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Passage

Cock and quiet.

There were few things Bucephalus asked of the world. These things were even fewer in number than those he had come to expect. When waking in the morning, for instance, he expected his head to remain attached to his body. He also expected his daily bread and wine to be relatively poison-free. Nor did he think it unfair to expect that at some point the sun would rise in the sky, before setting later. He believed these were reasonable things to expect.

So, on top of his fair expectations, he made two small requests: cock and quiet. His own, or another - it did not matter; as long as he was able to enjoy it by himself in peace and solitude.

In a usual day, he found himself sated by homoerotic works of art and fiction, collated and curated by himself as he stroked the gift between his legs. He would masturbate as he pleased, when he pleased and where he pleased. In evenings, he sought the company of his stallion, Alexander, who would pleasure him, or be pleasured by him.

Other than planned correspondence, or the occasional emergency requiring travel to the nearest settlement, all else he needed was quiet. No family. No guests. Nobody.

Typically, the God Priapus was kind enough to fulfil his request. Today, however, some time between ejaculating for the second time and eating lunch, a problem made itself known. It bowed its head at his door, drenched in perspiration. Bucephalus cursed.

"I am Marcus Aegeus, third of my family to serve our great country," it said, "I was hoping I might take lodging in your fine home as I make passage through to the city."

"No. Good day," Bucephalus said, motioning to close the door. He had not even wished to open it at all, but the undesired guest had beaten upon it too lustily to ignore.

As destriers went, he was darker than the rest: raven fur absorbing the light poking through the doorway. It camouflaged the flat muscle beneath his shirtless body. He had not soldiered for a long time now, and his body was more sinewy than powerful; nonetheless, it still towered above those few people he encountered, drawing in to act as a weapon of force or seduction - or both - as required. There was nobody else on this side of Greece with as fine a mind and body combined as Bucephalus. Of that much, he was certain. He pushed the door shut.

"Wait!" Marcus patted the door hastily, unable to push back hard enough. "Please wait. I'm... I'm going to battle, and I need rest and shelter." Bucephalus could feel the heat from the sunlight glaring through the grooves of the door. The air was still, and the only sound was the heavy breathing of the traveller outside. He sighed, privately begging Priapus again to drive the intruder away.

"No, and no. Leave, now."

Bucephalus held the door closed with one hoof. It pushed against his foot as Marcus' voice came closer. "I might die," he whined, leaning on it. He croaked and harrumphed and gasped. The door creaked as it swayed between the weight of the two stallions.

"Fuck off, please," Bucephalus said, feeling his irritation rising. Did this horse have no respect for anyone? He peeked through the slats, seeing a young tan horse, travel-stained and looking as woeful as he sounded. Healthy, though...he pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had hoped he would leave so he could resume eating and stroking his cock, but as he watched him plead his meaningless case some more, he reconsidered.

"Sir," Marcus said, snout pressed against the opposite side of the door, looking more helpless with every minute, "I beseech you. I don't have any water and I haven't had a drink, or food in eight hours. Without your aid, I must surely perish in the brutal heat." Bucephalus rolled his eyes. Did he ever shut up? But he was right: the nearest town was four hours away, and that was at fast run. He doubted this slip of a stallion would manage anything close to that sort of time. He growled, flinging the door open. Marcus fell in, flat on his muzzle.

In contrast with his dark fur, his eyes had developed a frozen hue since the last war. The sky illuminated them. His 20's, bright and blue, were sealed under the black-white translucence of his 30's in minuscule lines. He looked at the tan horse coughing on the floor; his eyes were mud. He smiled up at him now, from the floor.

"I..." he coughed, "...I thank you, my host!" Bucephalus made no response, no move to assist him to his feet. He simply stared, considering, until finally a small smirk appeared. The gods were fickle, but perhaps they did know what they were doing.

This was his playing field, and while he savoured the solitude of his home, the arrival of a traveller often presented the most lucrative of opportunities. Trade, collaboration - something more; he loved and loathed it in equal measure but it was undeniable that he lived for it. Like a geode of onyx, he grew inwards, strength overlapping intellect overlapping strength. He knew he was beautiful, but a gem without a thread to wear it was just another rock on the ground. This was his thread.

"You can stay," Bucephalus said, "But! Only if you do me a favour." Marcus almost fainted in relief.

"What's that, Sir?" he bowed his head, "I promise I will be no hindrance and provide

adequate labour in exchange for your hospitality."

Bucephalus shook his head before banging it on the door frame, "Just shut up. You sound like a more boring version of me from fifteen years ago, except less horsely or confident, or-" he waved his hands up and down at the other horse, "-everything." Still, he reached a hand down to help the smaller stallion to his feet. He stepped in close to him. Marcus balked, a half-formed question cut off as Bucephalus ran his hands down his hips and buttocks, pressing into his crotch and the cleft of his ass as if to search for weapons.

The boy was slim, definitely not muscular. Probably flexible. Marcus flinched at the touch, a tiny sound escaping from him this time, and stepped back into him. He bounced back. Light enough, with a sweet ass, Bucephalus thought, pressing his groin into the cushion of his rump. Hmm, he would do. He flipped the horse around to face him.

