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I have absolutely no right to be writing this; I have two unfinished stories on here that I need to get back to, and several others on other websites, and here I am writing another one. But here it is. Luckily, it's a one-shot; it's been clogging the perverted part of my mind for a while now, and I had to get it out before it gave me an aneurysm. It's a bit more sex-driven than my other stuff, but I like to think it amounted to just slightly more than just smut - though that's up to you, of course.

As usual, reviews are enormously appreciated. And again, I sincerely regret being so irresponsible about my priorities. I will get back to that other stuff. Honestly. If anyone still cares.

And, uh, you've probably noticed that I suck at making up titles by now.

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The car did not slow down even slightly as it twisted about yet another jagged corner, lurching hastily down a roadway all but completely consumed by the hot, angry, smothering, velvety blackness of the starless urban midnight; the road was completely empty of streetlights, and lined on either side by only the vaguest outlines of rows of modestly sized, picket-fronted houses, almost every one of them without a single light ablaze, outside or in.

The shadowy, sickly orange glimmer of the last streetlight wrenched itself out of the car's musky interior, which was likewise bathed in near-total blackness. The tip of the blade angled itself more sharply against the soft underside of Laura's chin; she gulped thickly, her eyes and throat blazing as she just barely fought back another wave of helpless, terrified sobbing.

An unseen hand fumbled its way up to a spot just above her head. A switch was sharply flicked ,the back seat was bathed in a languid and hazy glow of warm, muddy yellow; and though the dark, heavy figure hunched over the driver's wheel remained shrouded in shadow, Laura found herself once again eye-to-eye with the figure seated beside her and holding the knife to her throat: a short, lanky middle-aged goat, a pair of wiry spectacles balanced upon his bony nose, his thin, pasty-brown horns curving about the back of his blunt scalp, his white collared shirt and dull blue tie hanging slack and half-fastened about his long, spindly, scraggy neck, a thin, pearly smirk splitting his gaunt, hollow muzzle, the tangled layer of thin, scruffy, tawny-grey fur that coated him looking almost colourless in the poor light. And from behind his narrow spectacle lenses, a pair of frosty blue eyes unblinkingly returned her gaze...

A shrill, piercing, almost aggressive whistle reverberated its way through the house as, one floor directly below her, the water reached its boiling point and the steam thrust its way through the ever-so-slight chink in the lid of the pot. The jolt of bewildered shock that shot through Laura as she impulsively jumped to her feet, however, lasted less than a second; and pausing a moment, the middle-aged red vixen clamped a paw down upon her groin, feeling its warm moistness through her dress and pinafore, feeling it burning with prickling, blistering, frustrated arousal.

But though her focus was misty, she did not let this deter her for more than a few seconds; and a few swift, reflexive, almost unconscious motions later, she had flicked off the dim glow of the desk lamp, turned about, stepped out of the cramped, tiny room, pulled the door shut behind her, and rapidly meandered her way through the narrow hall and down the staircase into the kitchen, where the stout silver pot sat atop the stove, steam curling thickly from within its depths.

Lurching forward, she twisted the knob of the stove; and the deep gurgles and piercing, aggressive hissing emanating from the pot hastily faded into silence, leaving only the hushed, calm hum of the oven directly beneath it and the sharp, briskly rhythmic chiming of Beethoven's Fifth Piano Concerto softly emanating from the battered radio in the corner.

Tugging off the pot's lid, Laura, picking up a wooden spoon, took a moment to absently and aimlessly prod and stir the heap of boiled potatoes clustered within the pot, staring half-seeingly, as she did so, out across the short, rectangular stretch of grassy backyard beyond the window, bathed in the cool, pallid blue glimmer of suburban twilight that sharply contrasted with the warm yellow glow of the kitchen's lightbulbs...

From the other sound of the house began that succession of familiar sounds: the tinny jangle of keys, the dull thud of the front door heavily falling open, then closed again, the steady, rhythmic patter of hooved feet along the stretch of wooden-floored hallway...

Laura lifted the pot from the stove, shuffled a few feet along the kitchen counter, carefully emptied its steaming contents into the colander balanced across the broad kitchen sink; and then, taking a moment to ensure that her smile was broadly spread, she turned about to face the figure now pushing the kitchen door ajar: a tall, lanky, middle-aged, tawny-coated goat, a thin pair of spectacles balanced upon his spindly, hollow muzzle, a white collared shirt and dull blue tie loosely fastened about his long, gangling, tousle-furred neck...

Careful to keep her smile steady, she ambled forward, wrapped her arms about his neck, and planted a soft kiss on his thin, stringy-furred cheek. Steady, familiar motions, by now all but mechanical.

'Hello, darling.' she said softly. 'Interesting day?'

The goat simply placed a hand on her shoulder, craned his towering neck downward, took a moment to almost absently nuzzle her cheek, and cast that familiar, tender-eyed gaze down at her. 'I'll just go and hit the shower.' he murmured. 'See you in half an hour?'

Laura spread her smile ever-so-slightly, unravelled her arms from his neck, nodded slightly. The goat returned her smile, craned his neck down again, planted a light peck on the tip of her damp nose, and, turning about, made his unhurried way across the hallway and toward the stairs.

Naturally, Laura resented nothing; after all, it was hardly as if they did not speak to each other with relative regularity, and in truth, she was grateful that he did not force himself to talk when he genuinely felt he had nothing worth saying. That sort of strained awkwardness was one of her pet dreads.

Besides, she had come to anticipate the routine that had developed from this quite eagerly: she would turn back to the stove and, for the next few minutes, busy herself with nothing in particular whilst she listened attentively to the gentle hammer of hooved feet upon the wooded floors above her head; she would wait for that familiar succession of sounds - the faint click of a loosely fitting door being pulled shut, the dull, metallic roar of the pipes rattling deep within the walls, and the tinny smatter of water against tile; and then, still in her pinafore, she would turn about, hasten with practiced light-footedness out of the kitchen and up the stairs, and, for but a few minutes, would slip back into that tiny room...

The car had slowed down quite abruptly, but it was not until it had twisted about yet another sharp corner and come to a total halt that Laura could bring herself to shift her gaze away from the goat's piercing, icy, unblinking stare and dare another glance out of the car window. There still was not a single source of light anywhere about them, and though the moonlight's unenthusiastic glimmer seemed to have grown ever-so-slightly brighter, she still could make out little more than the vaguest outlines of rough, shadow-shrouded forms.

The car had stopped, it seemed, in the middle of some cramped, derelict suburban yard; a length of tangled, wild, overgrown lawn, stretching but a few short yards in every direction and surrounded on all sides by towering walls of some sort, too cloaked in shadow for her to discern anything but their vague outline. And before them, just beyond the car's windshield, loomed the equally shadow-shrouded outline of some unassuming structure, vaguely rectangular and only a few yards high and across - perhaps a garage of some sort...

