Stan Gets Fucked
"Stan Gets Fucked", by H. A. Kirsch.
Copyright 2007.
This story is edited slightly, only by me. I wanted to strip down my process a bit.
It takes place *before* "Strake Was Here", so don't be confused.
Stan had been in Lainsville for a week, and had another week to go before he could get the rest of
his things from back home in Kentucky. The city was an odd place; more suburb than city, with a
bustling moderately-sized downtown that had made a turnaround from dilapidated ex-steel town to
trendy in-spot.
The city planners had also been unusually progressive, and so the town was home to a sizable gay
population. This led to a 'red light district' that was more a rainbow; book and porn shops, fetish
stores, coffee shops, bars, nightclubs, a community center. Much of the 'gay district' was really
just the stretch of Parker St, between 5th and Merrick four blocks away.
At first glance, it was a seedy neighborhood, mostly due to the aging of the city and the reluctance
to spend a lot of money to extensively re-build the infrastructure. After a little picking through,
it was a vibrant and well-tread place. To the west and south, along Merrick and through the former
Indian Spring Heights subdivision, the city suburb was gentrifying.
Stan's first encounter with downtown Lainsville was his trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to
get a New York state license. That afternoon, caught in a torrential downpour and finding himself
standing in front of Dirty Dick's Toyshop and Bookstore, the doberman introduced himself to the
depravity that Lainsville had to offer.
A short jack-off session later, after watching an old videotaped human fuck film in one of the video
booths at DD's, Stan was introduced to his first big attraction in the city. Actually, his first
attraction in a few years. Coming into the shop, he'd been nearly knocked over by a large buck
rushing out of the rain behind him. The buck had made his way into a video booth, only giving the
cowboy-hatted dog an over-the-shoulder glance and a soft, "Sorry." Even with just a glimpse, Stan
was more than impressed. The buck was leanly built, but broad-shouldered and cut well, packed into
snug jeans and work boots, wet shirt clinging to the curves of his torso. With the apology, the
buck's white tail flipped up, and Stan imagined what was underneath the denim that covered below it.
When Stan emerged, ears red inside, smelling like hand disinfectant and latex, the buck was checking
out at the register by the door. He had a stack of a few magazines, a rental video disc - the
packaging very clearly said "RENTAL ONLY - PROPERTY OF DD'S VIDEO RENTAL" all over it in obnoxious
orange letters - and a small bottle of something. While Stan tried to look nonchalant, the buck gave
him a cheek-bunching grin, eyes following the dog around the room.
The look wasn't predatory at all, but it was knowing. Back home, Stan would have tried to puff
himself up, or simply leave. Lainsville was different; Stan knew that having his splinted ears torn
off was something that he wouldn't have to worry about. He'd have to worry about other kinds of
'attacks'.
Embarrassed, the dog tried to hide by walking around the clothing racks to the wall of toys. An
entire section was devoted to 'butt toys'. Stan looked at his butt over his shoulder; it certainly
needed a toy.
Stan was setting his purchase down on the counter, when he noticed a little plexiglas box full of
all kinds of small glass bottles. "Hey, uh... I saw that buck who was here, he had one of.... so,
what's-"
The cashier just slid him a pamphlet. It was written by the New York State Department of Health, and
was a boring and dry treatise on the dangers of alkyl nitrite inhalants. The take Stan got was that
he should never, ever concentrate and inhale nitrites. He squinted at the paper.
"You know what? Every fucker who reads that does the same thing. I swear, they make us put that out
or we can't sell them anymore." The cashier said this while munching on a bag of Funyuns. The
cashier was a rat, and appeared to be about five years younger than Stan's twenty-eight.
"'Smooth muscle relaxant', huh," Stan said, and put the pamphlet back. "What's a smooth muscle?"
"Your asshole," the rat said. Besides rudely eating, he was red-eyed and smelled like wet socks and
freshly-cut lawn. Baked. "If you're some hardcore fuck who wants a guy's thigh up your boy pussy,
buy one of the bottles. Otherwise, it's going to just go stale and make you feel like someone
whacked your head with a hammer." The kid said this with a stoned lack of emotion.
