FSE

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Check the mane. Smooth the eyebrows. Loose hair; pull it. Hooves shined; rub 'em against the leg again, in case. Wet night, don't want mud. Jacket open. Unbutton shirt? Yes. No. Yes. Wait - WEAR shirt? Yes! Yes.

The red of the neon sign was garish, and splashed itself over all the rainy surfaces. Rhythmic thumping, typical club fare, rolled past him. The young stallion pulled on his jacket for the fiftieth time, and coughed, and didn't move. The door of the club was just there...but, ok, maybe one more check. What if-

"Kid."

He looked up. The bouncer, a massive wolf, was half-hidden under the eaves, avoiding the dripping roof. Like an idiot, the stallion looked around, in case he was speaking to someone else.

"Kid. You look fine. You've been standing there for ages. Just go inside."

The horse gawked at him for a moment, then blushed, and stepped forward. The door was very slightly ajar, and he could see people moving about in the semi-darkness beyond it. He looked up at the wolf, who was grinning widely as he took in the boyish stallion.

"Oh man. They are just going to love you. What's your name, kid?"

"P...Perch." He fussed at his belt, pulling it up a little. It just slid back down again.

"Well, Perch, you're gonna have a fantastic night. Trust me. Everyone will take real good care of you, k?" Perch nodded. "Get on in there." With a gentle push, the wolf opened the door fully. Noise and light and motion washed out...and smell. Perch's nostrils flared, all nervousness forgotten in an instant. The smell; overpoweringly, unmistakably stallion. Male horse musk lay in the air like perfume. He sniffed deeply, a tiny moan escaping before he could stop it, and stepped forward into paradise.

The bouncer closed the door behind him. He chuckled to himself as he lit another cigarette. "Fresh meat", he muttered, glancing up at the club's sign.

Stud Farm.

---

The air was hot, and close. Smoke drifted everywhere. Lighting was dim, but LED strips on the floor marked out paths to typical areas. The bar. Bathrooms. A dance area. A darkroom. Perch blushed in the gloom at that. Everywhere, though, there were stallions. Standing alone, or in small groups, or sprawled across generous couches. Enormous drafts that towered over Perch, lithe Arabians, stocky Shires. At six feet, he was not the smallest of horses, but he was certainly the smallest here.

His eyes roved over them all. Where they caught the eyes of another horse, they invariably stared back. Some smiled and nodded, a few turned to their companions and said something that made them turn and look as well. Soon, many of the horses were staring openly at him. Feeling a little self-conscious, Perch looked down at the floor, fussing with his belt again. He spotted the LEDs leading to the bar, and made his way there, for want of a better idea.

A snow-white Andalusian barhorse smiled at him as he slid onto a stool. "Hello there," he said, in a friendly tone. Without another word, a small drink was pushed over to him. Perch looked at it blankly.

"I, uh...sorry, what's this?"

The barhorse looked around, then back at the stallion. "Well, I figure, you've made quite an impression already, and soon there's gonna be stallions lining up to buy you drinks. At least this one won't have any strings attached." He snorted and waved away Perch's hand when he attempted to offer what he hoped was enough to cover the cost. "No worries there," he said. "I'll make it back off the dumb horny studs."

"Thank you," said Perch. He sipped at the drink, relieved to find it a mild concoction. He spun slowly around on the stool, using the drink as an ersatz shield, and took another look around. The barhorse had said he'd made an impression, but he didn't think he'd done anything yet. Yet, many horses were still looking at him. Was he overdressed? Did he have something on his clothes? Was he...popular? He had another sip and considered this.

Slabs of supremely maintained horseflesh filled his vision in all directions. He greedily watched them walk around, tails flicking about lazily, butts firm. Shirts were unbuttoned, leaving muscled chests and bellies on easy display. Crotches bulged in the manner of all horses; there was nothing that could hide the presence of weighty balls and thick sheaths. Perch's eyes lingered on these, feeling his own sheath fattening at the sight. Oh, how he loved stallions. Everything about them was just so beautiful.

A couple of Friesians, dancing together off to the side, had laced their midnight bodies with luminescent paint. Perch almost choked on a sip of his drink when he realised that what he had initially taken for a piece of loose clothing, was in fact the penis of one of the stallions, coated in paint. It swung about, slapping off the owner's thighs, as he and his partner swayed to the music and whispered things to each other; now giggling, now kissing. One of then snaked a hand down to fondle his partner. Perch watched, enraptured, before looking away guiltily. He knew what other stallions looked like naked, he was no prude. He was here, wasn't he! He could look at whatever he liked, and nobody could tell him he shouldn't anymore.

