A Lesson in What Not To Do
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'Sit in my lap, Sarah,'
'It'll be fine, Sarah,'
Henry never had good ideas, so why had she listened to him?
Henry'd hurt his leg.
It was damn good luck he'd not broken it, considering he'd been sitting on the back of Sarah's horse when it'd been shot dead, and though an anthro horse wouldn't be killed by a broken leg it would down them for far longer than most.
As it was, he'd only sprained his ankle and, so, though he'd put up a fuss fit to put the youngest foal to shame, he'd finally acquiesced, not wanting to be more of a burden to the gang for longer than he had to be, though James had reassured him he was due for a break anyways.
The gang was on the move again - they only stayed in one place for a few weeks or so, moved once they pulled a heist in the town nearby. She'd been assigned to the back wagon along with him to watch the wagon train's back, to guard it from thieves, marauders, bandits and lawmen and bounty hunters. (And, as well, to keep an eye on the stubborn mule of a stallion.) But they'd picked up a lot more supplies than usual, and even with the feral horses that followed the wagons heavily laden the wagons were full-up, and there was room only for one person in the wagon.
She couldn't ride one of the horses - they needed to be used as pack mules - and there wasn't any room on the other wagons.
So it was that Sarah had ended up sitting in his lap, giving him a revolver to hold while she clutched to her chest a shotgun.
It looked almost comical - she wasn't exactly the biggest doe, and the shotgun was huge.
Horse wagons aren't exactly the smoothest way to travel.
Even the fancy ones that city folk ride in aren't too smooth, jostle them around. And ones that outlaws commandeer? Try to hold your lunch.
So she found herself jostled around constantly in his lap, thrown and bounced, and more than once he reached up, had to set his revolver aside to grasp her hips for fear of her being thrown to the ground. Finally, when they hit the mountains, the ground so rocky they were practically vibrating, she allowed him to wrap his arms around her waist in a mockery of a hug, pinning her down against him to stop the painful rattling of her teeth.
That did, though, cause a new problem.
Well, 'new'. He'd been struggling since she sat down, regretted the words from the moment they'd left his mouth. 'Sit in my lap, Sarah.' he'd said, what an idiot! The doe was so pretty, fine-boned and lithe and elegant where he was rough and bulky and not. And that he was finding himself aroused because of something that was wholly not her fault, he felt like a monster. If she felt him, he adjusted his hips carefully, she'd surely scream and run, call him a beast and be well within her rights.
Sarah, though, was an outlaw through and through. Born and raised as a civilized doe she might have been, but that life was far behind her. So though it took her quite a while, the rigidity with which he sat drew her attention and, then, when she paid more attention - thinking, perhaps, he might have noticed something - the hot, hard length that pressed against her lower back.
And she'd always found Henry quite attractive. From the rich brown of his mane to the lighter color of his coat, he gleamed when he found the time to groom. And he was tall, she barely came up to his shoulder, his head loomed over her, it made her feel safe though they were out in the open, and bulky, muscular as any stallion could be.
So she saw no issue with allowing the bumps to push her back against him, the gradually tightening grasp of his hands on her waist sending sparks to her cunt. She allowed that for quite a while, relaxing back against him, against the rod that grew gradually against her back, listened for his soft huffs and groans, wanting to make sure that he was actually enjoying it before she did anything else.
Sarah was an outlaw - not a monster.
Slowly, pointedly, she ground back against him.
His hands clenched tight around her waist, though he only hissed her name once she did it again, then again. She peered back at him over her shoulder, grinned mischievously, locked eyes, and very pointedly ground down again.
He groaned, low and deep enough that she could feel his chest vibrating against her back, and bucked his hips. She was jostled, and only his grip kept her from being tossed off, clothed cock sliding up her back.
They rocked, for a time, urged on by the vibrations of the wagon. A pressure built in her stomach - god, she needed, she'd wanted him for a long time and she could feel his cock, easily as thick around as her arm and probably as long, throbbing against her back. She needed him in her, desperately, needed his release, his seed, needed anything he'd give her, even if only that flared tip.
She tilted her head back, let it rest on his chest as she looked at him pleadingly, "God, Henry, fuck me," and the look of shock on his face was almost comical, ears on end and jaw hanging open.
"Out here?" and he sounded so scandalized you'd never think he was a born outlaw, "are you sure?"
