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The Delights of Saturday

Story and Character © Irving

Art © Charon2

Vincent stirred.

The sun had just begun to creep through his bedroom window shade, finally powerful enough to slip through the tiny slits of the blinds. The beams of light that did manage to slip through warmed his face. His eyelids fluttered a bit, adjusting to the sun's rays for a moment before taking in the dawn of a new day.

His tall and muscular frame, with long, sinewy legs, was sprawled across the mattress, an arm across his chest. As if to show this off his physique to no one in particular, the draft horse stretched his limbs outward, flexing his toned extremities to ward off the rust of sleep. Vincent sat up in place and scratched his back a moment, yawning a tad as his brain began to take inventory.

Ah, Saturday. The beckon of the outside world could not be farther away, unheard by the snoozing stallion. There was nowhere for him to be, nothing that required his immediate attention. Perhaps later in the day, perhaps tomorrow, but not right now. The Egyptian cotton sheets felt wonderful around his short furred hide. It was like waking up inside a silken womb, safe and secure. Vincent tossed his head back onto the fluffy pillow, producing a light thud as he plopped into its cotton embrace. A smile spread across his face in contentment. All was right with the world.

Or so it seemed.

From his headrest, he could see the contour of his legs in the crème-colored sheets, two mountains forming a valley in the middle where the sheet slackened. But in between these slopes, a smaller, yet still fairly sizable hill was arising. Only highlighting matters was a very noticeable damp spot at the very crest of that hill.

Investigating, Vincent peeled back the sheet a bit, the well-built horse revealing the cause of the bend in the fabric. His long and speckled equine manhood rested rigidly in the crook of his meaty thighs, firm and nearly fully erect. Hmf, morning wood.

Vincent watched with perplexity and intrigue as his big phallus twitched and stiffened. He noticed as the semi-soft appendage throbbed every few seconds as blood engorged the tip, like some happy metronome counting out some arbitrary measurement of time. He lightly chuckled to himself. The horse was proud with it and rightly so; certainly not the biggest, but an exquisite example of masculinity, to be sure.

His dreams from the previous evening were of a decided...intimate nature. He could vaguely remember, someone sucking at his tip. He did not know whom, perhaps it was unimportant, but it was a painfully erotic thing. Someone's warm maw, diving on him again and again in sensual dips, a tongue scraping gently across his hefty girth. His shivered slightly in remembrance. What a dream.

Understandably, the horse was feeling a tad pent, his plump testicles wobbling sorely in agreement.

The equine morph wondered silently if he could spare himself the time for some release. He could not think of any reason why not; He had the apartment to himself, so there was no risk of anyone disturbing him, a perk of bachelorhood. He did not plan on having anyone over that morning, nor was there really a rush to be anywhere.

Well that settled it: it was time to practice a bit of self-care.

Reaching into the nightstand next to his bed, the brawny horse fiddled in search of an item. After blindly fumbling around in his sock drawer for a few moments, his fingers seized what they were looking for; a nice bottle of lubricant. As Vincent retrieved it from the drawer, he closed the compartment rather lazily and began to inspect the tube.

Vincent had splurged on this item, in fact, but never used it yet. He had intended to use it perhaps when he was not the sole occupant of his bed, but now seemed as good a time as any to test it. It was designed to give a warming sensation, good for those particularly chilly mornings or to add a bit of a spark to a dying bedroom.

He opened the cap and squeezing gently, pushed a quarter-sized dollop into his free palm. The stream of clear liquid, freckled with red flakes, curled around itself like honey, forming a neat little pile in his hand. Soon it began to soften at his body heat and the creases of his palm became rivers for the quickly melting substance.

Bringing his large hands together, Vincent coated his fingers with the viscous fluid. Ah, there. That was good. With one hand, he took hold of his limp phallus, noting that while the vivid dreams had made it firm, there was still some give to the flesh. The hefty tube flopped over slightly in his moistened hand, like a tree branch weighted down by its own fruit. He shivered with delight as the lubricant began to spread over his sensitive flesh, supplanting the dry skin with a warm, wet kiss.

