt wrong to say that. He could practically feel his mind recoding itself when he said the word. Preparing to capitulate, to be dominated.

"Yeah." The horse flexed again, muscle pressing against skin and flesh to make beautiful bulges all across his form. "I'm your sir, now, huh? Your master."

"Yes, Sir." Of course he was. A stallion masterpiece that smelled and looked and tasted like every sexual thought Hollan had ever had? There was no question.

"Yeah," Grantleigh growled. "About fucking time someone called me that." He stared at the otter in silence for a moment, then pushed him back a little, turned around, and walked towards the couch, undoing his belt as he went. The pants fell to the ground, and he turned, falling backwards onto the couch in what Hollan could only think of as Stud Pose: legs spread, underwear straining against a very hard stallion cock, and an ultra-cocky smile on his face. His pale skin was beautiful in the warm light. The horse lifted one arm, tucking the hand behind his head, and reached down with the other to press his middle finger against the underside of his generous balls, pushing the egregiously thin fabric right against his skin.

"Put your muzzle here." The 'sir' was gone now, as it should be. Here, now, like this, the stallion was so obviously, so naturally his master. Hollan felt the last vague thoughts of saying "no thanks" dissolve into the spicy sea of stallion musk that filled the air, and did as he was commanded to.

His paws slid along the stallion's legs as he nosed below Sir's balls, lifting their weight on his muzzle as he snuffled and huffed and whimpered and even squealed a little at the power of the horse's smell. This was the source, after all: cock and balls and sweaty taint, oozing his ultra-masculine scent into his clothes and into the air. The otter started hyperventilating, desperate to absorb as much of the smell as he could, in case it was taken away. His paws slid over the horse's legs, feeling their strength and muscle. The stallion worked hard on his body, and Hollan was deeply, deeply grateful. He needed the stallion to know that.

He dared to lift his muzzle out from under the horse's musky nutsack. "You're incredible, Sir," he gasped. The horse's eyes had been closed, enjoying the feeling of someone nuzzling him, and they opened lazily now. "You're beautiful, and huge, and your scent is..." He could not even think of how to convey it. "I've never smelled anything as good as you, Sir."

"I am huge, huh?" the stallion said, face flushing from the compliments. He brought his arms down slowly to flex his biceps, and the otter's eyes grew wider and wider as the round, veined mountains of muscle grew up from his arms. He shivered with need.

"Please may I...touch them, Sir?" he begged, and the stallion pondered.

"You can...but you need to lick your way up from where you were."

Hollan felt like he would faint. "Yes, yes, Sir, anything, yes..." He dropped his muzzle back down to under the horse's balls and began licking. With each lap of his tongue, he moved his head a little more upward. Not too much; he had no incentive to rush this. Every lick was giving him a new taste of the alpha stallion's incredible body. First up along the balls, tasting the nutty sweat and electric flavour through the thin fabric. Along the shaft of the immense cock, now barely contained; it was straining the fabric so tightly that it lifted it away from the stallion's body, letting even more original musk flow into the air. Then the belly, and the line of hair that sauntered up along it as if every part of this god's body was as confident as he was. Hollan whimpered, licking and swallowing every scrap of taste. He reached the upper chest and nuzzled across it, stopping briefly to slobber over Sir's nipple before moving on, and finally burying his nose in his master's armpit again.

He'd gradually stood up more as he went along, and now he reached down to frantically tug off his clothes without letting his nose leave the stallion's pit. His shoes came off last, kicked desperately away to vanish into some dark corner of the apartment, and he clambered onto the stallion's body; his lithe, furry form nothing like the muscled sex-beast under him. His legs straddled the stallion's lap as he huffed in the smell and let his paw fondle the bicep just above it. His other paw roved: groping and stroking across every other part of the horse as his hips and buttocks clenched, feeling the massive penis he was resting atop. There was no part of the stud that wasn't incredible to touch.

The otter broke his nose away from musk worship yet again. "Sir, please," he begged. His voice was high now, and needy. He breathed shallowly, and his own meagre penis was drooling against the stallion's body. He rarely made any pre-cum; the otherwise-unremarkable amount he was making now spoke to the intensity of the lust burning inside. Sir's lazy eyes swung onto him, and he laughed at the simple desperation he must see there.

"You want to get fucked, otty?" the stallion asked. Hollan nodded as fast as he could, paws clasped piously before him. "Well, I think you've earned yourself something with all that." A hand came down to clasp the top of the otter's head, and pushed him slowly but firmly back down; Hollan slipped off the horse's legs and fell to a kneeling position. "And I think it's another session worshipping my nuts," he growled.

