The pup lies upon the bed, nude and erect.
The window is open, but there’s barely a breeze. The night swelters. His muzzle glistens with sweat as his hands slide over himself, panting in autoaphrodisiac thirst. One slips into an armpit and plays with the scented hair before bringing the clean smell to his nose. He breathes in. Moans. His body—firm and toned, covered in short cream fur—undulates on the silky sheets as electric thrills chases up and down his spine. He is in love with his lithesome body, his personal scent, his lean muscles. He flicks a pert nipple and clenches ass and cock, gasping, before grabbing the muscle whole and massaging it.
Dreaming of another.
The pup is fresh into the fullness of his manhood, like strong wine poured into glittering crystal, but he is no slavering brute. His form sways when he walks, and his easy laughter lingers in the air. His mere presence intoxicates: an androgynous flame beckoning all to partake, to drink deep of lust and lose themselves in grand debauchery. Though now fully grown, he is still “pup” to the horny males of the town. Perhaps they imagine he is yet a virgin, and that they might be the first to deflower him. But the pup does not care what they call him, or think of him.
As long as they look at him.
He bats his eyelashes when he walks by, smiling at the faces that stare at him the way they used to stare at their wives. He will pause and stands alone, feeling the sun on his skin and the pulse of need in his crotch. Letting them see what they dare not touch. He shivers to feel their eyes on him, growing hard with excitement and not hiding it. He wants them to know what they do to him—so that when he turns them down, they can do nothing but watch as he lets them watch his pert arse twitch as he walks away. They do not fear him; they would overpower him with ease if they could, and the pup has shuddered in climax before to imagine it. But he is under the protection of a higher power.
A muscular, dominant power.
At that thought, the pup’s hand slides down his chest, following the fine treasure trail that leads to his excited prick. He is in rut tonight, like a stag in spring, brought to the edge of what he can bear by humid imagination. He grips below his knot and grunts, thrusting mindlessly into the air. He has been erect for hours. A shining droplet gathers on the point, then slides down along the crimson shaft and onto his fingers. He strokes it through his bush, coating the pale hairs in musky fluid until they, too, glisten in the moonlight. He sighs and cups his testicles in one palm, alternately tugging and fondling them. His sack hangs low in the heat, and his balls are swollen with desire. He is a needy mutt, and his balls throb with potency. He wants desperately to empty the heavy orbs, to cover himself in his hot seed, but it is too soon. His lust, fierce as it is, wants more than simple self-stimulation. It wants more than exciting memories of strangers teased.
It wants him.
The pup has been thinking of nothing else lately, and at last his needs can no longer be denied. It’s time. He gets up from the bed and pads softly to the door, cock bobbing in the air before him. He keeps his door well oiled, letting him slip soundlessly into the hall. No moonlight to light this passageway, but he needs none. His feet are as sure on this path as a mountain antelope. It is seven steps to reach the bedroom down the hall, but only three to reach the linen closet. He slips inside, door shutting quietly behind him. Pausing in the dark, the pup breathes softly, listening—then slides a hand between some towels and pushes then aside. Behind them: a small crack in the boards, granting sight into the room beyond. Easily overlooked in an old house…except by keen eyes seeking horny mischief. His heart starts beating faster, making his cock jump in turn. He holds it tight, as if it might give him away, and leans forward to peer through the gap…
The room is empty.
A double bed is visible in the moonlight, but it’s unoccupied. Still made. The pup stares, uncomprehending, his heart rate slowing as his confusion mounts. He leaves the closet and stares at the door of the other bedroom for a moment before padding closer and knocking gently. No answer. He takes the handle and opens gently, pushing the door wide with a low creak. No grunt of surprise, no sudden motion. He steps inside and looks about. There is risk in being here, but his mind is too thickened by desire for him to care. Already his cock is responding, for this room is suffused with a scent. One so familiar, yet never enough. The pup breathes deep of it, moaning softly, and touches himself. An old bureau stands by the window. He walks over and opens the top drawer, moaning again at the sight of underwear. Washed, clean, packed away…but he still knows exactly where they have been. What they have cradled.