Stan took out his wallet, to pay for his purchase of a toy. 'The Assistant,' the box said. It looked
like a wavy, nobbly purple piece of abstract art. The box said it was, 'Perfect for beginners, or
experienced anal excursions.'
"I don't think I want anyone's leg up my ass," the dog said, ears flattening out against his hat
when he heard his own drawl compared with the loud, East Coast accent of the rat.
"If you want an easy to use thrill, go old-school. See these?" The cashier took out a demo sample of
a piece of gauze with a glass ampule. "Roll, snap, and bend over. Lasts about fifteen minutes. Box
of about.. well shit, fifteen for fifteen. I'll take off four bucks because you're nice and one buck
because that buck was giving you pretty-eyes."
"Uh, sure, add those in." The price came out to a neat eighty dollars, which made Stan wince. 160
dollars and all he had was a dildo, some dubious drug that you were absolutely *not* supposed to
use, and a driver's license.
That night, Stan ate dinner - takeout from a chinese place down the street from his little ranch
apartment - and then tore off the day's clothes. After a brief fight with a box-cutter, he had the
new purple toy out of its clothes, too. It wobbled dangerously, and was significantly squishier
than it looked in the package. The largest 'bulb' on it was bigger than Stan's own knot; the
smallest the size of a fat marble.
The dog was already hard as a rock as he hopped into bed, lying back against a few pillows. The
bedroom was oddly-shaped, and the only way his queen mattress fit was if he had it across from
where the closet was. The closet took up almost an entire wall, and the doors were mirrored. Stan
got a look at his taut, sleek-furred thighs, and the pink little hole above his tail stub. He often
preened in front of a mirror, making sure his workout regimen was working. Now, he wondered if this
is what guys liked to see.
He twisted around and rummaged in a nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of silicone lube, and
splurted a dollop onto the purple monster's head. His fingers spread it around, and then he hooked
an arm around under one knee, splaying himself apart. The marble-sized knob of the toy wobbled and
smeared glistening lube around the pink hole, then pushed inside. Stan liked that; no pain, just a
wonderful little thrill as his hole closed up around it, knotted dick tensing up, then slapping back
down against his slick abs.
The second knob wasn't so easy, a little prick of pain. The third didn't feel good at all, a sudden
cramp seizing the dog's virgin anus. He howled and yanked the toy out, curling onto his side,
panting and grabbing the sheets. After a few moments, the cramp subsided, his red dick leaving
streaks of precum on the sheets, knot half-deflated.
Out came the box of poppers, out came an individual ampule in gauze. The dog balked at the idea of
it; gauze didn't seem to be strong enough to withstand glass. He shrugged and snapped it, the cloth
quickly soaking through, growing cold. The smell was overpowering even a couple feet from his nose,
and when he held it up to huff at it, he coughed and snarled a quarter through the breath.
The leftover ache from the cramp turned faded to nothing, run over by heat in his face, ears,
crotch, all the way to the tip of his cock. In went the toy, up halfway with a twinge of pain, then
back out. Each bump made his tailstub thwap the sheets, his cock jerk and spit precum out onto his
belly.
He had another inhale off the cloth, this time smashing it against his nostrils. When the headrush
hit, everything seemed darker, a little spotty, a big purple explosion in his vision. The toy slid
in deeper, a wet slurp with each knob, until there was nothing left to push in. Stan grabbed his
cock, pumping the meat of the shaft, setting the gauze aside as he reached for his knot. It wasn't
even fully swollen, but he felt like he would go off any second.