Quite suddenly, almost involuntarily, Laura felt her gaze shift back to meet the goat's unyielding stare once again; and she felt her blood run icy and her pounding heart thud more violently than ever as she watched his frigid, wire-thin smirk crawl further up his bony muzzle...

She felt the tip of his blade angling sharply against her chin yet again. 'Out the car, if you please, dear.' the goat purred, his voice little more than a frosty whisper. 'Slowly, now.'

That high, tinny echo of water smattering heavily against tile abruptly stopped; and, impulsively pausing, Laura sat motionless for a moment, her body stock-still, her fingers rigid and frozen upon the 's keys, as, her ears pricking up sharply, she listened to that familiar succession of sounds that followed: the sharp, hollow clatter of a battered shower door being pushed ajar; the rattle of a loosely fitting bathroom door opening; the light tap of hooved feet once again unhurriedly making their way across a wooden floor; and the dull, blunt thud of their bedroom door falling clumsily shut.

On cue, she jumped to her feet; and with a few swift, deftly practiced motions, the lamp beside her was flicked off, the door to the tiny room was tugged shut, and she was making her hasty, light-footed way back down the stairs.

'So, Marcus gave us another talk on the reconstruction plans today...'

Laura's eyes were fixed half-seeingly upon her plate; she'd left the hake in the oven several minutes over time, and for a moment, she'd been sure it had burned. But no...it looked alright...

'...seems it's final, then - they really are going to completely move the library...'

She delicately sank her fork into one of the boiled potatoes. Stiff-skinned, but yielding...yes, they seemed to have cooked through...

'...going to tear the whole place up, hollow it out...'

Her husband's voice drifted toward her from across the short oval stretch of tabletop - soft, gentle, understated, quickly floating away with the evening breeze in the open air of the garden.

'...Arnold wasn't happy, of course. Lord, if that old fellow can't go on...'

Sliding her knife through the potato, Laura lifted her gaze and cast an absent smile across the flat, grimy off-white length of plastic tabletop at her husband, who paused to warmly return it.

A half-moment of silence hung in the air. They were on their back veranda (really just a length of dull red brick paving and a few feet of grubby sky-blue awning that extended beyond their back door), seated at the dilapidated garden table that had been set up there longer than Laura had ever been inclined to remember. The back garden stretched out beyond them - little more, perhaps, than a few square yards of damp lawn and somewhat overcrowded flowerbed that abruptly halted at the foot of a tall, unpainted wall of yellow brick, but still, Laura liked to think she'd done a fair job with it. The outside lights had been left off, and everything was bathed in the cool, pale dimness of twilight, the shadows rapidly growing and darkening. Beside them, the French windows into the house stood open, the warm yellow light of the kitchen and the muffled, tinny chime of Beethoven drifting out over the bricks.

'So...have they decided where the new library's going yet?' she heard herself murmur, her voice likewise muffled and vague in the open air.

'The old I.T. block, it looks like.' Another pause. Her husband's languid chuckle buzzed dully in the open air. 'Marcus really needs to spend some time thinking about how every last little thing in the library is going to get to the other end of the school. I've told him, of course, it's not as if we've got any thoroughfares running through it.'

Laura smiled absently. A brief, yet stiff breeze sharply rustled its way through the rosebushes. The thin, frail trunk of the infant lemon tree in the garden's far corner bowed ever-so-slightly.

'I mean, I can understand what he's doing, absolutely...the place has got be modernised, but...' Another pause. A distant car horn blared. '...but, good grief, I'm going to miss that old library.' His quiet chuckle buzzed in the air again. 'Heh...still remember the hours Marcus and I and the other lads used to spend in there during lunch...reading each other Molesworth books...playing Scrabble...discussing Lord of the Rings canon...flipping through old art books looking for the nude studies...'

Another pause. Laura smiled again as she lifted her fork and shovelled the wedge of boiled potato into her mouth, bit down upon it. Tasteless, but soft, yielding, spongy - yes, they seemed to have adequately cooked through...

'I told you about Nicholas, didn't I?' her husband went on, the light undertone of a repressed titter in his voice. 'That wolf chap who always talked about getting into acting? We used to have him read that stupid poetry by William McGonagall as dramatically as he could - kept us laughing for hours. That poor old librarian - I think she wanted us dead by the time we left.'

Laura pushed her fork into the rest of her potato, lifted her head, smiled across the table. 'But won't Marcus miss the place too, then?' she head herself ask, her voice likewise quietly stifled in the open air.

Her husband's smile broadened, and, for but a moment, his eyes grew hazily distant. 'Eh...Marcus thinks I'm too sentimental. He's probably right. He's the headmaster now, y'know, he's got to make sure things keep moving...but...' He paused with a muffled sigh. 'I just...God, I know how stupid it sounds, but...I can't stop thinking about how nice it would've been to... to be able to go back there, y'know...reminisce a bit...once we've reached that time of life...'

Laura lifted her fork, pushed the rest of the potato down her throat, smiled across the table again. 'Sometimes I really my brother could have met you, you know. From the minute he left high school he spent the rest of his life trying to forget it ever happened.'

His eyes focused again. 'Mmm...poor old chap. Goodness knows, yes, it doesn't work for everyone. Can't say I've never seen that.' Another pause; his eyes drifted off into the distance once again, his smile receding slightly. Laura, turning her head, began idly watching a sparrow as it hopped its swift way across the lawn. 'There was that Howell chap - I've mentioned him, haven't I? He was in our year - leopard fellow, had that terrible case of cross-eyes. I don't think I saw the poor chap get through a day without getting a punch or some stupid nicknames thrown at him. Even...' Another pause; he gave a soft, absent sigh. '...even Marcus once...we saw the poor chap in the library, see, and he'd put his spectacles down while he was browsing, and...Marcus thought it'd be funny to pinch them. The poor chap was floundering about looking for them...almost knocked over a few shelves, I think...we must have watched him for ten minutes. I think I was the one who convinced Marcus to give them back, eventually...but...' He let out another sigh, this one longer, deeper, oddly heartfelt in tone. '...but, you know, I was watching too, and...and laughing. That kept us laughing a while, that did. The poor fellow dropped out later that year, I believe.'

Laura lifted her knife, slid it through her potato. The sparrow hopped, paused, cocked its tiny head sideways to inspect something amidst the grass.

'You never really realise how much you can regret little things like that, do you? I mean...I know I really shouldn't dwell on it, but...it's worth wondering how much difference a bit more consideration would have made, isn't it? I mean...I don't know, it's just...poor old chap never caught a break...' Another sigh, softer this time, then the buzz of another muffled, absent-minded chuckle. '...but...anyway...for what it's worth, I...from what you've told me about your brother, I...really think he would've fit in quite well with...me and Marcus and the lads. For whatever that's worth.'

