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Sullivan ducked into the tent after a long day of drills. It had not rained, or at least not much, but the air was so damp that it might as well have poured. He dropped his musket and pack and shucked his coat with a flourish, to general groans—the coat spattered water over the two men already in the tent.
“Fuck off,” groaned Carter. He was naked and shivering, huddled up by the brazier, dark hair and long mustaches dripping equally.
“I can think of at least three better ways to warm up,” Sullivan said cheerfully, rapidly stripping out of his waistcoat and shirt. “Mouth—”
“Ass, and cunt,” Greene finished dully. “We’ve heard.”
“Gents, gents.” Sullivan began unbuttoning his gaiters. “You’ve really got to cheer up. Not half a mile away lies the baggage train, inhabited by enough apple-cheeked lasses for five mercenary companies.” He tossed the gaiters onto his stool. “All a man has to do is turn up, really.”
“A man might consider turning up to drills on time,” came a voice from the tent flap. Bernard was peering in, blinking in the smoke. “Sullivan, Commander Fontaine would like a word with you.”
“Fontaine?” Sullivan chuckled. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“Commander Bellinger is indisposed,” Bernard said. “Fontaine will be managing his engagements for the evening.”
“Indisposed,” Sullivan mused, toying with a trouser button. “Drunk, shall we say? Or perhaps otherwise occupied? With Madame de Fourier, perhaps?”
Bernard smiled. “Not my privilege to say, I’m afraid. But I’d hurry if I were you. This must be the tenth time you’ve been late to drills for some whore.”
“You flatter me. It can’t be more than six or seven. Besides, Anna is not a whore,” Sullivan said, sighing a little at the last. He reluctantly retrieved his coat, not bothering with his sodden shirt.
“A temporarily embarrassed heiress, I’m sure,” Bernard said. “Go on, I’m to escort you. It’s frigid out here.”
“Yes, we can feel it,” Carter said sharply. “So if you’d like to close the bloody flap…”
“An escort, eh?” Sullivan said once they were on their way, trotting a little to keep up with Bernard’s long-legged stride through the damp, darkening encampment. “I must be moving up in the world.”
“You could stand to care a little, you know,” the older man said, pulling his scarf up over his mouth and nose. “You’ll get a proper lashing one of these days.”
“Fontaine hasn’t got the authority, we’re not in his company,” Sullivan said breezily, though he did wonder briefly whether he ought to do up the buttons on his coat. No, the camp was a military establishment, after all. Fontaine had no doubt seen worse than a hairy chest here. “Worst he can do is put me on latrine duty, and that only for a few days.”
“Your funeral.”
Fontaine’s tent had been erected on the hill next to Bellinger’s, though a polite distance away. It was far finer than its opposite number—large, unstained, with elegant trim down every crease of it and a lengthy banner drooping from the central pole, trailing limply in the wet, but with details picked out in the unmistakable glint of gold thread. Sullivan had heard that Fontaine’s company, their ally for now, was doing rather better in the war business than they were, but it stung a little to see so clearly. Bernard knocked politely, waited for an affirmation, and then held the flap open for Sullivan, who hardly had to duck to get inside.
Once inside, there was plenty of room to stand, and plenty of light to see by. There was a large and ornate camp stove, and several bright lamps with etched glass chimneys. The tent must have had a canvas floor somewhere, but it had been so densely covered with rugs that Sullivan couldn’t see any of it. There were six folding camp chairs available, each neat, light, finely built, and probably worth more than his commission. Four were tucked against one side of the tent, but one of them was in a corner, near several large travel chests, and occupied by a stout manservant, who was using the most complete sewing kit Sullivan had ever seen to reattach a shining button to a pair of immaculate white trousers. The other was behind an elegant table with folding legs, and bore a small, slight, middle-aged man who was writing neatly and busily in a sleek ledger resting on an embroidered cloth, with an array of pen nibs, inkwells, stamps, and sticks of wax lined up in a row along the edge of the table.
Fontaine finished an entry, then wiped the nib of the pen on a folded rag and swirled it lightly in a cup of alcohol, the gold clinking delicately against glass. He set the pen down on a wooden pen rest at a perfect right angle, and looked up at Sullivan with an expression of inoffensive detached interest that must have been carefully learned, but now appeared effortless. “Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir.” Sullivan put on one of his better winning smiles.
“Yes, of course. A pleasure. Now, Mr. Sullivan, it was brought to my attention that not only were you tardy to drills this morning, but that you have been tardy to the same a total of—let me be certain…” He ran a finger lightly down one of several crisp sheets of paper beside the ledger. “A total of seventeen times in the past month. A not inconsiderable sum, Mr. Sullivan.” He laced his fingers and set them gently but deliberately on his lap, and Sullivan fought the urge to laugh. “May I inquire as to the reason?”
