FSE

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It was cold, one of those days where your breath comes out looking like a dragon's and you can feel the sting as the wind whips along the road and hammers your face. I shivered a little, pulling my coat around me tighter as I got off the tram and began the final walk to my home.

The tram had been overcrowded, and full of the usual mixed assortment that Melbourne public transport did so well. Office workers and students and tourists in there with drunks and homeless wanting to keep warm. One of the former had been singing to me in a wildly off-key voice and muttering about Muslims, or "towel-heads" as he called them, most of the way down StKilda Road apparently blithely unaware of the rather stylish looking feline lawyer in a hijab across from us.

Somewhere around the Shrine I had given her a look and asked in that unspoken way whether she was upset. She just smiled and shrugged, and I shrugged back, sharing a moment of our common existence in that simple gesture that would be lost on the drunken bison spewing out his vomits verbal and particulate. Some days that shared moment was the best sustenance I had.

Today had been one of those days. I had survived a string of seemingly endless meetings at work and the determined efforts of some of my fellow workers to remove the last vestige of my will to live. Somehow that little spark had clung on for dear life against the slings and arrows of office politics and I made it out the door of our building just as darkness settled over the city and the flood-tide of furs like me headed for Swanston Street and a tram to somewhere warm and safe. The drunken bison hadn't managed to crush it, and the little exchange with my fellow travellers left me feeling strangely elated for reasons I could not describe.

Maybe it was the sheer banality of it, I reasoned, as I trotted along with my antlers feeling as if they might snap off in the cold. The whole tram had kind of shrugged it off, as if to say, what can you do about crazy? And the feline had taken it in her stride as much as anyone. If there was one test of our strength as a city, perhaps it was in our ability to ride out the crazy and not be fooled into reaction. Maybe there was hope for us after all.

Rounding the corner, I came towards the block of shiny townhouses that included my home, fiddling in a pocket for my keys. There was a half crushed box full of some random garbage left on the pavement, and I hefted it with difficulty and walked it over to a skip sitting in the driveway of the townhouse next door to mine. The owner had been renovating, and the contractors had dumped a skip there and left it while they filled it with random construction garbage, carpet, pieces of plywood. I figured one more piece of rubbish wouldn't be noticed, and I liked things neat and tidy.

I had just let go of the cardboard when my eyes locked on a pair of bright blue ones suddenly wide open in surprise. I got a glimpse of an equine head, with a shock of blonde mane on chestnut fur, when the box impacted the same head with a clunk and the equine owner let out a whinny and a cry of disapproval.

"Hey! Fuck you!"

I was too stunned to do anything much except stand there and watch the equine stand in the skip, reaching his full height still rubbing his head and frowning.

"Fucker! Be more careful next time!"

All my bonhomie was lost in a nanosecond, replaced by the kind of soul destroying ennui I felt all fucking day whiling away the hours from meeting to meeting. I guess that was why I suddenly snapped like I did.

"Be more careful? What the hell do you think you are doing here in my skip? Right...that does it mate. I'm calling the cops..."

Ok, so it was a little white lie, but the skip was sort of mine. It belonged to my neighbour, and we shared a building anyway. Close enough, but mostly I had just had enough of the arrogant little shit getting uppity at me, of all people, when there really was no good reason to expect some equine would be in there after all.

Come to think of it, what the hell was he doing in there?

I didn't have time to think on that question further, for the mention of the cops seemed to have its effect. The big blue eyes went wide again, and the fear was palpable. His ears flattened, and he gave a little whinny before gripping the metal edge and leaping from the skip onto the pavement.

"Hey! Wait a minute!"

I could see he had left a bag behind in his haste, but I was not match for his speed. Stag I might be, but it had been a long time since I had felt the need to run, or even jog gently. There was no way I could catch a stallion in a hurry. I caught a view of retreating equine, tail and mane flying, as he galloped down the street as fast has his hooves could take him. I hefted the backpack in my hands; heavy, battered, it had once been black but now was mostly just dirty. The label had gone, and the zip had a small frayed length of ribbon attached, but otherwise there was not much to identify it.

