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House of the Fourth

By The Brain of Lazarus

Gant had once been told "the impressions of land surrender the foe." It was a philosophical concept of battle that believed all soldiers could be made to drop their arms when struck with the beauty of land. It remained a philosophy.

But perhaps, if the Kommandment had seen this place, they would reconsider.

The Belgian draft horse glanced at his letter, and once more at the estate ahead.

"My dearest Gant,

You have long served my Kommandment of Lordes with dutiful strength and honor. It is debt which deserves repayment a hundred-fold. I can think of no greater pleasure than to send you to the House of the Fourth, where you may spend your days in splendid respite.

The title of Ovverlorde has been granted unto thee at the IV.

-Nezan Ashaa, Aarl of Kommand, Fifteenth Unit."

His mouth twisted bitterly. This was indeed a glowing letter filled with lofty words, but the hulking steed knew better. Respite and rest was wordplay for retired. And, true, despite all the augments and gene-therapy, Gant could not deny his age. Frontline Ziegstrike were not often thought to roam past the age of thirty, and the horse was a decade over already.

Still. No doubt this "Fourth House" lived up to its supposed splendor. It was like a title or gift, Gant was told, nurtured by servants and any amenities required. It certainly maintained the visage of one.

Ahead was a path of white stone accompanied by fields of blooming flora on each side, white oak trees twisted in elderly shapes with a fountain at center. Then, it lead to an entrance, guarded by thick red doors admitting entry to an immense, almost castle-sized estate.

The cool spring day and curling whip of wind attended to its mix of natural and constructed beauty. For all Gant's immediate preconceptions, he could at least admit it was peaceful.

The finely suited horse had been dropped by carriage none too long ago, and he was told only to bring the marked letter. Other than that, all that was left was to enter.

His brown eyes scanned about, looking for any of the mentioned servants or attendants. Finding none, he huffed, hoping what lay ahead wasn't a glorified tomb. The blood of the fight was always inside him, and nothing frightened him more than passing away in dull submission, lost and forgotten.

Walking past the fineries of the gardens and statue-work, Gant proceeded to the entrance, wondering to knock. Then, remembering his new position as "Ovverlorde," he decided the formality was no longer required.

Twisting silver nobs, he pushed through the heavy oak frame and into the estate. What met his gaze was not what the horse had expected.

Within an enormous chamber room, a long carpet of scarlet silk lead to a counter, with various paintings and sculptures lining the side. The ceiling rose high, and an immense set of staircases led to an above floor, while doors were positioned at left and right of the room.

Sniffing the polished air, Gant realized he was not alone, either. At the counter was a figure. A fox, in fact. No, not a fox - upon closer inspection, a vixen.

The Belgian horse was caught off guard. But then slowly realized she was likely an attendant.

Catching his entry, the distant vixen smiled, and beckoned with a modest bow. "Oh, master Steffan, so good of you to finally arrive!"

The door clamped shut, and Gant realized he was a touch too distant. Approaching, the stern horse nodded, approaching the counter. Immediately, his size was apparent as the veteran Ziegstrike loomed over the foxy female by several hands, the attendant gazing up at him in wonderment.

She was certainly a lovely figure too, Gant couldn't deny. Her fur was a luscious shade of black bequeathed with sparkling violet eyes, a suit of regal navy bordering her finely curved figure. Her short skirt and blouse were adorned with silver insignia reading "IV" and lips bore a gently hint of pale, white lipstick, a glaze to contrast with her fur.

"Good morning," he offered. "I was surprised to see someone here like this." Indeed, never had the Belgian draft entered a home managed by what looked like a hotel courtesan.

The attendant tilted her head. She had short, black hair as well, cutely adorning her youthful face. "Surprise, master Steffan?"

He looked around. "Well, I've never seen a house with a greeter. It strikes me as a hotel, almost."

She smiled. "Gracious apologies, master Steffan. I am here to assure all guests are properly vetted and arranged for. Though, we have only been expecting you."

That perked the steed's curiosity. "We?" he asked. "Seems a touch understaffed."

She bowed. "My apologies, they are merely preparing. And, if you'll permit me, do you have your letter of admission by chance? It pains me to refer to you in such an unfitting matter, master Steffan."