“I’m very popular with the fairer sex, sir,” Sullivan said, shifting his smile closer to conspiratorial. “They’re fond of long goodbyes in the mornings.”
“Ah, yes.” Fontaine smiled politely, but Sullivan was mildly surprised to see a slight lopsided curve to that smile, a hint of something less than wholesome. Well, even a little mouse of a man was likely to have bedded a few women if his campaign tent was this expensive, and rich men often had strange tastes. “Yes, I know the type. And you like to indulge them?”
“Of course, sir,” Sullivan said with mock affront. “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to leave a lass wanting.”
“Of course, of course.” The smile faded, and Fontaine looked at him a little more intently, almost imploring. “But, Mr. Sullivan, you must be aware that your employment is military in nature. We soldiers of fortune are, it is true, not entirely subject to the discipline of His Majesty’s royal forces, but it behooves us to, generally speaking, behave as though we were. Should the army proper, or indeed the public, have cause to complain, we may quickly find our fortunes turning.”
“Yes, sir,” Sullivan said, slightly surprised again. Bellinger would never have spoken to him this way, as if trying to reason with him. He kept his smile on. “But I’m sure neither our peers in His Majesty’s service, nor the elusive public, have any cause to complain if I’m not strictly on time. If anything, they might be pleased, them looking rather better for the comparison.”
“There I must disagree, Mr. Sullivan.” He leaned back a little. “It’s a question of professionalism, I’m afraid. His Majesty’s officers will only deal with our kind if we adhere to certain standards. They worry that we will be difficult to control, or even that we will corrupt their own ranks.”
Sullivan nodded understandingly. “A natural concern.”
“Has Commander Bellinger never spoken to you of this?”
“He’s made his opinion known, sir.”
“I see.” Fontaine’s lips pressed together in tight disapproval. “Yes, I imagine he has. Well, Mr. Sullivan, I don’t like to infringe upon my colleague’s rights, but I do like to solve problems, and he did see fit to allow me to handle his engagements this evening. Yes.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Sullivan more intently. “Mr. Sullivan, are you familiar with the writings of Aristotle?”
Sullivan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into uproarious laughter. “No, sir,” he said solemnly, “I can’t say that I am.”
“Ah. Yes, well, Aristotle believed that virtue was a matter of moderation between two extremes. That is, the same trait, diminished or magnified, can be either good or ill. A brave man, for example, is not a coward, but neither is he reckless.”
“Makes sense, sir.”
“Yes. It is my belief that a man’s difficulties can, with proper insight and deduction, be traced back to an imbalance in virtue. Once the applicable imbalance is detected, pressure can be applied in either direction, moderating the man toward virtue, and so addressing the issue at the root.” He gazed at Sullivan as though studying a mounted insect. “Mr. Sullivan, why do you believe you are so often late to drills?”
“Well,” Sullivan said slowly, “within that framework, sir, I’d have to say I suffer from an excess of kindness.”
“Kindness, Mr. Sullivan?”
“Certainly, sir. I want women to be happy, and I know I can make them so.”
“I see. So, rather than simple kindness, and in opposition to cruelty, you would say you coddle your partners?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Hm.” Fontaine looked away from Sullivan, gazing off at the walls of his tent, apparently deep in thought. “Not without merit, but I find that I disagree with your assessment.”
“Well, we can’t all agree on everything, sir,” Sullivan said with an indulgent smile.
Fontaine glanced at him, and Sullivan thought for one moment that he had gone too far, but Fontaine simply sat back, his brow wrinkled in concentration. “True, true.” There was a pause. Then: “I believe, Mr. Sullivan, that the fault in question may be an excess of confidence. A man with too little finds himself degraded, abases himself, rejects opportunities, but a man with too much becomes foolhardy, entangles himself in situations that he is incapable of managing.”
“I’ve yet to find a situation I couldn’t manage, sir,” Sullivan said, nettled.
“Yes,” Fontaine said simply. “I believe that is the issue.” He looked at Sullivan for a long moment. “Mr. Sullivan, unbutton your trousers, please.”
“What?” Sullivan said blankly.
Fontaine sighed. “You believe, Mr. Sullivan, that you can satisfy any woman. I would like to see the means by which you do so, and disabuse you of the notion.”
Sullivan stared at him, then coughed out a disbelieving laugh. He glanced at the servant, but the big man was apparently ignoring them completely, and Bernard, waiting by the entrance, gave him the barest hint of a shrug when Sullivan caught his eye. When he looked back at Fontaine, the commander raised his eyebrows impatiently. Sullivan looked around the tent again, and, finding no help, slowly reached down and unbuttoned his trousers. He hesitated then, but Fontaine was still watching expectantly, and after a lengthy pause, he took a deep breath and took his cock out.