The equine had bolted, and I could not see him anymore. He had turned a corner probably, one of the many little side streets, and disappeared. I frowned, squinting into the semi-darkness to see if there was any sign of him returning, but the early winter evening made it difficult. Street lights cast a stuttering blue glow, not fully effective yet, as the night stole over Inkerman street like a lover, and soothed its many hurts with the balm of deep blue calm.

It was that time of day where the many tradesmen fixing up the old and decrepit houses in the shabby genteel heart of the city left just as their new owners arrived back from the office. The tradies loaded up their trailers with assorted crap, overalls dusty and flecked with paint, to head to McMansions on the city fringe where a wife and two kids sat in front of their massive plasma in the open plan entertainment room and watched A Current Affair while opining on how abos or reffos or migrants or homos or hipsters were fucking the country. I had often wondered how they coped with their clientele in Inkerman Street, consisting as it did often of wealthy migrants, homos, hipsters and their fellow travellers. I assumed money cured all ills, as it always did.

One of the plasterers from my next door neighbour's was loading up. I gave him a wave and signalled him over.

"Hey...did you see where that horse went?"

He gave me a grimace and a shake of the head.

"Nah...moving like he was in the Melbourne Cup tho..."

"Did you see him round much today?"

He scratched his balls as he dug out a fag from his pocket. A quick flick from his bic and he sucked in a blessed lungful of smoke. I sniffed the air daintily, cursing inwardly for his casual enjoyment of the ritual. I had given up on doctor's orders a few years ago, and fuck I still craved a smoke something fierce.

"Think he was hanging around a bit since three. Young colt, dark top, jeans?"

I nodded.

"Yeah, he was over at the café begging when I went to get a latte."

"Did he get anything?"

The big bear smiled at my naivite. "Nah...you think that tightarse chink owner would let him have anything? Fat fucking chance..."

I grimaced a bit at his casual racism, but I had heard it all before. He seemed to become bored anyway, and gave me a wave as he headed for his ute.

"Anyway...you have a good one."

I couldn't bring myself to wish him the same.

I realised I was still holding the backpack, and not able to decide what the hell to do yet, I hefted it and headed for my door.

The entry hall lighting was perfect, LED's set beautifully into stylish settings. The walls were broad expanses of white, with the floorboards polished spotted gum lacquered into a dark shiny rich finish that almost radiated heat. I had selected some abstract art from a local artist I loved for this space, so I could always see something I liked on entering. It helped me feel home, surrounded by elegant perfection that managed to create the feeling of distance. Life was to be savoured, but on my terms.

The tattered remains of the street were changing. Once Inkerman had been the epicentre of down and out in the city, populated by junkies, streetwalkers, pimps, drug dealers, and homeless. Now it was transforming, like a butterfly, and the transition was almost complete. There were only patches of the old life left, the occasional broken down terrace or rooming house, filled with the flotsam and jetsam of the city. The offices of the Prostitutes Collective of Victoria still held on, against all odds. You could still see the denizens of the night, but discretely now, almost apologetic.

The cops even came here again, where once it had been a no-go zone. Mostly for domestic disputes when someone started a circular saw at 6 a.m. on a Sunday to do a kitchen and someone decided to smack their head in order to punctuate their displeasure at having their Sunday morning sleep-in interrupted. Then all parties would decamp to Woodfrog for a croissant and coffee to make up.

Progress. Elegant, refining progress. Sic itur ad astra...with interior design and chrome bath fixtures and lighting by Nascent of Fitzroy.

I dumped the backpack on the kitchen table and leafed through my mail. Nothing of importance, mostly people asking me for money subtly or less so. I had long since got rid of my landline because of the same phenomenon; anybody who knew me rang my mobile, so the only people who rang the landline were telemarketers or push polling. I was not much interested in either, though playing with the Indian scammers was an occasional diversion.