Suspiciously, there was a shape presenting itself across Marcus' lower region. He smirked, releasing him. "You can stay," he said, "But you're sleeping in the stables like a good horse."

"That's-" Marcus looked flustered. He seemed about to say something, but at the sight of Bucephalus raising an eyebrow, and a timely gust of hot wind from outside, he closed his mouth, composing himself. "I...Sir. Might there be a disused bed I could sleep in, rather?" he asked, stiffly. It was poor form to begrudge a host whatever they offered, but this apparent insult seemed too much for the proud horse. "I can compensate you when I return from battle." Given his slender build and naivety, Bucephalus thought it unlikely he would return from the war at all.

"Fear not, you shall certainly compensate me." His guest frowned at the tone; he ignored it. "I live here alone with my horse, Alexander. I'm sure you'll be fast friends in no time - in the stable." Marcus looked like he had been hit by a real arrow. Bucephalus shot him a glare to silence any retort.

"Y-yes, Sir. Thank you. Thank you." He inspected the floor and tucked his chin to his chest in deference.

With a wave of an arm, Bucephalus turned toward his abode. The understated muscles of his back cast a shadow on his already dark body. His mane flickered like the wick of a candle, weighing over his right shoulder to form a point of goldenrod. Marcus watched like a foal, awaiting instruction.

"Come along, then. And lose the shirt," Bucephalus said, "It's too hot a day and I'm not having my home smell like sweat after you're gone."

Marcus raised the bottom of his shirt, before letting it fall back down, "I think I'd rather not."

"You're free to fry outside, then."

Marcus huffed. He pulled his shirt up with both hands, crossing them over. Bucephalus turned to watch from the corridor. His belly looked soft, with a lighter shade of brown fur meandering along it. Tufts of white fuzz hugged the grooves of his armpits. Whereas Bucephalus' abdomen was a cliff face: sheer and sharp, his was rounded by hills and splotches of colour that denoted mixed parentage. He reflexively brought his arms around the middle when he realized Bucephalus was examining him. His gaze brought a flush to his cheeks.

"Hurry up. You interrupted my lunch," Bucephalus said, leading the way to his living room.

The floor was carpeted - by Bucephalus himself, of course - in a crimson fabric thick enough to dull the sound of hooves, but thin enough to deepen their thud as they hit the wood below. His steps were loud and purposeful. It made Marcus nervous. He followed behind quietly.

"I don't expect visitors, but I do have enough furnishings to accommodate. Sit." He obeyed. Bucephalus resumed eating his olives, sans the wanking. Marcus said nothing, but the way his eyes followed the olives, and the way his ears pointed upwards to hear them burst in his mouth, spoke volumes.

He pinged his ear, "Are you a donkey, boy?"

"A donkey? What? Of course not-"

"-Then don't be an ass." Bucephalus shoved his plate across the table.

Marcus looked at the remaining olives before realizing they were for him, "Don't you have any bread and wine to offer me?"

He laughed, pressing his hooves against Marcus's. Marcus was too puzzled to move. "Yes. I do," Bucephalus said.

Relief formed a smile on Marcus' face. He laughed along, "Excellent. You had me worried for a minute there." A moment passed where nothing was said. "Where do you store it? Shall I retrieve it?" he asked.

"No, I don't think that's necessary."

"Why is that?"

"Because it's for my breakfast - not for some wannabe recruit to scoff and then run off with. Especially one that can't prepare for a simple journey."

Marcus opened his mouth to protest, but gave up. "What should I have done, then?" he asked.

"I'm not telling you, because nobody ever listens and always ends up doing the thing they were going to do anyway. Then they end up dead, or poor, or married to some mare called Aphrodisia."

Finally: quiet. Marcus lay hunched over the table, defeated. Maybe today would be a good day after all.

No luck. He tilted his head back up to continue the conversation, "What do you do? For a living, I mean."

"When you're as clever as I am, you don't need to worry about things like money," Bucephalus said. Marcus did not seem to know what to say. He nodded, getting up and wandering around the room. He passed a desk, noticing several scrolls, a few stamped with a sigil: a stallion, proud, raised on two legs. He brushed a finger across it before pulling back and stealing a glance at Bucephalus, who was pretending to be industriously occupied eating olives. When Marcus looked away again, a smirk played Bucephalus' face. Got you, he thought.

Oblivious, Marcus wandered back to the table, sniffed at an olive and placed it onto his tongue. He chewed quickly, waiting until swallowing before speaking, "It's a border dispute on the Aegean Sea I'm going to, by the way," he said as if it meant anything. He seemed to find the silence deeply uncomfortable. Just another weakness.

"Right..." Bucephalus' interest in current affairs went about as far as Alexander's field, two hundred paces away. While his house was enshrined with memorabilia and trinkets of a past life, which both excited and intimidated Marcus for all the wrong reasons, their value was ashamedly sentimental, as opposed to an expression of his interests.

The problem with current affairs lay in the name: current. Like the ebb and flow of the Atlantic, it had the potential to alter one's course - or worse, drag them under. He found himself in the enviable position of being adrift from the current of ten years passed, comfort found in the company of Alexander and the salty taste of his own mouth.

