#centaur!ghost

he's a mean mother fucker, but you've yet to meet a stallion that wasn't. they'd caught him wild, tattoos swirling like pitch over his arm, no herd nearby. he'd kicked the big Austrian that found him first in the head, rescuers found him half tied in a field next to the body. given how smart the species is, you almost suspect he let himself get caught. not that anyone thought to ask what he was doing out alone near a known poacher's property. he was already gagged by then, and by the time he made it to your barn he'd been put on a short leash.

multiple short leashes.

one latching his collar to the floor to keep him from biting, one keeping his arms tethered to a wall behind his back, and a bar keeping his back legs bound.

you sort of felt sorry for the guy. being forced to kneel on the hard ground couldn't be comfortable and the way his shoulders moved when he bent down to drink made your own ache. fuck, you were supposed to be rehabilitating him and here he was bound and gagged on your barn floor. you had meant to at least take off the leg bar when you got him, start building some trust-

but the way he looked at you when you got too close, the hungry following of his eyes as you refilled his food and water, it frightened you. you could almost forget that he was well over twice your size when he was kept so small, but when he looked at you like that, like you were a piece of meat? well, it was easy to remember that centaurs were omnivorous. the way he drooled didn't help,

but then again neither did the heavy flared cock that unsheathed itself every time you walked past him.

that-

you could almost deal with the aggression if it weren't for that.

you could almost deal with the way he leaned close every time you reached to unhook his gag and told you,

"smell that bloody cunt of yours." in that low underused growl that had you forcing yourself not to respond, your legs steeled from shaking as you stepped back to let him eat, and he sneered, "just beggin' fer me ta break ya, fuck ya so full it comes out yer fuckin' nose."

you usually leave after that, scurry away to hide and pretend you arent sneaking a hand down your pants at the thought.

rehabilitation, you remind yourself, he's here for rehabilitation.

you're supposed to be helping the guy. in a way, you suppose you are.

its not like crawling on your hands and knees to lap at the slitted crown of his cock is hurting him. nor is it hurting him to paw at the long heavy shaft and press your thighs together as you trace the veins. he's still locked up, he can't hurt you —though now you're not sure if he wanted to eat you or eat you— so why not? why not lick the slow drip off pre-come that beads at the head of his cock? why not stroke his shaft and palm the fat balls the sway beneath it? you're not fucking him. you're just-

you're helping him find some relief. that's what you'll put in your notes at least, helping to curb his aggression with intermittent... stimulated tension releases.

nobody needs to know you're indulging yourself, rubbing your poor aching cunt through your jeans as you try to fit the head of his cock in your mouth, imagining the way he would stretch out your holes, the way he come would leak from them after he'd gaped them open. you imagine rubbing his cock over your naked chest, feeling the soft slick skin against your nipples. you crawl forward to lick and suck at the hairy skin of his balls, enjoying the weight of his cock in your back. you measure yourself against him and shudder at the thought of his cock bulging out your stomach.

"knew they sent me to the right place," he grunts, hips twitching as your slick tongue drags up the seam of his sack —the short hair tickles your tongue but the scent of him is making your head swim, you don't care, can't care about anything but that warm musty scent— and over his sheath, "soon as I smelled ya drippin', knew ya knew yer place."

you groan, the skin of his cock is so soft under your tongue, dragging along with the motion of your licking. his cock is too heavy to fully hold itself up and the way it rests on your head makes your eyes roll. satisfaction shiver through you, pooling in your core with the frantic rub of fingers over denim. you want more, need more. you shove your hand under your belt as you suck around the flare of his head.

your fingers toy with your clit, pinching and circling the bud, letting tension grab your legs and shudder through your body as you suck. wet kisses, and haphazard attempts to wrap your lips around him are all you can manage as you start to fall apart. you lick and rub, your ass wagging as you indulge your base instincts. you're only glad "ghost" can't see you, the way he talks to you is humiliating enough without giving him further proof how right he is.

it's proof enough when he comes. the viscous liquid coats your tongue as well as you cheeks, and you know you'll be washing it out of your hair tonight. you're all too pleased with yourself, until ghost pipes up.

"you get a breeding bench, we can put on a real show."