The large draft horse hardly found the term 'master' without respect or unfitting, but there was always a strange labor to the Kommandment. Translations and demand for flowery references to high positions dictated strange terminology.

"Ah, of course," he said, taking out the fold of cream paper from his inner suit pocket. Handing it over, the vixen took it daintily.

Looking it over, her fiery violet eyes stretched over the letter contents. Her brush tail swayed excitedly, folding it again and setting aside with a smile.

"It's my pleasure to welcome you to the House of the Fourth, Ovverlorde Gant." A demure bow.

Once more, the veteran's lips curled. Something about such a grandiose title unsettled him.

"Please, please," he asserted, "Gant will do. I dare not offend your station, but I'm only a soldier, miss, ah?"

She grinned, stifling a laugh. "Apologies again, Ov-, oh, Gant, sir. I laugh not at you, only your insinuation. Only a soldier? You are The Howitzter, they say, first vanguard of the Ziegstrike. Your legend proceeds you."

Adjusting her dress, the black furred vixen settled. "And I am Irene, master Gant. I am at your service."

The massive Belgium steed mentally shrugged. He supposed the 'master' habit was too hard to break. Especially with his 'larger than life' reputation. "Howitzer" always bothered him, like most of the fanatical talk of his deeds, and lead to strange titles like 'master' or 'Ovverlorde.'

"I'm surprised the name stretches that far," he intoned. "It was an old war title. Too elaborate for my taste."

Irene flicked her foxy ears, curious. "You are certainly a humble one, master Gant. The House of the Fourth is so pleased to serve you." She shifted her term of respect as requested.

He snorted. "I see. I've been hearing that a lot. Though, miss Irene, I'm not sure I entirely understand the nature of this 'service.' And, nor can I say I'm fond of being coddled like a boy at the barn."

The vixen's eyes widened a bit more, perhaps from surprise and a mix of personal bemusement. She pursed her canid lips, maintaining demure smile.

"You were not informed, master Gant?"

The Belgian draft rubbed his head. "Should I have been?"

Smiled stretched wide, then teeth bit at lower lip. Brush tail flicked excitedly, Irene giving a once-over of the war steed's heavy frame.

"Oh my," Irene added wickedly. "What a strange thing to do. Though perhaps your benefactors reveled in the surprise, master Gant."

Again, he snorted. He didn't like surprises. They often meant something bad was going to happen.

"Allow me to show you, master Gant," she added. The immense horse huffed.

"Begging your pardon, miss Irene, but I'm not one for cryptic messages and puzzles. If you wouldn't mind getting to the point. I'd rather not waste each other's time."

The vixen let off a mischievous 'mmm,' prepared to sate the immense steed's frustrated curiosity. Her head tilted once more, tossing her short, black hair.

"Do you like heels, master Gant?" she inquired. She gave him a half-lidded eye flutter, chops licked. The veteran soldier looked nonplussed.

"Heels?" Was she toying with him? "Yes? Fine? I suppose. What does that have to do with anything?"

She did not respond. Rather, her delicate hands came to dress and began to swiftly undo the silver buttons of the blue regal attire. Skillfully, the top fell open, as did a pair of buxom, full breasts guarded by lace white brassiere, the cleavage wobbling together seductively. The vixen hummed, setting aside her navy top, folding it neatly, as she turned around.

"Wha- miss Irene!?" sputtered the Belgian draft, "What in god's name are you doing!?"

She did not turn her curvaceous frame, though looked back to him, while paw-hands drifted to hips, then blouse, undoing the short hip-hugging skirt. She undid the buckle to the fabric, allowing her tail to slip through dress hole, bending her luscious form as she did.

"Why, showing you our services, master Gant."

Her tips tossed gingerly as she shook free the dress, pulling it away from delectable thighs, another line of white silk guarding her treasured nethers, though they were aptly visible from the guard of the undergarments.

"Ah, so much better," she intoned. Her bent form pushed out black furred haunches, the shapely size attempting to entice the massive horse, brush tail lifted for visible disclosure of the hidden puss.

The draft horse drifted back, looking over the vixen, stunned. He had seen his fair share of horrors and hells in his day. Collision drops from the sky, massive walking behemoths charging his rank, fire from distance cannons. But this was the first thing that left him without words.