He straightened up, and looked back, but his view was obstructed. A hulk of a Shire stallion had approached him, and gave him a friendly smile. "Hi there". He slid onto the stool next to Perch, and reached out a hand. "I'm Patrick. Can I buy you a drink?"

Thus passed the next few hours. Horses would approach, chat to him, offer a drink. The barhorse smirked every time a stallion flagged him down to refill Perch's glass. He did his best to be nice, and friendly, and interesting. Some asked him to dance, at which he would blush and decline. He was ashamed of his lack of dance skills, and did not wish to be embarassed. The conversations walked awkwardly around trivialities. Yes, the weather had been good. He was a student at university. He liked cooking and hanging out with his friends.

Yet, inevitably, they all left. Most of them offered him their number, and a collection of scribbled-on napkins grew in his pocket. Perch felt confused. Was this how it worked? He had absolutely no idea what he would do with them all. Would he have to phone them all back? How would he remember all their names? It was dark, and hours of drinks had made him so tipsy. Was it Bryan or Kurai that he'd just spoken to...?

His quiet fretting was interrupted by another stallion walking up to him. A tall mustang, wearing a tight-fitting leather harness, and equally tight leather chaps. He was tall enough that, standing, his crotch was perfectly lined up with Perch's seated eyes. The bulge was outlined with metal studs, and extruded in a way that would be obscene for any other fur. For a horse, he was simply well-endowed. He gave Perch a moment to ogle him, then slid into a seat. He flagged down the barhorse, but only to order for himself. A small brandy, downed in one shot. He smacked his lips a little, then looked over at the tan stallion. "Hello, horsey. New here, are you?"

Perch nodded, wishing he'd refilled his drink sooner. An empty glass felt like no protection at all from the disturbingly intense stare he was receiving from this stallion.

"What's your name?"

"Uh, Perch."

"Like the fish?"

Perch blinked. "Fish? No...uh, my parents thought...it's short for Percheron".

The stallion rumbled deeply. "Percheron? Little small for a draft, ain't ya?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm not a draft. I'm just a...a mix."

The mustang stared, then shrugged. "Fair enough." He slid a hand across the bar, and onto Perch's. Perch stared at it. So warm...and large. "So I thought I'd come over here and say hi, and we could go have a little fun in the darkroom. How's that sound, horsey?"

Perch wasn't sure how it sounded. Just coming here had taken all the courage he had. The mustang was very attractive, as were so many of the horses in here, but he felt somewhat unconfortable with how brusque the stallion was being. He made to pull his hand back, but the mustang held onto it. "Don't be like that, horsey. Percheron. I promise, it'll be great. You seen what I got down there, huh? It's a tool of pleasure, and I'm gonna fix you with it." He was leering now, and Perch was rapidly becoming discomfited. He made another attempt to pull his hand back, and looked about quickly for the barhorse. He was down the other end, chatting with other patrons.

"I...no, thank you. I don't need fixing. I think I need to go."

The mustang went quite still. His hand tightened on top of Perch's, and the smaller horse was suddenly painfully aware of just how much more powerful the mustang was than him.

"No need to be like that, pup". The tone was still friendly, but there was an undertone of menace now. "Come along. Marcus will take care of you. I know what you want. Been watching you all night, slut. Hot little thing like you, coming in here? Every stallion in here knows what you're looking for. Those pathetic mares just couldn't get their dicks up to give it to you. Not a problem with _m_e."

He stood, and pulled at Perch's hand. The horse whinnied nervously, trying to resist, feeling scared now. He looked about desperately. In the semi-darkness, nobody else seemed to have noticed what was taking place - or had elected not to intervene. He was sure he saw a couple horses looking away quickly. Marcus, meanwhile, snarled. Releasing his grip on Perch's hand, he instead grabbed him by the bicep.

"I don't have time for your bullshit, slut. Let's go!"

There was a sudden, distinct drop in the level of sound in the club. Perch's heart, thudding in his chest, was suddenly the loudest thing he could hear. Behind the large mustang, a darker shape formed, indistinct in the gloom.

"Get lost, Marcus." The voice was deep, unworried.

Marcus's ears flattened instantly. His lips flared, teeth bared, and he stepped closer to Perch before turning to face the newcomer. Perch saw just a glimpse of a dark horse before the mustang's body blocked his view.

"Fuck. Off." If there had been menace in Marcus' voice before, this was pure venom.