I turned on the television to SBS, getting the end of Newshour, and reached for the menu stack on the kitchen bench. I felt like Thai tonight, and it would go so well with that bottle of Riesling.

Several hours later I was dozing comfortably on the couch, bottle empty, and the remains of a green curry with vegetables on the coffee table. My inner stag always liked that, crunching through bamboo shoots and bok choi to die for. I had tuned out the Scandinoir on the television, and woke to find the late news droning on about interest rates. I stumbled to my feet, a little hungover, and noticed the backpack.

My scruples had lasted all evening, and normally I was a stickler for privacy. I reasoned though that if I was to find it's owner, I had to check it out. So I trotted over to the table, and reached for the battered bag.

There were no locks or anything, and the zip opened reluctantly but readily enough. Inside was a mish-mash of stuff. A heavy jacket, in some sort of quilted material, and a couple of old t-shirts. They looked antique, like 80's castoffs with old bands and a retro Adidas logo. And even more intriguing, I pulled out a couple of magazines.

They were porn. Vintage gay porn...Hot Hosses to be exact.

Now I was in full-on nostalgia mode. I had remembered this one...fuck, I think I even owned this edition.

Turning to page twenty-seven, I let out a little bleat. There he was, the big fucking built Clydesdale I had fallen in love with as a teenager. I turned the page...

"Ahhhhhh..."

I remembered him now. That mottled length of horseflesh had been responsible for a disturbing percentage of my jerkoff fantasies when I was fifteen. I touched his image on the crinkled page and smiled.

No sense wasting it, I guess...

I headed for bead, and a hot date with a stallion, and memories of ages past. I surprised myself, managing three decent loads that coated my chest and belly fur before I lost my erection and sleep stole over me still grinning with the magazine discarded on the pillow beside me.

When I woke, it was to a vague sense of disquiet. I shook my head, wondering what had got me to come out of a deep and most pleasant dream, where I had a dozen hot equines licking my antlers. Then I heard it...

A scrape, then a thud, and a crash.

"Fuck..."

It was whispered with some feeling, and it was not my voice. The noise was coming from the kitchen, and it sounded like whoever it was had knocked something over. If it was the Kosta Boda art piece, I was going to be severely disappointed...that had cost a fortune.

The noise got closer, and I heard the scrape of hooves on floorboards. Now I was really angry, I realised, and though underneath I was scared as hell, part of me also felt really really pissed off. Hooves on floorboards...probably scratching up the lacquer. I always made ungulates wear slippers, if they wanted to be invited back that was.

Climbing from the bed, I tiptoed cautiously to the walk in robe. There was something in there I remembered, one of David's mementoes of youth. My hand touched the handle just as the noises approached the door to the bedroom.

I heard the door open, and a figure appeared in the doorway. I watched it stalk into the bedroom, with about as much stealth as a drunken ninja. His tail flicked over a picture on the bedside table as he reached across my bed. I turned on the light and faced my assailant, with David's ancient Gray Nicholls scoop cricket bat in my hands, last reminder of the days when he strode the pitch like some latter day Don Bradman, if the Don had been a wolf at least.

The figure stood up startled, blinking those big blue eyes, and gave me a look.

"Seriously? Please mister, don't cover drive me."

I gave him a scowl. I had registered the scent before I turned the light on, but it still surprised me a little seeing him here. The colt had returned, and he had slung his backpack over his shoulder. The blue eyes were full of mischief, not fear. Somehow he knew I wasn't about to brain him with the bat.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I tried for anger, but it mostly came out as bluster.

"I came for me stuff. Found the backpack, but something was missing..."

I saw his gaze rest on the magazine, and his eyes widened. I cursed a little, realising I had been a little...overenthusiastic on my second cum, and a nice long streak of dried stag seed had crinkled the glossy paper right over a picture of the Clydesdale showing off his tailhole and low hanging scrotum and cock. Bingo...right on target. He looked back and gave me a wink.