He lifts a pair to his nose and breathes in, eyes closed. Imagining.
When he opens them again, the moon has gone behind a cloud. In the deepest darkness of night, something strange: a faint light in the stables. His heart skips a beat, and then the moon returns, bright enough to drown the pinprick out. The pup is torn. He should not risk more than he already has. He should return to his room and make do with these fresh fantasies. Subsist for one more night on memory alone. But he is sure of what he saw, out there in the night—and dares to hope what it could mean.
There is no caution in a young dog’s lusts.
He goes downstairs, certain now that the house is empty. Through the kitchen and out the back door, feet sinking slightly into the thick summer grass, breeze brushing against his swinging testes. The stable is not far, but the walk feels eternal. He shivers with a mix of nervousness and need. The thrill of potential discovery—always present when he spies from his secret hidey-hole—is now magnified. He is not hidden, and the moon is bright. A single glance would catch him out. One loud cry would unmake him. And yet he moves without fear. For with each step closer, he feels more confident. More excited. More assured of what awaits him.
For why wouldn’t others have dreamed of doing it too?
The shivering pup pauses before the ajar doors. A wall of hay within keeps him from seeing in, or being seen. And still, the first step within feels immense. Liminal. He has crossed a line. There is no excuse to give from here on out, no reason to be naked—or erect. But that worry fades as quick as it arrived, pushed aside by the quiet sounds floating from deeper in. Unfamiliar, yet they make his prick grow even harder, dripping freely upon the packed dirt floor. He sidles closer, flush against the hay bales, and pauses. His heart hammers, and each footstep takes an eternity. A dim light casts over the ground before him. He does not know if he will be seen if he peeks around the corner. It would be unwise to risk it.
He peeks.
On a low bench, in the shrouded light of a hanging lantern, stands a naked hound. A hairy, muscular giant, coat as smooth and dark as the night around him, yet shimmering where light catches it. Where the pup is lithe and toned, the older dog ripples with hard-earned strength. Where he is light on his paws, the bigger dog is heavy, fearsome. Dangerous. And where the pup’s prick is respectably endowed…well. He knows first hand that this dog is absolutely priapic. Stallionesque in girth, length and load size. The pup can see it in his mind’s eye, in memory refreshed each time leered through the chink in the boards at this mountain of muscle pleasuring himself with wild abandon in his bed. One hand gripped around the massive knot, still in its sheath, while the other stroked his long, veined beast, pumping on it with snorts and muttered filth, lost to the world until his climax blasts upward, a veritable geyser of seed. The same seed that made him.
His father.
All the pup sees of that heaven-sent prick now are the testicles that hang under it like swollen fruit in a dark, straining sack. The pup has seen the feral farm dogs mating, the hounds fucking their long crimson lengths into eager bitches—and he knows his father is larger. He has seen the horniest males in town dare to expose themselves at him when they think they are unseen, displaying their voracious, dripping cocks to try to lure him in—and he knows his father is larger. And he has seen the stallions breed their mares with their unparalleled dicks, their glory-shafts…and he knows no dog can equal them for size and power.
But tonight he sees that that is clearly not for want of trying.
The hound stands on the bale behind their feral mare, Indica, grasping her buttocks firmly as he thrusts wetly into her heavily aroused cunt with bestial grunts of satisfaction. Every time his fat knot vanishes inside her frothy mound, the horse quivers with satisfaction. The pup does not blame her: he has spied on that same knot enough times that he can imagine the feel of every proud vein, every engorged inch as it spreads her open. Perhaps she has even mistaken the hound breeding her for her usual lover: Aguerra, the Friesian stallion. He stands in the stall opposite, his long dick hanging heavily under him now now, as dark as the shadows, almost touching the ground. Aguerra is monstrously endowed, even for a stallion, and his lust follow suit. He has studded many mares in his time, and remains as randy as a yearling in these his twilight years. Superbly trained, he flehmens at the hound and the mare before him, but makes no advance. Perhaps he believes it only fair to share with a fellow stallion.
