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London, England. It seemed like such an adventure a decade ago, when I first arrived. A city so vibrant, full of life, and with a unique character I can't quite place. I love my home -- Houston, Texas -- and it will always be my first love. London is something different. America is like my parents, and England became like a lover. We don't always get along. Fuck, there are times when I hate this place, with its drizzly weather and drizzly populace. You bump into them and they apologise to you, like fucking Canadians, only without the kooky charm.

Not that I hadn't had my share of fun here. Ten years since I got offered a job. I had made friends, started a life, put down roots. Of course, I'd also had a lot of fun. I'm not one to settle down, and London has one hell of a gay scene. A dragon like me gets a lot of attention. Oh yeah, those Brits love a good old Texas cowboy dragon. I ain't ever rode a damn horse (well, not a feral one anyway). To the casual observer (though few people observe me casually), I look like any handsome golden dragon. However, my rust-red mane is not a dragon trait; it comes from my equine heritage, along with certain other horse attributes that some of my more intimate friends have grown to love.

Well of course, the real problem I had with London that day was that I had to leave her, and the bitch didn't want to let me go. Flights had been booked weeks in advance, some problems in the Moscow office send the yank to sort it out, oh yeah the Ruskies will love it when I turn up and start seducing their sons. Of course, then some fucking volcano in Iceland had to erupt, didn't it? Looking up at the bright blue sky, it was hard to believe that above my head was a deadly dust cloud. Deadly to planes anyway. Everyone had been grounded, the whole of Europe standing still because of some stupid fiery mountain. Did some fucker toss a magic ring in there?

Not that I had any time to be introspective. I was needed in Moscow, and soon. Pulling my cell-phone out, I selected the first name in my contacts list, Gerald. Okay, technically, he wasn't the first name; it's sorted alphabetically. But he had become my right hand man (or dog) ever since I pulled him out of the IT department. He was an assistant who could actually do things, more than just taking notes; he could keep the computers working and think around problems. Young and full of spunk (sweet-tasting spunk, too; being a boss-man has its perks after all). Not that he would have done that if he'd known when we first met. What a night that had been -- dancing into the late hours, the hot little husky riding on my cock as the beat of the club rushed through us both. Oh yeah, the things that happen in the late hours of the gay clubs in London, they are some of the adventures I came looking for.

"Gerry!" I barked with a snarl. I had been up six hours, stuck in Heathrow for most of that. It's one huge-ass airport, and there were plenty of places to grab breakfast, and then lunch, as I watched my flight get delayed further and further until they finally gave up and cancelled the damn thing. The departure board flashing with dozens and dozens of cancelled flights. "My flight is..."

"Yeah, I know, scaly tail," snorted the canine in his thick Manchurian accent. We'd visited his home city of Manchester a few times on business... well, business and then pleasure, and lots of it. He was probably the only guy in the office willing to cut me off, but as I snarled he continued. "It's all over the news; there are no flights and there's a bit of a rush on the trains. In fact, probably, for the first time ever, the Eurostar is booked out."

"Fuck! What now? Have you called Moscow, let them know I'm not going to make it?" I asked in exasperation as I sat down, my huge body finally coming to a rest. Golden scales, coated in the finest tailored grey materials. My shirt is a deep blue that highlighted my golden scales all the more. My blue eyes closed in frustration as I tried to keep my Texas temper under control.

"Oh come on, cowboy, buck up; this ain't my first rodeo, ya know," chuckled the dog in my ear.

"Oh for your own sake, stop with the cowboy crap; I don't have the patience for it right now!" I snapped into the phone so loudly, I apparently offended a couple of passing foxes. They gave me the mild look of disgust of an Englishman admonishing boarish American behaviour. Fortunately, as an educated, intelligent, and well-spoken American abroad. I had the perfect retort already prepared. "The next words out of your mouth had better be damn good news, or I swear to God Almighty Himself, I will hog tie and brand your ass." As I growled down the phone, I gave the two startled foxes an excellent chance to examine my thick middle digit, as I waved it after them with my thumb and other two fingers in a firmly closed fist. Eloquent, aren't I?

"Okay, see, now I'm confused; you are being so inconsistent. I mean, threatening to hog tie and brand me sounds so very cow..."

"GERRY!" It wasn't just a shout it was six hours of pent up, impotent rage. At the time, I was already making up plans in my head to hog tie that damned impudent bastard and make him beg for forgiveness, as I fucked every drop of cum out of him.

"Okay, so you don't have any patience, you don't have any class, being American and all, and oh my God, you do not have any rhythm, no matter what your delusions of dancing are, but I'll tell you what you do have..." The pause for dramatic effect was a bit much, and believe me, I did eventually make him pay, in the most deliciously exquisite way.

"You have a ticket on the Eurostar and I got you the last place on a sleeper-car from Paris all the way to Berlin, and from there, it's first class rail all the way. Well, as first class as it gets out in the European wastelands of the former Soviet states." He wouldn't be an Englishman if he didn't take a chance to put down the rest of the world, damn Imperialist dog. "Now, which devilishly handsome canine deserves a raise?"

"Oh, you're definitely going to get a raise out of me when I get back." We both knew his pay packet wasn't going to change. Truth was, he'd done what he always did: Anticipate what I needed and provided it, but he was never above making me squirm, and I would return the favour later... as always.

Now I don't want you to think we were a couple. I've never been the settling down and having a family type. He was, and still is, a good fuck and a great friend, as well as an amazing PA. "Okay, you are on the four o'clock train out of Kings Cross, so you'd better haul that sexy scaly tail to the other end of London and make that train, because trust me there are no more tickets for the next week." Gerry informed me. I was moving before he had even finished speaking. Fortunately, I hadn't checked in my baggage, a small carrier that my well-muscled arms barely even felt. It had another three suits along with one pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts for me to wear when not trying to charm the Ruskies and while trying to 'charm' the Ruskies.

"You are a fucking legend," I told Gerry as I ran through the station headed for the tube station.

"Yeah, so are you, luv," chuckled the dog as he hung up on me.

Well, I already told you about my love/hate relationship with London. The Underground, well... that is definitely a 'hate' part of the relationship. Especially on a hot humid summer's day. Now, I grew up in Texas, and if the grass wasn't bursting into flames, I didn't think it was a hot day. A few years in this damp country, and I had lost some of my tolerances for heat. Besides, it wasn't just the heat on the tube that was the issue.

