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My Master's Hoof

Written by Arian Mabe

The stable yard is quiet and I drink from my green water bucket as the world trots by around me. Muzzle thrust into the clean, pure water, I drink in giant, thirsty gulps that suit a stallion of my size, sides heaving as I sate myself. There is little else to do in the stable, though the sounds of other studs in the block munching hay is soothing, reminding me that the bachelor herd - for that is really what we are - is near. Content with the amount I have drunk, I lift my dripping muzzle, trimmed with fine white hairs, and swing around to the hay net to see what scraps I have left from the night before. I bump the water bucket with my hind left hoof as I move and the liquid judders, slopping over the sides. The bucket stays fast. Last night, I did not kick it over in a fit of boredom, which is one more point to this stallion. I swish my tail happily and it swats the painted breezeblocks of the wall in a well aimed swipe. Master will be pleased with me. I didn't knock the bucket over.

I lead a simple life, as they say, on the stud farm with the herd. At least, I think that's what they say. I listen a lot with my head hanging over the half stable door, ears pricked to attention. Not many pay me much mind, a bay stallion with a star between my eyes that I have never seen, as they go about their work on the stud farm. I'm sure I am handsomer than all the other stallions and deserve far more attention than them, but even my best nickers and stomps are not enough to draw a passing stable hand today. How irritating. They bore me. Why don't they pay me attention? I toss my head. They never give me many pats and carrots, not nearly enough love. Not until it's my turn to be collected, that is.

Oh! I stomp a hoof at the memory and wheel about in the stable like a filly in her first season. What a joy it is to be collected! Of course, it could never compare to breeding a mare, her rump quivering beneath my belly, shaft slapping flesh as she moves and I line up. Sometimes one of the two-leggers grabs my cock to guide me into her cunny, letting me ram in up to the medial ring as she squeals. I love when they're loud. My cock is big enough to stretch them out and leave them wanting more. But it doesn't matter at that point whether they want more or not. If they are led back to me for breeding, I will mount them again. If they do not return, I know they will bear my foals.

I snort and throw my head back, forelock falling over one eye, much to my annoyance. I have a good, strong line. I am a stallion in demand. My foals are always desired. And I have felt many a tight mare wrapped around my cock for her maiden ride.

Stomping, I step up to the half door, peering out of the stable with my forelock falling over my eyes. I shake my head, looking through the stray strands, as I rock a hind hoof in the air, idly playing. I am bored. When will they come for me? No one wants to give me any attention today. I snort huffily and snatch a bite of hay, chomping loudly to show my disagreement with the whole situation. They should know better than to leave me cooped up. Shaking my head, flakes of hay float to the stable floor and I trample them into the straw so that they will no longer be of use to any other horse on the yard, or any of the two-leggers. That'll show them.

My show draws no attention, much to my discontent. I half-rear in the stable, head flinging back dangerously close to the roof. I'm not known to be a risk to rear, but it is their fault for ignoring me for so long. Spinning around in the stable, I squeal and kick out at the door with each back hoof in turn, raising a fearsome crack that turns heads across the yard. I snort and heave a sigh, breath misting before my nostrils. That'll show them, yes it will.

"Quiet! God almighty, you great big git!"

It works like a charm, it always does, though I have never been forced to rear before this moment. I suppose there's a first time for everything. As it is, a chestnut stallion that walks on two legs throws his fist in the air, mane falling about his neck in a tangle. He should have a good grooming. If he was closer and not leading a fine little filly across the yard - I should be on top of that back, giving her a nip just to show her that I like her trot - I would nibble the crest of his neck in assistance.

Toying with a fore-hoof, I scrape down the door obnoxiously when he does not immediately trot closer, leaving the mare to her own devices. Surely she can amuse herself for a time? I've seen mares. I know they talk. She can talk to the other stallions while my master deals with me, while he gives me the attention I deserve. They'll have more than enough to say to her, I can tell you that!

"Can't you keep it down for one fucking hour, 'ey?"