The sparrow lifted its head, glanced about warily, then lithely flitted away, disappearing over the wall. Laura turned her gaze back across the table, smiling broadly. 'I think he'd have liked that.' She forked the next spongy lump of potato into her mouth, paused a moment as it slid down her throat. 'I wouldn't have, though, goodness knows. Not the sort of girl I was in high school. I didn't have time for pseudo-intellectual fringe groups like you lot. I was too busy being adored.'

Her husband guffawed aloud. 'Oh, I don't doubt it.' he said, arching back in his seat and staring unseeingly up at the darkening, dusky sky. 'Goodness knows we knew that. We knew that and we damn well learned to cope. A pecking order's a pecking order, isn't it?' He arighted himself and negligently slid his fork into his hake, his eyes still unfocused. 'Anyway...then there was that...that Prescott chap. Have I mentioned him? Panther fellow on the rugger team, a year above us, always had this collection of drooling imbeciles trailing around after him - gave everyone hell the minute they got into final year.'

Another breeze dully rustled its way through the rosebushes. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

'Have I told you about Oliver? One of our friends - the cougar chap, moved to America. Marcus and I were on our way to school one morning and we found him under an old bus stop...Prescott and his goons had given him a clouting and chucked half his stuff in the gutter. Poor chap was in tears. He had that black eye for the rest of the month.'

The last few chimes of Beethoven drifted faintly out of the kitchen, and the radio fell silent.

'Marcus insisted we and the other lads should find Prescott and give him what-for. I really can't think how he persuaded me that was a good idea, but...' He paused, chuckled softly again. 'Anyway, we had a go at it...found Prescott and his lot after school...Lord, it didn't even last a minute and we were running for it. Poor old Oliver...'

He slid his knife through his hake. The dark, wispy shape of a moth fluttered over the tabletop, desperately hastening its way toward the warm glow of the kitchen.

'Oh, and then of course there was that case with the McQuail lad a few months ago...what an absolute bloody mess. I've...not told you about that one, have I? You've got to ask me about that...sometime...' He forked a piece of hake into his mouth, chewed a moment, swallowed, smiled warmly across the table at her as his eyes focused once again. 'It's delicious, by the way, darling.'

She smiled back, holding his gaze as she pushed her fork into another potato. 'And you still never stopped liking school?' she heard herself asking.

Her husband lolled back in his chair once again. 'I might not have if I'd dwelled on stuff like that more, but no, I didn't. Good education, posh private school - we were privileged lads. Got to learn to weather out the shaky bits, haven't you? Never too early to start.'

Laura lifted her fork and fixed her gaze upon the potato, twirling it distractedly about. 'But...did you ever like it at that place enough to know you'd be going back there one day? I mean...did you ever like school enough to know you'd be teaching there one day?'

Her husband angled a sidelong glance at her, snickering dryly. 'What sort of question is that, darling? We were in high school - you know, hormones and straight-As. We were all going to climb right to the top and change the world the minute we got out of there. Knowing at that age I was going to spend the rest of my life teaching high school students would've been unhealthy.'

Thick with the flush of the radiator and the soft, lingering afterglow of the oven, the kitchen glimmered with an atmosphere of gentle, placid warmth. The moth dizzily spun its way around the soft yellow glow of the main lightbulb, its misty, colourless shadow dancing almost imperceptibly over the walls.

Bent over the empty sink, Laura let the dishes fall into its depths, listening as they gave off a sharp, jangling rattle that rebounded its way across the walls and ceiling, intermingling for a moment with the high, piping tones of Handel now resonating from the radio...

She felt the long, spindly shapes of her husband's arms folding themselves about her midsection, felt him plant a gentle kiss on her neck, felt the familiar sensation of the sharp tip of his bony muzzle nuzzling its way into her fur.

'I'll take care of the dishes, dear.' he murmured lazily in her ear. 'You just get yourself upstairs, alright? You've done enough tonight.'

Laura's gaze did not shift from the depths of the sink as she unmindfully lifted a paw and brushed her fingers through the soft fur of her husband's forearm, saying nothing, but smiling shrewdly, her eyes fogging over ever-so-slightly; already, she felt her mind beginning its deviant wandering...

The garage's interior, end to end, was completely empty; nothing within it but a stretch of bare, flat stretch of icy grey concrete, surrounded on all sides by four squat, coarse, filth-smeared white walls and roofed by an immense slab of corrugated tin, flecked with grime and hung with thick, matted strings of filthy cobweb. Hanging from the very centre of the ceiling, a single, grimy, decrepit lightbulb gave off a pathetically dim glow that cast a dull, shadowy, sickly yellow half-light across the otherwise pitch-black garage.

The car, all its lights now dead, had stopped just outside the garage's broad entrance, the dark, hulking, shapeless figure of its driver still just barely visible hunched over the wheel. And with its quietly humming engine now switched off, all was cast into deathly silence, but for the muffled buzz of distant traffic and the sharp, piercing chirping of crickets echoing throughout the wild, tangled yard outside.

In truth, Laura, huddled in the garage's far corner, did not know how she was staying on her feet; her limbs and joints were achingly rigid with terror, her legs seemed ready to buckle beneath her, her gut was knotted with sharp, panicked nausea, and her eyes and gullet continued to burn with barely-repressed sobs.

Beside her stood the goat, now delicately balancing the blade's edge against her throat; his body, his frigid stare, his thin, glistening smirk, all deathly motionless...

A sharp click sounded through the shadow-shrouded quiet. The driver's door of the car swung slowly ajar. Somewhere in the far distance sounded a lengthy, muted drone, perhaps a car horn. An immense, dark figure cloaked head to foot in shadow emerged from the car; and Laura heard the noisome clop of heavy, hooved feet as the figure, slowly and deliberately, stepped into the garage's meagre light.

A sharp gasp died in Laura's thick, burning throat; the figure was a black stallion, middle aged, perhaps six feet tall, immensely built, and stark naked. His heavy, muscle-rippled torso, his broad, lengthy thighs, his wide, lissom neck, all were unyieldingly solid and knotted with thick, ropey sinew. A long, smooth black mane tumbled about his broad, brawny shoulders; a flowing tail hung before his firm, ample buttocks; and his body was coated, head to hoof, in a layer of flat, fine, delicately groomed, charcoal-black horsehair which, even in the dim light of the garage, gave off a delicate glisten. His dark eyes likewise seemed to glisten almost fiendishly amidst the shadows, and a broad, pearly grin split the end of his lengthy muzzle. And his stallionhood stood erect, bloated, rapidly throbbing, at least six inches in length...