For a moment, anyway. "What is this?" he asked flatly.

Irene giggled. Her fingers snared the lace panties, swiftly yanking them down her hips, legs pushed together to jostle her rump in a tempting heart shape. She stepped out of the garments, neatly storing them, her warm folds barely visible between the split of haunches.

"This? My master Gant, this is hot vixen pussy. It's all for you. The House of the Fourth is entitled to your name, and under your service are the numerous hands and helpers to reward you for all those years of dedicated service."

She stood, using hands to toss rear a moment, the cheeks jiggling in silent jubilation, as she swerved around to undo her brassiere. The white silk fell aside, neatly piled with attention to detail, the hefty, fat breasts bouncing free, tented with shimmering, pitch black nipples.

Irene giggled once more as she noted the immense steed's reaction. "I take it you were not expecting this, master Gant?"

He looked away. Not out of shame, but out of realization. "I. . . there were hints, I suppose," he admitted quietly.

"Perhaps I chose to ignore them," he added. "I don't know what to think of this."

The vixen licked her chops. "Oh? Are you sure you're not thinking, master Gant? Or are you imagining it right now? Imagining fucking me over the counter as I cry for more? Fantasizing about me bouncing off of your massive cock? Perhaps you want so many girls sucking and licking it, worshipping you until you fill us full of seed?"

The words wriggled and drove into the old steed's head. He shot his gaze back to her, shocked. What kind of devilry was this? What kind of seductive game was she playing? Were they trying to weaken him, throw down his guard? This was all so hard to believe. He blushed.

"Multiple girls?" he asked. Rather, the animal part of his brain.

The vixen grinned. She leaned over the counter, breasts wobbling in the air. "Many, master Gant. As many as you want. As many as you need."

To tempt a war made horse was unwise, depending on the deed. Gant always thought himself a noble, honorable beast, not much for the ways of the world, only the field of battle. But her words. . . they tightened his breath, stoked the fires in his heart, and made his suit feel that much more uncomfortable.

Dare he taste the pleasures of this place?

After a long, shaky pause, he looked away to the towering walls. "Show me," he muttered.

The vixen leaned further. "My master Gant? Show you?" she inquired back. The steed crossed his arms, huffing. Irene took that as a yes.

The vixen grinned once again, tossing short hair. "Mmm, excellent," she intoned softly.

Then, slowly, the foxy figure slowly sauntered from around the welcoming counter, her hips tossing softly with each stroke. The delicate click of pearl white heels teased her approach, as bouncy body roamed to the front of desk, looking the immense Belgian draft over again.

Gant looked down at her, intrigued but uncertain. Though, he could not deny the desires winding up inside him. He was a large horse, after all, with strong desires to boot. Perhaps he never considered it since most of his time was spent in combat.

His thoughts were interrupted by the press of palm against his crotch, hand gently rubbing on the suited groin, Irene offering a gasp of approval. He grunted, snorting from the touch, feeling his immense malehood stir, the vixen's tail flicking excitedly.

"Good heavens," she said, "you're a monster. I can tell."

Quickly, she slid to knees, letting thick rump settle into heels as she gazed upward obediently, blinking her wide violet eyes innocently. Her hips pressed against the crotch, mouthing at the covered prize, giggling as she felt the massive Gant twitch beneath.

"I don't know if you can handle it," Gant intoned dryly, lust starting to coat his thoughts and words. Irene's hands when to his zipper, undoing it diligently.

"Nmm, perhaps, master Gant."

Swiftly, she unfastened the buckle and button and pulled down the regal attire, revealing the thick, trunk-like muscle structure of the steed's legs, and then of course, the weighty bulge held within his briefs.

Almost startled, the vixen nibble her lower lip with some apprehension. But, she dared not let the indication of the steed's size keep her away from service. Fingers snatched the side of the briefs, Gant watching with a hint of amusement as she pulled the undergarments away, the fat, heavy cock of ebon flesh swinging out.

With a heavy, thick thud, the still-hardening flesh bluntly smacked the black-furred vixen upon face, wobbling her.