I don't know what an hour is but I can only assume that it is a great period of time, longer than a night by far. That's too long. Why should I be quiet? I bop the red rubber ball hanging from the highest O-ring just outside my stable and roll my head in agreement as it smacks back into the white painted breeze blocks with a loud thwack. My owner, or the two-legger that is always about the stables as the lead stallion of that herd, storms up to my stable, fire flashing in his brown eyes. His chestnut coat is aglow and I stubbornly stomp, unshod hoof clanging against stone. I am not to be trifled with and the two-legger knows this! Even if he is their lead stallion!

I pause, ears twitching. Then he is my lead stallion two, the top rung leader of our bachelor herd. He holds the rein and shows us where to go. It is simple, really. It doesn't mean I have to like it all the time.

The chestnut two-legger lets himself into my stable and bolts the top bolt behind him, ensuring that I cannot make a timely escape. It was a shame. I would have liked to get at that black filly, paint her coat with streaks of seed. She'd be a piebald or an appie by the time I was done with her. The two-legger grumbles good-naturedly to himself, curses abounding, but I know he doesn't really mean them. He never does.

"Calm now, boy," he murmurs, patting my neck and stroking down to my withers. "You'll have a nice, strong mare to breed soon enough, just be patient."

But I don't want to be patient. I snake my head out and nip his jacket, not hard enough to break through the fabric but with enough snap behind it so he knows I mean business. The stallion sighs and I toss my head, turning it to look at him expectantly: well?

He sighs as if the weight of a hundred stallions is upon his shoulders. If my lips could mimic the motion, I would have smirked. Instead I flap them loudly, bobbing my muzzle. He knows what I'm getting at, yes he does! He does, he does, he does!

My cock drops from its sheath, mottled length slapping up against my underbelly with a quick flex of muscle. His eyes shift to follow the motion and I smell his own arousal, my nostrils flaring as he reaches down to rub over his crotch where his own sheath nestles. Of course, his cock is smaller than mine.

"Just a quick one then, if it'll keep you quiet and calm."

He runs a paw back through his red mane and eases closer, ignoring the stomp of my hooves. I'm not warning him back though - I am excited! My master is spending time with me! It always feels so good, it's no wonder that my herd lusts after this sensation. There's nothing like mounting a mare but two-leggers have some talents to them.

He rolls his eyes and blows up into his forelock, dropping heavily to his knees in the straw beside my hind legs. I don't know what the roll of the eyes means in equine language so I ignore it - it can't be all that important if I don't already know what it is. His paw strokes lightly down my flank, muscle quivering beneath his touch, and I nicker softly, tail swishing to catch him on the back of the head as he leans in. One paw wraps around my thick length, his funny hooves almost touching around the shaft. Pleasure shudders through me and I groan, the sound rumbling up from deep within my belly.

He strokes my shaft, running from the base over the medial ring to the tip, flat and spongy. In a mare, when I breed her, the tip flares out and pulses with cum. But it doesn't start like that. A stallion must build up. Master leans in and trails his tongue - tease! - from the base to the head of my cock, over and over again as if he is enjoying a salt lick. Snorting warm breath over my cock and balls, he cups my foal-makers and rolls them between my fingers, a treat rarely given. And that tongue works and works and works, teasing me into a bouncing, eager hardness. I want to mount! I want to cum! Breed mare! Beneath my stomach, master groans softly and I duck my head to see him rub the back of his paw over the bulge of his shaft. He wants stallion pleasure too. This time was for me though, I know it. Master has many more mares to breed than a stallion locked up in a stable, waiting upon his convenience.

Playing his tongue over my cock-head, master laps up the trickle of clear fluid - my excitement evident. He holds my shaft up and licks all round the puffy tip, tail flicking into the straw. He is as eager as I am. My nostrils flare to catch the stringent scent of stallion musk. It's not mine. Master's lips part around my cock and I stand very still, anticipating what is to come. I know it's easier for master if I am quiet when he slides his muzzle over my cock, taking me deeper and deeper. His tongue presses to the underside of my length and I rock from side to side, groaning from the pit of my belly. Hmph. So good. Hot and tight and almost like a mare's cunny. Huffing, I lip at the stable door, wishing the other stallions could see the special treatment I was getting. I was more special than them! I had my master's attention!