Sir's hands tucked into his underwear and he tugged them off, pushing them down until they stretched between the middle of his thighs. Hollan almost choked at the sight of the horse's unconstrained genitals: heavy, and glistening, and perfect. The stallion's cock was completely pink, but his balls were a deep midnight black. A perfect contrast. Hollan's nose dropped to nuzzle under the balls again, but this time he could feel their smoothness directly: their true heat, their absolute perfume.

"Suck on them, ott," the horse said in his deep master's voice. He spread his legs wider, and the otter opened his mouth as wide as he could, just about able to fit one of the horse's nuts inside it. His own eyes glazed over at the feeling and the taste. The skin covering the bollock was loose and sweaty, and he let his tongue slip around, cleaning it and licking off every iota of stallion taste. The rumbles from Sir told him he was doing a good job, and in his pleasure, he redoubled his efforts, sucking on the ball to fit it deeper in his mouth. It was practically blocking his airway, but he didn't care. Suffocation by stallion testicle was an acceptable way to go.

When it was entirely wet, and merely hot instead of hot and delicious, he let it pop out with a wet sound and slap back against the stallion's flesh. "Yes, otty," Sir rumbled. "That feels so fucking good. Do the other one. And..." He shuffled down a bit more on the couch, pushing his ass just off the edge. "Finger me when you do."

Hollan didn't question; he just obeyed. Sir got whatever he asked for. The second ball was gently sucked into his mouth for a wash, and he slid a paw down to gently circle the stallion's doughnut with a finger before pushing in. He knew what he liked down there; the gasps and muffled oaths said it worked on stallions, too. He didn't push go too far, just up to the second knuckle, stroking over and over inside the horse as his tongue slid around his huge, heavy, delicious ball.

Grantleigh had taken his cock in hand as soon as the tip of the otter's finger entered him, and he was stroking himself rapidly, snorting hotly from wide nostrils, ears flattened against his head, teeth clenched. The taut tendons in his neck made his muscles stand out even more, and Hollan stared up with puppy-dog eyes as the gorgeous stud pleasured himself. He dearly wished to ride that cock, but if the horse wanted to cum now, he would not stop him. He had already enjoyed so much of his body...

"Get the fuck up here, otty," the stallion growled.

A thrill ran through Hollan, and he let the second ball drop from his lips as he pulled his finger out of the horse -- eliciting a pleasured moan as he did so. He stood up; the horse was holding the base of his cock, swinging it back and forth like a metronome. The amazing pole was almost the same width from base to tip: the formal measurement was probably "fucking thick". The medial ring ran around it a short way up, and at the crown, the flare throbbed. Hollan could see it pulsing with the stallion's heartbeat, each cycle making the bulbous flesh grow and shrink. The otter knew exactly how big stallions could get when fully aroused, and the thought of that hot piece of flesh scraping along his insides made him clasp his paws to his breast and chitter with excitement. That made his partner chuckle: he stopped the swinging of his cock and bent it forward, towards the otter.

"You want my dick, Mr Laverne?" His ex-student called his name just like he had in school. Not disrespectful, but with a note of disdain that said all the fuck you it needed to. It made the otter squirm with need.

"Yes, Sir," he said, trying to sound meek through the haze of horniness.

The horse slapped a hand onto his cock, smearing pre-cum onto his palm and licking it off. The otter's mouth hung open greedily, watching the horse's large tongue slathering his palm. Every fucking thing about this stallion was driving him insane. He wanted to be that hand. He wanted to be that tongue. He wanted to be -- to be on -- the fifteen inches of flawless, veiny pink prick jutting out of his crotch.

"That's good," the horse replied. "Maybe I'm gonna give it to you." He shrugged. "If I want to." He slapped the cock into his palm again, the wet impact of flesh on flesh almost buckling the otter's legs. "But I'm kinda in the mood for an education before I fuck. Remind me, Mr Laverne -- how does the stallion reproduction system work?"

"I..." Hollan stared at the horse, utterly confused, and the horse gestured deliberately at his genitals.

"How do horses fuck, Mr Laverne? I wasn't a great student. I don't think I remember anything from class. So, re-educate me. Give me the blow by..." He rubbed a finger around his crown, and licked off the pre-cum. "Blow."

"Uh..." The otter scrabbled to order his mind. Sir had asked. He needed to do it. "The, uh, the stallion will...smell a mare in heat..."

"Pah! Mares." Sir wrinkled his nose in distaste, ears flat, making the otter hate himself for mentioning them and displeasing him. "Fuck 'em. Well, no, don't. Fuck a nice tight ass instead." He released his cock, spreading his massive arms out along the couch, letting his cock rest against his chest, softly throbbing, and Hollan stared at it, star-struck.