"Language, Marcus. There's children about." The unknown horse leaned against the bar, and Perch got a look at him in the glow of the LEDs. He was tall, easily eight feet, and as black as any Friesian he'd seen. His expression was absolutely calm. He fixed pale blue eyes on Perch, assessing him, before looking back to the mustang. Where the mustang was hugely muscled and powerful, the stranger was more lithe.

"This isn't your fucking problem, Bucky." Saying the name like a jab seemed to please Marcus greatly.

"Actually is. You're messing with my stuff."

Marcus snorted in disbelief. "Your stuff?" He looked back at the horse he was gripping. "Oh, go get fucked, bitch. I watched you, you didn't move all night. This slut's mine."

Perch became aware that the little discussion had become the centre of everyone's attention. All the nearby horses had moved away, leaving the three of them in a circle of glittering eyes. He wondered desperately why nobody was doing anything. It was clear that Marcus and the other horse knew each other, and it didn't seem like it was good history. He felt like he should be upset at being treated like a thing, a slut for these horses to use, yet instead he felt an odd flutter in his stomach.

Bucky stopped leaning on the bar, and took a step towards Marcus. The mustang didn't move, but Perch felt his grip on his arm tighten. The two horses ended up mere inches apart; one, snorting and looking grim, the other apparently unruffled. They stared at each other for a moment, until, without warning, Bucky's arm came swinging around. He caught Marcus just under his cheekbone with a noise that promised medical attention later, and the mustang spun about, falling onto a table. He pulled Perch down with him, and the young horse sprawled onto the floor, calling out in pain as his head smacked into a chair. Feeling Marcus' grip loosen, he skidded backwards in his haste to escape from the altercation, feeling confused and scared.

Marcus roared in pain and anger, and sprung back to his feet, barrelling into Bucky. They fell together, the beefier horse using his weight to simply overpower the other. Furniture, designed to hold up some glasses and ashtrays, exploded into splinters as two enormous horses smashed into them. Fists and hooves flew, grunts and snorts and breathless wheezes filled the air.

Perch looked on in horror. They were going to kill one another! He looked pleadingly around, but none of the other patrons seemed inclined to do anything. Even the barhorse had retreated and was clearly waiting for things to resolve themselves. It was all too much. He had just wanted a fun evening out, and now two stallions were attacking one another - because of him?! He choked back a sob, and climbed to his feet. Pushing through the wall of patrons staring impassively at the altercation, he staggered into a booth along the wall. Putting his hands over his ears, and shutting his eyes, he tried to cut out the noise of the fight. This had been a huge mistake. He just wanted to go home now, but he was scared that if he tried to leave, someone would blame him for starting this. Tears ran down his face.

Several minutes later, the sounds ceased. The hubbub of casual conversation returned, as if nothing had happened. Perch opened his eyes, sniffing, and looked about. He'd never have guessed anything had happened, if it wasn't for the scraps of furniture near the bar. And - he gulped. Marcus, the aggressive mustang, lay flat on the floor. Bucky stood over him, flexing and unflexing a hand in pain, saying something to him. After apparently waiting for, and receiving, an answer, he turned. His pale eyes caught Perch's, and after a final flex of his hand, walked directly toward him.

Perch turned away quickly, and sank into the cushion of the booth. He was probably just leaving. It wasn't his fault. He didn't do anything, they couldn't blame him-

The horse named Bucky slid into the other side of the booth. He had a small cut on his face, and his mane was even more tousled than before, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. He laid his hands on the table and looked calmly across at the tan stallion, then brushed his mane back, out of his eyes.

"Hello Perch".

Perch eeped.

"I'm so glad we get some time to speak. You were having such a lovely time earlier, I thought I'd not disturb you. But, I felt obliged to step in when Marcus got involved. He is not only boorish, but uncouth." Perch wasn't sure what that meant, but he assumed it paralleled the unpleasantness he'd felt speaking to the mustang.

"My name is Bucephalus."

Perch was a little confused. "Not...Bucky?"

Bucephalus' eyes narrowed, very briefly. "That's a nickname some use that I prefer not to hear."

"Oh, um, sorry."

The larger horse stared back at him, and for a few moments they said nothing. Perch realised he'd spent most of the night speaking to stallions, but it had been with him on the back foot. This was not his usual territory, and part of him was constantly alert for...well, for what had happened with Marcus, he supposed. He'd been off kilter.

But now, it was different. He couldn't place it, but this horse made him feel...alright. At ease. A little nervous - he had attacked another horse, after all - but the little flutter in his belly had returned, and it was stronger now. He sighed deeply, wiping away a tear, and gave the other horse a tentative smile. He smiled back.