I made it to the platform just as the warning tones were sounding, I dove through the door and slammed my thick frame down into the last seat. I had put on a few pounds in my time in this country. It's hard to imagine, given the global opinion of the British culinary arts, but London was different. It was a melting pot of cultures taking in people from all walks, all cultures, and there was no taste that wasn't catered for. Brick Lane was my favourite place. I never really had curry before, and then I tasted my first, and I was hooked. Like chilli, only better, whether spicy and creamy, or dry and fiery. I had sampled hundreds, and not just Indian: Thai, Chinese, fucking Korean.... this list goes on. Englishmen love their curry, and I for one can see why; narrow minded people think of lumps of meat in sauce... they are so very wrong.

That 'love' part of the relationship explained why my physique was no longer cut from marble. More like play-dough: Squidgy, but so much fun. Not that I had completely let myself go. I still had a muscled and broad chest of light golden scales. My arms and legs showed the hours I still spent in the gym. I had just a bit of a paunch showing, a little bit of a comfortable padding is how Gerry described it, generously.

I am getting a little off topic, but you can't blame a dragon for explaining his extra padding. Now, the tube, I hate and try to avoid whenever possible, especially in summer. Why? Because they cut the damn tunnels right through Hell and never bothered to put air conditioning on any trains or any stations. Dug deep in the underbelly of the city, filled with thousands of warm bodies -- the heat, the humidity, and the stench of the devil's armpits. Of course, that same devil was driving me down there, the cunt.

Ah -- another British trait. I would never use that word in America; it's somewhat a nuclear swear word back home. However, to the Brits, it was far more friendly. Maybe they just aren't as offended by pussy as we Yanks. Or maybe, under that stiff upper lip, they are just as crass and vulgar as the rest of us. I believe the latter; after ten years' living with them, I know that they can get down and dirty with the best of them.

Heathrow actually has three tube stops and as the train stopped at each station, more and more panicked passengers piled on. No doubt all headed to St Pancras in the hopes of getting on the only train out of the country. People packing into tin cans, like sardines, but far more pungent. Men with far too much aftershave, women with perfume so powerful it can polish the brass on your buttons, disgusting body odour of someone who just didn't wash enough, the stench of alcohol on breath and clothing, all mixed and being forced down my throat. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my nose -- a double edged sword. I couldn't taste my carriage-mates, but I could smell them even more powerfully.

As we left the last Heathrow stop, I noticed a change in scent. My nose tingled, and that tingle ran right down to my crotch. The delicious scent of male, not just male but male horse. I could taste the grass in that musk. I opened my eyes, and there above me was the pure bliss of equine perfection.

Dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, though his fur was so pure white it was hard to see where the shirt ended and his arms began. He had to be early twenties by the look, his body perfectly trim and curvy. Almost feminine hips swaying tantalisingly as the train moved. His crotch just inches from my muzzle as he was looking hard at the station map displayed above the train doors. That told me he was a tourist. I avoided the tube, but as an adopted Londoner, I knew the map by heart. Not that I cared. He was a gift from the divine, golden mane slightly drooping in the humidity. His golden eyes looking around, wide with innocence and a hint of concern.

A rainbow patch sitting on-top of his backpack told me I was in with a chance. If only I didn't have a job to do, if I had time, I would reach out and speak to him. A few friendly words, some strokes of his arm, and before he knew it, I would be hilt deep in his ass, pounding and breeding him like a mare, until we both ended up sweaty and sticky, his ass leaking my seed and my cock feeling that satisfying_'I just fucked someone_' ache.

It was a nice daydream, and I let the fuzzy warm thoughts fill my mind. He was beautiful, such wonderful colouring. If he had a horn, he would have been perfect. A white unicorn for a golden dragon -- it is mythic, fate and destiny. Sadly, of course, life is never that simple. I had a job to do. Chasing such wonderful delicacies as the dainty being waived in front of my muzzle could wait. At least until I got to Moscow. I swore to myself that some Russian was going to end up squealing on my cock as I bred him into oblivion dreaming of being between those milky equine thighs instead.

The Piccadilly line between Heathrow and St Pancras Station was one of the deepest lines. It cut right into the dark underbelly of the city. The air grew worse as we passed from station to station. I could feel my shirt sticking to my body. I knew if I took my jacket off, I would find my shirt soaking. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of wet silk on my scales. Instead, I focused on the delicious scent of ripe maleness right in front of my nose.

I was grateful my bag was over my crotch as my cock throbbed down the leg on my trousers. Fuck, what I wouldn't have given to just pull down his fly and bury my muzzle in his musky underwear. I could just imagine the sweaty taste, nutty and musky with just a hint of grass. Licking my lips, I glanced up at him and found myself staring into two beautiful golden eyes. My breath caught in my throat. I am a confident guy. I don't shy away from anyone if I see something or someone I want; I go after it like a dog after a ball. Yet staring up, I found my mind going blank, I could have uttered any one of a dozen lines, and yet nothing came from my lips.

Just as I thought of something to say 'Hello' -- sure, it wasn't award winning or original, but it beat dumb silent staring. Just as I opened my mouth, the announcement of the Kings Cross cut across my Shakespearesq opening. I leapt to my feet and found myself snout to snout with the object of my affection. If it weren't for my bag, my erection would have been pressing, rather crassly, against his crotch.

He blushed, and I cursed every god in heaven and every damned demon in hell for not having twenty more seconds or a contact card to push into his perfectly manicured hands. Instead, I got to remember those porcelain cheeks with the vague hint of pink showing through, along with a taste of his sweet breath. Then the train doors opened, and the tide went out, sweeping me along with it.

Of course, for those of you not familiar with the London underground, the Kings Cross stop serves the St Pancras station as well. The inattentive tourist can easily miss out on that fact and miss their stop. Which I know seems irrelevant, but trust me, it's an important little detail in my story. I got out onto the station to find I had a mere ten minutes to make my train.

Before I came to England, I had never actually travelled by rail. In the States, passenger rail travel has nearly died out. I mean why travel by rail when car and planes are so much better? Although I will admit rail has a certain charm to it, a little mystique and romance. However, in a small country with high population density, the railway system in the United Kingdom is impressive. The populace's ability to complain about it is even more so. I had travelled the length and breadth of the country by rail and, for the most part, I enjoyed it. There is something about sitting in first class, cold beer in your hand, watching the trees and bushes fly by... it is just very relaxing.

Of course, that is not what this journey was like. For one thing, Gerry hadn't got me a first class ticket; I was in standard class, sitting beside a group of very rowdy and drunken Scotsmen. Now usually, I actually like the Scots; they are much more in-your-face than the English, and I appreciate that. Plus, they often wear kilts to the clubs and nothing under them. A butch man in a skirt with easy access to the delicious and fun parts... there is nothing not to like.