Laura let out a damp, distraught choke as she felt yet another panicked sob rising in her throat. From beside her sounded a calm, quiet, dry snicker.

'Dear old Marcus has been quite impatient, as you can see.' the goat purred cooly. 'He seems to have really taken to you, dear.'

And in spite of herself, Laura felt herself turning to meet the goat's icy, unblinking stare yet again. 'No...' she choked, her voice little more than a helpless, rasping, high-pitched, frantically pleading splutter. 'No...please...please...don't...'

The goat's smirk crawled further than ever up his muzzle. His free hand unhurriedly meandered its way toward his chest and began, slowly, one by one, to delicately unhook the buttons of his shirt; and as he did so, Laura felt the blade sinking ever-so-slightly deeper into the fur of her neck. 'Off with those clothes, dear.' purred the goat. 'We prefer the ladies to take care of that themselves, eh, Marcus? Not too fast, now.'

Somewhere a few feet beneath her, the gentle, steady hiss of running water fell abruptly silent; the kitchen door groaned quietly ajar, then fell heavily shut again; and there began that slow, faint, rhythmic tap of hooved feet ambling their unhurried way up a flight of wooden stairs...

Laura once again leapt to her feet and wrapped her paw around her groin; her pinafore gone, she could now quite clearly feel the warm dampness of her arousal all but soaking its way through the front of her dress. She clamped her paw down tighter and bit down sharply on her lip to fight back a shriek of frustration as she felt her vixenhood once again flush with fiercely smarting, blistering lust.

A few seconds slipped by as she stood there, her teeth sunk deep into her lip, her paw clinched down upon her burning groin. Then the dawdling footsteps grew ever-so-slightly louder, and she felt her reflexes quite suddenly take over; she leaned forward, flicked off the lamp, spun about, and stepped hastily out of the tiny room once again, the door falling silently shut behind her just as she glanced down the staircase descending directly before her and saw her husband step onto the small, uncarpeted landing, wrapped in his fluffy, ankle-length, navy-blue dressing gown and cradling a steaming cup of tea. He turned about and glanced up at her, smiling that distinctive smile of his - small, soft, warm, bright-eyed, unassuming, understated, unsuspecting, and, bless him, completely sincere.

'Not showered yet, dear?' he asked quietly.

Laura absently returned his smile, jerked her head back toward the tiny room's closed door. 'Broom cupboard was a mess again. Don't know what to do with that thing.' Stepping sideways, she began a casual, but steady meander down the passageway. 'See you in a few minutes, sweetheart.'

The sharp, tinny hum of dripping water continued to ring against the walls of the damp, darkened bathroom as its heavy door fell shut. Laura stepped out into the silent, dimly lit hallway, an impulsive shiver shaking its way down her spine as a thin draught of icy London night air seeped its way through a slightly-ajar window at the hall's far end and blustered through her bare, soggy, chilled fur. Tugging her clammy towel tighter about her chest, she silently meandered her way down the hall and pushed the bedroom door ajar.

Their bedroom was a slight, unpretentious affair only a few, cosy square yards in size, its walls a soft cream and its floor a fluffy layer of dusty-grey carpeting; a broad, neat, snowy-white-sheeted bed against the right wall; a small, short, cluttered dresser, a broad, cumbersome, somewhat rickety oak armoire, and an oval-shaped full-size mirror lined up against the left; a wide window in the far wall overlooking their few short yards of blossoming, gravelly front garden and the thin, dark road beyond its wall; hanging from the wall directly above the bedpost, a small, thin wooden crucifix and a neatly sorted line of several generations of family photography, from the somewhat grainy colours and aggressively '70s clothing of their own younger years to the dog-eared, black-and-white, stiffly posed portraits of their grandparents; and illuminating it all, a pair of spindly wooden lamps, one on either side of the bed atop their short, squat bedside tables, casting a languid, smoky yellow glimmer across the floor and leaving the walls and corners shrouded in shadow.

And opposite her, Laura's husband stood before the oval mirror, starkly naked but for the spectacles still balanced upon his bony muzzle, delicately pulling a comb through the fur of his left hip.

And as she stood in the doorway silently gazing at him, Laura just barely fought back a smirk; the poor old goat was, bless him, not, by anyone's standards, especially good-looking - not, at least, in the usual sense. And yet it never failed to astonish Laura how, even after all these years, that rough, abnormal variety of attractiveness which he did possess - the delicate spindliness of his lean neck and long, scraggy, gangling limbs, the angular shapeliness of his bony face and muzzle, the slight, hollow curves of his sharp hips and scrawny buttocks, the way in which his coating of dull beige fur lay soft and flat upon him thanks to his bizarre habit of rigorously combing it every night before bed, the soft, tender warmth that delicately glowed in his broad, watery-blue eyes - still managed, in its quiet, underhanded way, to enchant her. To a degree, at least.

Hearing their bedroom door fall shut, the goat turned toward her and with another warm, quiet smile; and as she returned it, she once again saw little need for forced words. She simply peeled off the sodden, dank towel, turned about, picked the long, pale blue, thickly fluffy dressing gown of the hook behind the door, and wrapped it about her damp, clammy-furred body, giving a softly contented sigh as she felt its gentle warmth envelop her. Then, turning back to her husband, she broadened her smile slightly, nodded toward the bed, and gave a slow, delicate wink.

'Just got to go and check everything's locked up, darling.' she murmured. 'Make yourself comfortable, hm?'

As she lay with her back flat against the garage's concrete flooring, her eyes clenched tightly shut, Laura realised she felt almost nothing: not the cold abrasiveness of the concrete floor against her bare back; not the stiff, icy night breeze rustling the fur of her naked body. All she felt, in truth, was the heavy, empty silence ringing in her ears, the repressed tears that continued to burn her eyes and throat, the overwhelming, paralyzing terror that held every inch of her body rigidly immobile - and, most of all, that sensation of sharp, blistering discomfort still hot within her groin...

Another minute, perhaps two, of ringing silence slipped by, broken only by that dull, droning, incessant buzz of distant traffic.

'You really can't spare us a glance, darling?' the goat finally purred from somewhere above her in that cool, even lilt of his. 'I'm afraid you're quite offending poor old Marcus here.'

And though Laura kept her eyes clamped tightly shut, she could hear the goat's broad, thin smirk in the very tone of his voice.

Another minute of buzzing silence. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared angrily. Laura clenched her eyes tighter shut, feeling the paralysing terror continue to rack every inch of her body and twist her stomach into knots.

'Because Marcus isn't done with you, my dear.' the goat purred. 'You deserve better than those amateur louts who call it quits thirty seconds in.'

And quite suddenly, in spite of herself, Laura felt her wet, burning eyes shifting open.