Fontaine’s nose wrinkled. He frowned at Sullivan’s cock, hanging soft in the warm air of the tent, and that frown grew deeper and deeper. Then, after what felt like a decade, the commander, without ever looking away, said simply, “Fetch my horse.”
Sullivan blinked, but the servant immediately set down his needle and padded out through the tent’s rear entrance, which seemed to lead into another tent. Moments later, he reentered, leading a large horse.
“Arrow,” Fontaine said, nodding at the animal. “I keep him under shelter in this climate. Mr. Sullivan, what can you tell me about him?”
Sullivan had worked for a coach company, but only briefly. Still, any fool could tell Arrow was a beautiful animal, elegant, well-muscled, sleek, with a fine eye and a rich bay coat that ran deeply red. “Expensive, sir.”
Fontaine smiled fondly. “Yes, he certainly was. I paid dearly for him as a yearling, but he has been a fine companion for nearly ten years now, and I consider myself to have come out far ahead. He has carried me on many long marches, and through many battles. A brave animal, well-bred and intelligent, of many uses.” His smile faded. “Is Arrow gelded, Mr. Sullivan?”
Sullivan stared at him. “I wouldn’t imagine so.”
“Sir. A fair assessment. Certainly it would be unusual to cut a horse of such quality. But one cannot be certain with such an assumption. Check, please, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan hesitated, then stepped to the side, shuffling a little to keep his trousers from descending. He leaned to the side and down, just enough to be sure, and quickly straightened. “No. Sir.”
“Good, good.” Fontaine leaned back somewhat in his chair, hands perched on his lap. “No, Arrow is not gelded. He has sired seven foals, four male and three female, and all excel in form and function. His virility is beyond any doubt. His cock, please, Gareth.”
Sullivan tried to keep his eyes from widening, certain he had misheard. Certainly no one else seemed alarmed, and the instruction had been directed to the servant, so he couldn’t ask for clarification. The servant left the lead rope hanging, crossed the tent, produced a small bottle from within a chest, uncorked it, and passed it beneath Arrow’s broad, elegant muzzle several times.
At first, nothing seemed to happen, other than the horse’s large nostrils flaring. Then, after some moments, Sullivan became aware that the stallion was unsheathing, the dark, flat head of its cock pushing out from the folds and descending in a relaxed arc. He tried not to look at it, repeating Fontaine’s last sentence endlessly in his mind, looking for another meaning, but he was aware of it out of the corner of his eye.
“That,” Fontaine said quietly, “is a cock, Mr. Sullivan.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Not that pitiful thing of yours. Put it away.”
Sullivan thought the command was directed to the servant, but Gareth did not move, and after a moment, he tucked himself hastily away, buttoning up his trousers tightly. He could think of nothing to say. How had things changed so quickly and drastically?
“Your faults are not unmendable,” Fontaine said. “I think a little simple education is in order, and afterward, we may look forward to considerable improvement on your part. On your knees, please.”
“On—what?” He felt himself beginning to sweat. Possibilities were stirring in the less reasonable parts of his mind.
“Your knees, Mr. Sullivan.” Fontaine waited a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “Gareth.”
The servant stepped toward Sullivan, and he reacted without thought, giving the man a hard shove. Gareth was not taller than Sullivan, but he was much broader, with a respectable gut and thighs like columns, and he gave very little ground to the shove. Then he moved quickly, but not violently, and spun Sullivan around with horrible strength, locking one thick arm about his neck, and the other about his waist. Sullivan jammed his elbow fiercely into something soft, and Gareth grunted, but did not let go. The next thing Sullivan knew, he had been efficiently wrestled to the ground, on his knees, held tightly up against the servant, with just enough pressure on his throat to keep him still and panting.
“Thank you. Help him into position, please, Gareth.”
The servant began shuffling them both along toward Arrow, and then, more specifically, toward Arrow’s hind legs. Sullivan resisted, but it was like resisting a brick wall. “Bernard!” he choked, trying to free his arms from where Gareth was crushing them against his sides. “Bernard, help!” But there was no response, and he could not turn to see. In desperation, he tried to bite the arm around his neck, but he couldn’t get the angle, and Gareth squeezed a little harder for a moment for his trouble. Still, there was no aggression, no malice, no undue force, only the strong, practiced movements of a farmer lifting a sheep to be shorn.
He ended up under Arrow’s belly, Gareth’s knee on his ankles, his wrists twisted up behind his shoulders. Under a horse was a dangerous place to be, and he found himself not struggling much in fear of startling the twelve-hundred-pound animal, but Arrow didn’t seem particularly disturbed. It stood quietly, though no one held its rope, and its cock hung relaxed in front of Sullivan’s face. He tried not to look at it, and tried not to breathe too deeply.