However, on a train packed to maximum capacity, where the heating was turned up to full, I just wanted to close my eyes and try to get some sleep. I'd been travelling for nearly eight hours, and I just wanted to sit in the quiet and try to rest. Naturally, that wasn't to be; in fact, my journey was almost three hours of drunks shouting at each other and other people shouting at the drunks. I had learned long ago that shushing drunken people is pointless; they won't listen to you and will be louder just to spite you. As these fine gentlemen were, even when the conductor came past and asked them to be quiet, it achieved little in the long term. The drunks went quiet until he was out of the coach, and then went right back to shouting and joking at the top of their voices.

When the train finally pulled into the station, I was feeling thin and drained. My energy was gone. I wanted nothing more than to get to my sleeper train and rest. Maybe grab something to eat. And that is when I found out two little details Gerry had forgot to mention. The first was that the sleeper train didn't leave for another three hours. Three hours stuck in Paris, okay, it's far from hell, but it's not long enough to do anything, and yet it's not short enough to just sit and wait. The second was that the ticket for the sleep train was also not first class.

Yes, I know: I sound like a snob, and believe me, I can take travelling coach. Hell, I sat on a bus next to a woman holding a goat while on holiday in Peru. (On a side note: That goat was far more pleasant a travelling companion than a group of drunken Scots, even if it did take a few bites out of my hat.)

However, travelling first class on a sleeper is really important for one reason: You get a sleeper cabin to yourself. Travelling standard class means I get to share with some random stranger, and after what would be almost twelve hours, I just wanted to rest. What I_didn't_ want was to share my car with some random guy, or worse, random girl. I had no control over what or who that person would be. All I wanted to do was peel this sweat-soaked suit and shirt off me, shower in water so hot you could use it to boil lobster, then lay down in bed nibble some pastries and drift gently off to sleep as the miles drifted by.

My mood was not improved by three hours' sitting in a train station, feeling my suit dry and become slightly starchy and itchy. At least the wine was good, and the pastries -- seriously, I know it's cliché, but fuck it, I was in Paris, and I was going to drink red wine and eat croissants, damn it! Look me in the eye and say you haven't thought about doing the same, with the EiffelTower in the background, outside some bistro, after a morning wandering around the Louvre. Just because something is cliché doesn't mean it isn't also wonderful. Things become cliché because everyone does them, after all, and if it wasn't great, not everyone would be doing it.

Of course, it would have been so much more awesome had I been in that setting, not some tiny cafe in a train station. However, the wine at least was nice, and so very welcome to my tired taste buds and mostly-empty stomach. I could see the departure board from where I sat, and I kept glancing at it, willing time to move faster. Sadly, my Gallifreyan temporal manipulation skills were on the fritz, and the clock refused to move any faster just because the mighty Sarkiran willed it so. That's me, by the way; my friends call me Sark.

Eventually, time itself bent to my will (or rather passed as it always does), and my train began to board. It had felt like a never-ending, exhausting nightmare, and all I wanted to do was find my cabin, crawl into the tiny bunk, and sleep. Of course, a few hundred people had the exact same idea, it seemed, and it took an age for me to finally get onto the train. I waited patiently as other passengers wandered around looking for their cabins and blocking the aisles. Eventually, I found my car and cabin and pushed inside with a grateful sigh.

The sight that met my eyes, I can't say was a welcome one: A tiny room, bunk beds to the left, with just enough room to stand up in, a window to the right, and at the end, a tiny en-suite shower and toilet. I glanced in at the shower doubtfully. I knew it would be a squeeze to get someone with my bulk inside, never mind the additional complication of my wings. I prayed the water would be hot as I dumped my bag on the floor, lay back on the bottom bunk, and closed my eyes.

Exhaustion had full hold of me, and in the first moment in private all day, I just wanted to drift off. Fuck the small shower, fuck whoever I was to share this cabin with. All I wanted in that moment was to sleep until I arrived in Berlin, shower, change, and then start to travel first class the rest of the way.

Then I heard the door to the cabin open, and I kept my eyes closed hoping whoever it was would just leave me alone. I'm normally a very social guy, but there are limits, and after a rough day, I just want to rest. I'm sure I'm not the only one with that failing. So perhaps you can understand how, when a male and yet slightly soft voice asked, "Hablas español?" my response was a lie.

"Sorry, I only speak American," I replied bruskly without opening my eyes. I didn't care who they were. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to become friends. They were nothing but an inconvenience, taking up my space, breathing my air, and keeping me from my relaxation.

"I speak English quite good," came a reply, and in honesty it was good, the words were perfectly clear. Clearer than many from people actually born in England. Seriously, the land is so full of weird accents, you can wander five miles down the road and it's like they are speaking a whole new language.

"Great, how wonderful for you." Okay, I know I was being an arse, and I don't have an excuse more than I was really tired and just wanted to be left alone. Then I rolled onto my side, and that was when my nose twitched. There was something familiar, something in his scent that my nose was desperately trying to signal my brain should pay attention to. Then, as he walked into the room, I heard it: The sound of hooves clopping on the thin carpet.

My eyes opened, and I rolled over. All I could see was a torso, but it was a nice one. White t-shirt, covering a slender body, pure white arms. Golden horse tail sticking out of jeans as I saw a paw fish in his pockets and pull out a phone. His ass was perfectly formed, his hips slightly wider, almost feminine. My brain threw out a possibility, a strange, random, insanely ridiculous possibility on who it might be. Then I spotted his bag, the green backpack with a rainbow flag on. The odds had to be in the millions, but I had to find out if I had just won the lottery.

As I heard him say "Hola," to someone on the phone, I stuck my head out just long enough to get a peek at him. It was enough to confirm my suspicions. The gods had gifted me with a second chance to bed equine perfection, and I had been very rude to him. I cursed myself for being so stupid. I should have replied to him in Spanish. I'm fluent, after all; that would have been a natural opener. Then a few random jokes about it being fate, us ending up on two trains together. An offer of a glass of wine (I had bought a bottle at the station and stashed it in my bags), and before my equine cabin mate knew what was happening, I would be riding his perfect ass all the way to Germany.

Curse my temper. I'm usually polite to everyone. My mother would have been shocked and appalled at how I treated the stud. Don't even think of telling her of how I flipped some strangers the finger; that woman's temper is not one to test. My horns haven't recovered from my thirtieth birthday when I got really drunk and may have made some suggestions to her pool boy. Laugh all you want; soon as I was over my hangover, and the pain my white horns where no longer ringing in my ears, I had me some sweet-ass lion pool boy. There's nothing like a midnight swim and fuck with a nice tight feline.