"Nh!" she yelped, piston pike massive in its scope, the Belgian draft certainly living up to his physique. Easily, the girth and length came to the size of Irene's arm. The flesh rested over her head, covering one side of face, her nose wriggling as the scent of male wafted over her.

Gant remained still, tossing briefs and suit pants away from his hoofs, hands on hips. "I hope you weren't expecting something smaller," he challenged.

Irene gripped the girth, eyes rolling over the immense shaft from testes to tip. It continued to harden, the fleshly pole turning ridged under her silky touch, using her like a convenient headrest as it did.

"Quite the contrary," she said, licking her glazed lips, "I can see why they called you The Howitzer."

Her nose traveled to crown, and muzzle pursed. She pressed maw against the tip, looking up with wide eyed obedience, planting a long, slow, sucking kiss on the edge of the horse's herculean shaft. Sticky, white-glaze lips wrapped around the hot ebon flesh, a low 'slurp' emitting from the foxy mouth as she bequeathed it with a slavish, worshipping kiss.

"Mmmmmmmm," she mumbled, pressing several more times, lips sticking to each smack, leaving behind an indication of white glaze upon the pulsing pole.

Gant hissed, clenching his jaw and balling his hands into fists, watching the sensual lips linger on the wide tip of his horsecock. With each little touch, the vixen looked up to him with utter submission, folding both her hands in lap as she teased with servicing kisses like an obedient hound.

"Agh, miss Irene," the Beligan draft growled. "Your lips are. . ." Fuckable, his mind said. Slutty, fuckable lips with an equally fuckable mouth.

Though he did not utter it. A veteran like himself had more control than that, despite his animal instincts.

The vixen smirked. "Perfect for sucking your cock, master Gant? I was trained to please you."

Her idle palm now travelled back to length, stroking it gently under caress of soft, silky fur, feeling the warm veins pulse under touch. Aggressively, she then took the heavy rod and slammed it against her face, grunting as the battering ram of a cock walloped her features.

Gant watched her, silently thrilled, keeping his hands to himself for the time being, but snorting with lust all the same. He never imagined his shaft abusing such a pretty vixen face before, and it was exciting to see her subdued by his immense malehood.

Continuing, Irene raised the cock like a mighty flag and pressed her muzzle forward, save this time her nose pressed into testes. Long, flat tongue flicked out to drape over shimmering, ebon orbs, lapping at the pulsing testes. Gant craned his next, offering a soft moan as the vixen began to lap at his sac, smacking his balls with an onslaught of submissive kisses.

Irene mouthed hungrily now, and Gant proceed to watch, the vixen propping herself on all fours in animal fashion, holding herself with one arm. Her maw greedily engulfed one teste, then the other, letting moist rug wrap about each musky orb with lavish attention.

"Sllllk, nmmf,"

Lewd, spattering sounds dribbled from her maw, as she tossed her hips back and forth, wagging rump with doggish fashion as she serviced Gant's testes with the same adoration for his cock tip.

With a loud 'pop' she drew back, a trail of sticky saliva and glaze bridging her muzzle and shaft.

"Oh my, master Gant. I dare say, I may need help with such an impressive cock. If you'll permit me, that is."

The Belgian draft shook, his heavy ebon rod twitching and spewing pre, as he looked at the vixen curiously. "What? Help?" he asked hoarsely.

Irene's eyes fluttered devilishly. "Oh yes. An assistant of course. Another vixen to suck and worship you, master Gant. Unless you prefer to. . . break me on such a massive thing."

Gant hesitated, as much as a Ziegstrike veteran like himself could. An image flashed through his mind, of a vixen on all fours, moaning and whining as he bucked relentlessly into her loins, punishing her cleft with his massive shaft. In truth, there was certainly something quite intoxicating to the idea. If only her suggestion wasn't more enticing.

"Never fight a battle alone," he answered lowly, wartime advice mixing in with this sordid encounter. The vixen chuckled lightly, perhaps internally relieved at not having to service such an immense malehood.

Taking the tip in both hands, she let the crown nuzzle into her cheek, rubbing the flared end rub along her soft, silky black fur, before releasing it. A silent reassurance she would not leave him long.

"A moment, master Gant."

