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College was such a boring place on weekends. Most furs went home for the weekend anyway, and in the cold of winter, with only a week of exams to go and many of the students already finished, even more had hightailed it out, either home or to the ski fields.

I sighed as I lounged on my bed in the tiny roomlet the college had deigned to assign me as a freshman. It had four walls, beyond that it lacked a certain something. Mostly space; as a relatively large husky I could reach out my legs and arms and just about touch all four walls with paws at once.

There were consolations though; this college backed onto the university oval, and my room looked over that green expanse. My very own Jerusalem.

So did those paws, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green....

And was the holy Lamb of God, on England's pleasant pastures seen...

Of course, I always mentally substituted "horny" for "holy" in honour of a certain ram I had a huge crush on in year twelve. God he looked amazing in the changing rooms after hockey...nothing built by mortal hands could contain a set of plump ram balls swollen with fresh teenage seed.

If I parted the creeping ivy with my paws, I could make out the figures running furiously over the grass, their grunts and calls audible in this little room. I liked the grunts; especially from a certain equine. The Lamb of God may not tread this Jerusalem, but His Horse of the Horny Apocalypse made up for it instead.

The big quarter horse had been out on the field that morning playing football for the University Blues. He looked amazing in his footy gear; the way his big muscled rump bulged out the tight shorts, his arms flexing and chest popping as he jostled with his opponent, then a flash of chestnut with the blue and black of the university as he ran downfield with tail and mane flapping behind.

I sighed again at the memory, this time reaching for my cock, hardening slowly in my sweat pants, while a playful paw reached under my rugby top to fondle a nipple. This nip was already tingling though, and sore from some hard twisting this very morning when arousal peaked under the visual and aural assault from the footy field and I had jacked out a mammoth load imagining the naked equine stud sucking him me off after the match. It was still tender, and as I rubbed more I gave a little whine of pain, looking down in surprise to check out the damage.

Yep, this nip was definitely swollen, that much I could tell, red raw and puffy. It looked angry, like it was pissed off that I had only just realised how much damage I had caused it and was determined to pay me back. The burn was definitely not an erotic one, and as I slipped the rugby top down again, I had to wince a little at the sensations caused by the coarse fabric. Gingerly, I pulled the top off, careful to avoid contact with any ravished erectile flesh, and searched in the cupboard for a more suitable replacement with less chafing potential.

It wasn't long before I was forced to step back in frustration. The cupboard was bare, figuratively, whereas my wicker washing basket bulged dangerously. I had been ignoring the looming clothing crisis all week, and now it had reached the end point, where recycling could no longer be avoided. Either that or...

Fuck...I might have to actually do some washing.

Groaning inwardly at that thought, I lashed out petulantly to kick the basket and immediately regretted it as my naked paw collided with a heavy immobile object and rebounded in pain. Reaching for the bruised paw, I hopped in very small circles, for that was all this room could accommodate, all the while cursing the pony.

It was all that pony's fault.

I had fallen in O week, and fallen hard, my fellow freshman everything I always wanted. The stud was easygoing, funny, charming, and awesome fun to be around. I was thrilled to find us sharing the same building, a squat oblong derisively known as Fresher Palace, avoided by anyone with a choice, known for bad plumbing, small rooms and paper thin walls. It didn't matter, I got to be close to my pony.

If only I hadn't discovered beer...

Determined not to be a stick in the mud, I participated in all the initiation rituals with gusto, but found to my horror that beer had some unpleasant effects. While initially loosening the tongue and bringing a certain eloquence and sophistication to my discourse, which I was pleased to note the pony appeared to appreciate, further indulgence suddenly and viciously flipped me over into a loud mouthed, opinionated douche.

And then I hucked all over the pony's Lacoste polo top and the damn room wouldn't stop spinning.

I was sort of dimly aware of the pony carefully cradling my head holding me above the toilet bowl for an indeterminate period, before waking up, surprisingly refreshed and alive some hours later with only scant memory of the previous evening just as one of the O week leaders began blaring my name through the door with a bull horn.

Unfortunately rooms in Fresher Palace did not come with a sink, and my rubbish bin was never quite the same.