The next step was to apply motion. His slickened grip began to slide over the middle inches of his length, the copious lubricant slipping out between his fingers. His left hand circled around the appendage, long digits barely able to wrap around the plentiful girth. From the middle, he moved his grasp up and down just an inch in either direction, starting slow, sliding gracefully and gently over his form. Over the course of several seconds, he guided his hand down toward the base slightly, before ever-so-slowly rising back up, back toward the tip, careful to maintain a cautious speed.

A hot breath escaped him, a bead of sweat beginning to trickle down his sturdy forehead. He was not terribly used to this. He felt slightly on edge and could sense some of the handsome muscles in his neck and back pull taut at the excitement. He could all ready begin to feel the warming sensation as his hand spread more and more of the playful jelly around his spear, the veined barrel beginning to tingle in tender heat.

Confident that the first hand was doing fine, he added the other, the metacarpus making a fist around the plinth of his colossal stiffy. This area was much firmer, where the somewhat spongy spear met with steely musculature and rough cartilage. Vincent groaned as his hand tightened around himself, the clear jelly percolating down from the base of his cock to his sack, which was resting comfortably on the bed.

Both hands set to work covering the entirety of his meaty prick in the tingly fluid, one going to the scalloped tip, spreading it to the most sensitive regions of his organ. Lively fingers spread the stuff onto the flattish business end of his manhood, while a fist down below made sure the stem was equally well polished. The hands met it the muddle for a moment, teasing at the turgid ring of muscle that ran about the middle of the swollen shaft, something most horses like him had.

Now with two hands around his knob, he began to feel the entire thing tense and inflate itself, awakened by his touches. Vincent watched patiently as it expanded alarmingly quickly in his grip, the wrinkles in his skin beginning to flatten out as it was stretched to cover more ground. The curve began to shrink as the spotted flesh grew ever straighter and harder, like a snake uncoiling itself. Soon, the thickness of his spear had grown so wide his fingers were no longer able to wrap completely around its root, fingertips just out of reach of the tip of his thumb. Still, he was able apply pressure to the right places and found he could exert a surprising degree of control.

His left hand, which all ready had taken up residence more forward of the blade, wrapped gingerly just beneath the flared tip, making minimal, tiny strokes to tease and coax at the head. His grip was light here, not designed to pull or tug, only to heighten is arousal. Swiftly, but softly he massaged himself in a precise motion, like strumming a single guitar string time and time again.

Meanwhile, his other hand below took on a much more brutal approach. Cementing itself hard to his base, it made much longer, yet slower strokes, each drawn out as long as possible, unlike it's counterpart. It rubbed fiercely up and down in pumping, engine-like fashion. Occasionally his fingers would brush past a bulging vein, thick with blood on its way to delivery precious nourishment to the quickly growing limb.

Vincent ecstatically squirmed his hips a bit, beginning to lose control of his body to the two very different but oddly complimentary sensations. A bead of sweat appeared and slipped down his face, past his prominent lower lip, which he had taken to biting. It was difficult to concentrate and often he found his hands had exchanged duties without him realizing. After a quick adjustment, he was able to resume his administrations, but as his member grew more and more ready, getting all the machinations precisely correct hardly mattered.

His hand's work at the tip of his cock had begun to show. The smooth tcrest had begun to ooze a clear, colorless dew. It bubbled forth from the entrance, winding its way down his form in droplets, clinging to the turgid veins that swirled around his prick like vines of ivy around a tree trunk. Soon his entire organ was wet with even more balmy, tangy fluids, much to the horse's delight.

Both hands went to his appendage, gripping himself closely and tightly like a baseball bat. Ungf. It was so good. He needed to have more. In his strong hold, he began to rub his thumbs in circular motions all along the length, pulling on the excess hide.