He always had a sharp tongue; it was part of what made him so good at what he did, both then and now. Those bloody words, biting into his gums. For once, he decided to not say anything negative.

"You don't sound convinced," Marcus said, plate empty before him, "I really am going; I'm not a crook."

Bucephalus believed it. From the way he spoke, to the neat hessian weave trousers around his waist, he did not think him capable of being a criminal even if he tried. That was why he would perish.

Marcus continued, "I promised my sisters that I would come back with a trophy for each of them, and my mother that they wouldn't be my limbs." He chuckled, rubbing his eyes just as Bucephalus's legs rubbed between his own. They rested onto him.

This child - it was so hard to see him as anything else - was _so_naïve, so weak, so young...it was like being annoyed at a kitten. Bucephalus was surprised to find himself feeling a little less bothered by him. Maybe it was the olives; he soaked them in wine. "What about your father?" he asked, managing something other than a scowl.

The chuckle drained away. "Actually, I've never known my father. Mother says he was lost at war when she was younger," he rested his neck on his palm, giving Bucephalus doe eyes, "But I imagine he was probably just, you know, a wastrel."

He thought as much. There was a sadness to Marcus' story, but that sadness was not for Bucephalus to bear. It was most likely reserved for a letter, delivered alongside a chronicle of near-identical others, to be handed to a tear-eyed mother and stowed in a cupboard, or under a bed, until that war was won and the news became more palatable.

Marcus pulled his legs back, sitting straight. "I'm sorry," he said, "I did not mean to bring you down. I can assure you my childhood was excellent and we are only going from strength to strength."

"I'm sure you are." He stood and cleared the plate, rubbing an itch on his snout with his forearm. His eyes were cold with moisture, but he was not sad. Not with some throw-away mongrel, at least. His own problems were more complex than an evening would allow, and were neither worth the time nor effort in pursuing them, let alone sharing them. The clearer the vision, the greater the strain on the eyes, he had learned.

Marcus followed his cue, standing; politeness for a host. "Should I return to my quarters for the night?" he asked, licking his lips to gather the remnants of olive. Bucephalus sighed.

He placed the plate on a Moria wood cabinet, replacing it with two cups. "No. Sit," he said, rummaging inside the cabinet and extracting water and wine.

The table almost toppled as Marcus grabbed his arm, "Thank you! Thank you so much, Mr...-"

"-Sir is fine."

"Sir, you are kind." _That_made Bucephalus laugh. He wondered when last anyone had said that. He gripped Marcus' wrist to stop him drinking water from the bottle. Marcus looked at him quizzically, breath catching in his throat between thirst and gratitude.

Bucephalus sat him back down, holding his hand. "No bread, though."

"Of course, Sir, just - this is above and beyond anything you had to do. You must not have much food, being on your own - not that I'm saying you seem poor, because, well-" he gestured around at the marble ornaments and decorated pottery on the table, "-But I just want you to know: thank you."

Their hands interlocked. His was strong and hot. Marcus' was sweaty and squeezing. It was a small and overall meaningless interaction, but it lay beyond the realm of a handshake and between celebration. It was enough for him to know, and for Marcus to know - even if he was still unaware of what was happening - that _something_was about to happen.

As swiftly as their hands came together, they parted. Marcus crossed his legs. His breathing became faster, before slowing. The flush of a sun-battered days travel brightened his cheeks. He swallowed down the mixture of wine and water poured for him and cleared his throat.

"Thank you very much," Marcus said, dabbing sweat from his forehead with his bundled-up shirt.

"You're welcome." And, gods damn him, he meant it.

Bucephalus poured a cup of wine for himself, inhaling its aroma. It was dark: a shade of auburn black. Most wines from Orichalkos were sweet, with notes of hyacinth, but he preferred something drier. Earthen scents stampeded into his nose. He enjoyed it.

Much like himself, his dry drink was an oxymoron. That which sustained him the most burned. As he grew closer to others, he felt distant. He did not fully comprehend it, but he knew he did not have to: the mere act of observing was enough for him to place it in a bottle and cast it into the tides of his mind, safe in the knowledge that his life would continue to be amazing regardless.

"You forgot to dilute it," Marcus said, chugging his way through a second cup. Maybe he would drink himself to death instead.

"I drink it as it is, in its truth."

Those muddy eyes of Marcus's reeled in awe and disbelief. The more he drank, the wetter they seemed to grow, diluting themselves into an amber colour just as he diluted his wine. "You _have_to mix it. How? Is it not overly bitter?"

Bucephalus shrugged, "Scholars say that barbarians drink their wine without water. I guess that just makes me one of them." He drank the wine as he would anything else. It stung his throat and nostrils.

An arm jolted out to his neck; Marcus brandished an imaginary blade, "So you're drinking with the enemy!" He grinned, letting go of the sword and touching his chest. His fingers pressed softly, discovering muscles that were previously shrouded in black fur. He took his arm back.

Bucephalus observed him flounder, bringing his legs forwards to link like before as he spoke, "A number of them have told me that many barbarians are actually very intelligent, simply limited by life and circumstance beyond their control."