"Looks like you found my favourite page..."

"Enough! What the fuck do you think you are doing, breaking in..."

"...um, your front door was unlocked..."

I felt a little chagrined then. I was supposed to lock it, but falling asleep in front of the television after a bottle of booze had not helped my normal sense of order. Still, I was determined not to be put on the back hoof.

"I don't care! It is still trespassing, and I could call the police and have you arrested!"

He looked sad now, and that cute muzzle screwed up. I realised he looked like he might cry, and he turned away to hide it.

"I'm sorry...just, you scared me, ok?"

"Ok..." he sounded genuinely remorseful. I handed him the magazine, and he took it gratefully.

"Does it really mean that much to you?"

He looked down at the magazine in his hand, a little lost. "The magazine?"

"All of it."

He shrugged. "It's all I've got mate."

I felt stupid all of a sudden, as the reality dawned at last on my sleep befuddled brain. He hadn't just been hanging out in the street...he had been sleeping in the skip, to keep out of the cold. And I had taken his backpack, with his warm clothes.

He opened the magazine, and I watched him, taking in the details at last. The battered old rugby top, the faded 501's, the way his mane looked unkempt. He had the end tied with a piece of frayed ribbon, matching the length tied to his backpack, and a single earring in his left ear and a shell necklace around his neck. Chestnut coat, looking dirty, and the blonde mane was also dirty. His eyes were red with fatigue, even as he smiled as he flicked through the pages.

"See...this hoss...that's what I want to look like!"

I smiled indulgently. "Arent you a bit the wrong breed? You look more quarterhorse to me..." and he did, lean and gangly, but with muscle under the skin still. Not like the big burly brute in the magazine of course.

"Hey! I may not be heavy all over, but I am where it counts!"

That got me laughing, and he giggled cutely at my amusement. I relaxed finally, putting down the cricket bat by the bed, and sitting on the side. I looked him up and down, while he waited, a little uncertain, and I sighed. Me and my stupidly sentimental nature.

"If you want to stay tonight..."

"For real?"

He looked so thankful. I swallowed hard to cover my embarrassment.

"Yeah, stay tonight. Just one night but...you can have a shower and get some proper rest and..."

He held up his hand, not wanting to look at me. I knew the score, so did he. One night. Enough for charity, not enough to make a difference. Still, he seemed pleased.

"Thanks..."

"Spare room is out in the hall, first on the left. Bathroom second on the left."

He nodded and gave me another wink, and headed for the bedroom, with the magazine rolled in his hand.

I heard the sound of water running later as I lay in bed, shaking my head at my own stupidity. I had no idea who he was, or anything about him at all. Except that he was cute. Ok, more than cute. And more than a little cheeky, which made my heart flutter and my brain go all gaga. But still; a mystery, and a probably underage one too. This was a bad idea.

The water stopped, and I tried to not imagine the sight in my guest bathroom. The colt had no intention of letting me off that easy though, and I soon saw the door open again, and the sight of a tall dark figure in the doorway. I turned on the Philip Starck bedside light, casting a reassuring yellow low over my new companion.

He was naked, and he had washed all over it seemed, even taking the time to tend to his mane, which now flowed down his back in rivers of gold. He stood there, hands on hips, watching me and grinning.

"Thanks mate. You know, I guess you deserve a freebie...for letting me stay and all."

Now I was flummoxed. "Freebie?"

"Yeah...normally I charge top dollar for a night, but...well, you're special, and sweet, and you have an awesome apartment..."

I blinked rapidly at this new information. It seemed the colt belonged in Inkerman street after all, though I thought the police had managed to flush most of them out. They had decamped to other parts of St Kilda, or more often, advertised discretely on Squirt.com and hooked up in the elegant confines of the Melbourne Wine Room off Fitzroy Street. The old fashioned street tricks were...well, old fashioned.