The stallion still towered before her, standing between her slightly parted legs, a broad grin still splitting his muzzle, his stallionhood still rigid, distended and throbbing, a few droplets of pearly white seed dribbling from its tip, his sleek charcoal coat now drenched with sweat and glistening more intensely than ever in the dim light...

And a few feet away, his back angled casually against the bleak, grubby concrete wall, stood the goat, now likewise stark naked but for his spectacles, his clothes tangled chaotically about his hooves. His limbs were long, scrawny and gangling; his joints sharply angular; his neck and torso were tall, flat, narrow, lanky; his coat of dusty beige fur stood scruffy and tousled; and his . And he met her gaze with that same bright-eyed, unblinking stare and thin, glistening smirk...

Hastily clamping her eyes shut again, Laura gave a thick, wet splutter as another helpless sob rose in her throat and the sensation of sickening terror tightened within her gut. 'Oh...G...God...' she heard herself gasping feebly. 'Oh...f...for God's sake, please, stop...'

Yet another minute of ringing silence drifted by; and then, choking back another sob and feeling every nerve in her body go almost numb with terror, Laura felt the stallion's long, thick, sinewy fingers clamp down upon her quivering left breast, felt his wet, sweltering breath begin to billow rapidly against her neck once again...

'You know we can't do that to you, dear.' the goat purred from somewhere in the distance. 'You deserve men who know how to finish the job.'

The sound of her bedroom door creaking slowly ajar echoed dully down the hallway. Impulsively, Laura once again looked up from the and sprung to her feet, feeling, for but a moment, her blood run icy in her veins despite the hot, moist lust once again burning her groin...

'Laura? You coming, dear?' her husband called; softly, patiently, unobtrusively, almost apologetically. Laura could not fight back a smile as she turned about and delicately inched the cupboard door ever-so-slightly ajar.

'Be right there, darling.' she called back. 'Just a few more windows to lock.' The cupboard door was just hidden from view of their bedroom by a sharp corner in the hallway; hopefully, he would not be able to pinpoint her voice.

A brief few seconds of silence; Laura heard the dull thud of their bedroom door being tugged shut. With her usual swift, practiced deftness, she spun about, flicked out the lamp's dim glow, stepped out of the cupboard, and, in a flurry of rapid, yet near-silent scurrying, hastened her way down the passage, reaching their bedroom door in a few short seconds and soundlessly pushing it ajar.

The spotless white covers of their bed were flung back, and her husband's naked body lay reclined upon it, the ends of his gangling legs hanging over the foot of the bed. One of the bedside lamps had been switched off; the other cast his dim, misty half-shadow across his body, the light glimmering softly off the dull sheen of his smooth, neatly groomed beige fur. And his goathood, as usual, though not particularly impressively sized, stood eagerly rigid and rapidly pulsating.

Hearing the door fall shut, the goat glanced over at her with that familiar smile - warm, soft-eyed, tender, quietly adorable, really. She returned his smile as she slowly unbound the cord of her dressing gown and let it slide off her own slim, smooth-furred form. The dry, stale heat emanating from the radiator in the corner hung in the room, but still, she felt her dark red fur stand ever-so-slightly on end and a quiet shiver quake its way down her spine as she bared her naked body to the night air.

Slowly she meandered her way toward the bed and seated herself down upon it beside her husband's reclining form, silently fighting, as she did so, to slow the hot, rapid flow of her blood and stifle the arousal that still lingered from her session at the . She knew, after all, how this would inevitably end, and it was always so much easier if she did not let herself get tensed up...

Her husband's warm smile broadened as she slipped her left paw into his, tightly squeezed it, and, with her right, reached over and, slowly and tenderly as she could, began running her forefinger up and down the warm, pulsating shaft of his erection, feeling the intensity of its stiffness and throbbing grow even as she did so.

Her husband arched his head back into his pillow and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, his teeth slowly sinking into his lower lip. Laura, however, made sure to keep her gaze fixed upon him, careful not to allow her mind to wander - it was at times like this that it tended to wander to places that would inspire unwanted arousal.

A minute, maybe two, drifted silently by, Laura's focus fixed upon her husband's face, alert for those nigh-imperceptible telltale signs...

It was as she saw his eyelids clamp themselves ever-so-slightly tighter, as she saw his teeth sink fractionally deeper into his lip and felt the eager throb of his arousal faintly hastening beneath her finger, that she knew to stop, knew to nimbly pull her paw away and stretch out her smile once again as his eyes opened, knew to clamber onto the bed and, slowly, gingerly, kneel herself over him, one knee planted on either side of his scrawny waist, her vixenhood hovering just inches above his pulsing arousal, her unblinking stare locked with his.

Another moment passed, its silence broken only by the steadily growing rapidness and heaviness of her husband's breathing. Then Laura, her eyes not, for a moment, breaking contact with her husband's, wrapped a paw about his scrawny right forearm, her fingers sinking into his fur; and with a stiff tug - not forceful, but steady, unyielding - she slowly pulled his arm toward her, angled it upward, and tenderly pressed his hand against her right breast.

Her husband spluttered dryly as his breath, for but a second, caught in his throat, then began again, growing ever more rapid. She felt his long, spindly fingers sink stiffly into the fur and flesh of her breast; felt them loosen, felt his hand slowly run its way up her chest and neck to tenderly fondle her cheek and stroke her whiskers; felt, somewhere beneath her, the fingers of his left hand begin to gently brush their way through the fur of her left thigh..

Reaching unhurriedly forward, Laura wrapped a stiff grasp about her husband's bony shoulders; and then, all but lurching herself downward and sharply arching her back, she hastily drew a sharp intake of breath before planting a fervent kiss on the tip of his muzzle.

She clamped her eyes shut as she felt him begin to return it; and parting her lips slightly, she sharply thrust her tongue into his mouth, flailing it about wildly against the hot, clammy flesh and running it along the smooth, flat ridges of his teeth, feeling it tingle with the pungently sweet tang of cinnamon tea and toothpaste.

Her husband's spindly arms folded themselves across her back, clamping themselves rigidly about her and pulling her closer toward him. Another minute passed by, his feverishly hot breath gusted against her nose and through her whiskers, before Laura, slowly but steadily, lowered her groin downward. And as, tightening her grasp upon her husband's shoulders, she silently wrestled back any lingering remnants of arousal, she felt her husband's throbbing arousal delicately penetrating her vixenhood.

Her husband, the tip of his muzzle still locked with hers, unleashed a passionate groan that their kiss muffled into a dull, buzzing hum. She felt his embrace tighten around her midsection, felt every inch of his gaunt body grow stiff with ecstasy beneath her; and in spite of herself, she could not help but briefly reflect that, already, she knew how the rest of this would play out...