"Um...y-yes..." His words grew hoarse. "His, um, his penis will drop..."

Grantleigh nodded down at himself. "Dropped and ready." He bent his head deliberately to one side and then the other, each making an audible crack in the small apartment, and then flexed his entire upper body, making the otter gulp down a few frantic breaths as muscle tightened, and rippled, and relaxed.

"A-and..." He could barely think now. "Uh...it'll fill with blood t-to harden..."

The stallion flexed his groin, and his cock bounced up, then slapped back down against his abs. "Feeling pretty fucking hard, so...check."

"And he'll...he'll enter the mare's vagina..."

"No. Mares." Sir narrowed his eyes. "You mean the otter's stretchy ass." The horse lifted his head a little, half-closing his eyes and waggling his long tongue lasciviously at the otter. "Gonna eat out that tight little lutrine hole before I break it, Mr Laverne", he husked, his rumbling bass voice making the otter's body shake with lust. "Bet you taste fucking fantastic."

Hollan whimpered and fell to his knees. "Sir...please..." His paws clasped one of the stallion's huge hooves. "You're perfect, Sir...incredible...I need you, Sir, I need you in me, I need to pleasure you..."

"Kiss my hoof," the stallion commanded, interrupting his whimpers, "and finish your lesson. I'll decide what you get."

"Yes, Sir." Hollan placed a kiss upon the smooth, shiny keratin. "The...the stallion's flare gets larger...as he fucks..." He slid his paws up the stallion's legs, feeling the hard muscles under his skin. "His balls will rise..."

He knew where to look as he said it. Grantleigh's balls had hung low and fertile in their dusky sack, but now he flexed and made them rise. The surrounding skin tightened, and they glistened as if they were two dark gems nestling below the master's pale glory.

"The...balls will rise..." The overpowering scent of stallion would make him pass out at this rate. He could not bear its power. "And the flare will...grow to its fullest extent...a-and he'll ejaculate..."

"And what does that do?"

The otter looked up, lost again. "It...it will impregnate..."

"No." Flashing eyes, and that commanding tone again. Hollan couldn't disobey it. "I don't care about the fucking mares. What will it do to you?"

Hollan gaped up in silence.

"It will make the otter bulge, won't it?" his huge, horny master said. "Full of stallion prick and stallion colts. He'll look down to see a horse-sized flare inside himself. His belly will look like a balloon, won't it, Mr Laverne? And he'll say 'thank you, Sir', before I pop him off and it all comes gushing out in an endless hot wet white stream of horse jizz...." The horse held up a single finger. "And that'll be the first time of the night."

"Yes...yes..." The otter couldn't manage more than dizzy agreement. His cock was so hard it hurt. He grabbed his tail and squeezed it, trying to clear his mind. "Please, Sir, please...take me...I need you. I need it..." He grovelled again, lapping at the hoof and groaning softly. His ass was high, and his tail too. "I need to feel your strength fucking me, Sir, driving into me and filling me...please, Sir, I'll do anything..."

"Tell me what I am."

"You are Sir," the otter said instantly. "You are so fucking handsome...your muscles, your cock...I worship you, Sir...I want to be bred by you, taken by you, made your mare...you're everything..."

The horse swelled with each scrap of praise, as if feeding on it. "Used to think about fucking you in class, Mr Laverne. Imagined you bent over your desk, holding that tail up, and fucking every inch of my cock into that hole. I imagined you'd squeal and moan like a cheerleader." He started stroking his cock again. "Let me taste you," he growled. "Now."

The otter climbed onto the couch next to him, then yelped when the huge male grabbed the base of his tail and flipped him around. The big stallion must be triple his size, but he felt like he had ten times the strength. He pulled the otter bodily towards him, lifted the lutrine's tail, and made Hollan scream as thick, wet inches of stallion tongue drove into him without a single warning. It wasn't a scream of pain, though; not even a little: it came from unbridled, passionate pleasure. It made Hollan wish for a second that it was Sir's cock slithering into him, because surely nothing else could feel as good as the heat and power of the long muscle digging its way into him now.

Sir was ravenous, an animal: he snorted like one as he filled his mouth with the otter's ass, the hot and heavy breaths making the teacher's body melt. Sir's hands were gripping his thighs as if he might try to get away, but far from it: the otter was pressing his paws into the stallion's abs -- one on each side of the fat cock that was pressing against his chest -- to make as much of himself available as possible. The horse's lips felt like they were trying to chew on Hollan, even as his fucking unbelievable equine tongue twisted and curled inside his body like a living, sexual thing, designed only for pleasure. The feelings, the sounds...Hollan had to shut his eyes, in case the sight of the stallion's fat balls and heavy sheath right in front of him made him cum. He dare not cum until Sir did.