I gave a slight start as I felt him suddenly by my side. He smelt of soap, and hay. Naked colt slid under the Egyptian cotton, and I felt him snuggled beside me, with his muzzle on my chest.

"You are pretty hot for a rich guy..."

"Thanks, I think."

"Don't mention it. How old are you anyway?"

I blushed. I hated it, but I blushed. His hand found my sheath, and I blushed harder, and felt my cock spring to life. I bleated too, embarrassingly. He didn't seem to mind, but I didn't want to answer the question, at least not directly. Instead I gave voice to the worry nagging my brain, or at least one of them.

"Old enough to be your father!"

He giggled. It sounded so sweet. "Mate, let me tell you, you are nothing like my dad."

"How old are you?" there, the worry was out in the open.

"Old enough to know how to do this..."

His lips found my chest fur, nibbling, suckling, then across to my nipples. They hardened so much they were almost sore, and his lips and tongue made me cry out, then he licked down my chest and belly and I felt him engulf my length in the warm wet bliss of his muzzle.

Fingers curled round my sac. I was proud of my balls, stupidly, David had always loved sucking on them before we fucked. He told me I had the best looking balls he had ever seen, the first night time we had sex, and he kept on telling me that all the time we were together. The colt seemed to like them too, stroking the underside with his fingertips, drawing bleats and moans as he began to squeeze gently.

He threw back the covers, and I wondered what he had in mind. I didn't have to wait long to know though; he gave me another wink, twinkling in he lamplight, and straddled my groin.

"Should be just about wet enough...take it easy though mate, don't want to wreck the joint..."

I tried to protest, but he put a hand over my muzzle to quieten me. The other hand was busy, guiding my tapered tip to his hole.

"Ahh...shhh...ffff...aaaahhhhhhh"

He sat down on me slowly but steadily. I felt the incredible heat of his ass, tight and yet yielding. He surrounded me with him, the feel of skin touching me all round, and then he squeezed and I cried out.

"There...all the way." And I was, hilted in the young stallion...I hoped to God he was anyway, because there was no way I was stopping now no matter what his birth certificate said.

He rode me steadily, almost casually. I was nowhere near ready, not after jacking out three loads already that night, but he seemed in no hurry. I reached for his magnificent horsehood, now hard and swaying before me. It was perfectly pink and black mottled, with a prominent flare and medial, and I just enjoyed the feeling of it in my hands and stroked faster and faster until he lay his head back and stared at my ceiling and let out a wild whinny and I got to watch him ejaculate, a fountain of horse spewing forth from his pulsing tip.

Still he wasn't finished, and he pulled me over until I was above him and begged me in his cutest coltish voice to fuck him properly. And I tried, I really did, as he nibbled my antlers and swore and yelled and ordered me roughly to fuck him deeper and deeper.

When I finally came, it felt like my balls had poured forth into his ass, along with every last drop of energy. I rested in his arms, cradled in horse, and fell asleep to the sound of birds tweeting the old fashioned way that the morning was due. They could keep the morning; I had what I needed.

When I woke again, it was 9:30, I was horribly late for work, and there was a spot on the other side of my bed where horse should be but wasn't. I checked the apartment. He was gone; he had taken his backpack, and skedaddled. And I didn't even know his name.

He had not just taken his backpack though...

"Fuck...fuck...fuck...fuck..."

Not very original, but I didn't swear that often, and it seemed the most eloquent way to describe what I was thinking.

My wallet was gone, but that was not the worst. For when I checked the table in my dressing room, I realised I could not find the watch that had sat on it's little plate next to the spot I left my wallet. It had sat there, though I did not wear it, because I liked to look at it and remind myself. It had been David's, one of the things he had managed to leave me.

My muzzle screwed up in anger. If I caught that little shit...he was going to wish he had never been born.

At least I knew what I was going to be doing today.