slave Boys attending him with us. So the fuck what? I will have him. I slam into his big body, forcing him onto his side, and with one knee on his tail, I roll him until the plug slips out of his ass. He’s figured out what’s happening, finally, and he fights me—we’re both back on our feet again. It’s a mad wrestling match, with both of us hooved, hands and feet. One of his metal hooves slams me across the cheek, but pain only fuels my desire, my raging need to take him. My leg snakes around his, and I take him down to the ground again. I smell him—a mixture of sweat, fear, desire. Pre-cum.
Using my thighs, my knees and elbows, I get him under me, on his knees. He’s trying to buck up, but the only thing this accomplishes is bringing his fine, tight ass within reach of my raging hard-on, and I jam it in as quick as I can.
I hear a muffled “oomph” despite the bit in his mouth, and pleasure is like a serpent, winding sinuously through my balls, my belly, into my ass, which is still beautifully plugged. I begin to fuck him in short, vicious strokes. Because I need to. And because it’s the best way to keep him down.
The edging I felt earlier while being dressed in pony gear, as well as Victor’s “fluffing” and the obvious pleasure of the crowd, makes me need to come too damn fast. I want to slow it down, to draw it out, to add to the thrill of the voyeurs watching us, but I can’t fucking control myself. His ass is as tight as a virgin’s, and I know I’m probably tearing him up a little, which only makes it hotter.
Yeah, bleed for me, motherfucker .
I can feel the jizz gathering in my tight balls, hot and churning with need. And with a scream from deep in my throat, I spill into him. Still fucking him, fucking him, as hard as I can, come spurts from my cock so hard it hurts. But I don’t care. It’s too goddamn good. So good.
I pull out of him, trying hard to catch my breath—a challenge with the rubber gag plug still firmly in place—and as I get to my feet, the crowd applauds, roars, screams. I turn and give them a little bow, which only makes them go wilder. Pleasure shimmers over my flesh like rows of goosebumps. The ginger stud starts to get up, but I shove him back down with a knee in his back. He’s on elbows and knees on the ground in what looks like a pose of supplication, and I can see from the damp puddle in the dirt beside his discarded tail that the fucker came while I was pegging him.
Suddenly, I like this Boy.
But things are happening fast—Victor grabbing my reins and pulling me back a few feet while the slave Boys help the hulking redhead up and lead him away. He manages to shake them off long enough to turn and look at me, his face red beneath the straps of his headpiece, his eyes gleaming with equal parts fury and the afterglow of orgasm. Then they drag him off, and I’m left in the center of the ring with Victor hanging on to me as the Master approaches and lays a wreath of white roses around my neck. But he won’t look me in the eye. I try to pull away from Victor, but he’s got a good grip on the reins, controlling me. I shake my head, trying to shake him loose. Not that it does much good. Victor is strong as hell, the resident Superman, and maybe the only handler here who can really handle me if I’m ready to bolt, and I am, and I’m not. Maybe I just want to be in control. Ha!
Then the Master surprises me by leaning in and telling me quietly, “Excellent job, Christopher.” He gives me a pat on the neck, then the cheek, his fingers digging in as they curl around one of the straps there, and he helps Victor lead me from the arena. Victor opens the wide gate, and we step through. On the other side the Master gives my head a hard yank, forcing me to face him, which I’m happy to do. I want to see his face, to see the pride there.
But what’s burning in his handsome features isn’t pride, exactly—it’s some combination of emotions that’s too complicated
Using my thighs, my knees and elbows, I get him under me, on his knees. He’s trying to buck up, but the only thing this accomplishes is bringing his fine, tight ass within reach of my raging hard-on, and I jam it in as quick as I can.
I hear a muffled “oomph” despite the bit in his mouth, and pleasure is like a serpent, winding sinuously through my balls, my belly, into my ass, which is still beautifully plugged. I begin to fuck him in short, vicious strokes. Because I need to. And because it’s the best way to keep him down.
The edging I felt earlier while being dressed in pony gear, as well as Victor’s “fluffing” and the obvious pleasure of the crowd, makes me need to come too damn fast. I want to slow it down, to draw it out, to add to the thrill of the voyeurs watching us, but I can’t fucking control myself. His ass is as tight as a virgin’s, and I know I’m probably tearing him up a little, which only makes it hotter.
Yeah, bleed for me, motherfucker .
I can feel the jizz gathering in my tight balls, hot and churning with need. And with a scream from deep in my throat, I spill into him. Still fucking him, fucking him, as hard as I can, come spurts from my cock so hard it hurts. But I don’t care. It’s too goddamn good. So good.
I pull out of him, trying hard to catch my breath—a challenge with the rubber gag plug still firmly in place—and as I get to my feet, the crowd applauds, roars, screams. I turn and give them a little bow, which only makes them go wilder. Pleasure shimmers over my flesh like rows of goosebumps. The ginger stud starts to get up, but I shove him back down with a knee in his back. He’s on elbows and knees on the ground in what looks like a pose of supplication, and I can see from the damp puddle in the dirt beside his discarded tail that the fucker came while I was pegging him.
Suddenly, I like this Boy.
But things are happening fast—Victor grabbing my reins and pulling me back a few feet while the slave Boys help the hulking redhead up and lead him away. He manages to shake them off long enough to turn and look at me, his face red beneath the straps of his headpiece, his eyes gleaming with equal parts fury and the afterglow of orgasm. Then they drag him off, and I’m left in the center of the ring with Victor hanging on to me as the Master approaches and lays a wreath of white roses around my neck. But he won’t look me in the eye. I try to pull away from Victor, but he’s got a good grip on the reins, controlling me. I shake my head, trying to shake him loose. Not that it does much good. Victor is strong as hell, the resident Superman, and maybe the only handler here who can really handle me if I’m ready to bolt, and I am, and I’m not. Maybe I just want to be in control. Ha!
Then the Master surprises me by leaning in and telling me quietly, “Excellent job, Christopher.” He gives me a pat on the neck, then the cheek, his fingers digging in as they curl around one of the straps there, and he helps Victor lead me from the arena. Victor opens the wide gate, and we step through. On the other side the Master gives my head a hard yank, forcing me to face him, which I’m happy to do. I want to see his face, to see the pride there.
But what’s burning in his handsome features isn’t pride, exactly—it’s some combination of emotions that’s too complicated
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