Marcus' brow almost hit his mane, "Now you're just having me on." He poured himself another, "And haven't you slain many of them over the years?" he pointed to a certificate on the wall noting his service to combat - one of many such displays throughout his home.

He nodded. It was true. For better or worse, he was good at what he did - possibly even the best. It was irrelevant, though: those days were simply a result of his _own_life and circumstance.

"They also said that their ageing boys were encouraged to rut with any cattle they kept, or other, bigger animals, before eating them." Bucephalus smirked at the horror on Marcus' face, "In many places it was considered to be a rite of passage. When a boy was finally able to make the animal climax as well as himself, he earned his manhood."

Marcus smacked both hands to the table and shook his head, "I don't believe that for a second." He wobbled as he sat, kicking his legs back and forth into Bucephalus's calves like the two were childhood friends sharing gossip in the market.

"It's true. If you don't believe me, I have the manuscripts in my bedroom."

"No, no! I do believe you, it's just... unbelievable," he snorted into his cup and tried to pour another drink, ears drooping as he looked up at Bucephalus. The water bottle was empty.

He measured out a cup identical to his own. Marcus looked down, then up, then down again, "I can't drink this, Sir."

"Sure you can."

"Are you calling me a barbarian?"

"No, I just don't have any more water left for the day. You drank it all."

A splash of guilt washed down Marcus. "I'm so sorry," he said, but Bucephalus was waving his hands. Before he could blurt anything else mundane his palm was over his lips.

"Just shut up. And drink. Okay?"

He nodded. His lips were smooth and damp. Bucephalus lowered his hand, resting it on Marcus' forearm. He drank, screwing his face up at the taste.

"You're a barbarian now, son. Let me hear you roar."

Marcus gripped Bucephalus' hand to his chest, casting his head back and roaring. It was a good, if not over-eager attempt. Spittle floated back downwards, covering the two of them. With his hand in position to reach where he pleased, Bucephalus rubbed over the miniature pectoral muscles of his body, pressing into his nipples. Good boy; they were hard.

"Now all you have to do is have sex with an animal," Bucephalus said, winking.

Marcus chortled and leaned down until Bucephalus' finger stroked his cheek, near enough wiping tears from his eyes, "Oh, Gods. You have a horse, don't you? What was her name again?"

Alexander. "...Alexandria."

"Let's all have a go on Alexandria," he cried, "You can be the judge of whether or not she likes it." Bucephalus stroked Marcus' mane, bringing his touch over the fuzz of his ears and scratching his neck. "Have you ever had the pleasure of trying her before, Sir?" Marcus joked, "What kind of mare is she?"

Almost daily, and most definitely not a mare. "No, of course not," he chuckled, "Just a little Skyros pony." He was an Andalusian stallion, obedient but fierce, with a stoic temperament, a battle record stretching one victory further than even his, and a cock crafted by the gods.

Bucephalus rose, pulling Marcus to his feet, laughing as the drunk horse swayed. He steadied him. His hand stroked casually across his crotch, feeling his erection. Before he gathered his bearings, he was carrying him out the door, back into the heat. "You first," Bucephalus said, pointing to a stable no more than a hundred paces from where they stood.

Marcus linked arms with him, tugged along at a surprising pace. So lost in humour and wine, he forgot to worry about the hardening cock snaking down his left trouser leg. Bucephalus sported a similar fashion, semi-hard rod almost all the way down to his knee.

As they dodged through the shrubs, Bucephalus licked his lips. Marcus panted, clinging to keep up. Bucephalus's blue eyes watched him in the gloaming light. He was going to enjoy breaking him in.

***

Modesty was never his strong point. In spite of this, the stable was cosy, if not small, made of sun-bleached stone and Holm oak accents. He enlisted the craftsmanship of a builder to construct it immediately after moving to the house, refusing to home Alexander in anything less than he deserved.

Marcus admired the stable. A blanket of shade wrapped around them, as the heat of the day finally broke with the sunset. As they stepped through the open-air section of the structure to its inner holdings, Bucephalus noted that Alexander was absent from his field, opting for cooler lodgings inside.

The builder was a young and impressionable wolf from Orichalkos. He said he liked rocks, which was convenient, because his family could afford naught else. Bucephalus made sure he got his rocks off, several times a night until the work was complete. He was well-endowed and talented, although not quite as talented as he could have been with a different upbringing. Bucephalus paid him well - cultivated him. The result was a stable with a fine finish, beautiful attention to detail, and one hell of a heartbreak and headache. The stable could easily keep five other animals, but all parts were well maintained despite disuse. It smelled earthier than the wine.

"Marcus." Bucephalus' voice was low and soft, almost musical.

Marcus released his biceps, called out of reverie by the sudden change in tone from his host. "That's the first time you've called me by my name." His face was flushed and his eyes were large. They blinked slowly.

"Marcus," Bucephalus repeated, as they neared Alexander. He stopped. "Listen to me."

Standing to attention, Marcus looked him in the eye, "Sir. I'm listening." Beside Bucephalus in such an empty room, he looked small; vulnerable, even.