The vixen stood, swerving back to counter as Gant, feeling it appropriate, began to undo the rest of his suit, revealing the augmented, muscular framework of his immense Belgian frame. Suppose he was getting his cock sucked at the entrance, formalities were out the window - clothes were no longer needed.

As he did, Irene went aside and hit an unseen buzzer behind the desk, apparently connected to some type of intercom. There was a beep. For a moment, there was silence, and then:

"Yes, miss Irene?" came a young, female voice, trailing from a speaker no doubt installed in the cabinet.

"Tabitha?" Irene responded. "Could you come to the entrance hallway, please? Master Gant is here, and I'm currently. . . welcoming him."

Static silence. Then a reply. "Oh goodness! Yes miss Irene, at once! Shall I gather the others?"

The black furred vixen smirked, glancing to the nake horse. "Not yet, miss Tabitha. Oh, and miss Tabitha? Dress in your servicers uniform, please?"

Another long, lingering pause. "Oh goodness," Tabitha said. "Yes ma'am, I'll prepare."

Irene concluded the call, then strolled back to Gant, her hips tossing with meticulous joy. "I think you'll be pleased, master Gant. She'll be joining us in just a few moments."

Soft hands went to the massive draft's chest, rubbing over them with aroused splendor, in awe at the physical structure Gant possessed.

"She won't mind?" the veteran asked. At this point, it was a strange inquiry, all things considered.

Irene began kissing the powerful horse, sliding down once more, letting nose wiggle against stomach, then waist, then loins.

"Mind? You mean to suck your powerful cock, master Gant? Oh no. She will be delighted to."

The Belgian draft shuddered once more. He was getting used to the sight of the little vixen serving him, his crown already smeared with white lipstick and pre.

It wasn't long until the one named Tabitha appeared. Above on second floor, another vixen emerged at the height of spiral staircase, glancing down and offering an excited 'oh.' Gant looked, spying another lovely, curved figure - almost hourglass - one of bright orange-amber fur and startling blue eyes. Like Irene she managed short, brown hair, and also like Irene she was. . . without clothing.

The "servicers uniform," as it were, appeared to be little more than a nake vixen, only with stiletto heels, anklets, and hooped silver around the wrists. Tabitha began winding down the hall, and her jewelry chimed gingerly as if indicating her status as a servile fox.

Veteran Gant watched her carefully come down the spiral staircase, sauntering up to the steed and Irene, eyes wide, hands folded together. She was slightly bustier than Irene, Gant could see, her arms pressed together pushing out the pair of ample breasts bequeathed on her form. Valuable intel for later, perhaps.

The black fox looked to her arriving partner, grinning. "Miss Tabitha, thank you for joining us. As you can see, master Gant has arrived and he is in need of an 'explanation' to our services," she intoned, massaging the horse's enormous sac while gently stroking the length of his cock.

Tabitha nodded hurriedly, bowing. "Pleased to meet you, master Gant."

The horse snorted. "I take it you're as skilled as your friend here?" he added, hand petting through Irene's hair, possessively. At this point, desire and lust were taking hold, and he was starting to like the attention of a vixen.

"I am, m'lord. I was trained to serve you," came her demure reply. Irene beckoned with finger.

"Let's not keep him waiting," said the black-furred fox. "There's a cock to be sucked here."

Tabitha blushed, but nodded once more, rushing over to her partner. She was quite young, Gant could see, and held an air of uncertainty. Another trait Gant kept in mind for future meetings.

The Belgian draft watched as the vixen settled next to Irene, the pair now looking up at him submissively, at the mercy of his herculean mast. His hands came to rest on both, petting them, wringing fingers through hair, a silent indication of his newfound authority. Gant could get used to this.

"I-it's. . . it's so big," muttered Tabitha, peering at the sheer length of the massive ebon pole.

"That it is," added Tabitha. "You can see why I needed help, no?"

The orange-amber vixen gulped, but would not fright for long. In silent unison, her mouth pursed and came to tip, kissing it as a show of submissive respect, in tandem with Irene. Soon, the two used this as an axis to their attentions, tongues twisting at the crown, lapping and rolling, rubbing their lips along the edge, mumbling pleasantly as they did.