"Feeling better?" The friesian raised a hand, catching the barhorse's attention, and making some sort of silent order. "I am truly sorry Marcus upset you. I hope you'll allow me to try and rescue the night for you."

Perch blushed and nodded. Emboldened, he looked the other horse over, seeing details he'd missed at the bar. The pale blue eyes were striking, almost ice-like. He had strokes across his upper arms that seemed to point to a little zorse in his lineage, and his wild mane lightened to a point of gold where it overhung his face. Must be dyed. He was less massive than many of the other stallions of his height, but still looked good. Very good, in fact.

He accepted the drink from the waiter, when he brought it, and drank it half down in one go. It was stronger than what he'd been drinking before, and he coughed a little. Bucephalus raised an eyebrow at him, and he blushed. To change the topic from his nervousness, he nodded at the table. "Is, uh, is your hand ok?" Perch was looking at the hand which Bucephalus had carefully placed on top of the other. He was still slowly flexing it.

"It'll be fine, and thank you for asking. I can also completely recommend not punching someone in the face." He smiled, and they laughed a little. Perch's stomach-flutter grew a bit larger. It wasn't even that the horse was that much more attractive than any of the others he'd spoken to that night. There was just something...calm about him. Centred. Perch felt safe speaking to him, and being around him.

Bucephalus interrupted his reverie. "Perch, do you know why I'm here?"

"Uhm...well, you, um, you fought the other - Marcus, and-"

Bucephalus shook his head, mane swaying. "No, not here with you. Here. Stud Farm."

"Oh! Uh, I...I guess..." Somehow, he could not make words that didn't make him look like a moron. He knew why he was here, but stupidly hadn't even made the connection that others were here for the same reason. And all those other stallions, they gave you their numbers for what, fun? Use your brain, dumbass. He hadn't really tried to think about it, too nervous. But the alcohol had finally done it's work, and looking at the handsome stallion opposite him now, he decided he didn't care anymore. He was here. He was going to get the horsecock he lusted after. "I guess you...want someone to fuck?" It felt delicious saying those words, especially so to a horse like this. The stomach-flutter had gone, at least - moved into his crotch.

A half-smirk rode slowly up the side of Bucephalus' mouth. "Oh my...Perch, I knew you were new at this, but you're not just new, you've never done this before, have you?" He chuckled, and leaned forward onto the table, bringing his head down and closer to the other stallion. "I'm not here just to find someone to fuck, Perch. That's not the hard part for me. I'm here to find someone to do something for me. Something special. I thought you might be just the right horse for it, but now...well, now I'm certain of it.

"You're going to come home with me, Perch. Right now. You're going to stay with me, too. Because you're going to be mine. I'll give you what you need, and you'll give me what I need. Like..." he waved a hand, vaguely. "Like a son." Another smirk, bigger. "A son I have sex with."

Perch's heart was thudding again like before, but this was not fear. Not even close. Everything the other stallion said...how did he know? He tried to imagine what the horse was describing, and released a juddering breath. Bucephalus noticed, and stood up. Walking around, he slid onto the same couch as Perch. An arm reached across his shoulders, and the large stallion leaned in. He wiped away a tear from his muzzle. Perch whinnied softly, despite himself. The horse smelled so good; distilled essence of the ambrosia he'd sniffed when he first entered the club. His snorts were hot against Perch's skin, and an involuntary shiver ran up Perch's sides. Bucephalus casually licked his lips, and Perch had to close his eyes for a moment at the sight. This was too much. This wasn't enough. This was incredible.

"Perch." His voice was pitched low, and it was velvet. Perch's eyes snapped open, and were caught in his gaze. "I know you. I know why you're here. I know everything you want. It was written all over you, the moment you stepped in here. I watched you gawking over those second-rate stallions and their pointless flirting. They knew it was already decided, that I was leaving here with you, not them. Because I'm me." The horse said this in such a matter of fact tone, it would have been laughable, had he not been so close. So...potent. Perch believed him utterly.

"You came here for only one thing tonight." Statement, not question. "I have it." He slid his arm back, along Perch's shoulders, far slower than he needed to. Then, down his arm, to his hand. Warm and gentle. He slid Perch's hand across, to his crotch...and there it was. Hard, but soft. Endless. Warm, and inviting, and everything he imagined. He couldn't stop himself. He gripped it, massaged it, slid his hand all over it. Even through the horse's barely-suitable trousers, he could feel the medial, and every vein. It throbbed with the powerful heartbeat of the great stallion, and Perch barely had enough self-control to not drop his head there and then and worship it. He moaned, and looked up at Bucephalus with lust in his eyes.

The handsome stallion nodded slowly at him. "Time to go home, son".