Oh god, but she was sure, she needed him an hour ago, even if only his fingers, and nodded, "Please, please," and he groaned, squeezed his eyes shut tight before turning to look back over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking back at them.
"Fuck, fine, but you'll have to be quiet." and yes, yes, if he wanted her to be quiet then she'd be quiet as a feral field mouse.
He didn't prepare her - though, considering what she could feel against her back, maybe he should have. She gathered her dress in her hands, brought it up and bared her legs (he groaned, low and deep and fit to be a wolf's growl), fought not to cry out when he grabbed her by the hips and picked her up, holding her to his chest as he undid the buttons on his denim pants and
Holy shit you could beat someone to death with that thing.
She'd ridden horses her whole life. Stallions had a habit of dropping their penises, just letting it all dangle out there whenever they wanted, so she was no stranger to feral horse cocks.
But holy shit could he put them to shame. It was easily longer than her arm, much thicker, with a flared head that she wanted in her mouth yesterday. But that was for another time, and her cunt throbbed, slick dripping onto his lap with sheer need, the need to have him inside her five minutes ago, and thank the god she wasn't entirely sure she believed in but he was grabbing himself by the base, adjusting himself so he was standing straight up and then she was being lowered down on him and
the seraphs of heaven themselves could have raptured the world and they'd have found her sitting on top of his cock, receiving a wonderful pressure-pleasure, mouth gaping open on a silent scream, eyes crossed, and she wouldn't have regretted a thing.
And then she regretted it slightly, because really his cock-head was very big, and though she was very worked up, very pliant and wet and giving, he was very big and she was rather small and it rather hurt. He shushed her like he would his horse, and it helped a bit when she dropped her dress, hiding their activities so she no longer had to look at that massive thing - and really, how had she thought it would fit? it was longer than her torso! - as it pierced her. Her lips slowly, slowly crested the head until, finally, with a pop she felt more than heard, she dropped an inch or so, taking it in.
He continued to shush her, but didn't stop or slow at all, instead slowly, steadily, lowering her down on that long, thick cock of his. His cock-head spread her, stretched her in the best way, and so it was easy enough for it to slide in inch by inch by inch; it burned, it burned so good, it could have taken a minute it could have taken a day but finally she felt his denim pants bump into her rump, and surely she was going to explode?
"Good girl," he burred into her ear, letting go of her waist with one hand to reach up and cradle her stomach, and fuck he could feel his cock bulging through it - which wasn't much of a surprise, but shit, shit, "such a good girl, taking me all the way down, I knew you could do it, such a little thing like ya," and damn, she was a good girl, wasn't she? her head dropped, and goddamn even through her dress she could see her stomach bulging.
He rolled his hips, careful not to jostle her too much, and she gasped - gasped even louder when he took her waist in hand and lifted her, dragged her along the long, long length of his cock, easily as long as a feral horse's, until only that flared head of his was still inside, "Shiiit," and then he was lowering her again, thrusting his hips at the same time to punch it into her-
- and then she was being fucked. Fucked long and hard, his hips pumping furiously, knocking little gasps out of her with every thrust. Her stomach bulged obscenely every time she was fully sat, and god but he knew how to use it, only having to seat her three or four times to bring her to a blinding orgasm - it would have been a screaming orgasm, surely, if she hadn't such control over her voice - wriggling her around in his lap every time he seated her on his wide base before dragging her back up.
Like any horse - feral or anthropomorphic - he didn't last long, but he didn't need to and, in fact, if he had she would surely have started to hurt. With a groan, dropping his head on her shoulder, little kisses left along the fine line of her neck, he began to cum, the head of his cock flaring as he flooded her with his cum, seeding her womb over and over, having to set his teeth into the tendon that strained on her neck for fear of vocalizing his pleasure and revealing them, pinning her down in his lap as hard as he could in some instinctual need to drive as much of his seed as deep as possible. And he did, grinding and grinding and grinding her down and around, the wide base of his cock keeping his cum trapped inside as they both panted and came.
Getting her off of him was a struggle, and they ended up having to dig clothes out of the pile of gear on the wagon and pray that no one noticed that he'd changed - his seed came out of her in a flood, soaking his lap and the clothes he was wearing, though her dress helped hide the mess that soaked her tawny fur white.
It wasn't long before the bulge of her stomach was back and, some eight months later, a little filly was added to the gang.