There was a creak from the chair, and Fontaine stepped softly around to stand at Arrow’s side, looking down at Sullivan. “Very good. Now, Mr. Sullivan, I’d like you to please look at Arrow’s cock. You will notice that, though it is quite flaccid at the moment, it is significantly larger than that thing between your legs you’re so proud of. Look, Mr. Sullivan.” Sullivan fixed his eyes on the carpet, and Fontaine sighed. “A little closer, Gareth. Yes, thank you.” Sullivan’s nose was nearly touching the cock now, and he thought he saw it twitch a little when he glanced at it. Fontaine wouldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t. “No matter. You’ll appreciate it better in a moment. So, Mr. Sullivan. You attribute your failures to kindness. An overpowering desire to satisfy your partners, to the detriment of your other commitments. I would like you to apply that kindness to Arrow, now, please.”
Sullivan’s breath was coming fast. He stared at the carpet, trying not to pant. They couldn’t be serious, none of them. And if they were, they couldn’t make him.
“A little encouragement, please, Gareth.”
The twist on his wrists increased, so gradually that he almost wasn’t sure it was happening at first, but inevitably nonetheless. A little further. A little further. A little further. He felt his lips twist up in a grimace. A little further. A little further. A hiss escaped him. Gareth began to lift upward as well, dragging his elbows up and putting more strain on his shoulders. A little further. Sullivan let out a short, sharp gasp, his jaw wrenched open by pain, and panted twice before his head was slowly but firmly pushed forward into Arrow’s cock.
The heat was shocking, and for a moment it was all he could notice, his nose, lips, and chin up against the shaft. Then the smell overwhelmed him, sweat and hair and horse, so thick he could taste it, and the texture a moment later, wrinkled and veiny. He wanted to shut his mouth, but the pain was too much, and all he could do was kneel there, a horse’s cock up against his face, breathing it in, eyes hot with sharp tears, trying not to feel it with his open lips. “No,” he breathed, voice taut with pain.
“Yes,” Fontaine said firmly. “Stick out your tongue, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan snapped his mouth shut, teeth audibly clicking, and pressed his lips together, breathing heavily through his nose.
Another sigh, and this time the servant did not seem to need specific instruction, but very gently twisted further. And further. Then he shifted his grip, and stopped twisting both wrists, focusing only on one, which eased ever closer to its breaking point.
Sullivan made a high sound without meaning to, and after another instant of pain, opened his mouth, gasped a few breaths, and stuck out his tongue. Gareth pressed him delicately forward, and his tongue brushed the cock. Then further, further, until his tongue was flat against it. The twist on his wrists eased slightly.
They stayed like that, Sullivan breathing in shaky pants, tongue on a horse’s cock, for some time.
“Kiss it, Mr. Sullivan,” Fontaine said finally. He no longer sounded irritated, impatient, but calm and in control. “Lick it. Try to recall what your many partners have done for you.”
Sullivan hesitated, but a brief application of more pressure on his wrists made him hiss, and he gave the cock a careful lick. The pressure eased, and he licked again, reaching for more relief. The wrist that was further along was surely about to snap. Another few licks, and the pressure eased again with each one. Then it stopped, though he kept licking, trying to encourage more give. The cock twitched with interest against his tongue, and he nearly gagged with disgusted horror, but kept licking more aggressively. Tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes, some from the horror, but more from the pain. He stopped licking for a few moments to pant with the strain. Then he kissed the cock.
Gareth let his wrist untwist a little further, and he moaned in relief, open lips dragging on the cock, before kissing again, stiffly at first, and then more earnestly. The pain dulled slightly with each kiss. The cock thickened. More of it squeezed out of the sheath, and what had already emerged swelled and began to curve up toward him. It wasn’t long before he was wetly kissing the rim of the flat head, jammed up against his cheek.
“You know what you need to do, Mr. Sullivan,” Fontaine said. His voice was almost gentle. “You have a great deal of experience in these matters. You know where it goes.”
“It won’t fit,” Sullivan choked out. There was a great sob building painfully in his chest, prodding at his throat.
“Yes, it will.” Fontaine bent over, his face at last in Sullivan’s field of view. He looked perfectly relaxed. “Please continue, Mr. Sullivan.”
Sullivan shook his head. The horse’s cockhead, inches across, smeared back and forth across his stubbled cheek, and the skin of the great belly above him twitched in irritation. Spit and a thicker fluid from the winking hole in the cock wet his face, diverting the tracks of his tears. Both of his wrists were dragged inexorably closer to their limits, and he groaned and opened his mouth. He took a few deep breaths, trying to steel himself. Then he wrenched his jaws as wide as they would go, lined himself up, and tried to tug Arrow’s cock into his mouth.