Pushing down on my cock, master's lips pass my medial ring and I grunt, cock pulsing out another spurt of pre cum. I never am like this with a mare. With a mare, it's quick and rough, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting until I spill inside her. A muzzle is slower, sweeter, like fresh hay. I must not scoff it down but enjoy it. It's a different taste. Rubbing my poll against the wall to satisfy an itch that cannot be put off, I roll my hindquarters forward, a step allowing me to nudge more of my length into master's muzzle. It pushes into his throat and he allows me in, ears flipping flat to his skull. He huffs through his nostrils when he pulls back far enough for breath and bobs his muzzle. He feels just like a mare doing this! Only I'm not the one doing the thrusting, only rocking with the sway of my body into his mouth and throat, lips so tight around my girth.

I'm the biggest on the yard.

His mouth is so warm around my cock that my shaft flexes and shoots a spurt of pre right to the back of his throat. My master would never dispute the gift of my seed though and he gulps it right down, throat working as his tail swishes. I stomp a hoof, instinct bidding me to thrust. But I cannot mount his muzzle as I would breed a mare's pussy. My master is the one who controls the pleasure and it is my master who must give it to me. Shaking my mane off my neck, I snort keenly. I must be patient. Release will soon come.

I neigh and shift all four hooves in a cacophony of clip-clopping, tail lashing the air as if to ward off a million flies. Need catches me and I wish to thrust more than ever, fighting my training. But I am not a colt any longer and I don't need to be cross-tied when master pleasures me. I don't want to be tied up again. Muscle twitches and I rock my hindquarters sideways, almost jerking my cock out of master's muzzle as he bobs quickly, tongue the ring halfway down my cock. My balls tighten. Near, near, so near. Master licks the tip of my shaft and dives back in like a filly in season, his tail up high. I throw my head up where I can't see him, muzzle nodding quickly. Too close! Cumming!

My cock jerks and I flag my tail high and proud as it pulses, pouring come in thick spurts. Each pulse feels like heaven and I grumble a groan that is not a complaint, eyes half-closed as master works me over. My cock twitches up, muscles beyond a stallion's control as I rock forward, balls feeling especially heavy and virile. If his mouth was a mare's cunny, I would have put her in foal. But master has the best muzzle. He wriggles his tongue against my shaft to coax even more seed from me, drinking it down like I would suck water from a bucket. Sometimes master is just like a mare in how he loves cum. There's too much to fit in his muzzle though and it dribbles out the corners of his lips, oozing down his chin and dripping to his chest. The mark of my seed.

Master lets my cock slip from between his lips with a gasp, the soft length dropping towards the ground in a low arc, heavy and thick. It flexes, cum drooling from the tip and I snake my head back to whinny shrilly. Well, it's no fun cumming if all the other stallions don't know about it!

"Quiet, you goddamn horny monster. Pest."

Master scrambles to his hooves, licking my cum off his lips. His eyes are bright though and I know master has enjoyed as much as me. Almost more than me. His pre cum soaks the fabric over his crotch, straight through that funny rug thing that goes over two-leggers bottom halves. So inconvenient to a stallion. He should be bare like me so he can breed easily. I butt my head into his chest and shove. He is knocked off balance and curses at my show of affection. But how else am I supposed to show master that I love him?

He wipes the back of his paw across his muzzle, clearing the last visible traces of stallion seed. I can still smell it. I've left my mark on him. Proudly, I toss my head and flap my lips, tail waving like a flag as my still dropped cock begs attention. Again? I can go again. Is there a mare for me now? Was master preparing me to mount a mare? Calming me before taking me into the breeding stall? I shiver, muscle quivering in anticipation. It would be good, I knew it would be good.

Maybe next time I can mount him like a mare.