Now I knew I had fucked up royally. We American's have a bit of a reputation for being rather rude as tourists, and I had confirmed it all for him. Of course, we also have a reputation for relentless optimism, and like the rudeness, it's not always true, but there is a grain of truth in there. I'd set myself back, but I wasn't about to give up without a fight, I took one more look at his ass, those perfect mounds sliding against one another invitingly, and I swore to myself that I would end this day of hell between those heavenly cheeks.

My ears tuned in to his conversation. He was speaking in Spanish, and I had overheard him telling his friend he would be in Frankfurt tomorrow. I also heard him say he was sharing a cabin with_"es un creído y grosero yanqui"._ For those of you who don't speak Spanish, that means 'a rude and full-of-himself Yankee dragon.' So I knew I had my work cut out for me. Also, just for the record, I am no damned Yankee!

Of course, I didn't let that insult rattle me; after all, he had no idea I was listening in, and I still wanted to get into those jeans. Things started to pick up though, as I caught him replying to his friend_"No, de hecho está bastante bueno. Me refiero, es algo mayor, lo cual me pone, y sus cuernos son monísimos. Y entre que tiene unos buenos músculos y un poco de barriga, parece bastante achuchable"._ Which translates as 'no actually he's kinda hot. I mean, he's a bit older, which works for me, and his horns are cute. He's got some nice muscles and a bit of a belly; he looks totally snuggly.' My ears perked up at that,'snuggly'... I have been called worse, and I knew I could work with that.

I lay quietly and listened intently to his conversation."Ey, ya sabes que no follo en la primera cita." I found myself shifting on the bed as I felt my cock begin to slide out and down my pants leg.

The pony was hot for me, or at least could easily be made hot for me, or he wouldn't have said, 'hey you know I don't fuck on the first date'. Of course, this wouldn't be a date so... well anything goes. 'That doesn't make me a slut.' My eyes were boring into his perfect equine ass, as I mused_'the slut doth protest too much_.' I suspect I have been living in England far too long; my accent's fading, and I even speak to myself out of character.

My cock withered as he finished with, "ya, bueno, además es un jefecillo, y con un traje todo arrugado y apestoso encima. Yo creo que ya es bastante malo vender tu alma a una empresa enorme, pero al menos viste algo presentable, ¿te parece? Sí, tienes razón, bueno, me iré a descansar un poco, mi hermano ha hecho muchos planes para cuando llegue, así que tendré que estar descansado. Jaja, solo dices eso porque has probado ambos... ¿a qué te refieres con que la tiene más grande? Sé que mientes. Yo... lo sé y punto, ¿vale?... deja de preguntarme sobre la polla de mi hermano so salido. Ya hablamos mañana.".

Which translates as 'yeah well he's also a suit, and a stinky creased suit at that. I mean, it's bad enough selling your soul to big business, but at least dress sharp, you know. Yeah, you're right. Well, I'm just going to get some rest; my brother has lots of plans for when I get there, so I'll need to be well rested. Haha, you're just saying that cause you've tried both... what do you mean his is bigger, I know you are lying? I... just know, and that's it... Stop asking about my brother's cock you perv. Talk to you tomorrow.'

With that, he hung up the phone, and I got a wonderful view of his crotch for a moment as he climbed up into the top bunk. I had to act; turn things around. First step was to get him to forget my rudeness. It was time to turn on the old Texas charm. Don't let anyone tell you we Texan's can't be charming; when we want to, we can charm a no legged donkey into talking a walk.

The challenge gave me energy and chased some of the weariness from my limbs. I struggled to my feet and glanced up at the pony. He gave me a rather haughty look from his perch and sad nothing. I took the look with good grace. I had earned his scorn and through my own fault. Never let it be said that this dragon lacks integrity; I own my mistakes and try to make amends.

An embarrassed and sheepish smile spring to my lips, and I gestured at the small toilet. "I need a shower; I've been up since five a.m." He shrugged at me, giving me the general indication that he didn't give a shit what I did; shower, don't shower, it was no odds to him. I decided I needed to do a little groveling to get back to square one. "I'm sorry for being so rude before. I was supposed to be in Moscow by now. This whole dust cloud business has thrown me for a loop, and I have spent the day travelling. Being honest, I am just exhausted."

He shrugged again, somehow putting into the simple gesture a succinct reply; he had been travelling just as long, was just as frustrated, and yet had not been a rude ass. Suitably admonished, I turned around and squeezed into the cubicle. My suit had to be peeled off me, the shirt in particular was rank. I left them in a crumpled pile on the floor and then pushed into the tiny shower.

A hot shower is invigorating; it brings life to the lifeless and wakes tired muscles. This shower did none of that, and less, My face was hit with a spray of tepid water. It was better than nothing, but not by much. I couldn't turn around in the shower and my wings kept forcing the door behind me to fly open. The floor outside was soaked, which was impressive given the shower had a water flow as weak as it was cold.

It was a struggle, but I managed to scrub the sweat off my scales and then even give my rust red mane a rinse. The towels they had set out were rather small. Apparently, they only expected midgets to use the shower... which made sense, because only a mouse would have fit in there comfortably. For a moment, I glanced at my soaking suit and shirt, both probably ruined, or certainly in need of a good dry cleaning. For a heartbeat, I considered picking them up and wrapping them around my waist to hide my shame.

Of course, the truth is, I have no shame and certainly saw no point in hiding my glorious golden form. So I slid the door open and strode out with confidence, leaving wet three-toed footprints. The pony was shocked, and yet I noticed he couldn't take his eyes off my slightly damp body. I gave him a shrug of the shoulders and checked my soaking clothes into a pile. Then I strode, and let me tell you: When this dragon strides, he really is a sight to behold.

The water glistened off my muscular arms. I may overeat, but I work out too; my chest, arms, and legs are packed with powerful muscle. My scales shimmered in the light, heavy, thick scales along my back, growing smaller and smoother as they moved around. My chest, stomach, and inner thighs are covered in scales so fine, licking them is like licking the finest silk, only far more tasty. The colour going from dark gold along my back and spine, to fair light yellow gold on my chest and delicious inner thighs.

I stretched, far more dramatically than I needed, but I had an audience, and I always put on a good show. My wings unfurling and reaching out, filling up the tiny cabin as I flexed my powerful arms and legs. My blue eyes glinted with mischief as I took another confident step forward, my thick, spade-tipped tail flicking and sending a few drops of water flying. With a smirk, I stroked my hand over my bit of a belly, I know a lot of males like a few pounds on a guy. Then I bent over, and I heard the pony gasp. Grinning to myself, I made a show of searching my bag.