My new friend seemed to avoid me the next day, watching from a distance and smiling gently, or as I thought, mockingly. A total one pot screamer, complete disgrace to college guys everywhere; I could hear the laughter now, and my fellow sufferers took great pleasure in telling me in gruesome detail all day about every single offence I had perpetrated while the reality slowly returned to my beer addled memory.

Calling the pony sexy ass.

Loudly decrying all engineering students, and the pony in particular, as sub-human Neanderthals barely fit to polish the boots of the intellectual elite represented by Arts students such as myself.

Extending the insults to footballers, or "meat-heads", as being even below the evolutionary level of engineering students.

Calling the pony sexy ass.

Why the living fuck did I have to call the pony sexy ass? Anything else...fuck.

I wasn't overtly gay, though I wouldn't deny it if challenged, but I had wanted to give some time for the pony to get to know me before I slipped the little detail of my sexuality into casual conversation and mentally waited for him to bolt. Instead, I had shoved it down his throat from the get-go (and dammit, even that idea made me horny); worse, I had let the pony know I fancied him.

Yes, it was all the pony's fault. Somehow. Curse that sexy equine; how dare he be sexy and straight?

There should be a law against it. In the back of my mind, I realised this sort of muddle and clusterfuck was why I was still a virgin at 18, though a perpetually horny and needy one.

Get it together husky...you can do this. Just...laugh about it, share a joke, some guy banter, and pretend he isn't crawling with fear at being next to a gay husky who fancies his pony junk something fierce....yeah right.

We hadn't exchanged many words since, mainly casual waves and smiles as we went about our lives in that wild first semester of university life. Whenever the pony looked like wanting to speak, something managed to stop it, and in truth I was afraid of what he might say. He always had this smile just before he opened his muzzle; a sort of knowing, half mocking smile, to my way of thinking. I could hear the taunts now inside my head, and I didn't need them in real life too.

Only once did we get cornered together. A reading in the Senior Common Room one Sunday. I was stunned to see the pony there, but these affairs had free food and booze, and pony was enjoying both it seemed as the Writer in Residence read from her latest short story. Then my paws went all sweaty, and I began hyperventilating, realising as the applause died down, that I was next up, to read one of my poems from the college journal. I had been so proud to be selected, as a freshman no less. Now, as the room swam, I wished the earth had swallowed me whole before submitting the poem, and the glass of sherry in my paws suddenly seemed like a really fucking bad idea rather than a sign of genteel sophistication.

As I decided not to skull the contents and looked for a place to put it down before reaching the stage, fate provided its usual malevolence. A doddering emeritus professor of classics put out an errant paw and I tripped magnificently, sending the sherry glass and contents right over the pony, spreading a dark stain all over his new (a gift from his parents to replace the huskyvomit disaster) Lacoste. Fucking pony and his sexy polo shirts with the bulging pecs outlined under the cotton and perfect hint of bushy coat poking from the collar...

Silence transformed into amusement, into outright laughter as the pony helped me up.

"Geeze Patrick, if you've got something against my polo tops you could just fucking tell me. That's the second you've fucked already!"

As soon as the reading was over I bolted for the door, determined to never let the hateful pony humiliate me again, though perversely loving the sound of my name from his muzzle.

All these reminiscences had totally killed my horn, and my cock retreated resolutely into its sheath, with a sign up saying "gone fishing, back in a day or so." The nipple still hurt abominably though, and I found a well-used fleecy top with nice soft inside to soothe it as I determined to face the music.

It was perfect timing really. Not many people about, on a Saturday night deep in mid-year exam time. The sun had set, and the winter night closed in cold, ensuring anyone unable to find a warm body to snuggle was huddled in front of the open fire in the vestibule, waiting for the doors to the dining room to open so they could scoff down their fill of mystery meat in brown gloop with vegetable remnants before heading to the TV lounge.

The laundry room, usually a pain in the ass to get a shot at, should be empty.

Mentally promising myself to experiment with fabric softener this time, after all it might help with post-wank nipple pain, I bundled up a decent sized load and headed down the stairs for the little room on the ground floor.