It didn’t fit. He tried it from several angles. Straight on, at first, and then he tried to get the rim in on one side, and then the other. Then again and again for each approach. The cock seemed to be nearly erect by now, and when he had to back off for the dozenth time, the horse stamped slightly as if shooing off a fly. A few more tries. Then, very suddenly, Arrow pushed sharply forward, and the enormous cockhead popped past his lips.
Sullivan moaned and tried instinctively to yank back, but Gareth gave him no room. Instead, Sullivan knelt, eyes brimming with fresh tears, lips stretched so taut around the immense shaft that they stung bitterly. Fluid leaked onto the flat of his tongue. His jaw ached. His cheeks bulged around the invader. All he could do was try and breathe, weakly and unsteadily.
“A good beginning,” Fontaine said. “Further, please.”
Gareth eased Sullivan’s head further forward, a hair at a time. The textured shaft passed under his lips, each wrinkle a strain. A prominent vein felt as thick as anchor rope. But Arrow was quiet again, seemingly content to wait for its new mare to adjust to its size.
“Mmmm.” Sullivan didn’t realize at first that the defeated sound had come from him. Then he screwed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears back, and had to sniffle, which nearly made him choke.
The bumpy rim of the head passed his back teeth.
He tried to stop then. Gareth was still delicately pushing him forward, but now he pushed back. He shook his head, to the extent that he could while in a headlock, and moaned, and whined, and felt the horrible sob hammering in the back of his throat, but the progress did not stop. Arrow’s cock squeezed into his throat, wrenching his neck straight. And then, further.
It went on for miles. Sullivan gagged many times, but the slow onward movement paused only briefly each time his body rebuked him. Eventually he learned to swallow around it to ease its passage and reduce the urge. Every breath was a struggle. For every inch that pulled his throat a little further open, he felt that he took a foot. He wondered if the cock might go through him, straighten the coils of his guts out into one even channel and pop right out his other end. Surely it was in his belly by now.
The arm around his neck twitched slightly, and he choked only slightly. Then the arm moved downward, slowly, patiently, until his throat was bare. A little more cock passed his lips.
“Ah,” Fontaine said softly. “Thank you. Very beautiful indeed.” Soft, cool fingers, clearly not Gareth’s, touched Sullivan’s throat. “I can see him in you, Mr. Sullivan.” The fingers wrapped around his neck and stroked lightly. The cock inside him twitched, and Sullivan shuddered at the titanic movement. “I can feel him in you.” The fingers squeezed gently. “This is all cock. Your throat is stiff with it.”
Sullivan breathed heavily through his nose.
“Arrow is patient, but he will not remain so forever. I think we can move a little faster.”
Gareth pushed Sullivan forward, at first at the same pace as before, and then a little faster, a little faster, too fast, too fast. Sullivan cried out uselessly around the cock. They were pushing inches of it into him, the pressure constant, the enormous head somewhere in his throat always breaking new ground. He could feel the delicate tissue of his body being scraped, tugged, forever stretched. When would it end? His eyes were too blurred with tears to see clearly, and even if they hadn’t been, he was under too much strain to make a good judgement of size.
Something huge hit his taut lips all at once, and progress did at last pause for a moment. Gareth pressed him a little more firmly, but Sullivan’s lips were spread as far as they could go, and did not give. A vein? But why did it go all the way round? Gareth pulled his head back a little, and Sullivan moaned with relief. The cock twitched lightly in response to the vibration. It felt like a horse’s kick inside him.
Gareth shoved his head firmly forward, all at once. Sullivan came hard up against the obstruction, which still refused to pass his lips, and his body rebelled. His throat spasmed violently, and he choked repeatedly. Gareth pulled him back again, and he wanted to cry, but then he was once again rammed forward. ”Mmmm!” he yelled, eyes streaming. Another retreat, and another charge. ”Mmmmmmmm!” Again.
The sixth ram did it. The obstruction smashed past his lips, and the cock’s head seemed to throb somewhere deep inside him. Gareth was now holding him up more than preventing him from escaping.
“Halfway, Mr. Sullivan,” Fontaine said encouragingly.
Sullivan wailed. That had been… horses had a little ring around their cocks, halfway down. Halfway? How far did they expect him to go? He couldn’t take much more of this. His jaw felt like it was being wrenched out of place, his throat was stretched and worn like an old sock, and his lips burned. There wasn’t room for more cock in him.
Gareth eased him further forward. The ring scraped his mouth raw before squeezing into his throat and carving a little more girth out of him as it worked its way down, pulsing as it went. Each throb was a blow, a cannon recoiling, a puppeteer’s hand shaking his impotent body, and each throb seemed to make the cock stiffer, thicker. How hard could Arrow get?