In all honesty, I found my jeans and casual shirt in a heartbeat, but I could feel his eyes devouring every morsel of my beautiful form, from the hips of my horns to the bottom of my thick three toed feet. The pony was mine; he just didn't know it yet. I, however, could scent it -- the heady smell of aroused stallion. I pulled my jeans on quickly before my cock could slip out of my sheath. I didn't want to give him the full show, not now he wanted to see it. He was going to pay for a close up of my cock by introducing it to his sweet pert equine cheeks. Of course, he had already seen my two huge nuts, low hangers and proud. There was nothing I was going to enjoy more than emptying them inside him, many times.

Deciding not to bother with my t-shirt, I pulled out my secret weapon: A bottle of Merlot. I had snagged the two plastic cups from the bathroom, and I waved the bottle at the pony. I could see that wonderful strawberry blush back on his cheeks. I swore to myself I would see those cheeks blushing around my cock as he tasted my maleness. "How about a drink, as my way of saying sorry?"

"Yes, thanks," he replied, unable to maintain his scowl. I knew I had broken him. Now all that was left was a matter of when he would be beneath me.

I poured him a full glass of wine and handed it up to him. Then after he took it I held out my paw. "Name's Sark, very nice to meet you..." I waited for him to give me his paw, name, and ass... well, that last one would take a little bit longer.

However, with a smile that made my balls sing, he took my paw, and I squeezed his dainty hand lightly as he said, "Roberto."

"Nice to meet you, Roberto. You know, I've been cursing that volcano all day; now, I'm thinking of sending it a thank you card." It wasn't subtle, but then neither am I. As I said, I go after what I want, and right then; I wanted him worse than a mouse wants cheese or a cat wants cream.

He blushed and sipped on his wine, letting go of my hand. I knew my flirt had hit home, and he liked it. Then again, who doesn't like it when someone hits on you? It's flattering to be desired. I gave him my best Texan smile, a toothy grin just brimming with the confidence of being both well equipped and knowing exactly how to use the equipment. I don't want to brag... no, wait, I_do_ want to brag: Ain't no bitch ever walked away from me thinking_'that was a terrible lay._' I may be brash sometimes, I'm always cocky, and sometimes more than a touch arrogant. However, I'm also the best fuck many a guy has ever had the dubious pleasure of receiving. Guys like Gerry, they know a good thing when they feel it, and they keep coming back for more.

Leaning back on the cabin wall, I took a sip of my wine. French train, French wine, an amazingly hot Spanish bitch... the trip was turning into a really great European adventure. It seemed like my come-on was working. Still, it didn't hurt to loosen his tongue up a little. After all, I had plans for that tongue, and none of them involved it being still. "So, where are you headed, Roberto?" I couldn't help but put a little Spanish accent into his name, it rolled off the tongue so beautifully. I had always loved the Spanish language. There are many Latinos in Texas, and I had enjoyed more than just their language.

Of course, I knew that guys from Spain are quite different from those south of the Alamo. I had updated my Spanish because one of the wonderful things about London is that it is a tourist haven. I can hit on guys in six different languages and speak Spanish, French, and German with fluency. They were all people to love, just like the English, and they all fell for my confident Texas smile.

He looked at me, his eyes two golden pools that I just wanted to fall into and take a swim, and he smiled a little more. " Frankfurt, to stay a few weeks with my brother. How about you?"

I sighed. "Well, now I wish I was going to Frankfurt, but sadly, I'm off to Russia, for work." I was honest in my desire; after all, I knew that soon, in Frankfurt, there would be two beautiful equine brothers, one about to be a lover and the other... well, I had scored the brother combo twice in my life, and I was pursuing the triple.

Roberto was sipping his wine, and he almost spat it out in surprise as I replied. His white velvet muzzle-fur was stained red. "Oh... I'm sorry, you surprised me." He stammered as he struggled to find something to wipe his muzzle with.

Giving him a shrug and a smile, I stepped forward and, reaching out a paw, I ran it over his cheek, my finest scales running over his softest fur. I leaned in and licked a few drops of wine off his muzzle. I could see the shock in his eyes. Patience is a virtue, but nobody had ever called me virtuous. The scent of aroused horse grew ever stronger, and my sharp eyes spotted his thick length straining down the leg of his jeans.

I could feel him trembling, and knew he was a prey species shocked by the attack of a predator. He was frozen, stuck between his desire and his misgivings about our meeting. I had a small window before he would push back and regain his senses, but I wasn't going to allow that. Pressing forward boldly, my lips pressed to his, and I felt his gasp, his sweet breath filling my mouth, savouring his taste and the texture of his velvet against my scales. Then I felt him begin to return the kiss, and I moaned softly, my paw stroking his cheek, calming and reassuring him. Equines are so easy to handle, especially if you are part one.

He began to melt against my lips, and I opened them; as he responded, I sent my tongue forth, taking dominion of his warm maw. The flavours of sweet grass and mature red wine blended perfectly on my tongue. His own tongue responded stroking up against mine, welcoming it inside. I let my paw wander down onto his chest, feeling his tight body under the shirt. My own cock had slipped free of my sheath, and as my thick scaly fingers found his nipple, it throbbed at the feeling. My fingers were tracing around the outline of a piercing, a metal rod, and as I tweaked it, Roberto moaned deeply with growing sexual desire.

Breaking the kiss, I looked at him, our lust-filled eyes met, and we both knew how this would end. I tilted my head back and downed my glass of wine in one, tossing the plastic cup away, not caring where it landed or what the remaining red wine drops may stain. Roberto gave me a broad grin and did the same, then pulled his t-shirt off to reveal his perfectly toned torso. Jumping with the grace of a jungle cat, he landed in front of me, and in a split second, we were in each other's arms.

I covered his long equine neck with kisses and love bites, using my teeth and making him squeal. He returned the favour along my huge shoulders, his lithe frame pressing to my thick trunk. With a thrust of my hips, I ground my cock against his thigh, letting him feel my length and thickness. I worked my mouth down his neck to his shoulder and then, glancing down, I caught a flash of metal, where a silver bar pierced his right nipple, the silver standing out and yet blending perfectly with his white fur. Mane of gold, fur of white and piercings of silver... damn, the horse was precious in more ways than one.

