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I can’t trot without it swaying like a pendulum, fat with need, dripping with lust. Always out. Always hard. Never soft. Never fully sheathed. This thing doesn’t rest, it hungers, like it’s hunting, scenting the air for heat and slick, begging to bury itself deep in something tight and trembling. It pulses with every heartbeat, drooling thick strands down my inner legs, slapping my underbelly, matting my fur, leaving a musky trail behind me.
It doesn’t want gentle.
It doesn’t want slow.
It wants to rut.
To pin.
To stretch.
Rutting hard, deep, fast, hips hammering, hooves digging into the earth as my forelegs curl around a trembling flank. Every thrust is a thunderclap. Every wet slap is louder than the moans beneath me.
And still, it’s not enough.
And those load... Coming out in thick ropes, hot and heavy, and the beast inside me grins... Because that was just the first. I could go for hours. I have.

And gods, Sonia… sweet, perfect Sonia. She knows.
She’s the only one who doesn’t flinch when I stagger in from a run, breath heaving, length bouncing and leaking, swollen like I haven’t bred in days.
She drops to her knees without a word, wraps those soft lips around the crown, and drinks down the mess I can’t hold back.
Her fingers stroke those heavy foal-factories, coaxing every last drop with reverence, as if she’s blessing herself with it.
And still, she whispers, "You’re not done, are you?"

No.
Never.