They did, to Sullivan’s mingled relief and horror, eventually reach a point where further invasion was not so terrible. Past a certain point, somewhere south of his collarbone, he found that he couldn’t really feel the swollen cockhead’s progress as it plumbed his depths, only dull complaints from organs and muscles being squeezed aside on the way down. There was always more length for his mouth, but the girth of the shaft was relatively constant and thickened only slightly toward the base. His head also had to be canted back somewhat in order to ease Arrow’s passage, as well as allow his lips to inch closer to the base without his head knocking into the horse’s belly. He stared unseeing at the wall of deep bay horse passing above him as Gareth slid him forward, feeding inch after endless inch into him. He felt that his mind had been crammed away to make more room for cock. There were complaints somewhere in him, shouts of pain and horror, protests that this could not be happening, was not happening, that Fontaine and his servant ought to swing for this, that he’d cut treacherous Bernard’s throat himself, that no man could swallow this much cock and live, but the noise was as distant as the world outside of Fontaine’s campaign tent, and that world had ceased to exist.
He was limp now, mostly. His arms dangled uselessly, Gareth no longer even bothering to restrain them, and his torso sagged in the burly arms. The only hard core to him was the pillar of stiff flesh that filled his throat. He felt wrapped around it, supported by it. His skeleton had served him well, but now he was animated only by God knew how much hard, throbbing—
His nose pressed into the folds of Arrow’s sheath, where the delicate black skin met the proud barrel of the red belly, and the endless slide forward stopped at last.
“Very good, Mr. Sullivan,” Fontaine said, sounding perfectly sincere. “Not at all a bad performance for your first time. You may now rest assured that you have experienced a far more exhaustive penetration than any you have ever given a woman.” A soft cloth wiped dripping sweat away from Sullivan’s half-lidded eyes. “This is what a cock feels like, Mr. Sullivan. I implore you to impress the sensations you feel now into your deepest memories. Feel its heat, its power, its virility.” The cool fingers touched his throat again, tracing a line around it, and then stroking gently up and down, massaging the tissue of his throat over the enormous bulk beneath it. The cock shuddered inside him, and the great belly expanded with a huff, pressing down on his forehead. “Remember its length, Mr. Sullivan. Remember its girth. Remember how it swells inside you with each beat of Arrow’s heart. Remember how your body struggles to accommodate it. Remember that you will never, as long as you live, be able to deliver this feeling to those you couple with.”
“Mm,” Sullivan moaned softly, squeezing the muffled sound out through his nose in vague, warm acknowledgment.
“Very good,” Fontaine said quietly. Then, louder and more businesslike: “A little more, Gareth, and then we can move on.”
Gareth gently began to pull Sullivan’s head back. Sullivan made a small noise of alarm as the shaft spilled forth from his mouth much faster than it had gone in, and the huge head deep inside him began to make itself known directly again. Not ten seconds later, the head’s thick rim burst out of the back of his throat, wrenched his jaw further open, and hit the back of his front teeth. “Mmph!” he tried to cry, but he was already being pushed forward again. He made an attempt to reach up and brace himself on Arrow’s hind legs, stop the cock from driving back in, but his body was only partially listening to him, and the apocalyptic sensation of Arrow’s monstrous appendage plunging all the way back into him within the space of a few seconds meant that his arms only twitched and spasmed uselessly.
It came back out, holding his mouth open while he gagged and shook.
It went back in, plugging his body taut with its immense weight.
It came back out, and went back in, over and over, on and on beyond any possibility of counting. He whined and cried, eyes hot and leaking again, and his body flopped forlornly in service of Arrow’s cock pumping into his belly like a ramrod. His throat screamed. His lungs tried and failed to find a rhythm that adequately filled them. He watched dimly as Arrow stamped a polished rear hoof, as its belly surged, as the fat testes past the root of its cock drew up closely and clenched. Heat exploded somewhere so deep inside him that he knew it would be there for the rest of his life.
“—sensitive,” Fontaine was saying sympathetically. “Poor gent, it’s a long time for him. I doubt he even had time to flare properly. We’ll have to use the bottle again. I know he gets rather overexcited, but I want this issue resolved in full. Mr. Bernard, the bottle, please, and Gareth, if you’ll just get him into position…”
The cock withdrew from Sullivan’s mouth completely. The head seemed even larger than it had been, but it somehow squelched past his lips, leaving him limp, wet, and incredibly, enormously open. He breathed deeply, felt the vastness of the channel that had been bored into him, and became distantly aware of what a mess he was. His hair was short, but the few dark curls that could make it to his face were plastered thickly to his skin. Long rivulets of drool and thick, white fluid ran down his face, neck, and chest, matting the hair of his body into clumps. His bare chest, drenched with sweat, was rising and collapsing immensely with each sweet breath. He was being leaned back, he realized, his coat peeled off of his shoulders, his body lowered to the carpets, but they weren’t removing him from under the horse. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be removed from under the horse.