In the head-pounding, sex-lust haze, ass milking and tugging the toy in hard enough that he could
feel the flange keeper bump his cheeks, he had a vision of the buck. Rack half-in, upper body clad
in just a wifebeater, brawny chest, thin waist, powerful rump, slender and hard legs, chiseled
muscles twitching, hand grabbing his crotch and unzipping his fly, cock spilling out - here, Stan
inserted the human cock of the 'top' in the porno he'd selected while having a round in the video
booth, hands pushing Stan's black and tan legs up and wide, pushing in, pumping back and forth,
snorting like a rush of steam as he shot inside-
Stan accidentally snorted from the poppers-soaked gauze again, and seconds later his consciousness
was obliterated by his climax. The only thing that existed was the howl of pain-pleasure, seed
arching up and splattering his face before pumping out in an unusually forceless orgasm, pouring out
over his hand and onto his shimmering abs. After the initial wave, Stan cramped up inside and yanked
the toy out. He almost immediately fainted, the toy wobbling in his hand, seed hitting his face as
he curled over to the side. The explosive climax faded quickly once he let go of his knot, and the
doberman faded into a blissful, spent sleep. ----
When the weekend came, Stan decided to go out on another adventure. He couldn't stop thinking about
the buck; normally he wasn't into anything other than canines, but this creature was such a fleeting
glimpse at masculinity. The more Stan thought about him, the more it became an obsession.
As the dog parked his car, he wondered if it was a good idea to try barging into a gay bar. Doberman
pinschers were thought of as guard and attack dogs, and Stan had almost gotten into several bar
fights simply by existing. He wasn't sure how a bar fight in a gay bar would go, but he had a
feeling that it wouldn't go any better than in the rest of the public drinking world.
Stan's attempts at making himself look non-threatening also made him look like he was showing off.
Butt-tight indigo 505 boot-cut Levi's, needle-toe black cowboy boots, tooled leather cowboy belt
that his grandfather had given him, un-buttoned southwest-motif camp shirt, sand-cream felt cowboy
hat. Back home, he'd been called a pretty boy, but attempts to put on baggier clothes got him called
a ghetto-hound and he couldn't pull off the tough look since he was so thin. Looks were deceiving;
Stan knew Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He just didn't fancy using it except as a workout.
Parker Street was bustling with people. Teens up through middle-aged, club boys up to gray-beard
leather daddies, muscle stud clones up through stone dykes. The few blocks that made up Lainsville's
gay district seemed to house three bars: Maryanne's, which seemed to be a general bar and grille;
the Parker Street Public House, a more standard-seeming bar; and The Pit, which looked like a
featureless slab of concrete with a metal door.
The dog was prepped mentally by some internet research. Maryanne's, despite the name, was almost
entirely a gay bar, and often featured campy drag shows. PSPH was an all-inclusive LGBT spot. The
Pit was, "Not for the faint of heart."
Stan made a few circuits up and down the street, getting his ego alternately pumped and his paranoia
goosed by comments from a few guys. He wasn't sure what was worse; a single man giving him a leer
and a swipe of the tongue over muzzle-lips, or two pairs of eyes following his ass halfway down the
block as their owners walked arms-around.
He sat down on a bench to people-watch, smartly snatching up a newspaper so that he wouldn't be
mistaken for a prostitute. It wasn't a long wait. Over some traffic came a pair of antlers; when
they cleared past a car, they belonged to a substantial buck. He was clad in rolled-cuff 501's,
heavy work boots, and a thin bar vest. Instead of black leather, it was orange.. something. Hunter
orange.
Stan was in front of Maryanne's so that option seemed out. The buck was already past the Parker
Street Pub, and just as he was moving in front of The Pit, a truck rumbled past and blocked the
view. When it passed, the buck was gone.
_Oh shit_, the dog breathed, and got up. He hadn't come out all the way out to downtown just to tuck
his tail and get back in his truck. He didn't even have a tail to tuck. He picked his way across the
street, and headed for the black metal door.
Inside was a little foyer and the thrum of bass. There were two doors, one up a few steps, the other
down a significant staircase. There was one sign in between: "Get High", arrow pointing to the upper
door, and "Go Down" pointing to the lower.
The club music was coming from the lower door, and the buck didn't look like much of a kandy kid.
Stan took Door #1. The door opened past a bouncer, who checked Stan's ID and collected a ten dollar
bill. The dog found himself standing next to the end of a bar, a few tables over by the front wall
on his left.
Stan got himself a glass of Jack and paid up, then wandered around. The bar was dark and smoky,
wood-floored and walled. Instead of normal light fixtures, there were cast-iron gaslight replicas.
The walls were decorated by cowboy and riding boots, chains, shackles, hopefully non-firing single
action guns, whips, the like. _This is totally not my thing_, he whispered to himself, trying to
sort out the crowd.