"Agh! Gods above, where were you two when I was on the front?" Gant grunted, holding tight to the pair's hair, surprised at how comfortable Tabitha had become. The two clearly had practiced this, their heads darting and bobbing as they lavished his tip with attention.

Tabitha licked eagerly again on one side, fondling the ebon testes with admiration. "We certainly would have served you loyally then too, sir Gant."

Increasing momentum, Irene held the massive cock in both hands, wobbling the tip against her nose, letting it rub across her muzzle, teasing both oral entry and enormous steed. Then, she pushed forth, her lips beginning to widen as foxy front suckled around the twitching crown, slowly taking girth into maw.

It was not easy though, oh no. Gant's size was enough to puff her cheeks and use every inch of space available in her moist mouth, the black-furred vixen's eyes beginning to water as she engulfed the seething shaft into her throat.

"Hlklllkkgm, nfffff!" Loud, slobbering whimpers and huffs of breath escaped her nose, bit by bit the hard length vanishing into her, bulging her throat.

Gant watched her with some amazement, but mostly lust, observing as she struggled to service the entire thing. As for the other fox, Tabitha had taken to nosing his heavy sac, supple lips wrapping about each impressive stone, polishing with gusto as her fellow vixen audibly gagged on the black-hued flesh.

Eventually, she relented, Irene pulling away from the massive mast, gasping and coughing loudly as strings of saliva and sticky pre bridged her muzzle lips to crown of cock. She panted, tongue hanging out, looking to the enormous Belgian draft with submissive want, ears flicking as her partner lapped away at the steed's testes.

"Having trouble?" mused the veteran, hand going to hip a moment. Truly, he was starting to enjoy himself, and watching the black-furred vixen struggle with his length was empowering to say the least.

Immediately, Irene smothered his crown with another kiss, smearing white lipstick about the length and sides, voracious for more.

"It's nothing I can't handle," she responded softly, tapping her vixen ally.

Reluctantly, Tabitha withdrew herself from Gant's now-shimmering sac to glance at her friend, realizing what was required. Opposite of the black furred fox, she gingerly smooched the free side of the steed's impressive length, giggling.

"Again, then," added Gant. "Start again."

This time, Tabitha did not strike alone. Two muzzles met at the crown, kissing lips meeting at the axis of Gant's tip, tongues and lips sticking to the girth, loud smacks echoing about the enormous hall. Their bush tails wagged as they eagerly back to suckle the sides, stroking down every bit of ebon shaft, leaving trails of lipstick as they did. Gant grumbled with approval, snatching their hair as the two vixens moved, their soft laughs and moans filling his ears with devilish pleasures.

On all fours, they serviced, hips wiggling and colliding together as their rumps rumbled, tails sashaying while foxy maws assaulted the cock-sides with licks and laps. The huge Belgian draft could only clench his teeth and watch, hissing with pleasure as the two servitors gave his cock the worship it so desperately wanted.

Then, their pace quickened, momentum shifted. Tabitha mimicked Irene from a moment ago, taking the bulging flank into her maw. The black-furred counterpart watched, smiling wickedly as the bright, amber vix struggled to shove the enormous length into her throat. Coughing, gagging, she wiggled her head to allow the ebon inches home inside her throat, though was unable to fit it all within oral chamber.

"Lllllglgmmm!" Tabitha shrieked - or tried to - her fellow vixen pushing against back of head to better appease the horse-shaft.

Gant breathed hoarsely, licking his chops. "It seems both of you aren't as well equipped as you thought," he chided, the struggling Tabitha looking up to him with a wince.

Abruptly, the mighty steed yanked the amber-furred female from his shaft, a similar sticky bridge of saliva dripping from her maw as she gulped desperate gasps of air. Irene nuzzled the freed cock, uncertain.

"You are not pleased, master Gant?" she said.

The horse snorted. "Only so. But I won't stand to be teased forever, miss Irene."

He gestured to the desk behind the pair. "Both of you. Go. Bend over."

Gant surmised he could spend quite a while here, having his length fellated. But there was only so much a large, lustful horse like himself could take before he needed release. He didn't spend much time on the front worrying about a girl back home, but this was different. All those urges came bubbling to the surface, and they would have satisfaction.

The two vixens blinked, looked at each other with momentary uncertainty, then nodded.