"I need you to understand that no matter what happens when we go 'round, you must not run. You might be confused, or scared, or excited, but I need you to stay with me, or else they will run you down," he lied. He looked down at Marcus, clasping his hand with two of his own. In the dimness of the stable, his eyes turned to iron.

"What? They? Yes, I think- yes, I can, but she's just a little pony, isn't she? What is-" he giggled, half at the ridiculousness of the situation, half at the adrenaline tickling his gut. Not to mention the lust in his loins.

Bucephalus lead him on with a nod. They rounded the corner, entering a larger room with a wooden stool secured in the centre. The floor was dense with straw.

"Sit."

The sudden thud of hooves in the darkness was loud. Marcus turned, but Bucephalus was behind him, pinning his arms to his side. It started as a hug, but Marcus tried to pull free as he realized what was happening, too small and weak to escape.

From the opposite side of the room, Alexander watched. His eyes were cedar. On all fours, he was easily taller than Bucephalus, with tawny coloured fur that became umber above his hooves. As he paced towards his owner, Marcus stared under his belly. Longer than the stool and twice as thick was a flaccid black cock, its pink-mottled mass only partially dropped. It swayed as he walked.

"What are you doing to me? What is this?" Marcus tried to ball his fists and pull away, but Bucephalus' grip was so tight around his wrists that he could no longer clench his hands. A knee knocked the back of his one leg forwards, throwing him off balance so Bucephalus could lift him over to the stool. He tried to kick free, but nothing seemed to land, "Let me go! You barbarian! I'll kill you."

Bucephalus threw him down chest first. He tried to sit up, but resistance was token. A hoof pressed onto his back, holding him in place while Bucephalus reached to the floor. Marcus thought his arms were free, only for rope to tangle around them as a knee came down on his shoulders. The rope wrapped around and between his arms all the way down to the stool.

"Please, just stop! I'll go, okay? I'm sorry I bothered you," Marcus said.

They were always so outraged, so defiant. Pathetic. Bucephalus ensured the bindings were suitably uncomfortable. No matter how hard - or weakly - Marcus fought back, the cock twitching between his legs said otherwise. He dodged a kick to yank down his trousers and undergarments, letting that half-hard dick wobble free, and grow. Bucephalus let his own trousers fall to the floor, shaking his manhood from side to side, bouncing it off his thighs.

"I thought you wanted to be a real horse," Bucephalus said, flopping his semi-hardness onto Marcus' back. "Admit it. This is what you want."

He spread Marcus's cheeks, exposing his pucker to the world. It was tanned and smooth, clutching itself closed like the bud of a flower. He knew how to make it bloom.

A finger trailed along his perineum, circling his hole before pressing inside. Marcus writhed, opening up before tightening again. It pulsed around the tip of his finger, hot and desperate.

"Answer me, slut. Tell me how badly you want it," he forced the digit in half way.

Marcus yelped, "Please - please, Sir, I can't..."

Bucephalus' chest rumbled. He brought his lips to his ear, "Tell me." His finger, knuckle deep and stroking his prostate, brought Marcus' cock to fullness. It oozed to the floor, a cord of pre-cum stretching and contracting as his flare smacked against the underside of the stool.

Marcus groaned, then felt ashamed. His body was betraying him so easily. In truth, this was not something he did not desire. The wine had lowered his inhibitions enough that he had already expended what token resistance he could manufacture, and now, as he felt his hosts's thick finger roam around inside him, he felt the memory of even that dissolving.

"Sir!" he forced his eyes closed, too ashamed to even look at the pleasure pooling beneath him, "Please Sir, make me a real horse." Enticed by his own words, his balls, thrice the size of an olive and ten times heavier, twitched in his sack. His back no longer arched against Bucephalus' weight.

As if the air was not hot enough, a heatwave of sensation migrated up Marcus' body, radiating from the medial ring of his length to the tip of his snout. It was feverish, simultaneously revolting and gratifying beyond all pleasures he had experienced. This was part of what he was. This was where he belonged.

Of the few serving girls he had played around with from his side of town, nothing could ever or would ever compare to this. Everything until this point, until the gods had deemed him ready, were a childhood memory. It horrified and aroused him all at once, realizing that in many ways this _was_his passage into manhood.

He thought going to fight in the war would unlock some hidden potential within himself - and in a round-about way it had - but he never imagined in his headiest dreams or nightmares that it would be Bucephalus who unleashed it. He moaned openly, the only other sounds the drip, drip of pre-cum on the floor, the slapping of his length against the stool and the steady clop of Alexander approaching from behind.

Bucephalus bit his lower lip, stroking along his own rod to gather as much pre-cum as he could hold. It swayed from side to side on release, lording itself over Marcus. With a slap, he fingered the pre-cum into his hole, content with the expression of bliss and confusion tensed around his face. This might be the most spectacular experience of Marcus' life, he thought. He was right, of course - and he revelled in it.

There was a primal pleasure in taking someone so unremarkable, bending them to his will, granting them a taste of something more: something they were previously incapable of even considering, or imagining, and shaking their existence to the ground until no meant yes, denial meant please and resistance became pure and utter adoration. Like all those before him, Marcus bent over the breeding bench, on his knees to give praise to his new God: Bucephalus.