About half the patrons were clad in leather of some variety, the others at least wearing jeans and
boots. There was a hatrack by the door, but no one was using it. That made Stan feel less bad about
tromping around indoors with his hat plastered on his head. The walls were rimmed with booths and
couches, tables making up most of the floor. A surprising number of the patrons were engaged in
nothing more than drinking or talking, a few off in the corner apparently giving someone a bent-over
spanking. It didn't seem too harsh, as the vulpine target was laughing.
The doberman didn't get too much attention, which would have had more impact if Stan wasn't trying
to keep his eyes peeled for the deer. It didn't seem like it would be hard, thanks to the
neon-orange vest, but the cervine had vanished completely. Stan took up at a lone table, and nursed
his drink.
He found himself gravitating to a group of bikers by the bar. He figured they were actually bikers
as they were dressed in real riding suits, helmets making a neat row on the bar. As he watched, a
gloved hand moved from one wolf to a boar who sat next to him, disappearing in front of the boar's
body. The arm started to move rhythmically. Stan's ears pinned back and he looked away.
His gaze fell on the bathroom door at the rear just as orange exploded out of it. The buck. Stan
tried to figure out how not to stare, and ended up making himself look antsy, like he was meeting
someone, flicking his eyes down at his watch, digging his phone out to check for messages that
weren't really there.
As the doberman watched from halfway across the room, the buck immediately spotted someone else, a
splotchy brown and white pony-horse-something who was wearing a driving harness and a pair of
saddle-leather chaps and a black cotton jock strap. The two apparently knew each other, both
brightening up on sight. The buck then lifted hard-wrought, lean arms and embraced the pony, muzzles
meeting in a wet, but quite short kiss. The couple moved around, arm around shoulder, the pony with
a drink in his hand.
Stan felt defeated, and got up off his seat. He made his way to the bar, exchanging his empty
whiskey for another, and just wandered. The archway to the back room looked like a black hole, just
dim light coming out, the shape of a pool table and a booth in view. Stan moved up to one of the
supports, in between the two worlds of the bar. The back room was full of sound, the jukebox music
from the other room piped in all over the place, noticably louder. It smelled as dark as it looked,
leather, floor polish, liquor, some smoke, and the smell of sex.
The back room was intended to be some sort of pool and game room. Foosball, pool tables, a couple
arcade machines. The arcade machines provided half the light in the room, the rest coming from a few
no-trip lights or dim tiffany lamps that hung over the pool tables. The room was all booths, and
they weren't even normal tables. Each had dark wood surrounds that went up over Stan's eartips, a
little curve in the front that made a door. Inside each was a U-shaped leather couch and a wood
coffee table. Two of them were occupied, and the lupine occupants weren't enjoying their drinks, but
each other. Specifically, one was enjoying the taste of the other's motorcycle harness boot, while
his friend's hand made the unmistakable motions of an in-pants handjob via the boot-licker's jeans
pocket.
Stan wandered in, lingered by one of the pool tables, adjusted his hat, then dug around for some
change. He figured he'd pretend he was going to do a little practice. Then he thought about the
implication of poking a stick at some balls and splayed his ears. It didn't help that he got a look
from each of the wolves, before they went back to their own fun.
The dog swiveled his head as he saw orange moving in the corner of his eye, out by the part of the
bar near the back room archway. The deer spotted him right back, eyes meeting while making a cursory
look around the room. The buck's head swung back to his equine friend, and then the pony's head
moved over into view, getting a look towards Stan. It was entirely possible that the look was meant
for someone else, but the only thing nearby was the dark gloom of the back room and the opening to
behind the bar and the kitchen. The pony grinned before his head disappeared behind the buck's, and
hands slid up around the orange-draped shoulders, then the two parted.
Now, the deer was turning, but instead of stalking right for the back room, he just disappeared
towards the rest of the bar. The figure that did approach was the pony stallion, wandering over with
the lazy clomp of expensive, lug-sole engineer boots. Stan swallowed hard and turned away, into the
darkness. The sound enveloped him, the jukebox changing tracks. Someone decided that, "I'm So
Afraid" by Fleetwood Mac was good bar material. Despite being old yuppie music, Stan though the song
made a particularly nihilistic match with the bar. It also matched the dog's mood.