"As you wish, master Gant," Irene said, the first to rise, Tabitha quick to follow. Quickly, the pair went to the desk, leaning over the edge as their fat bosoms squished into the hard wood, rumps presented and wiggling gently.

"I hope we are to your liking, master Gant," Tabitha added, both looking back at the enormous Belgian draft, wide eyed, lower lips bitten.

Wordlessly, the immense steed stomped over, his rippling body towering over them. He hunched over the satin-furred Irene, the tip of his dripping, ebon length nudging at her cleft. She gasped, her fingers curling against the table, as she felt the presence of hot pike nuzzle her cunny.

Tabitha watched with frightened, though aroused, awe as her friend was at the mercy of Gant's size. She realized it would likely be in store for her too, blue eyes gazing as the frothing crown sofly pressed against Irene's entrance.

"Let's see if you are," Gant returned, firm hands grappling Irene's slender shoulders.

Then, all at once, he shunted himself into the sodden, moist tunnel of the black-furred vixen's nethers. His rigid, uncompromising length dove into the silky channel, spreading the suckling lips wide. With a loud grunt, the horse slammed his hips into hot vixen puss, a loud, wailing cry emitting from Irene.

"AaaaAAAAH! Oh GODS!"

She buckled helplessly, maw wide with shock, feeling the horsecock smash into her loins, every throbbing veiny inch penetrating her vixenhood. Gant groaned, his length choked by the smaller vixen's loins, hilting himself entirely. He snorted, looking down, admiring as the little vixen trembled upon him, entirely at the mercy of his actions.

"Oh g-goodness," Tabitha muttered, shocked as the mighty steed claimed the soaking vixen cunt.

Then, Gant began to drive himself into the shaken vixen. All at once his hips began to buck furiously in the tight, hot chamber that was Irene. His massive cock stretched her to the limit as drips of juice and pre began to dribble out from the vaginal lips, his testes bouncing against the foxy lass. He held her in place, punishing her puss with the mighty strike of his ebon cock, collecting a ragged, whining moan as he bucked with furious desire.

Irene could only shriek helplessly as Gant slammed himself into her, over and over. The table rumbled and the horse took delight in assaulting her tight cunny entrance. Stern hand would smack her hear, hard, causing a wave of jiggles to jostle the black-furred rump, along with the piston motions of his mechanical, hammering thrusts.

Gant let out a long, steady groan. The Belgian draft's testes churned with desire, and soon, he released. He was without words, and a deluge of seed abruptly exploded from his already sloppy crown, gushing in long, hot ropes of enticed seed, deluging and defiling the womb of Irene's precious honey pot.

"NNNGGH!" he hissed through clenched teeth, holding the vixen in place as his cock pumped her full of rich issue, twitching as he did.

"OhmasterGantpleaseitstoomuch!" he heard Irene mumble, her hips trembling about as she struggled to take both his seed and inches.

Gant did not relent, however, and kept himself wrapped by vixen pussy. Not until he knew every drop of orgasm left him did the mighty Belgian draft finally pull free. Stepping back, the cock sprang lose with a loud, sopping 'pop,' semen and pre and saliva dribbling in a small pool beneath Irene, the broken vixen laid limp over welcome desk.

He huffed, then snorted again, warm, tingly pleasure radiating through his loins.

"I'm impressed," he finally said, glancing over the other. "But for a pair of vixen's 'made for me,' you're going to need plenty more stamina than that."

Irene was left in a panting mess, while Tabitha looked with surprised concern.

"I. . . well. . . we're not sure. . ." mumbled Tabitha, her tail flicking nervously.

The silent horse stepped over to Tabitha this time, the shocked amber-furred vixen only able to watch as the gigantic Belgian draft paced his tip near her own, pink hot puss.

Before either of them spoke, he repeated his actions. He slammed his thick, masculine cock into her tunnel, inciting a wail of broken moans and yipes for mercy.

And he continued. Again and again and again, until the evening had set. Gant was now Ovverlorde of the Fourth House, and he staked his claim quite brashly. Any staff that could hear would be met with screaming foxy gals, the merciless pound of loins, and the promise they would need to do a great deal of cleaning next day.