Two true studs stand before him, then—and the pup does not know which one he lusts for more.
The burly dog has been at this for some time already, it seems. His pace is frenetic, and the sound of heavy balls slapping against dripping mare fills the stable. His panting is hoarse and beautiful, and his upturned face is taut with pleasure. He growls like a rutting beast as he breeds his lover, and in the thundering silence of his mind the son begs him to climax. To spray his potent seed deep inside her as he has so often dreamed of it spraying inside him. The peak of virility, the apotheosis of desire. The pup has tasted himself many times, and each time he imagines that he drinks the hot, fragrant produce of his sire’s fertile nutsack.
He does not have to wait long.
His father’s paw tightens on the mare’s rump as his rhythm falters. As if sensing her lover close to climax, Indica thrusts back against him, almost toppling him from the haybale, and the hound cries out. A guttural sound, full of lust and satisfaction. He pushes hard against the mare, knotting her one last time and holds, muscles tensing, veins throbbing. With sharp grunts of satisfaction, clearly holding back a scream of pleasure, the hound cums—and the pup can count his powerful ejaculations by the clenching of his thick buttocks. Four, five, six, seven. Then a sigh; relaxation. The hound settles, from toetips to standing, brushes the mare’s haunch with sweet whispers, thanking her. A minute or more he stands there, adoring her, being present with her…
And then withdraws.
The dog’s penis pulls free of the mare’s cunt with a slight, slick sound—and drops like a stone to hang between its owner’s smooth, sweaty legs. He is barely softened, but he is immense. At the bottom of the thick, crimson shaft, his vastly engorged knot remains swollen. It sways from its own weight as the father pants and stares, admiring himself from above as his balls slowly descend to their natural position. The hound’s stare grows vain as his panting slows, and his member twitches. With a grunt of pleasure, his fat balls clench in their sack and a last squirt of semen shoots from the tip to splatter on the hay beneath his feet.
This stud is sated.
The crowning sight of his father so posed, like a figure out of myth, is too much. The pup cannot hold in the gasp—and is betrayed by it. His sire’s piercing gaze snaps up and finds him in the shadows. There is silence. The two dogs stare at one another, fear in both their eyes. Then the father’s eyes drop to take in his son. Nude, panting…and extremely aroused. The sire’s eyes rise, and now the fear is gone. Replaced by something else. He brushes a drop of sweat from his brow and risks a smile. The son’s heart leaps, and dares a smile in return—and then looks boldly down at the cock that made him.
When his father growls, it is triumphant.
“Come here, pup,” his father says. The mutt obeys, walking forward, letting his cock point the way, until he stands before his sire. The older dog steps down from the haybale, genitals slapping gently against his thighs. The son follows their hefty sway, his heart pounding in his chest at being so close to what he has forever only been able to spy on from afar. When he looks back up, he finds handsome grey eyes looking back at him, flickering with excitement. His father look takes him in, all of him, lazily, silently…and then sets his legs apart, letting himself hang proud and free.
“Touch me, pup,” he says softly. “If this is what you like.”
The pup moans as his hand brushes against father-cock, as hot as semen. He spits on his fingers and then dares grasps it, slim fingers wrapping around its heft, and pants in happiness. It fills his palm and more, so much bigger and heavier than it looked through a little spy-hole in the wall. The pup hefts it gently and then grips tighter, feeling it swell as the veins throb against his skin. His father shivers at the touch, eyes briefly closing—and then returns the favour. It is the pup’s turn to shiver as his father gropes him, strokes him. He starts stroking too, and the older dog’s cock is soon fully awake again. The pup stares, drunk with desire, making only soft moans as they silently masturbate each other.
Then his vision drifts to an equally glorious sight.