The doberman bent over towards the pool table's coin slot, looking for how much it cost. He then
stuffed a bony hand into his pants pocket and rummaged around. Keys, a condom, some receipts, and a
little hard torpedo-shape; one of the amyl nitrite ampules. No change. He pulled his hand from the
pocket.
A hand descended down on his shoulder, and the dog jolted forward, thigh stabbing into the corner of
the pool table. Stan swung his head around, looking up the arm from the thick hand; pony. A solid
chocolate sort of color, with a few splotches of cream here and there, one large splotch on the
chest divided into four unequal pieces by the ring and straps of the driving harness. Stan knew
enough about horses to know that it wasn't just some sort of fashionable items; it was a real
driving harness.
"Need some change, dog?"
The dog's left thigh hurt, and he looked down at it, before looking back. "Uh. Well, I guess."
"Bet there's some in between the cushions over in one of those boots. Back one's good. Way back by
the exit sign. Guys're always taking their pants off back there," the pony offered. His voice was
thick with a New Jersey brogue. "Let's go have a look."
The pony left Stan, and walked to the back of the room, leaning on the opening to the boot. Stan
followed, and by the time he got there, was aware of a wet sensation against his leg. It was more
than wet, but cold, as if he'd spilled rubbing alcohol on himself. He felt at the spot, then sniffed
his fingers; the noxious paint thinner stench of poppers. He felt a little twinge of heat flush up
into his ears, cock stiffening in his tight jeans.
When the dog came up next to the pony, he looked around; no one else had entered the back room, no
heads were sticking out of the occupied booth. Stan pushed into the booth, and went to sit down. The
pony didn't sit; instead, he drew up a huge boot and tromped it onto the corner of the low table,
shoving it off to one side. Stan stared up at him.
"Don't know what to do? Well, you can bend over the table, or you can kinda sit your ass on it and
lean back real far against the seat, or just kneel up on the seat. The one in back, there's a kinda
ledge there, lets you lean over better."
Stan's gaze dropped from the horse's mouth down the expanse of packed-in muscle - emphasized by the
relative compactness of the pony's build - and towards the black fabric stretched over the horse's
package. It was now so full of curved shaft and balls that it was actually pulled away from the
equine's body. The horse dropped a powerful hand and started fooling with the fabric; when Stan saw
black next, it was glistening wet.
The dog felt a little twinge of panic and looked around the inside of the booth. The first two
suggestions seemed a little ridiculous; the first involved sticking his butt nearly out the opening
into the rest of the back room, and the second meant he'd get a nice look at anyone who walked by.
Eye-contact was not what Stan wanted with on-lookers, or maybe even with the pony. Stan didn't even
know what he was doing; he'd been hoping the buck would be there, but couldn't really imagine
getting into a situation with him. Now that a pony with an impressive hard-on was about to fuck him,
the dog's brain simply shut down and left him hard as a rock and scooting to the far end of the
booth. Stan kneeled up into position, facing the wall, and undid his pants. His cock came out and he
quickly unsheathed it, groaning as the furred flesh popped behind his growing knot.
The pony approached from behind, leather squeaking, and laid hands on the doberman's back. They
stroked down the shirt, then slid under, pushing it up and feeling over the lean muscle. The equine
leaned in, chaps creaking, the hard bulge pushing up against Stan's cleft. The dog hadn't felt
anything like it before, body shivering at the hard male contact. The big hands slid back down from
his shoulders, fooled around with something. Stan looked back to see the pony fooling with something
under the belt of the chaps, then the black jock came up and off the cock it was hiding, the
waistband disconnected. The horse's dick didn't look too bad, Stan thought, although it was still
throbbing and stiffening up. The shaft looked to be about seven inches, but quickly ballooned up
once it was free, and had to top out over a foot. "Not too bad" quickly became "Bad". The dog
wanted to call the whole thing off, especially because his asshole insurance had run down his leg
when the glass ampule broke inside his pants pocket.