"Sir...Sir..." he moaned, submitting his puny life to him. His hole swallowed up each digit thrust inside, his mind impregnated with every whim desired. Bucephalus waved Alexander closer. He chuffed, the wrinkled head of his cock dropping three hands down as he recognised the sight before him.

This was no sleight of hand - no parlour trick. He had read of men once capable of rendering individuals susceptible to suggestion, but he was not one of them. No. He was a self-made Adonis, practising only the most masterful of intuition and combining it with the determination of a visionary. Luck had determined that Marcus would encounter him, but it was Bucephalus who took hold of his diverging path - his fork in the woods - turning it upside down, tonguing his way inside, spreading it across the macrocosm of futures determined for it, and sticking his cock right inside. He fucked people up: physically, mentally, spiritually. His will was louder than the words of any prophet, more virulent than any plague, and eroded Marcus' world faster than the seven seas combined.

Fuck, he was hard. His cock strained its sheath, hanging against it before stretching out. Its girth and length brought it horizontal despite the blood pumping along it, curving down to rest on Marcus' back. The temptation to plunge it inside was definitely on his mind, but he would wait, as he always did, until after the main event.

Freed from the tightness of his trousers and the weight of his rod, two pear-sized bollocks swung between his legs. They slapped against Marcus' rump, the black matte of their fur so menacing it brought his cock to bounce in arousal, whipping upwards to thwack against his own abs and chest. He groaned, slapping Marcus' ass, leaving him in a mind-warped state while focusing on his own pleasure. He flexed his muscles in time with the upswing of his shaft, relishing the slap of it colliding with his body. It was time.

Alexander had grown soft from lack of attention, his cock retreating inside its sheath. Bucephalus leaned underneath him, burying his muzzle in it: inhaling it, licking it, caressing it, fondling it, worshipping it, sucking on the head that descended. He weighed it with one hand and kissed his way down to his balls. They were magnificent. Short, dark fur encompassed them. They entered his maw with the thickness and texture of leather. He drew them inside, barely able to suckle his lips around even one. He cupped them into his entire face, drowning in masculinity while his free hand coaxed Alexander's length. It grew and grew, yet still remained within the wrinkles and ridges of its maximum size. There was more to come.

Bucephalus dove deeper, tongue dragging over each and every groove and ring. He savoured the taste of stallion and the stench of sex, thinking back to those first nights they shared: Bucephalus, young and shaken after defeat; Alexander, stalwart and oblivious to the worries of the universe.

Everything was terrifying back then. Like Marcus, he sought out the great battle as placebo for the missing piece of his puzzle. Instead, he lost his home, himself, and the people he had grown to care for the most - each and every one of them damaged in their own ways, before being decimated or reforged in the fires of battle.

At that time, he was broken. He remembered washing blood from Alexander's belly, mind reeling, when the head and length of his cock descended. Bucephalus was dumbfounded. He had seen Alexander hard before, even laughed at it with his comrades, but this time was different. A heat built in his crotch, and before he could even process what he was doing, he licked him: all the way around the circumference of his flare before tracing his shaft back to his sheath. He tongued inside it, swallowing down whatever solace he could find, transfixed and aroused further than ever before.

A younger Alexander swished his tail, unperturbed, if not pleased by the new sensation. There was something about the raw sexuality of the horse that excited him: that in the midst of the chaos, his urge to fuck was the overriding factor. The barracks was quiet, for reasons Bucephalus preferred not to think of. In the shadows of the stable, he dropped his trousers, pre-cum frothing from his tip. He did not know or care why, but in that moment he sealed his lips around the enormity of his flare. It was an innately human yet feral action, where companionship became something more, but thought became something less.

The stable reeked of more than one unpleasant odour, yet at that time the only scent in his mind was that of Alexander's cock-head, which swelled in his mouth until his jaw ached and he was certain his teeth would make the sensation unpleasant. Still, Alexander hardened. Bigger. Thicker. More. The tang of seed bubbled down his throat before shooting back into his mouth. It came, and came, and came, until Bucephalus could swallow no more, pulling back in a burst of cum that blinded him. He cried, loud sobs that would have drawn the attention of his friends had they still been there. Alexander chuffed, thrilled to enact the instinct to mate.

Bucephalus had never ridden a cock before. Nor had he ever been ridden. Commands surged through his body like a Strategos of his being. The floor of the stable was bare earth, thinly coated in plant life. It scraped at his knees, blackening his already black fur as he kneeled before Alexander. Pain flashed through his body, followed by the soothing pulse of seed. His rump was destroyed and rebuilt with every thrust, like a soldier surviving battle. With each new depth of penetration, pleasure soared, raising him above the clouds of his own consciousness until black turned to white and all he could feel was the burning release of horse cock in his guts. His own release entwined with animal in the dirt.

"Sir?" Marcus was shivering. His voice rattled. The irises of his eyes engorged as they witnessed Bucephalus blow his own horse, lost in memory.

Without realizing, his snout had travelled all the way around to meet Alexander's hole. It throbbed around his tongue, twitching in synchronisation with his mast. Alexander's cock slapped against his belly, just as it had hundreds of times before, its urethra practically forming an erection of its own. Bucephalus forced his face as far into it as he could manage, sucking on the hot ring of his ass in an act that was more than lust but less than love. It might have been the truest kiss he ever gave.