The mare hasn’t moved. Her desire is seemingly not as easily sated as a dog’s. Her winking cunt freely dribbles her erstwhile lover’s thick seed, marking her as bred. The pup stares at it, remembering the sight of immense father-cock withdrawing from inside her, slick and proud. He imagines it doing the same to him…but he would never leak it out again. He would clench and hold it, saving his sire’s unique gift in him, to feel for hours longer as a memory…
“Do you want to try her, pup?” his father murmurs. The mutt looks at him, but slowly shakes his head. He does not care for mares. It is cock he lusts after, dreams of, fantasises about.
All cocks.
Over his father’s shoulder, he watches Aguerra. The proud stallion is still deeply aroused, nickering constantly—alongside a wetter, meatier sound. He is bellyslapping his immense prick, his godly length unbelievable to behold, his flare so swollen it looks unreal. Many times has the pup watched Aguerra pleasuring himself in the field and touched himself, lost to the fantasy of holding that perfect stallion cock in his hands insead of his own. But never before dared.
His father looks behind and chuckles throatily. Approvingly. “Ah.” He meets his son’s gaze and grins. “I should have realised.”
The father leads his son over, brushing a hand along Aguerra’s coat and murmuring soothing things. The horse is impeccably trained, to stand so still with a horny mare just strides away, but even he has his limits. When he feels his tail lifted and a teasing finger run around his hole, he whinnies and stamps, pressing back into the feeling. This stud does not care where his pleasure comes from: if he cannot bury himself in the mare, then someone must bury themselves in him.
No stallion should ever go unsatisfied.
The pup stares in awe at the excited stallion’s rump, huge muscles taut, tail now lifted of its own accord to give the wandering fingers full access to the perfect, dusky doughnut beneath. His father plays with it eagerly, grinning at his son as he does so. Stroking it gently, all around, before sliding a fingertip slightly in, making Aguerra stamp and flex his hole with a screech. Demanding immediate satisfaction for his needs. The hound gestures, and his son drags the hay bale from behind the mare into Aguerra’s stall.
“Climb up, pup.”
Heart hammering, the pup clambers up, panting in lightheadedness and lust and excitement. And just like that, his aching cock throbs at the portal of stallion intimacy, tip pressed against Aguerra’s pitch-black tailhole. His father grasps his knot and squeezes gently, liberating some drops of pre-cum and smearing then onto the stallion. “He’s used to me,” he murmurs, bringing his hand to his mouth when done and licking it clean with a satisfied noise. “You won’t struggle. Just enjoy it. He always does.”
A firm hand rests on his son’s pert ass, and gently guides him forward.
The pup gives a choked cry as his penis slips inside the horse. Immediately: the heat, the tightness. As if Aguerra is gripping with all his might, giving the young dog a hole that must surely be tighter than any bitch or mare. Deeper he slides, pressed relentlessly on by his father’s guiding hand until his sheath flatten against the big stallion’s sweaty rear. Head spinning, he doesn’t move. Just feels. A wealth of new sensations, some imagined, many not. How could he describe the feeling to another? Unless they too had experienced it, anything would be lacking…
“Now fuck him, son.”
His father stands beside him, free hand firmly gripping his erection, a satyric gleam in his eyes as he growls again. “Breed that stud.” The hand on his son’s ass slips under his wagging tail to stroke the pert hole there, while his eyes drink in the sight of the pup’s beautiful cock buried inside the animal. It makes the son’s soul pulse to be so admired, like heat is flowing out from his very centre. He never felt this from the lecherous eyes of other men. Around his belly it circles, before plunging into his crotch to shoot through his balls and finally down his cock, surging along the length and into the stallion. Just as his father has clearly done, so many times before…
“I want to see you cum in him,” his father continues, panting as he jerks off. “I want to taste your seed on him. Fuck him for me, son.”
What decent son could ever refuse satisfying their father’s neediest desire?