His breath now a gale of furious, searing panting, Laura felt, beneath her, her husband's bony hips impulsively lurching forward. One, twice, three, four times, he spasmodically thrust his throbbing arousal deeper into her; then, abruptly wrenching his lips from hers and arching his head back into his pillow, his embrace now a vice-like grasp around her spine, her husband unleashed another impassioned, guttural bleat of ecstasy as Laura felt the warm, thin stream of his seed seep its way into her.

A few brief seconds passed. Her husband's bleat faded into a feeble rasp, then into a long, rattling gasp of exhaustion as he collapsed against his pillow, his arousal abruptly receding, every joint and muscle in his body falling suddenly limp. Puffing out her cheeks, Laura rolled herself off her husband and collapsed on the bed beside him, staring up half-seeingly at the vague, smoky patterns of dark shadow that played across the ceiling.

Half a minute. He had lasted, perhaps, half a minute between entering her and reaching his climax (she had told herself time and time again how loathsome it was to keep such count, but the habit, once it had begun, had stubbornly rooted itself). The steady decline was continuing; and she could not help but reflect that, had she not fought back every bit of her arousal before they had begun, she would probably be catatonic by now...

She turned her gaze back toward her husband, to be greeted by that same, readily familiar expression; those furrowed brows, those wide eyes, that look of shamed, pitiful, almost pleadingly apologetic embarrassment on his face. That look she had seen so many times before, yet which never failed, somehow or other, to melt her heart with its piteous wretchedness - perhaps because, in spite of everything, she knew her husband well enough to know how sincere it was.

She gave him a broad, warm smile; and propping herself up on her elbow, she arched herself over him, wrapped an arm about his spindly, furry neck, and buried a quiet, tender kiss in the fur of his cheek, feeling the flesh beneath it burning with the flush of embarrassment. Then, pushing herself upward, she grasped the mesh of bedsheets tangled together, tugged them toward her, and collapsing back on her pillow, she flung the sheets across their naked bodies, nestling beneath them before turning back to her husband; he was feebly smiling now, but his expression was otherwise much the same.

Another minute passed as they lay there in silence, their gazes locked. Through the window buzzed the dull mechanical drone of a car meandering lazily along the road beyond. Laura shifted her way along the pillow and wrapped her right arm back around his neck, angling her head downward ever-so-slightly to tenderly nuzzle the soft fur of his chest as he once again wrapped a tight embrace about her midsection and pulled her toward him, his bare torso soothingly warm against hers.

'So...' she heard herself mumble, a casual absence to her tone, as she lifted her head and met his eyes once again, '...so...that McQuail boy you mentioned. What's the story with him?'

The young donkey lay there, his scrawny, long-limbed nakedness sprawled across the tangled bedcovers, silent but for the steady tempo of his deep, chesty breathing, his bushy, tousled coat of grey fur damply matted and glistening in the moonlight with sweat and with the pearly seed that still lay moist upon his bony torso and dripped delicately from the tip of his grey, velvety muzzle.

And standing at the foot of the bed, the middle-aged goat, tugging his trousers back up over his scrawny buttocks, turned about and smirked down at him. 'Yeah, sure, I'll push up your test marks.' he purred. 'Now sod off before Laura gets back.'

'Mmm...cheetah lad, sixteen when he arrived...looked younger, though, very weedy little fellow...couldn't place his accent for the life of me. Seemed almost Geordie, but not quite...Anyway, like I was saying, the McQuail lad arrived at the beginning of this school year...from goodness-knows-where, I didn't see his records...Anyway, the little brat started raising Cain the minute he arrived. Especially for poor old Arnold. I mean, I know the fellow can whinge, goodness knows, but I really think the boy's behaviour took a lot out of the poor man. I remember him telling me, in his second class of the whole term, the boy just got up and walked out. Not a word, just got up ten minutes into the class and marched out. Said he couldn't get the class to stop tittering for the rest of the lesson after that.'

Laura sat perched upon the clammy, slippery rim of the bathtub, smiling down at her husband, watching as the steaming, lathery bathwater lapped against the fur of his bony chest, the sweetly pungent scent of lavender soap thick in her nostrils...

Her husband smirked back up at her. 'Had another student today.' he purred. 'That little airhead mare in Year 12 who's always daydreaming in the back row. Had her during last period today, so I asked her to see me after class...had her right there on my desk. Marvellous little ride - kept myself going damn near a half-hour.'

Laura smirked back, absently lowering a paw into the tub and delicately stirring the balmy water. 'Virgin?'

Her husband's smirk broadened. 'You wouldn't think so, the way she dresses - she's looked like a little slattern since her first year. But as it turns out, yes - and tight as a drum.' He snickered delicately, his eyes, for a brief moment, growing dreamily distant. 'Lord, how she squealed...' Meeting Laura's gaze once more, he lifted a dripping hand from the tub and began to absently stroke the fur of her inner thigh. 'No offense, darling, but I don't think you've ever been that tight.'

'That was just the start, of course. This boy had a temper like...I mean, I've seen plenty of bullying before, of course, but this boy was angry. Anna told me about the time she caught him by the tennis court with this boy in a headlock - he was pounding the boy on the head and howling at him. Oh, and Marcus told me, one of his girls - Alice, I think it was - ran into him one day...'

The wind swept aside the last slivers of cloud, and the moonlight fell in full, glaring force across the bed again. Arching her back against the wall, Alice stood, mute and transfixed, as she watched the writhing motions of the two figures entwined upon the bed; one, her twin sister, a petite, slightly built young mare, lying on her back, her arms stretched behind her, her fingers grasping the pillow beneath her neck, her face twisted into a taut, anguished grimace of simultaneous agony and ecstasy; the other, her father, an immense stallion, lying atop her, staring into her eyes, his teeth gritted, his arms wrapped about her torso, her spindly lower legs and hooves folded about his thick, sinewy thighs. The moonlight glistened off the sweat that drenched their sleek black coats, emphasising the contours of their naked bodies. A gleaming sliver of saliva dribbled from her father's lower lip and fell across her sister's bare chest...

'Anyway, seems he got himself involved in the riots, too, to no one's surprise. Ran around with the looting and stone-throwing crowd. I might have mentioned to you, at one point he was going around the school, showing off things he'd stolen. Some clothes and watches and whatnot...a MacBook, too, I believe. I mean, the audacity of the boy...I've never seen anything like it. Eventually, someone called the police, but the boy denied everything, of course. He was in and out of court for a while, apparently, but, surprise surprise, nothing came of it. Heh, we'd been talking about sending the prison a sympathy card...'

