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The megaphone's command reverberated against the riverbanks, and the oars scythed through the water in unison.

"Stroke!"

The coach cycled along the bike path alongside the murky river, barking instructions, conducting his orchestra of four.

"Stroke!"

Sweat trickled down Scoria's thick neck as he heaved his oars up, down into the water and neatly up again. His chest fur was matted, and the front of his spandex rowing suit took on a darker shade as the sweat pooled down his broad chest and protruding paunch.

"Stroke!"

The brown horse propelled the vessel further with each carve through the water, desperate to make the team. His team mates just seemed so strong, so consistent. Effortless.

"Stroke!"

It wasn't from lack of effort, as he was no weakling. Draught horses are work horses, so he wasn't holding back or incapable. He was just a little imprecise. His teammates were so synchronised, their movements so co-ordinated, it was as if they shared the same mind.

"Finish!"

As they pulled in to dock, Scoria had caught his breath back, but his heart skipped a beat as his coach approached.

"Rookie, stay behind. Everyone else, to the showers."

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. I'm going to be cut, aren't I?

To his surprise, Coach lowered his broad frame steadily into the boat and sat at the head of it. His gaze had an intensity to it, but not a ferocity. Perhaps he was safe. Perhaps he would be unceremoniously dumped out into the river to swim home as a failure.

"Rookie, let's get back out in the water. I've got something to show you."

"Just give me another chance Coach, I know I can do this! I want to be on this team!"

"I know kiddo. You're just prone to distraction. Let's smooth out that edge."

Coach was incredibly close to the college student horse. Confrontingly close, considering it was a four-person rowboat. Facing him directly, intently.

"Eyes to the front. Right here."

He drew Scoria's attention to his eyes, revealing a shimmering shade of blue that reminded him of a pristine lake. They almost seemed to ripple, like an oar had slightly disturbed the surface of such a body of water.

"Straight arms. Level shoulders. Head neutral. Lean in to me. Eyes on me. Ears on my voice. This is our cadence. I call, you go. I call, you go. All clear?"

"Yes, Coach!"

He held his hands immediately either side of his unblinking, unbroken eye contact, motioning the oar path that was already familiar. There was nothing groundbreaking about his advice, but his tone had a slightly softer lilt to it than the short gruffness that he was used to encountering.

"Stroke."

A tingle crept up his arms, like goosebumps, as that word reached his upright ears. He shook it off as he responded to the command, sensing it quivering through his torso, then legs and feet before it dissipated.

"Stroke."

In the shockwave's wake, he felt a warmth, an ease, a comfortability like gently sinking into a plush couch. His body moved but his head was mostly still. Physically to maintain his line of vision with his commander, and it felt like the thoughts inside his head were becoming more still as well.

"Stroke."

Just up and down, back and forth. It was so simple to respond. The world was so small, just the well-built man in front of him, the oars as extensions of his body, his legs pushing.

"Stroke."

Scoria huffed rhythmically as he transported the two men over the water. The blood pumped through his body, including between his legs, stiffening his manhood and stretching the spandex of his rowing suit as it enlarged with each command.

"Stroke."

That cooing voice cut straight to his horsecock, caressing it to greater girths. Coach was in total control and Scoria unthinkingly complied. Those eyes of his coach rippled, and pre leaked onto his sweaty rowing suit.

"Stroke."

Waves of pleasure rolled over the horse with each utterance, building with each movement, rising with each glorious meaty throb.

"Finish."

Scoria leaned back as he loosened his grip on the oars and unleashed a hot white eruption with a guttural moan.

"Good. You're ready."

As the world around him came back into view, the blue cloud-littered sky, the trees along the river banks, Coach's now matter-of-fact voice, so too did the sticky wet patch in his lap become evident.

Oh god. What was that?! And why did I like it so much?

"Let's get you to the showers. Your teammates are waiting."

He's gonna parade me in front of the team? This is the craziest hazing ritual.

His coach detected the flicker of panic skewing the young man's face, offering the solace of a wink and a nod.

Coach ushered Scoria into the team's changerooms, where the other three members of the rowing squad were indeed waiting. They all sat naked on the floor of the showers, with their legs out, like they were still perched in a rowing stance.

"Look at me, rookie. You've done well today. It's time to get in touch with your squad. You ready?"

No one was laughing, scoffing or joking. Not at the rookie horse, nor at whatever Coach was cooking up.

So Scoria did briefly ponder if he was ready. He didn't say yes out of fear of not making the team. He didn't say yes out of peer pressure from his obviously waiting teammates. He felt allured by the confidence that Coach radiated. He knew what he was doing, even if his methods weren't conventional.

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now", Coach lowered his tone and slowed his delivery, "Strip down. Join them on the floor. Between Joe and Jamal. You're going to work as a team. Your teammates are your oars."

Scoria followed his directions, still slightly unsure of what exactly that meant. He noticed Joe's cock to his left twitching with hardness. Jamal grabbed Scoria's right paw and wrapped it around Jamal's schlong. Coach squatted down to look Scoria in the eye, man to man.

"Eyes on me. Ears on my voice. This is our cadence. I call, you go. I call, you go. All clear?"

"Yes, Coach."

Scoria felt that shivering tingle and subsequent state of warmth permeate through him, and settled in to "row" his teammates, like a skier holding poles. His fourth teammate leant in and took hold of Scoria's soft, veiny man meat by the paw.

"Stroke."

His mind emptied, replaced only by the dazzling eyes of his coach, the soft rumble of his voice. He ran his grip down and then up the pair of adjacent penises, and the blood rushed to his own flared cock at the touch of his team mate.

"Stroke."

Each iteration felt a little closer together in timing, more uniform, even as the length of strokes increased as his teammates swelled. He didn't need to talk or look at anyone but Coach. He calls, I go.

"Stroke."

Not that anyone in the room would notice as they were all very focused on their own tasks, in their blissful, obedient states, but a smug smile crept across Coach's face.

He had a feeling that this squad was going to have quite a few strong finishes this season.