My head ducked down, and I licked over the warm metal, the tingly taste of metal on my tongue, mixed with the taste of horse. He cried out in pleasure, and I felt his paws gripping my horns, and I smiled. Those things did have their uses. I use them on my lovers when they have them. I have a ram friend who loves it when I power fuck him, using his horns to pull his whole body back into my mighty phallus. Of course, nobody uses mine that way, I'm strictly a pitcher not a catcher; it's one of the rare instances where I drop the ball.

Still, I like it when my lovers grab hold of my horns. It usually means I am doing something right, and they need the support, or just don't want me to stop. I suckled on his metal, while my tongue caressed his sensitive stretched nub, making his cry out in pleasure. My paws slipped lower, and as my teeth lightly grazed his sweet flesh, his jeans were unfastened and sent down to the floor. A few seconds later, his boxers followed, and I heard the musical neigh of an equine having his cock stroked by an expert.

His maleness was wonderful, a true equine cock, wide flare and thick shaft, with a good medial ring. My scaly fingers stroked up and down his length, my fine scales tickling his most sensitive skin and making him cry out again in pleasure. My thick thumb stroked around his corona, teasing his flare, and then down to his drooling meat, where I felt something smooth and metallic. I let the bar slip from my lips to look down and there, shining like a beacon, was a silver ring set amidst a sea of pink equine flesh.

My mouth flooded with drool at the vision before my eyes. Licking my lips, I slipped to my knees, bringing his glory level with my muzzle. Glancing up, I saw him looking down, his golden eyes begging and pleading with me. He was burning with desire, his entire body trembling with anticipation. With one paw cradling his impressive balls and the other stroking around his medial ring, I pressed my lips to his maleness.

The deep tang of horse pre flooded my muzzle, with delightful notes of orange and cinnamon. It was a delightful vintage, fresh and ripe for the drinking. His wide flare was a challenge to my muzzle, one I was more than up to conquering. Delicious equine cock sliding between my lips, my tongue lapping over the flare eagerly, teasing his ring and making him whinny and neigh above me. His hooves stamped on the carpet as I began to suckle lovingly, his flavour flooding my senses, and I closed my eyes so all there was in the world was him.

I took it slow at first, thrusting his cock to the back of my throat and then pulling it out agonisingly slow, feeling every single millimetre as it glided between my lips. My tongue danced eagerly over every thick throbbing inch, lapping up every drop of the copious volumes of pre he was spilling. My fingers squeezed and teased his medial ring. I knew how to play an equine phallus for the fine instrument it really is. The music of his cries told me I had got the tune pitch perfect.

It was time to up the tempo. My lips drove down faster and faster. His cries grew with each thrust; I could feel his rapid pulse under my tongue. Desperate equine paws grasped my horns as he began to buck his hips. Working with him, I timed my muzzle to his thrusting, teasing him more and more. I could feel his balls dancing on my palm as he drew near his peak.

He continued to thrust, holding my horns tightly, as if there was any chance I would let his perfect cock escape my lips without milking it dry. My hunger for his seed had grown from the very first taste and now, as my mouth was stuffed full of thick equine cock, I was starving and desperate for a taste of his true essence. Fortunately, he was unable, or unwilling, to hold back, and with a powerful throb, his cock erupted in my maw. Thick, rich, and musky horse jism flooded my maw, far too much to contain. I pulled off his cock, my paws jerking his hot maleness as his second and third jets sprayed across my chest, shimmering rivers of white flowing over mountains of gold.

When I had squeezed every last drop of cum out of his balls, I let go of his cock, and it flopped against his thigh, his cum making it stick to his fur. I reached out and grabbed the bottle of wine, refilling my cup and took a sip. Red wine and horse cum mixed on my tongue; it had a fruity bouquet and a musky aftertaste. It was fucking perfection in a plastic cup.

I glanced up at Roberto to find him sipping on his own wine and looking down at me, a slightly tubby but otherwise fucking perfect golden dragon, dripping with his cum. Oh, I knew how he felt: He felt powerful, looking down at what he probably thought was some bitch kneeling before his perfect, pierced equine maleness. Of course, I also knew things were about to change. Draining my cup, I stood up, snatched his cup off him, and downed it as well, for emphasis. He was a little taken back by my sudden return to dominance.

Once again, he froze like the startled little bitch he was, and I used the moment to kiss him again. This time, with the taste of his own cum and maleness on my lips, my paws threw the plastic cups away and pulled him into a tight embrace. My paw slipped around behind his head, holding him firmly, as my tongue forced its way into his mouth. His tongue met it, and they danced, and then I let it flow, the half-mouthful of horse cum I had kept under my tongue, mixed with a little red wine. As he tasted the flood, he tried to pull back at first, but my paws held firm. I was raised in cowboy country; I knew how to break a stud to my will. All I had to do was ride his struggles long enough.

After a few seconds, he stopped struggling, and I felt him swallow, and then his tongue returned, pushing into my maw, desperate to drink his own taste from his new alpha male. I heard his moaning softly, and I knew he was broken. He was mine to ride all night, and I had been itching to get in his saddle since he shoved his junk in my face on the tube. Eventually, I broke the kiss, once I was certain he had drunk every drop of his spunk I had left in my maw. I couldn't help but chuckle as he licked at my cum-covered muzzle; apparently, I had given him a taste for himself.

I grabbed the open bottle of red wine and put it to my lips, taking a deep swig on the potent red fluid before offering it to the stud who would be my mare for the night. He took the bottle with a flushed and excited smile. I noticed his full equine length was already hard again. It wasn't a surprise; he was a horse, and he was young. I remember what I was like in my twenties. Fucking hell, I could go ten times a night, some of my first weeks in London had been so wild. Sex, drink, and more sex. Damn, I was a horny young man, now a horny man. I guess I know what I'll be like when I was old. Okay, so maybe I'm not the most romantic or noble dragon, but you can't say I'm not consistent.

After he finished his swig of wine, the bottle was almost empty. The fucker had drunk almost a quarter of a bottle in one swig. Well, the greedy fucker was about to become the greedy fuckee, so a little booze would definitely help when I got my cock deep inside him. Less chance of him squealing and begging for me to go slow with a healthy buzz on.

With a taste of wine and spunk still on my lips, I took one last swig and then reached out to him. With a deft spin and push, I tossed him face first onto my bunk. He didn't squeal or resist; in fact, he was giggling with glee. His legs squirmed a little, and my cock shot a heavy load of pre down my pants leg as I watched his perfect white buttocks rolling against one another.