Gareth unfolded his legs and propped them up a little, feet on the floor and knees pointed up, but he could not keep them up, and his legs flopped pointlessly open. Then there was a stool under the small of his back, lifting his hips off the carpets while his head and shoulders stayed down, and he groaned quietly with discomfort until several cushions were tucked under him, along with his own hands, which he was incapable of moving. His legs dangled, and then his feet were picked up one at a time to have their shoes removed before being set gently back to the carpet, and then his trousers were unbuttoned and pulled off. He didn’t care. Something gigantic had happened to him, and he didn’t know whether he would ever think clearly again.
A huge snort stirred him somewhat. He gazed up at the heaving belly above him. A front leg pawed and stamped. Then something entered his field of view: a cock, slick and shiny and dripping from his own mouth, stiffening rapidly in huge pulses and jumps. He was naked, he realized. They had taken his coat and shoes and socks and trousers, and they had kept him under Arrow, and they had propped up his hips, and—
“No, don’t grab his head, man,” Fontaine was saying, alarmed. “Don’t—yes, just leave that end alone, he bites on a second dose. Help him get seated, and keep an eye on Mr. Sullivan’s feet, but other than that, for God’s sake, leave him.”
The cock was already plunging at the air above his thighs. “It’ll kill me,” Sullivan mumbled, gazing at it. “I’ll die.” He shook his head slowly, with great difficulty. “I’ll die…”
“Unlikely, Mr. Sullivan,” Fontaine said. One of Gareth’s large, dark-haired hands was on Sullivan’s taint, and the other was reaching for Arrow’s cock, which thrust violently, scattering drool and ropes of clear issue over Sullivan’s belly. “My own wife has become quite accustomed to this, and she is considerably smaller of stature. Her womanly parts are for my own use, of course, but she enjoys a rather more intense sensation in her fundament, and Arrow is happy to oblige.” He sounded quite fond, and quite proud. “If a cultured lady—an accomplished one, to be sure, but a lady—can manage this, I am quite certain that a trained soldier can rise to the challenge. And if Arrow should step on your feet, you may be assured that I will pay the surgeon’s fee myself. And the price of your commission to Commander Bellinger, should the damage require amputation.”
Sullivan hardly heard him. He was watching Gareth grab at the cock, missing it several times before at last catching it, large hand nowhere near enveloping its girth. Then he groaned when two thick fingers plunged into his ass. The sensation was utterly alien, but he had little time to contemplate it, though the fingers pulled apart inside him, stretching him open. Gareth was guiding Arrow’s unnaturally stiffened cock downward. The horse cooperated, more or less, until its cock brushed Sullivan’s taint. Then it whinnied loudly and rammed forward, easily breaking Gareth’s grip. The servant was knocked away, his fingers yanked out.
The enormous head smashed against Sullivan’s ass, but succeeded only in shoving him backward. Again, again, again, with violent, bruising force, nearly knocking him off the stool and into the path of the stamping hooves, but then Gareth was at his side, holding his hips steady and once again attempting to catch Arrow’s cock. Then the cock hit true again, and without anywhere to fall, Sullivan’s hips stayed in place. The head erupted into him with immense force, sinking half a foot inside.
Sullivan’s lungs emptied themselves in an instant. He tried to wheeze, but there was nothing, and no time before Arrow, recognizing its success, plowed deeper, and again, and again, faster than he could breathe, certainly faster than he could think, breaking his insides open with every thrust.
There were no words, and for a while, no sounds outside of Arrow’s labored breathing and wet fucking. The tiny part of Sullivan that was still able to comprehend the concepts of past and future felt that he had never felt anything before in his life, and never would again after. The sensations eclipsed anything he had ever known, so vast that they stretched across the boundaries of every category his experience had led him to develop. Pain, yes, certainly. His guts were being rearranged to suit the instinctual whims of a horse’s cock. There was unquestionably pain. There was also nausea, his stomach roiling as it was jolted about inside of him. There was hollowness each time the cock withdrew to his entrance, and huge, seething fullness each time it sheathed itself in him again. He felt light, floating somewhere in a world that had narrowed down to himself and Arrow, and he felt heavy, a weighty sleeve designed only to take and take and take. He felt horror, the intense sensation that he was being utterly destroyed. He felt pleasure. He felt transcendent joy.