The shaft lay against Stan's cleft, pushing past the tail stub; the pony fiddled with the few inches
of tail that were left, stroking at it and curling his fingers around it like it was some other part
of dog anatomy. The feeling made Stan go cross-eyed, the sensation turning purely sexual as the
fingers left and stroked just above the tail, awakening the ancient fuck reflex that most mammals
had. While the pony stood there, pushing his hips forward to nudge the fat mushroom head of his cock
back and forth against the shiny black dog fur, he fished in a coin pocket and pulled out a little
packet of something clear. He tore it open and, to Stan's dismay, produced not a condom but a
streamer of oily lubricant around the head of the ebony shaft.
There were no words from the pony as he pulled back and pumped a fist over his cock, leaving the
skin glistening in the dim light. No words again as he took one of the slicked up fingers and
plunged them into the dog's tailhole, making Stan push his muzzle down against the back of the booth
couch as he was entered. The dog was stretched out from a few play sessions, all involving the
purple toy and the image of being pounded by a strapping buck, but along with the looser muscle was
a sort of sore ache. Stan's worries about being seen evaporated with that finger inside; all he
could really feel was the skin and fur sliding through muscle. Then, two fingers, a little twinge of
pain fighting with the impossible-to-describe feeling of fullness, penetration.
Then, cockhead. The pressure of the pony's dick denting Stan's hole in was very nice, but the actual
insertion made the dog arch and gape his muzzle open. Stan bumped the wall, knocking his hat ajar;
the pony helpfully straightened it, tilting it back to avoid further upset. The dog's muscles
cramped up and he lurched forward, popping off the fat glans with an audible wet sound. The equine
didn't seem fazed, rubbing his shaft back and forth, before pushing the head through again. The
second round was much different, a twinge of pain but a rush of pleasure that felt more like awe to
the doberman. Even the pain felt good, endorphins coloring the ache and burn the way a back massage
can be painfully wonderful. And the fact that Stan was experiencing something for the first time, in
the worst of circumstances, in public, with a stranger, was a powerful head-rush.
The pony pushed in, and was soon almost as deep as possible, only a couple inches left. To keep the
right angle, the stud had to pull a boot up and half-stood on the edge of the couch, knee bent. He
dodged to the side and pushed in the rest of the way, forcing through the inner ring deep up inside
the dog's bowels. Stan's jaw fell open, drool pouring off his chin and landing on the little ledge
above the couch back. The dog pushed forward and felt a hard twinge run up his spine as the fat
equine dick pulled back, then popped forward again. The pony got the message and gripped at the
dog's shoulders, starting to thrust.
Each push forward felt like Stan was being punched in the gut, from the inside; each tug back made
him tense up hard, body unwilling to let the invading cock escape no matter how unpleasant it was.
The toy had prepared him for the girth of a cock, that important pop at the beginning, but not the
sheer brute animal force of being violated by at least two hundred pounds of horse muscle and a foot
of cock. After only ten or so thrusts, Stan's eyes were watering and squeezed shut, bowels aching
from the hard pounding.
The feeling of being punched increased until the pony snorted and brayed, his thrusts turning into
just a deep, hilted push. Stan looked over his shoulder, confused, just in time to see the pony pull
out, cock drooling white seed. The equine pumped a hand up the length, one last shot coming out, a
messy blast that hit the dog between the shoulders and drooled down the back-pointing fur along his
spine. Stan looked down; his cock was still knotted, the shaft slick with precum. The pony gave him
a grab to the shoulder.
"Shoulda told me you were a virgin," the horse smiled, grin all square teeth, then stuffed his spent
shaft into the jock and left. Stan stared after the horse, then skinned his shirt back down, feeling
it slick down against the wet spunk. He pulled his pants up and stood, legs shaking, thighs sore
inside from holding himself at some funny angle. Without looking back at the rest of the room, he
pushed through the back exit and out into an alleyway, hurrying to his truck.
Stan had to keep from looking back, because if he forgot about the incident, it would never come
back again. Except when he jacked off, every night, for a week, the buck's face replaced by the
glossy black chaps and bulging chest of the pony.