"Fuck, you look delicious," I moaned as I got down to my knees again. "I want a taste before I fuck this perfect ass of yours." It wasn't a request, just a statement. I was letting the mare know I was going to eat his ass before I fucked it. He took the telling well, no arguing and no trying to ask me to go slow. All he did was reach back with both paws and pull those pert, delicious white mounds apart. That's when I saw the delightful pink bud, the puckered entrance to the ass I would be plundering.

One sniff, and I knew he'd had a long day; his scent was so powerful and yet enticing. I huffed my warm breath down his crack, and he neighed softly, and I could see him trembling in anticipation. Well this time, I was going to make him writhe a little before giving him what he wanted. My mouth dipped lower, and I feasted on his white orbs, suckling them, one at a time, into my muzzle. My thick tongue lapped them clean. I could taste the sweat of the day, mixed with a heavy dose of equine spunk from his first orgasm.

While I dined on two huge equine fruits, he cried out in shock and pleasure, his ass bucking back against my face a little. I loved the feeling of those musky mounds pressing against my cheek as my tongue bathed his balls. I let the clean juicy horse fruits plop from my lips and then a ran my tongue up his crack. Okay, I love the taste of sweat on a hot male body, so long as it's fresh and hasn't had too long to get really fragrant. My tongue lapped up the grime and cleaned his taint, and the wonderful music of moaning pony bitch made my cock ache.

Finally, my tongue reached his musky entrance. I didn't pause or hold back for even a moment. My tongue assaulted his tailhole like his pucker was a circle of wagons, and my tongue was the Cherokee raiding party. It was time to rape and pillage his ass. My tongue forced its way inside, and he neighed out loud. I heard his hooves kicking the bunk walls, gouging a chunk out as he squirmed and struggled.

Now I have to say, when it comes to eating out a nice sexy boy's hole, there is nothing I don't know. My tongue found his prostate in seconds, tasting the metallic goodness, and then I started to tease him, smooth, slow strokes of my tongue, swirling and thrusting, fucking him with my tongue, slowly and firmly.

"¡Hostia puta!" he screamed out, as my tongue suddenly drove extra hard against his prostate. I could hear him tearing at the sheets; my paws pushed down on his back, holding him down and stopping him touching his cock. I was going to make this bitch beg for my cock. There is nothing quite like the feeling of a bitch screaming and begging for your manhood.

I thrust my tongue deeper and harder. Dragons have long, agile, thick tongues; we give rim jobs so good, they make getting fucked by some guys seem like a poor second place. Not me, of course. I was going to rim him until he begged, and then fuck him into heaven, and I have the equipment that would make my thick tongue seem like a tiny little human finger.

Picking up the pace, I worked his prostate harder and stronger, curving my tongue around the gland and squeezing it a little. I told you: Agile fucking tongue. Let me use it on you sometime; I'll make you glad you said yes. He certainly was as he screamed,"¡más, más, más!" 'More, more, more!' He was begging me for more, and I'm a Texas gentleman. We always give our bitches what they want... well, when we want the same thing, anyway. I drove my tongue against his gland again and again; his ass was squirming pushing back against my muzzle as my hot breath flowed down his crack.

His ass tasted so good, like fine strawberries and cream, and it felt like a hot fuck tunnel should, tight and squirming. My cock throbbed and flooded my jeans with more and more pre as I thought of how badly I wanted to fuck him. Oh, there was going to be no gentle entry or slow build up when I finally got into those cheeks. I was going to fuck him so hard and deep, he would be tasting dragon cum at the back of his throat for months.

His hooves kept kicking off the bunk wall as he squirmed, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I pulled my tongue out of his ass. He neighed in frustration, and then he looked back at me and cried out,"¡Dame duro!" 'Do me hard!' He was already begging for my cock, and with that, I gave him a smile and a nod.

"As you wish, my sexy little pony bitch," I replied cockily as I unzipped my jeans. I didn't notice the strange look he gave me for a moment. Then his eyes fell on my cock, and he gasped. Oh yeah, all the bitches look like that the first time they see what I'm packing: Twelve inches of cock, thick and drooling with an equine flare and medial ring. My balls are huge, easily the match to his, hanging far lower than most; they give a good swing and smack wonderfully on the ass of any bitch I breed.

Not wanting to give him time to change his mind or try and back out, I kicked my jeans away and crawled into the bunk in record time. His naked lithe body was trapped under my thunderous bulk, my belly resting in the small of his back perfectly. It was like we were made for each other, my fine scales tickling his back fur as I kisses and nibbled on his divine equine shoulders. Grabbing my cock, I quickly guided my flare to his pucker.

I was positively trembling as I felt my drooling cock touch his drenched pucker. I had been blessed with an equine cock, one of the very strong horse traits that were passed on to me. My draconic heritage may be strong, but I think I got the best part of the equine. Hell, I can give a long list of references who will agree with that, and this pony would be on there. He didn't whimper or pull away as I pressed my huge flare to his ass. In fact, he pressed back wantonly and said, "Métemela", 'Put it in me.' Oh, he was my kind of pony: Sexy, beautiful, delicate, and horny as the child of a rhino and a triceratops.

Ever one to oblige a bitch who was begging for my cock, I thrust forward. There was no gentleness in my thrust. It was savage, primal, and fuelled by an entire day of frustration. We both cried out in pure animalistic pleasure. He was clearly no virgin, and yet his ass was wonderfully tight. My cock found his prostate as easily as my tongue had, mashing it with my flare, and then my shaft and medial ring.

After so long waiting to plunder these wonderful white mounds, I sighed with pleasure. The bunk was so small, I could feel my wings squashed against the upper bunk. I paused for a moment as he squirmed around my thick cock, just basking in the sensations of his warm tight equine ass massaging my maleness.

Then I snarled with feral lust, my jaw sealed around his shoulder in a powerful mating grip. I may not be a real cowboy, but I am a real dragon and a true predator. He was my prey, and I bit down hard as I started to fuck him wildly, rutting his perfect ass without mercy, my huge balls slapping on his equine nuts with a satisfying slap. My hips pounded into his with all my might; the entire bunk creaked and screamed in protest at the strength of our motions. He neighed, and yet he pushed back. I was aghast; so few bitches push back that quickly. The boy knew how to take cock.

I bred him with a desperation I have rarely matched, hips smacking, bodies grinding, bitch screaming, rutting him like a beast. The pleasure being driven into my cock by his perfect ass was beyond measure; I floated on waves of pure bliss, my mind lost to the pleasure. The train could have crashed or exploded, and my hips wouldn't have stopped. I would claim the bitch with my cum. Nothing could have stopped me, my cock piston-like as I slammed three quarters of my length back and forth inside him. My huge nuts ached with need and tingling, with that wonderful pressure that foretold of one hell of an orgasm brewing. Under me, I could feel the horse squirming against me, crying out, "¡Joder! Que grande!" I remember smirking as he screamed that. I knew that he may be used to cock, but not ones quite so big as mine. I wondered how I would measure up to his brother, should we ever meet.