Opening the door, I could see one washing machine already well into a cycle, and one dryer slowly rotating with a multi-coloured collection of cloth victims dancing in the glass. That left one washer and dryer available, perfect.

It was then that I noticed a large laundry bag on the bench, open at the top. Someone had left theirs, presumably waiting for a machine to become available. As I pondered the ethics of cutting in, the warning bell for dinner chimed across the college.

That settled it. Having lost any appetite for college food, I had decided to get pizza for lunch after the morning's monumental pony-induced jack-off, so I didn't feel hungry. Whoever it belonged to would be at dinner, no skin off their muzzle if I did a load quickly. Besides, whose could it be anyway?

It was with that casual question in mind that I ran a paw across the items on top of the laundry bag, pulling out a hoodie and a pair of rather mud-encrusted socks, before my paw closed on something more familiar.

It was a football jumper, blue and black, bearing the number 17.

Pony's...

I knew I shouldn't do it, but I was long past common sense when it came to the pony. Drawing the jumper, liberally stained with sweat and mud, to my muzzle, I sniffed tentatively. I just was curious, that was all, or that was what I told myself.

I wasn't prepared for the rich deep funk of pony scent that assaulted my senses, clawing into my throat and down into my chest to burn and hammer and drive me into a frenzy. I sniffed again, luxurious, deep, savouring the many different notes of pony stink like a fine wine, cock suddenly casting off the gone fishing sign and doing an impressive effort of poking through my sweat pants.

Then my paw dipped into the lucky dip bag again, and came up gold.

A pony jockstrap.

I held it at arms length for long moments, debating internally. This was not good; as a student of philosophy and classical logic, I knew this to be so. But my loins had other ideas, and told my mind to get fucked.

It was like a battle between two forces, as the jock drew inexorably closer to my snout, sometimes moving back a bit, but growing ever closer as my arm shook. I reached my snout forward to sniff, letting out a startled woof and drawing back as the scents hit, stronger and richer than the jumper. This time there were other notes, even more arousing. Pony crotch; sheath; cock. Fresh cum...

Fresh cum?!?!

"Ohdearfuckinghell!"

I buried my snout in the fabric, taking a full throated sucking breath, bathing in the scent. Unmistakable...I knew jizz, what teenage guy doesn't know the smell of jizz (fuck, you just have to sniff your own bedroom occasionally), but this was jizz on steroids, a rich load of pony spoo, staining the still damp jock with its not so delicate flavours.

Flavours...

The thought was the deed, and I extended a tongue to lap at the creamy residue, whimpering in delighted ecstasy. Without forming the conscious thought, I pulled my sweats and boxers down below my sheath, wrapping the jumper still dangling in my other paw around a rapidly hardening husky cock, jacking in slow barely noticeable motions with eyes closed in rapturous appreciation of the mysteries of pony cum...

"Dude! Fucking...dude!"

I froze, like a particularly erotically inappropriate Roman sculpture, in mid sniff'n'jack, mind a terrified swirl of emotions, and slowly, reluctantly, I turned my eyes to the doorway.

Pro tip...lock the fucking door you dipshit...

There stood the object of my obsessions, and the owner of the clothing I was currently abusing most horribly. I searched for words, some way to get out of this, some means for all my fancy eloquence to dig me out of the monumental shitpile I had dug for myself.

"Ahhh..ahh...it's not what it looks like."

Congratuatlions brain. Sterling effort, really first class. Asshole.

"It's not what it looks like..."

"No...really..."

"So you aren't really sniffing my jock and beating off into my footy jumper..."

"No!...well, yes, but...not really...um...fuck..."

The grin was back, that grin that I hated, the one that spelt mocking in my mind. I dropped both paws to my side, but somehow still kept hold of the clothing items that had sealed my fate. Somehow, I was sure this was the pony's fault, and I would work out how just as soon as he finished beating me to a pulp.

"You like me, don't you Pat?"

"Yes...um...pony."

The truth was out there, like X-Files. Maybe I could blame alien abduction of my brain?

"Like really...like me, like horny like...and maybe more...?"

"Yes....um...pony..."

"Why can't you say my name?"

The worst brain fart of all. Why did I have to add that to my other humiliations?