By the time he pulled back, his face was awash with drool and pre-cum. It messed his mane and marked his cheeks. He did not care. If anything, it made his balls feel heavier, his cock harder. He took the feral horse by his mane, leading him back around to Marcus' flank.

"Alexander. Mount."

Before Bucephalus had even finished the command, Alexander raised his front legs over Marcus's shoulders and smacked the stool with his rod. It was noisy and messy and as soon as he realized he had missed his target, Bucephalus hoisted Alexander's cock upwards, back to the pulsating hole of Marcus.

At first, the flare pressed against his ass-cheek, slicking his hips and entrance. One thrust later and Marcus howled, an ear-splitting moan that reverberated around the stable to come back and deafen them again. The cock was inside him now - Gods know how deep.

Bucephalus saw himself in Marcus' place. Just like the first time he took Alexander's length inside him, his prostate remembered that pain, that pleasure - how it all came crashing down inside you to erase everything you thought you ever knew in a cum-hazed fuck-fest.

He ran opposite to bury his own cock, just as hung and forceful as Alexander's, into Marcus' maw. The little stallion tried - oh, he tried - to take his girth, but it was too much, too fast, and a gush of pre-cum and saliva spouted from his lips and nostrils. Bucephalus closed his eyes, basking in the warmth and wet of his gullet, dodging to the side of Alexander's flailing head, before yanking himself back out to let Marcus breathe.

The moans were rawer now: more strained, more pleasurable. Bucephalus toyed with his muzzle, dipping the hardened ridges and bumps of his flare inside. He doubted he had even tasted a cock before, yet alone taken one from a feral horse. Still, the moans came, and Marcus even managed to look up to meet his eyes. They watered, begging him 'yes' and 'no' at the same time. Bucephalus stroked his cheek, before dragging the heft of his ball-sack over him. They stretched, hanging even lower than usual, as he tongued them. He did his best to take them in turn, succeeding only in nuzzling into them with blind licks as they bounced in and around his mouth.

Alexander found his rhythm in a matter of seconds, going deeper and further with zero respite between bucks. He rammed into Marcus with an audible splash, the slurp of suction closely following. The girth of his shaft increased by a fifth, taking with it the already stretched ass it pounded.

Marcus felt the warmth of cum fill his rear, pouring into the deepest recesses of his body and fuelling the fire in his loins. His thoughts were a slur of incomprehension, rattled to and fro in his mind as the stool rocked beneath him. Not one single drop of seed leaked from his ass. His pucker, strained and stretched beyond his comprehension, was sealed by Alexander's tip.

Alexander trumpeted. Bucephalus growled. Marcus howled.

The three of them locked together in the most forbidden tryst they could imagine, thrusting and bucking and fucking and moaning and yelping. Bucephalus smeared his cock across Marcus' snout, reaching down with both hands to tug on the fuzz of his armpits. He felt the hair run between his fingers, wet from sweat, thick, yet still retaining its shape. It made him really fucking hard.

Without a care for Alexander's front hooves, Bucephalus knelt and lifted Marcus' arm, forcing his snout upon his armpit. It was ripe with musk and tickled his face. He tongue-fucked it, biting and chewing and lapping at its hollowest point, where muscle met muscle yet protruded with softness.

Remembering to breathe, he fondled the low-hanging sack before him. From one touch, Marcus almost came. Bucephalus watched the enormity of Alexander's rod slide in and out of him, although with every thrust he only seemed to reach deeper. The sheer weight of Alexander's chest bouncing off of Marcus made him breathless, but the force of his cock made him inhale sharply. He rasped and whimpered, unable to form human words as his rear took the shafting of a lifetime.

Alexander pulled away. Marcus screamed, taken off guard by the retreat of a flare twice the size of his fist. In that moment, a stallion-sized gape of anal wall and seed took its place. Cum launched from his ass, splashing down his legs like dye. The hay on the floor did little to mask the sound or spread of the projectile as it squirted over their ankles and hooves. After the initial spurts subsided, a flow of semen continued, pushed out by Marcus' used ring. It took all his effort to group his muscles together and push gush after gush of the liquid free, managing only in coating his balls and cock in it.

Alexander's cock shuddered, shortening and purging all remaining semen from its length. He shook his mane from side to side, altogether quite pleased with himself, before trotting off back to where he stood when they entered the room. Bucephalus twitched while observing those final jets of cum launch from his furrowed - soon to be sheathed - rod. Delicious.

He undid the bindings around Marcus's arms. Whatever will or fight in him he originally had was fucked into oblivion by now. His body hung loose, propped up by the stool. His eyes were closed. He was not finished yet.

Bucephalus patted his back, "Feel like a real horse yet?"

Marcus smiled. There was no energy for words, but very recent experience taught him that there were few things left to be said after getting nailed by a stallion. He was drunk on the twin glories of wine and horse cum. A hesitant hand reached down to feel his ravaged hole, and came back dripping with seed.