There was no holding back; my balls were in control, and they wouldn't let me stop until I emptied them inside pure equine heaven. Rutting harder and faster, he suddenly squealed out as his ass clamped down around me. My cock was lost inside a tightly massaging pony ass under orgasm. It was all I needed, and with a feral roar, I came hard, my huge nuts dancing on his ass. My flare widened inside him as I began to jet powerful blasts of drake spunk into his hungry, perfect ass. I rutted him with deep hard savage thrusts, breeding him as roughly as I could; with each thrust I forced more cum deep into his ass.

The bunk echoed with the sloppy sound of a tight ass overflowing with cum as a hard cock fucked more dragon spunk into him. Eventually, fully spent, I lay down over him, panting heavily and kissing his long equine neck. My wings curled down around us as we lay together panting heavily, our bodies connected by my cock. After such a long day and such a good lay, we both did what came natural next. We fell asleep.

The next morning, we woke up to the sounds of a train guard banging on our door, warning us that we had arrived and had thirty minutes to get off the train. There was little time to speak, I struggled out of the bunk and gave him a grin as I enjoyed the frazzled look of a bitch who spent a night riding the dragon. Being the gentleman I am, I observed, "Damn, you look fucking hot; you sure I can't convince you to come to Moscow?"

"No, sorry. I have to head off; my train to Frankfurt leaves in half an hour." He struggled to his feet and reached a paw around to his ass, wincing a little as he touched his pucker. The poor guy was going to be tender for the rest of the day -- not a good thing when you are going to be spending hours on the train.

He didn't really have time to speak. He jumped into the tiny ensuite, and then I took my turn, brushing my fangs and straightening my hair. When I left the cabin, I found he had already gone. I was a little disheartened that he hadn't even said goodbye. Then I remembered that look he had given me, and I figured out why: He had just realised I had understood his Spanish. So okay, listening in on someone's conversation, not exactly cool. I've done way worse things in my life let me tell you. I remember one time, I was fucking this very hot bear builder, and in walks his wife... I just kept right on breeding her man. looking her right in the eye.

Anyway, that is another story altogether. Once I had my suit on I heard my phone ringing, I answered quickly. "Hey Gerry."

"Hey there, scaly tail. How was the sleeper car; you get a lot of rest?" asked the familiar voice.

"Yeah, it was great," I replied with a broad grin.

"Who'd you fuck?" I was amazed. Somehow, he always knew; it was like he had a spy following me. Or more likely he just figured a guy as hot as me, as confident, we don't sleep alone except by choice.

"Some beautiful little white horse. Tasty cock, delicious ass, and able to take a pounding almost as well as you," I replied with a smirk as I left the cabin, suitcase in paw.

"Sounds sweet. You get his number? I'd love to go on a pony ride sometime," chuckled Gerry. He's a horny dog, but then you know, that's why we got on so well.

"Naw, he made a run for it while I was in the shower," I grunted as I stepped off the train and started scanning for the nearest departures board.

"Whoa, he made a run for it? What'd you do?" I swear, Gerry is like a bloodhound when it comes to screwing and screwing up. He always knew, like he could smell my guilt over the phone.

"Hey, it wasn't anything bad, I mean he was a Spanish guy, and I may have originally told him I didn't speak Spanish. Then I kinda overheard his phone conversation where he called me sexy, and..." I began to explain but as I got to that point he cut me off with a laugh.

"Oh, seriously? You used his private conversation to get him into the sack, and then you wonder why he skipped out on you?" He didn't wait for my response, and it was a good thing because I had done nothing that bad. Fuck, he wanted me and I wanted him; it wasn't rocket science or some crappy rom-com movie. "You sure he ran out on you? I mean, sure, it was a little bit of a dick move, but damn, you're a hell of a nice dick, you know?"

"Well, he was running late for his train to Frankfurt," I admitted as I found my train on the departure board, just a wonderful hour to spend in Berlin. I hopefully could find some berliners for breakfast. Then I could make the classic Kennedy joke, with my accent I figured it'd be a winner.

"Ah, the eight-oh-five to Frankfurt; it's running late just sitting on the tracks," Gerry observed. That puppy was always on top of everything, using the net to be all seeing and knowing. It was such an annoyingly useful habit of his.

"Really?" I checked the departure board and found the train, sitting on the platform opposite. There in the window, I could see a stunning white pony. He wasn't looking at me; in fact, he looked a little sad. I have to admit I felt guilty. I mean, I usually don't, and in all honesty, I hadn't really done anything wrong. Maybe a little misleading, but he wanted me, and I made that happen. We both got to cum; hell, he came twice. We had an awesome night. I never signed up for life or something. It wasn't like we went out on a date, hit it off, and I led him on. I went straight for the cock and he... let me.

Of course, I told all myself that, and I still think a lot of it is true. However, when you are looking at the most beautiful equine you ever saw, with such a sweet and sexy accent, not to mention one of the finest asses I ever got to ride, and you see him looking sad and alone... well fuck, it kinda hurt you know. I felt like a jerk, even though I wasn't, really.

"How far out of my way is Frankfurt?" I asked suddenly.

"Getting your ass and mine fired far," Gerry replied with a chuckle. "Oh, don't do this, you beautiful bastard. Seriously, you will lose your job if you go AWOL like this."

He was right, and I sighed softly turning to go. I glanced back at the window, and what did I see? It wasn't him, it was me, reflected in the window. A sexy dragon in a suit, a sharp perfectly fitting, tailor-made gorgeous suit, but still a suit. Ten years since I left home on a whim, off for an adventure in Europe. I was wild, I was free, and I loved it. Took a job in London cause I wanted to stay for a year; it was fun, sexy guys, sexy accents, and a lot of fun.

Ten years on and I was still there. Sure, it was still fun; however, it was the same old fun, same clubs, and often the same guys. Sure, I'd been on a few fun holidays and trips, but no real adventures. Until a damn mountain blew its lid, then I'd had a taste of it. Pissing and whining cause I couldn't go first class, I used to hitchhike -- that was a load of fun, you know the deal a ride for a ride.

"Sorry, Gerry, I have to go get some berliners." Maybe the pony would get the joke, maybe so would his brother. Time for a new adventure.

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