It astonished Laura, really; she had never imagined she could be entered so many ways at once: by her husband, who lay directly beneath her, their unblinking gazes locked, him grinning broadly, his arms wrapped about her midsection, the scraggy fur of his bare torso warm and cushiony against hers; by the stallion whose colossal, burly form lay atop her, threatening to crush the wind out of her, his searing, rapid breath blasting against the back of her neck, his grasp sunk into her shoulders, his bloated, throbbing stallionhood penetrating her anus; by the lion kneeling before her, his similarly immense, brawny form all but blocking out the moonlight entirely, his rigid lionhood hot and pulsing in her throat; and by the tall, spindly young stag who stood behind her, his grasp sunk into her hips, awkwardly forcing his long, thin erection into whatever room was left in her vixenhood. It was, in truth, quite frighteningly overwhelming; and as the dizzying sensation of simultaneous agony and ecstasy engulfed every nerve in her body, as the sense of four immense, naked, swelteringly warm male bodies bearing down upon her became increasingly stifling, as the heady scent of their sweat and arousal clogged her nostrils, Laura felt quite ready to pass out...

'So, of course, all this time, poor old Marcus has been trying to get the boy booted out of the school, but he was a border, see, and nobody could figure out where his family was. So, eventually, Marcus tracked down the boy's father - seems he'd been in Sweden since before the boy arrived, would you believe it. So, of course, he tried to get in touch with him right away. The man sent back one email - some drivel about his Little Lord Fauntleroy's psychological sensitivity, you know, Marcus couldn't really make it out - and that was it. After that he didn't reply to his emails, didn't answer his phone...poor old Marcus, it was driving him mad. Anyway, finally, after spending ages digging, Marcus managed to find out that the boy also had an aunt in Suffolk. It still took him ages after that. He had to call her hundreds of times - she didn't seem to want to take the boy, surprise surprise - had to ring a lot of other people, had to bring the school lawyer into it, at one point, but eventually he got the woman to take him. She was ticked off as hell, apparently, but we got rid of him. My God, Marcus was happy when all that was over.'

And as, directly above her, she heard the lion give off one final throaty grunt of satisfaction, as his throbbing lionhood convulsed frantically within her mouth and his wet, burning seed surged down her gullet, both she and her husband simultaneously turned their eyes toward the scruffy-furred young grey donkey shrunk into the far corner of the room. The greater part of the moonlight streaming through the window had fallen across him, and as their gazes fell upon him, he winced bashfully, snatched up some meagre article of clothing from the floor, and pathetically attempted to hide his nakedness.

'You want to pass that exam, you little numbskull?' she heard her husband purr beneath her. 'Then get yourself over here.'

She turned to him, smiling gently. 'Quite the little maverick, then, all in all?'

He chuckled vaguely, almost wistfully. 'I remember seeing him a few days before he finally left - slouching around the hockey fields with some of his harebrained mates, I believe. I tell you, he wouldn't stop smirking - I think he'd done what he'd come to do, really. Probably left considering himself a real Guevara type.'

Propping himself up slightly, he reached for the nightstand. 'Little demon, that one. You're never prepared for that sort.' He snapped the beside light switch, and dimness fell over the room.

Laura's head fell back on the pillow, and she tugged the blankets about her shoulders. She did not find him boring. Truly, she did not. There were simply times when that deviant mind of hers had to be allowed to wander. After all, those dirty little ideas of hers had to come from somewhere, and she hardly had the time to spend hours sitting idly in that tiny room musing...

Laura's head spun wildly. She could not see, could barely breathe; the hot, thick dampness of repressed tears had fogged up her eyes and clogged her gullet. But now, once again, she could feel; feel the coarse scraping of concrete flooring against the fur of her naked body, which now lay flat on its side; feel the immense, hot nakedness of the stallion, who now lay directly before her, his pungent stench of sweat and masculinity filling her nostrils, his wet, searing breath blustering against the crown of her head, his huge, sinewy, muscle-bound, smoothly horsehaired body pressing against her, and his thick, hot, angrily pulsating stallionhood being violently thrust in and out of her vixenhood with furious, growing intensity, awakening a jagged, fiery agony that racked every inch of her body.

And from behind her, she felt something else; something slight and angular. The goat now lay behind her, his scrawny, tousle-furred body pressed firmly against hers , his long, sharply bony arms clamped tightly about her neck, all but choking her, his hot, rapid, lustful breathing blasting its way down the back of her neck, and his stiff, fervently throbbing goathood being violently thrust, bit by bit, deeper into her anus.

The fierce agony piercing every inch of her body, the relentless convulsing of the two naked male bodies on either side of her squeezing every last bit of breath out of her lungs, Laura had no idea how long it was - perhaps hours, for all she was concerned - before, quite suddenly, she felt the stallion give one final, brutal thrust of his throbbing stallionhood that tore its way excruciatingly into her, felt him hurl his immense head back, heard him unleash a long, ear-splitting bray of ecstasy, and felt a blazing stream of wet seed violently surge its way into her vixenhood. And then, perhaps a few seconds later, she felt the goat's scorching breath begin to flurry more intensely than ever down her neck, felt his gangling arms squeeze themselves tighter about her neck, heard him let out a sharp, piercing, lusty bleat into her ear, felt every inch of his scraggy body become, for a minute, deathly tense; and, an instant later, felt another surge of hot, damp seed gush its way into her bowels...

A few feet below her, the sharp metallic chime of a dish being laid upon a draining board rang out. A few seconds later, with barely a thought, Laura had sprung to her feet, leapt out of the cupboard into hallway, bounded her way toward the stairs, and with a single, soundless leap, had jumped nimbly onto the landing and was smiling her tender, homely smile down the stairs just as her husband meandered his way into the entrance hall, his fur freshly combed, briefcase in one hand, clumsily twisting his tie into ragged shape with the other. He turned his eyes up to her, warmly returning her smile.

His gentle, apologetic tone wafted its way up to her. 'I'm on my way, darling.' he said. 'See you tonight.'

They both stretched out their smiles, neither saying anything more, as he made his unhurried way out the front door, which fell heavily shut behind him. But it was not until she heard the car engine purr sharply to life, and the driveway gate clatter its way open, from beyond the walls, that Laura allowed herself to move from the landing. She turned about, and once again, a few deft, weightless bounds brought her back up the stairs and along the hallway to stand before the broom cupboard.

For a moment, she did nothing, simply standing and staring wordlessly into the open cupboard. Though she had been flitting in and out of it for the past year, she had never quite gotten over how odd the whole setup looked: the broom cupboard - one larger than most, perhaps a few feet across, and very nearly square in shape - was now quite empty of brooms, all of which had been discreetly moved to the poky, stuffy, otherwise disused cupboard under the stairs. In their place - still bearing the streaks and stains of grunge and an ever-so-faintly musty, mildewy odour of the attic from which it had been dragged - was an aged and decrepit wooden writing desk, shoved against the far end of the cramped, murky space; and, before it, a squat, battered stool, just barely pushed in far enough to be sat upon with the door closed. And perched atop the desk's chipped, splintery, time-worn surface was a scratched and worn Dell laptop, its fan still giving off a frantic, piercing, unyielding whine, its screen still bright with the pearly glow of Microsoft Word, its coiled and worn power cord snaking its way down behind the desk and lying in a tangled, knotty heap beneath it.