He looked at his belly and saw a mound, a bulge, large and distinct, traveling up and down him with Arrow’s cock, nudging his half-erect cock off of his belly each time it passed beneath, and he felt his contorted grimace split into a rapturous smile.
He was screaming, he realized.
Arrow was fucking into him so violently that its heavy balls slapped loudly against his ass with each thrust, bruising-hard, but Gareth’s arms were holding his hips in place. The full length of the cock was filling him with each thrust. It was ruining him, and it was the most glorious thing he had ever felt. It was coming faster and faster, harder and harder. The stool rocked dangerously. The bulge in his belly grew more and more prominent, and something deep in his core roared.
“That’s a flare,” Fontaine said, pleased. “Do you feel it, Mr. Sullivan? The head of his cock enlarges considerably as he approaches his peak, the better to seal his seed within you.”
Sullivan howled.
“Try to focus, Mr. Sullivan. I would like you to appreciate what is being done to you.” The flat leather head of a horseman’s crop traced his stomach, and Sullivan shuddered, his body so overcome with sensation that anything additional threated to break him completely. “This, Mr. Sullivan—” The crop tapped the huge shifting bulge as it rammed up near his ribcage. Arrow’s thrusts were growing shorter, seating as deep inside him as it could reach, but withdrawing less than a hand’s length before ramming back in. “—this is what a real cock can do. You will note the difference.” The crop tapped the head of his cock, the divot on the underside, and he lurched. “This thing you’ve been using to satisfy women… wholly insufficient. I trust you will not be using it so freely in the future, now that you are aware of its shortcomings.”
Arrow was only withdrawing a few inches now, and the blows were coming so fast, each bashing the air out of Sullivan’s lungs. He wheezed helplessly. Fist-sized balls jiggled against his ass, not hitting him quite so hard as they had before. His own balls, which he had always thought quite large and respectable, looked rather pathetic bouncing against his cock. He gazed at the great mound of Arrow’s cock in his belly, outlined beneath his own, and knew which he admired more.
“He’s nearly finished, Mr. Sullivan. And so are you, I judge.”
There was something rising up in him, coming closer each time Arrow’s cock hit home. It was huge, bigger than him, bigger than Arrow, bigger than the world, and it was going to burst out of him soon. His back was arching, pushing his stomach upward, making the bulge mount ever higher. Sweat ran down it, catching the lamplight as his flesh shook under the onslaught. Arrow’s belly brushed his cock. The huge thing somewhere inside him roared, and then the wave broke, and he gave a choked gasp as his swaying cock spurted.
A moment later, Arrow’s thrusts reached their peak, and more heat bloomed in his deepest core. The horse heaved above him, balls throbbing against his ass, for a few long seconds, and then began quickly backing away, attempting to pull its cock out.
“Arrow! Arrow, no, halt—”
The bulge withdrew past Sullivan’s navel, then vanished into his pelvis, and suddenly there was an enormous pull at his ass, so strong that it yanked him off of the stool, though Gareth tried to catch him. The stool toppled to one side, and the horse dragged him several steps by his ass before there was an audible pop, and Sullivan’s cock managed, in a heroic effort, to gasp out one more helping of seed as it softened on his belly.
“Not on the carpet. Mr. Bernard, rags, quickly.”
Gareth had caught his ass and was canting it back up, preventing too much from flowing out of him, but Sullivan didn’t care. He gazed after the softening, dripping horse cock, its flare twice as fat as the rest of it, and wanted nothing more than to take it back into himself. “Ha-aahh…” he moaned, wishing he could reach out for it.
“Here—” A black-gloved hand was offering several rough rags. “Ah, no, I’ll do it, I have gloves on…”
Sullivan couldn’t lift his head to see exactly what was happening, but he saw Bernard’s hand with a rag, saw it mopping around his ass, and then he saw it go into his ass up to the knuckles, and he sighed in deep pleasure. The hand brought out one sopping rag and dropped it on his chest with an unpleasant splat, and then reentered him past the wrist with a bit of a push. He whined.
“He won’t be very useful for some days,” Fontaine was saying. “I’ll recommend you a woman in the baggage train. She’s dealt with this sort before. I’m certain she’ll have a place for him while he recovers, somewhere the companies can make use of him.”
The hand withdrew and deposited another soaked rag. “Make use of him, sir?”
“Yes, while he’s all stretched like this. Some men like that sort of thing. No sense wasting his recovery.”
The hand paused halfway in with a third rag, and Sullivan looked away from Arrow’s cock for the first time. Fingers wiggled experimentally inside him, and Bernard looked at him with new interest, his head tilted slightly. “Perhaps he could stay in my tent, sir…”
There was a low chuckle. “As long as you remind him where his virtues lie, Mr. Bernard.”