The tongue withdrew, leaving agony. Hollan's heart collapsed, and his breathing became panicked. "Sir...please, please...more...?"

Sir had other plans. His hands released Hollan's tail and gripped the otter's sides, lifting the smaller creature up as if about to proffer him to the sky. But his fate lay below, not above; he felt a huge blunt heat at his hole, and screamed again in ecstasy.

"Oh, yes! Sir, oh, please, I need your cock, Sir, I need you...let me milk you, Sir, let me drain your balls of every last hot, delicious colt..."

Sir wasn't speaking now. He now fully embodied his animal instincts -- and that instinct would be telling him to do only one thing. That most fundamental drive, as the otter taught his students. The drive to procreate, to breed, to mate. To fuck.

The stallion will enter the otter's ass...

Hollan couldn't even make a sound when the stallion began pushing his body down, driving his horse prick up into him. He no longer had a voice. He was a void, split in two by the flesh intruding into him -- and time itself felt split as well. There were the moments before it had filled him, and the ongoing moments, the endless present, the pleasure-now that was soon all he could think about. Facing away from Sir, the otter could not anticipate the stallion's next movements, but that didn't matter. He let the tip of his tail curl down and around the stallion's balls, cradling them and loving them as the vehicle of equine lust thrust deeper and deeper inside him, each rough push into his slim body making Sir whinny in equine passion. He supported the otter's entire weight, controlling the speed of his descent. Only when he was done, when every inch of himself was inside Hollan's body, and he began lifting the otter back up, did the lutrine realise how this would go.

Sir was going to fuck him like a toy.

"Gonna show you a thing or two 'bout stallion fucking that you didn't teach us in school," the big male said in his earthquake voice.

Hollan had no words for that, either, but he had sounds: he moaned, and whimpered, and panted and purred like the sluttiest cheerleader Sir could wish for. He flexed his ass around the beloved cock, his body easily accommodating it, trying to make Sir feel he was as tight as a virgin. He'd had many males inside him, more than he could count...except for stallions. Those he could name, every single one. And Sir was already fucking him better than any of them had.

Sir's grunts of effort were like music, as his arms bulged to raise and drop his living fucktoy, over and over again. The otter was almost limp, taking every cue from the firm hands holding him, only his tail moving of its own accord. The balls will rise. He wanted to feel that. He wanted to know when Sir was close, when his flare would reach its fullest extent, and blast the otter's body with a horseload of his seed. The lutrine looked down, giving a gasp of delight when he saw that the stallion's flare was already visible in him. Whenever he was pushed down, and the rough edges of the corona pressed against his hot and heaving insides, the curved edge of it showed through his belly. It made it real. The stallion was inside him. He was riding a stud stallion's cock, a stallion who'd sat in his class and teased him with his dick and made him jerk off a hundred times to the thought of his fit, hung body grabbing him, taking him, using him...and now, at last, he was.

His stallion musk was the air, as sweat gathered and evaporated. Fresh scent was even better than the old stuff. Hollan wanted to eat it, drown in it, subsist on it for the rest of his life. He wished to wake with his muzzle pressed deep into a stallion's sheath, tasting only cock and balls, and then have a hand drop onto his head, and push him yet deeper. Make him snort up the ambrosia, and be consumed by it.

The otter let his mind drift. His mouth made all the right noises, and his arms hung limp at his sides. Sir controlled him. Sir would use him. Sir would enjoy him as he wished, and the lutrine wished no say in the matter. Sir's pleasure first. Sir's pleasure above all else. He bobbed atop the lengthy rod, voice now high and light, then low and rough. When Sir pulled him off himself entirely at one point -- the flare exiting the otter's ass like a blob of gooey putty -- the only action he took was a slight tightening of his tail around the stallion's balls. It was all he dared, and hopefully the message was clear.

More. Again. Deeper.

Down he dropped, and the cock was in him once more. It pushed his flesh apart with glorious power, making him quiver and rub a paw across his belly to feel it in him. It felt bigger now, he was sure...and Sir's balls felt tighter. The flare will grow. He clenched his body as if trying to draw the stallion's semen out of him with muscle power alone. He needed Sir's climax. He needed the denouement of their fuck to splatter into him, letting him feel its weight within, making his slight body distend with the volume. When Sir lifted him now, he gripped, and when he dropped him, he relaxed. He wanted more, needed more: every last hot, thick, sexy fucking inch. And when Sir pushed him all the way down, and held him there, and began to pump into him using his hips -- just an inch, in and out, but so fast, so fast -- he knew it was close.