With one arm along his shoulders, Bucephalus tipped him back. There was no resistance. He reached another arm under his knees, lifting him towards a corner of the stable where the floor was especially thick with bedding. As he walked, Marcus's eyes drifted open. They looked up to him, mesmerised by the glow of the day on his fur. He was so strong - so beautiful. Both of their dicks wobbled, still erect.

It was cooler in this section. The least sunlight reached here, and now, the least moonlight. Bucephalus kicked together a large pile of hay and lay Marcus on top of it. His ass oozed more cum.

"Sir-"

"-Shh." He shook his head at the tan stallion. Only reflected light caught his eyes, and they glittered like tiny sapphires. He rubbed his hands along Marcus' sides, and over his chest, tweaking a nipple as he went and grinning at the squeak in reply.

He lifted Marcus's legs, hooking them over his shoulders. The seed was still escaping. His hole opened three fingers wide.

Before any more of it was wasted, Bucephalus angled his tip against it, letting the flow build up inside him. Alexander always had the edge in terms of size, which was as convenient as it was hot. Trapped air squelched free, bubbling around his tip. Stallions could lubricate anything, but they did a hole best of all. This one was loose enough to allow ease of passage for two cocks, had he another.

He penetrated without a single hand guiding his entrance. The rim of Marcus' ass tripled in diameter, pushed inwards alongside Bucephalus' thrust, before collapsing over it. Marcus swallowed up his flare, panting.

He did not stop there. In one steady motion, the flare was lost inside him. It drilled past his second sphincter. The medial ring hilted against him. Marcus groaned, legs quivering from exertion. Just like the flare, his ass took it inside. Streams of pre-cum mixed with Alexander's load to dribble free, displaced by the volume of cock inside him.

Marcus' breathing became shallow. He clutched the bulge forming beneath his abdomen. Bucephalus smiled with satisfaction. His balls were close enough to press against Marcus's. His rod burrowed into him.

In a fraction of a second, he pulled out. Cum splashed against their makeshift bed. Marcus' mouth opened as if to shout, but it was silent. Just as quickly, he rammed himself back inside. His hips swung far and fast, fucking the sloppy seconds beneath him.

His ass constricted around his dick, desperate to hold it in place - to milk it to completion. He fucked faster. Marcus' length extended along his belly to his chest, where a pool of white fluid gathered. Bucephalus grabbed his flare with both hands, squeezing until it throbbed against his grip.

"Oh f-fuck me. Please, Sir, make me a real horse. I don't think I can take much more."

Bucephalus scooped up a handful of cum and sloshed it into Marcus' mouth, rubbing over his tongue and fingering his throat. As he gagged, he brought both hands back to the vertical cock in front of him, twisting and tweaking and yanking on it while claiming his rear. A near-virgin ass was the last thing he expected to be doing when he woke this morning, but as he homed-in on its sweet spot, he admitted it was more enjoyable than the alternative.

With each thrust came a new moan. Marcus squealed faster and louder, the direction of Bucephalus' rutting hitting all the right places. Their fucking accelerated until he lost track of when he was in or out, the only indication of either within the pulse of his prostate.

"I'm go-"

Bucephalus loomed over him, pinning his snout to the hay while wrapping an entire arm around his cock. He jerked it up and down as he thrust forwards and back. His fingers linked around the base of his tip to stroke him harder than he had ever been stroked before. His balls contracted towards his pounded ass. The surge of seed gathered in their loins.

Marcus' cock exploded into Bucephalus' mouth, spraying over his snout and mane to rebound off his chest. Bucephalus held his tongue out, roaring in his own release as the sweet taste of semen soaked him. He wrestled with Marcus' length, aiming it upwards to ensure every plume saturated him.

The first bout of Bucephalus' spunk poured into Marcus, swelling his gut. It propelled backwards, expending itself in a wave of gummy mess. He bathed in orgasm. Marcus' hole trembled. Each load of cum brought his cock to a peak, swelling inside before adding to the pool below. He gritted his teeth, hammering those last few thrusts where they mattered most.

He could never compete with Alexander in terms of volume, but the timing of thrust and ejaculation combined to deliver a potent blow. It glugged inside him greedily, like a drunk downing one too many rounds - but Marcus' innards could only hold so much, and each gulp of cum brought with it an even louder overflow. The flex of his anus around Bucephalus' length as it tried and failed to contain the seed massaged him through his afterglow.

In the corner of the stable they huffed and unloaded. Bucephalus knocked Marcus's legs to the side. They fell to the floor. Seed erupted from his ass. He reached under his shoulders, pivoting until the two swapped positions. Marcus lay his head on his chest, its rise and fall lulling him to rest. Their legs nestled together. Bucephalus linked his arms through his pits, stroking down his chest. Marcus' cock flopped sideways, semi-erect and stained white. All the while, Bucephalus remained snug inside.

There were things to worry about, but they were not for today. He laid his head on the mound of hay, semen softening it onto his neck. Marcus's eyes were already closed. His mouth stayed open, steadying his breath. Above the stable, a layer of Stratocumulus cloud framed the moon. The warmth of body-on-body became comfortable. He smiled, letting his own eyelids droop while they embraced. It took a while, but Bucephalus got what he asked for in the end.

Cock and quiet.