With barely a thought, Laura found herself arching forward and pulling open the desk's single drawer - a squat, broad hollow just beneath its surface - and, reaching inside, pulling out the rough, disordered heap of printed A4 pages inside it; all old ramblings of hers, scribbled brashly out upon this laptop and printed out on the printer just two rooms across from a flash drive.

Clasping the pile of papers together at its corner, Laura found herself inattentively flipping a few pages over; and in spite of herself, she felt a smirk crawling up her muzzle as her eye fell upon an arbitrary paragraph.

The stallion clambered off the bed, the sweat that drenched his ebony fur still gleaming in the moonlight, his stallionhoood now receding and falling wearily limp. Arching her bare back against the wall and digging her fingers deeper into her damp, warm vixenhood, Laura smirked as she looked down at the young deer sprawled across the bed. Having long since given up her struggling against the handcuffs that bound her to the bedposts, her body now simply shuddered with silent sobs and with heavy, rapid, weary breathing. The sharp silvery moonlight poured through the window and spilled across her, the silky chestnut fur coating her slim, angular nakedness likewise shimmering beneath its glare; shimmering with sweat and with the stallion's damp, pearly seed, which had spilled across her nimble, willowy thighs, across her slender torso and the slight, round globes of her adolescent breasts. And her tears - even her tears seemed to gleam beneath the moonlight as they spilled down her slender muzzle...

Laura felt her smirk broaden, and even as she fought to restrain the hot, damp sting of arousal she already felt awakening within her groin, she found herself flipping over another few pages and fixing her eyes upon another paragraph...

As the door eased open, and her father stepped into the room, Laura could not help but absently smirk as her eyes wandered up and down his naked body; the old fox, it seemed, had aged quite well. His tall body remained slender, angular, rigidly formed; his red and white fur still lay smooth, sleek, tidily groomed; his lengthy foxhood stood sturdily, unyieldingly erect...

Seated on the mattress beside her, the beige-coated goat gave a dry, strained gulp of anxiety. 'S...sir?' he stammered, his voice thin and warbling with unease. 'Is...is this r...really necessary?'

The fox ambled unhurriedly toward them; and standing before them, his tall, slim, glossy-furred nakedness towering over them, he cast a thin, condescending smirk down at the goat, lifted a paw, and stiffly patted the top of his head.

'I'm only thinking of you, son.' he purred coolly. 'You want to marry my little girl, don't you? I've got to make sure she's ready. A man's got needs, doesn't he? I'm certainly not going to let her marry a man who has to run off somewhere else to get them satisfied.'

The goat gave another nervous gulp, his eyes falling to his lap. Laura's father turned to her, laid his long, bony-fingered paws gently upon her shoulders, arched himself downward, planted a tender kiss on the tip of her muzzle, and locked his gaze with hers, his cool grin broadening.

'Now, out of those clothes, baby girl.' he whispered smoothly. 'No daughter of mine enters marriage unprepared.'

Laura, tightly clamping her inner thighs together as she felt their fur rapidly dampening, impulsively flipped a few more pages forward...

The elderly ram stood in the centre of the small, empty room, now starkly naked but for his spectacles, his lengthy arms - still thick with brawn despite his age - held high above his head, his broad, sinewy chest rapidly rising and falling in time to his heavy breathing, by now clearly too exhausted to even attempt to struggle against the thick iron cuffs wrapped around his wrists that restrained him to the low ceiling.

A gust of night air whistled its way through the window on the opposite wall, its sharp chill rustling through the exposed fur of Laura's naked body. Hearing the door fall heavily shut behind her, Laura, smiling broadly, meandered her way toward the ram, silently, unhurriedly, swaying her hips back and forth with steady deliberateness.

The elderly ram turned to her, his dark eyes broad, bewildered, quietly pleading behind his spectacles. 'Laura...' he rasped, his voice muffled and hoarse with weariness and age. '...Laura...for God's sake, what are you doing...?'

Laura's smirk widened; and lifting a paw, she began to delicately run her fingers through the thick, silken-textured, dusty-brown fur that coated his chest.

From across the room sounded another dry, choking sob of desperation; and briefly shifting her gaze, Laura cast a momentary smirk over at the figure crouched in the far corner, half swallowed up in the room's heavy shadows: her husband, a beige-coated goat well into middle age, likewise naked but for his spectacles, his hands lying limply in his lap, his wrists likewise tightly bound by a pair of iron cuffs, his slender body looking particularly meagre and waiflike in comparison to the ram's heavy build.

'Laura...' he bleated meekly. 'Laura...don't do this, please...'

But already, Laura had turned back to the ram, and was delicately running a finger along the coarse ridge of the long, thick, dull grey horn that curved around his left ear.

'She's mad.' the ram murmured huskily, his unblinking, befuddled gaze not shifting from Laura. 'She's insane, man. Insane.'

'I'm...I'm so sorry, Arnold.' the goat choked from the corner, his voice thick with desperation and repressed sobs. 'I...I don't know what's gotten into her...'

Laura dropped her paw downward sank a tight grasp into the thickly-furred flesh of the ram's broad, taut left buttock; he gave a heavy snort of indignation, and beneath her paw, she felt the delightful sensation of his thick muscles impulsively tensing. From the corner, her husband gave another distressed choke. 'Laura...darling...' he bleated '...Laura...please...for the love of God, stop this...'

Laura loosened her grasp upon the ram's rump, leisurely slid her paw around his thick, brawny hip, and, with steady, calculated delicateness, wrapped her fingers about his flaccid phallus.

She turned her gaze back to her husband. 'Well, get on with it, then, dear.' she whispered smoothly through her smirk.

Her husband stared back for a few short seconds, then doubled over and let out an unrestrained sob. 'Laura...no...please, darling...don't...'

'Get ON with it, darling.' she repeated, wrapping her grasp ever-so-slightly tighter about the ram's phallus; she heard his breathing speed up to a rapid succession of hot, ragged pants. 'We talked about this. Fuck him in the arse, dear. He might even like it eventually.'

It was all quite the same; reams upon reams of the same stiff, pretentious prose spelling out years and years' worth of her discreet perversions and lewd fantasies in extraneous detail...

With an absent-minded giggle, Laura tossed the cluster of papers back into the drawer and pushed it shut. The conclusion of her current little bawdy tale could wait; after all, there were dishes to wash.