Despite his hardness, there was just a touch of yield in his aching, red-hot member. His thumbs slid along the mast with grace, thanks no doubt in part to the fluids, both synesthetic and his own. The entire thing had grown shiny and red with all the attention and was almost fit to bursting all ready.

The man groaned as he his cranium went back to the pillow. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the only sensation he wanted more of in that instant--the pleasure, oh god, the earthshaking, incredible pleasure! He could feel a satisfying burning in his robust loins, well on their way to rapturous release. He huffed and breathed as the process slogged on; the horse couldn't have stopped now, even if he wanted to.

His balls began to rise from their burrow in the bed, coming off their rest as if called to action. They too had begun swelling into their prime as Vincent's sack began to ripen like a pair of plump grapes. Slowly the pouch began to rise up toward his body, the skin growing thicker and firm.

Vincent took one of his hands and took hold of these precious jewels, hefting them as he could feel their substantial weight in his hand. His fingers, still slippery with the lubricant and his own pre, coated them in a tepid glaze. He hummed to himself in approval. His hand closed carefully around them, beginning to stir them up as the other hand on his shaft pumped away in feverous frustration and speed.

While his mind raced, he recalled that dream: someone's tongue at his tip. It mattered not who it was, what their gender was or their likeness. All that mattered to Vincent in that moment was that he or she was there. He imagined the hot breath of someone at the crown of his most sensitive area, before giving way to the cool, refreshing air of the room. In his mind, he could feel the tongue stretch out just long enough to lick the flared end, dabbing it with saliva and warmth.

Another long and slow howl from the steed echoed throughout the bedroom. He opened one eye with some hesitation and looked down. His cock was now seething with pressure. The veins had bulged out, like little serpents flitting around his pole. The entire thing shook every few seconds, vibrating violently like a tuning fork that had been struck harshly against a table.

He began to grunt in duress, feeling all this strain beginning to build into a level he could not sustain. His jewels were drawing higher, preparing to fire, his chest was rising and falling as if he had just run a marathon. The Clydesdale licked his lips in satisfaction, his legs fidgeting and hips bucking as the pleasure grew stronger and stronger. It would not be terribly long now. No, not at all.

The mental image of the tongue teased at him, again, this time sucking on him. He used his hand to simulate this feeling, of a mouth diving down and down, impaling itself deep onto the many inches of his maleness. Oh god, he had to let it out!

His hand pumped at an alarming pace, moving as fast and far as he could will it to go. With all of his mental might, he imagined that mouth bouncing up and down on his length, bobbing as tongue and pliant lips kissed and sucked at him.

"Nnnng, oh god!" cried Vincent as his eyes flew open in shock. His gaze snapped down just in time to see his member shudder and pulse before a powerful jet of white essence sprang forth from the edge of his manhood. It bolted into the air a short distance before splattering down, covering him and the bed for that matter, in warm, milky musk.

The horse groaned as a wave of intense pleasure bolted up his spine, his entire body going stiff, muscles refusing to respond as they flexed and continued to spasm. Strong, healthy streams of alabaster cream continued to shoot from his tip, spackling the sheets with his virile seed. Soon, these torrents of gushing fluid grew slower, receding until they sputtered and faded away into a calming afterglow.

Vincent breathed, gasping for air as his arms flopped down at his sides in exhaustion. He looked down again at his now spent pike, which was dripping with a combination of the lubricant from earlier and his manly issue. He smirked to himself watching as the exhausted phallus began to soften and shrink somewhat, receding into its dormant state once more. For the moment, however, it stayed a bit firm, his body still flooded with endorphins and adrenaline.

The horse looked back up toward the stucco ceiling of his room. His eyes began to close into narrow slits as the toll of his little ritual began to set in. Vincent grinned in tranquility and comfort, his lips turning upright into a sly smile. In an instant his eyes had closed again and off he was, like a sailboat into the night, gone again, adrift in the waters of peaceful sleep.

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Author's Notes

Story and Character © Irving

Art and Thumbnail © Charon2