The pup pulls gently back, groaning as the cooler air prickles his horse-warmed length. Aguerra grunts in displeasure and pushes back, and the pup lets his cock sink inside a second time. Just as tight, just as warm. He moans and thrusts, burying himself up to the knot with ease, and trying for more. The equine is so tight. He grips the horse’s rump just like he saw his father gripping Indica, and feeds Aguerra his hard cock over and over. Each thrust is silent, sliding smoothly in and out, but his panting and groaning fills the stable. His knot stetches the stallion a little more each time, until—it’s in. The mutt groans and shudders, legs shaking, fireworks going off in his mind and cock simultaneously. Beside him, his father watches with unkempt lust, his monstrous cock hard and crimson and throbbing in his hand, pre-cum dribbling out and down his fingers. The son stares at it as he fucks the horse, unable to decide whether the sight of his father’s naked glory is more arousing than the tight arse of the masculine stallion wrapped around his huge knot…
His inexperienced body, strung tight as a violin string, decides for him.
With a shudder and a gasp, the pup tenses on the inward thrust, feeling himself throb and thicken inside Aguerra, knotting the stallion’s doughnut before his balls clench and he cries out in orgasm. Unseen spurts of his seed squirt from him, filling the depths of the snorting stallion’s passage. His head spins and he slumps forward against the horse’s rump, groaning happily as his body empties itself over and over of the night’s long-restrained needs.
When he can once more feel his feet, he takes a half-step back to pull his knot free of the horse’s doughnut. He hasn’t softened; one orgasm is not nearly enough to sate the universe of arousal he drowns in tonight. So his still-firm knot drags with it a goodly load of semen, making it spill out around the doughnut and leave it shiny, white and pulsing. Immediately, his father is there, moaning as he laps at it, tasting his son’s pale seed against the dark stallion’s handsome hole. A sight that makes the pup sad, but only for all the times before now that he could already have been sharing this joy with his sire. A feeling far exceeded by the excitement of imagining the many times still ahead when they can do the same…and more.
His father finally grunts and leans back, licking his chops clean of the taste of son and stallion. He stares at his son, the younger dog shiny with sweat and as hard as if he’d yet to cum. A glorious sight, and the pup knows it. Unconsciously he preens, being the androgynous beauty, the desirous treasure that so taunts other males. Except it cannot taunt this hound, even if it wanted to.
Because this is the hound that owns him. Has always owned him, whether or not he knew it.
His father’s hand still rests on his rump, a single fingertip teasing the lips of his anus. The pup’s most pressing curiosity is sated, but that was just a satellite of interest. A distant, curious orb circling the undeniable centre of his dreams and fantasies and life: the burning, blinding glory of father-cock. He reaches for it now and feels his sire shudder when he grips it. Then a hoarse “No”, and he’s gently helped down from the hay bale. His father is close, body pressing into him, cock grinding. The hound is so much like a stallion, even his lusts are barely restrained. But between the pants and snorts he pushes his son around to Aguerra’s side.
To where the stallion’s hard prick hangs.
It is beyond immense. It is terrifying. The pup knows that Aguerra simply has draft horse heritage, and yet it looks as though a god has reached down and gifted his own deific prick upon the creature. The beast is as hard as a horse could ever get, and yet still his member hangs, unable to stand upright under its own mass. The stud has only been made more needy by the pup’s brief and intense fucking, and the horse’s fat fuckstick swings as he pulls at it in desperation, trying to bellyslap and failing. The pup has never seen the stud so engorged, his flare so huge and dripping, almost scraping the wooden boards beneath him. His father’s hand upon his rear guides him closer, until his skin brushes the stallion’s side and the ruttish smell of horny stallion fills his lungs. It is oddly familiar, like a bestial counterpoint to how his own bedroom smells after long nights of draining his body dry.
He wants it.
“Taste him,” his father commands, and the pup bends. His fingers can’t close to encircle the horse’s shaft, but he only needs enough grip to tug it towards him and properly grasp the wet, fleshy flare that hangs off the end. The feel of it makes him giddy even before the overpowering scent slaps him in the face. He moans instinctively and wraps his maw around the drooling tip. Behind him, his father gasps sharply at the sight—and the firm finger at the pup’s tailhole is suddenly replaced with something larger, sharper and wetter. The pup squirms, flexing and unclenching his hole as if he could swallow his father’s beautiful cock by will alone, then leaves it loose and returns focus to the horse. Aguerra is snorting and bucking now, enough to force some more of his flare into the pup’s mouth, to the limit of what he can handle. He could never deepthroat this immensity of beastcock, and though the lusty thought to try, try, try is loud, he simply licks and sucks and swallows. The taste of the stallion’s precum is nutty, sharp, delicious. Nothing like his own, nothing like the few he’s blown. Better. Richer. He drinks it down like priceless spirit.