"Ahhh..."

"Holy fuck, you don't remember it do you..."

I did, I so fucking did...now if only I could actually get it out...Brian?...Bevan?...Barry?...

I realised I had depersonalised him to mere Pony somewhere along the way, distant and aloof. Now the real thing was here and I couldn't find the words.

I saw his face turn, the laughter and the smile turning down, becoming agitated, then sad, then angry. He pulled the jockstrap from my grip and threw it into the washing bag.

"I thought...I thought you were different Pat, boy was I fucking wrong. I thought maybe you liked me, as much as I liked you, for reasons other than the surface, but I'm just a pony to you aren't I.."

"Blake!"

Congratulations pup, better late than never.

He stopped, and I gripped his arms, mind resonating with the true magnitude of my fuckup.

I thought maybe you liked me, as much as I liked you...oh God I've been a total space cadet...

"Blake! You're wrong, and right, and I'm sorry on both accounts. I liked you from the start, and I fucked it up so bad, and I got a crush on you from a distance that got worse as the semester went, and any time I thought we would talk, something went wrong and I thought you hated me. I always appreciated you though, and I wanted to be your friend, even though I knew we wouldn't be together. I'm so sorry for this, please believe me, but I lost my mind thinking about you and I couldn't resist. Please..."

His face became sombre, and I wondered if the beating would be long delayed, but he eventually nodded as I ran out of steam. The grin was back though, a little tentative, but back.

"Fine. Prove it."

"I...I don't know....I don't know how and..."

"Do exactly what I tell you..."

"Anything!"

"Turn around and face the bench! And put my jock up to your muzzle again!"

I obeyed, wondering at this turn, my claws gripping the cheap plywood as he handed me the soiled cloth of my complete humiliation, and I closed my eyes and waited.

Was he going to smack my ass, piss on me, take a photo and post it, leave?

I could take anything but the last.

The scent was back, and I moaned. It was a moment then, lost to the forbidden smell of pony crotch, before I processed what I was hearing. The sound of pants sliding down muscled pony thighs; a door lock carefully fastened in place.

"Does it smell good Pat?"

"Yes pony..."

*SMACK*

My ass burned then, as a pony hand collected my left cheek painfully and I yelped and woofed at the rebuke.

"Blake! Blake..."

"Better..."

I felt the hand linger on my ass, caressing through the fabric of my boxers, before it gripped the waistband and teasingly slid the thin fabric covering down my hips, careful to release my tail, then my cock, already straining into the air through the crotch, then down to my knees.

"Ohhhhhhhhh..."

Now a hand gripped my tail, sliding up and down as if masturbating it, and the effect was scarcely less than if he had done it to my cock. I howled into the jock, my sounds thankfully muffled by the still sticky athletic support. Down to the base of my tail he rubbed, then under...

"Blake!"

"Quiet Pat...no talking. You are doing what I say remember?"

A pony hand clasped over my muzzle, pushing the jock into my maw and muffling my cries further. Which was just as well, as at that moment I heard him huck up a large spit onto his other hand, which he then smeared on my exposed virgin taint and tailhole.

I moaned. I begged. I cried out like a bitch in heat, and he kept on rubbing up and down, before settling into small circles centred on my pucker, the spit slick fingers sending the nerves of my ass into overdrive and making my cock spurt pre onto the bench top.

Then he pressed and kept on pressing, and I felt my first penetration from another guy. Nothing had prepared me for it, not my own hesitant fingering, or the small dildo I purchased embarrassed as shit from an x-rated store down the street from uni. I had real pony fingers playing with my tailhole, and they seemed to know how to make my universe explode in stars.

I am not ashamed to admit I pushed back hard onto his hand, nor that I begged him to slam it in deep. Pony was slow and gentle though, working a gallon of spit into me before a second finger joined the first, and my ass blossomed like a rose into a deep hot pit of aching need, clenching and spasming around his fingers.

Then I felt him pull out and something far more enjoyable as well as terrifying take its place at my hole.

"Are you...are you ready Pat?"

Pony was breathing hard, a note of uncertainty in his voice. I think I fell totally head over heels in that moment, as he asked me if I wanted it, really, for true.