"Fucking tight little otter fucktoy," Sir snarled, and the lutrine yelped and his cock jerked.

"Fuck me, Sir!" was his unimaginative response. No imagination was needed now; they could both feel the heat, the mass, the tightness. His paw dropped to his cock, desperate to make their orgasms align, to make his ass clench like a vice when Sir came, trapping every last bit of him inside.

"I'll pump that hot little body full of me," the stallion grunted, pressing the otter down onto him even as his hips punched upward as if trying to toss him off. "I'm a fucking volcano!" Hollan was riding a bronco now. He felt the stallion's balls disappear fully into his body, and accelerated his jerking off, squealing loudly on every fleshy smack of bodies meeting, crotch to ass. He was so full, now; the flare was growing, growing by the second, and pressing out against him. He could see all of it, and his paws skittered across his belly fur, prodding it with disbelief and delight. And when he came...when he emptied those gorgeous balls into him...how big would it look then...?

"Please, Sir," he begged. "Do it now. I need all of you, Sir, I'm desperate, I'm empty, I must have your cum, Sir, please, now, I beg you..."

"I'm fucking you in class," the stallion blurted, pounding into the otter so hard it hurt. "I'm bending you over the desk, otter, and the stallion stud you dreamed about is fucking you in class, and there's people outside, and they're gonna see, they're gonna come in any moment, and see you screaming for horsecock like a little desperate horny slut..."

The otter's moans grew louder and louder as the stallion spoke out his fantasy. How could a fantasy be even hotter than the real thing, at a time like that? He didn't try to understand it. He let the horse fuck him, and tell him what he would have done to him all those years ago, and clenched in anticipation of the climax to come. His paw slid along his cock, rubbing his head and twisting around the shaft in a corkscrew motion, bringing himself to the edge, to be ready.

"And you're super fucking tight," the stallion continued, lost in his dream, "and I'm so big, so fucking big, and you're moaning and saying my name over and over, and you cum before I do, shooting out over the desk, over everything, and I know I fucking did that to you, and it feels so fucking good I'm gonna fucking cuuum!" The stallion's scream was deafening, and he pressed the lutrine down against him as hard as possible, and suddenly the otter realised the flare inside him hadn't been at its full extent yet; it swelled more and more, impossibly more, bigger than anything ever, too big to fit, surely, too big to not burst out of him completely...

And then Sir came.

As promised, it was a volcano. Hollan felt the first blast like an explosion, the heat searing him and flowing down from the flare with a wonderful, unique, bizarre sensation. He gasped and clamped himself shut. Not a drop could escape. The second followed suit, but gurgled within him as it splashed into the rest, and then the third was yet louder. His belly became heavy, growing slowly outward with the horse's tense, grunting shots, only violent snorts of breath betraying the savage pleasure Sir must be feeling. The otter's orgasm -- moments later -- was a pinprick in comparison, making the lutrine shriek as the hot pleasure in his crotch was overwhelmed by the far stronger pleasure of being completely, utterly stallion-filled.

He was a limp rag when it passed, not even able to keep his ass properly shut. He felt the cum oozing from him already, and wished it was not so, but none of his muscles held strength any longer. It had been too much. The immense fuck, and the sensations when he came...Hollan only had so much energy. He was all used up. The stallion held him upright, his breathing gradually slowing behind Hollan. When his hands tightened on the lutrine's waist, Hollan managed a tiny eep before he was lifted bodily off the stallion's cock.

And it all comes gushing out in an endless hot wet white stream of horse jizz...

It did, and Hollan would have cried for the loss if there was not yet a sea of it inside him. The liquid ran out of his ass and down his tail, hanging like a limp flag under him, and dripped off the end. He heard the droplets go plink into the pool that must be forming on Sir's belly, after the initial rush had surged down the length of his cock. He hoped Sir would let him clean it.

Sir did, later. But now, he put the otter down next to him, and then let his hands flop onto his chest.

"Fuuuuuuuck..." he groaned breathlessly. Hollan concurred in silence. His ass felt enormous, cool air reaching inside him to a depth he rarely felt. He sensed the stallion looking over at him. "Not every day you get to live out a fantasy, huh?" his old student asked. Hollan nodded, and the horse chuckled.

"If I'd known then that my dick could shut you up so effectively, Mr Laverne, I'd have fucked you in every single class." The horse rolled over, right onto the otter, and lifted a hand up in front of his old teacher's face with one finger extended -- and then added a second.

"Time for my AP class, Mr Laverne."