The pressure at his hole increases, and he cries out softly in joy. All the times he’s imagined taking his father for the first time, but it was never like this. With a soft grunt, the hound slips inside. The pup is loose and wet from his evening of self-pleasure; even his father’s fat dick is no challenge. But it feels infinitely better than some spit-slick fingers, and he moans in ever-increasing increments to make sure his father knows that. Though his yelp when the knot pops in doesn’t need to be exaggerated—any more than the immense waves of pleasure that follow as the giant ball of cockflesh pulses against his insides.
A mutt must always let his father know when he makes him happy.
The hound holds after knotting inside his son, panting and muttering filthy things that make the pup shiver and drink even more deeply of the head of the stallion. The heavy, full balls that made him swing against him. Then they pull back and the knot with it, popping out as wetly and gorgeously as it went in, leaving the familiar needy emptiness—before it’s thrust all the way back with a guttural cry. The stallion hears the hound and matches him, whinnying in return, one stud to another. The beast’s great cock flexes in the pup’s mouth and he almost chokes on a fresh flood of pre-cum. It bursts out of his mouth, around the flare now filling it, and runs down his chin. He hopes he will stink of it for days, to remind him of this moment. Again his father thrusts, again Aguerra replies in horny symphony, again the massive horsecock flares in the pup’s greedy mouth. The horse is close. He has been denied this all night.
He will not be denied it now.
The father-cock dominating pup-son hole accelerates, pounding the pert hole without restraint, making him bark and whimper and beg for more. He holds the flare aloft, licking, sipping, drinking. It has swollen even larger now. He can only sup on the urethra itself, pressed into his mouth, lips buried in its folds, divine fluids spilling forth into him. But no, this is not the divine fluid yet. That comes soon. Soon.
For a stallion does not know restraint.
Aguerra cums like a thunderclap, his seed exploding forth, choking the pup with its power and volume. He pulls the flare away for fear of drowning, only to be splattered by it instead. There’s a cry of disbelief from his father-master and the cock inside him is pushing deeper still, deeper than it has been, as if the sight of the stallion’s orgasm has made his dick swell even larger. Like it too is a flare. The flesh in the son’s hands has grown hot and tight, a perfectly shaped piece of stallion giving freely of its virile seed. The pup keeps gulping, trying to swallow more, feeling the heat and thickness of it before suddenly the sharp tang, the metallic fluid bite of its richness. It fills his belly and overflows on him, sanctifying him.
He is made anew by the flood of horsecum. No more a pup; now a true hound, just as his sire is.
His father screams at last, the scream that was restrained when he was inside Indica now let fully loose from being inside his son. The young hound feels a second hot flood within him and whines in joy, begging, thanking, pushing back, taking all his father has to offer. The first time is holy, as are all the rest. But the first time is holiest. He is now truly knotted to his sire, as he knotted Aguerra. Both physically and sexually. Two masters, two species, two cocks.
He will be their vessel, their shared altar, for as long as they care to have him.
The young hound stumbles only when his father withdraws. The sire-seed oozes free as his father reaches down to scoop a handful of stud cum from the floor and dribble it over his son’s back and his own softening cock. Like magic, he stiffens again with only a few strokes, and the son stares eagerly at the cum-slick dogprick bobbing again in front of him. He watches it draw closer, then moans as it slips fast and roughly between his lips. His father is thick and long; even without the knot and with slick equine seed as lubrication, it will be a challenge. But what is a son for, but to help his father achieve great things?
The young hound closes his eyes and begins the great work.