"Please! I've wanted....oh fuck please!"

Eloquence is wasted sometimes.

It wasn't easy, but nothing worthwhile ever was. He pressed, and waited, and pressed again, and added more spit, and then slowly, in stages, my poor abused pucker took his flare. He guided himself inside in slow easy motions, while reaching for my nipples to play and tease. His fingers gripped my sore abused nipple, and it felt amazing, the burn suddenly transformed by his touch, and he rubbed in an achingly slow circle as his length drove ever deeper into my ass. When I felt him hilt, finally, amazingly, he rested, arms wrapped around my chest, his chest on my back as we both panted for breath, and then began the first excruciatingly beautiful withdrawal before a full deep plunge back.

I lasted about a dozen strokes before I shot my load over the bench top, rope after rope decorating the chipped fake woodgrain, as I felt his cock throbbing like a living presence in my ass. He didn't cum though, I was ashamed to admit. My beautiful stud hadn't cum yet...

He pulled out, and I cried out into the jock with the empty feeling of losing that hot beautiful mass from my guts, but I need not have worried. Pony hands gripped my hips, turning me to face him, his eyes glowing with mischief and lust, and he hauled on my ass, pushing me up with all that strength he used to manhandle opponents on the footy field. I was lifted, up and onto the bench, sliding back over slick woodwork, my cum smothering my backfur and my fleecy top and lubricating my passage over the chipboard. I stared into his eyes, stunned, lying back with my legs lifted over his shoulders and his cock poised at my clenching needy ass. I was not made to wait long.

This time he was rougher, and went deeper, and I squealed into the jock in my muzzle as he pounded with a stallion's fervour. I reached up to wrap my paws round his neck, and he bent down to me, and pulled the pouch from my muzzle before replacing it with his tongue.

It was like that, my pony hunched over me in the laundry, with the rhythmic rumble of a washer and drier doing their business, his muzzle locked on mine, that I felt the first delicious wave of another guy's cum bathing me, the hot feel of claiming your guy's seed as you gave him the ultimate pleasure. As his hips jerked and tail fluttered against the bench, he opened his eyes, staring into mine, and with shaking hand gripped my cock, jerking roughly but it turned out perfectly for my needs, and I unloaded again, this time all over a perfect muscled pony chest still clad in his ubiquitous Lacoste polo. We lay like that for I don't know how long, just fighting for breath, and savouring the moment.

Eventually he pulled out, unleashing a small flood of pony seed, and stood before me, his cargo pants down at his ankles, fashionably green polo covered in cumstains, his cock still hard and resting against his hip. He reached down to his top, taking a line of cum on his fingertip, before bringing it to his muzzle and licking like it was an icecream on a midsummers day.

I think I shot another spurt of cum just watching.

"Fuck Pat...what is it with you and ruining my polo tops eh?"

I had to laugh then, and so did he, before he leant down to kiss my tailhole with a lingering pony tonguing kiss.

As I lay exhausted on the bench, wanting to ask a million questions and unable to know where to start, I watched my stud go into action. The washer finished, and he pulled out the load, dumping it in a basket on the shelf. His own load of washing went into one washer, including his polo top, covered in my jizz, and his footy jumper, also bearing signs of shameful use as my precum glistened from the black stipes where I had masturbated a rich vein onto his pride and joy.

Then he calmly took my load, dumping it into the second washer, and undressed me with surprising gentleness, throwing my rumpled fleecy, soiled with cum from my first orgasm on the bench, then sweats, and finally boxers in and shutting the door.

Grinning like a mad horse, he produced two dollar coins, and slotted one into each machine, ramming the slide home and setting off the cycles, before reaching behind to unlock the door.

He gave a wink, and a whinny, pocketing my keys and wallet before opening the door to the night as I suddenly woke up to my predicament.

"See you round pup...I mean Pat..."

And he turned and trotted, magnificently bare chested into the cold night, leaving me stranded a long way from my room, with no wallet, no keys, with the only available dry clothing being a pair of soiled pony jocks, and my ass dripping a line of pony seed, while the assembled college residents disgorged from the dining hall towards us.

I think I forgave him, but only just.