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Wild Goats

I first saw him on my way back home. He was standing across the broad valley, off in the distance, high up on the rocky ridge among the bushes and the scrub. His shape, white and animal, caught my eye at once. I detoured from the winding mountain road, crossing the grass verge to a low rickety wire fence. And there I stood, staring out across the land, my hands on the fence and a plunge to oblivion beneath my hooves. He looked twice my size, more than twice as strong, and - most striking of all - he stood on all fours. I say 'he' - those horns certainly suggested he was a male. His white pelt stood out among the foliage and the moss-covered rocks. He dipped his horned head, took a mouthful of leaves, and chewed them for a moment. Then he saw me.

For a moment we locked eyes. Out I stared, out towards another world, where this wild reflection stood proud.

Then he bounded down a bushy ledge, and disappeared from sight.

For the rest of my journey, I could think of nothing but him. But... what I'd seen was impossible. Maybe the heat was making me delirious - it was a hot afternoon, after all, and I had been hiking for nearly three hours. I had no choice: the railroad only reached the town of Whiterock. So yes, maybe I was seeing things. Anyway, nobody would believe me if I told them. But I was sure of what I saw. And who knew, maybe somewhere in that wilderness, there were creatures like him. Anything was possible.

Wasn't it?

I let my mind go blank, feeling myself in the here and now: the long afternoon heat, the birdsong, even the steady step of my own two hooves. I let my hooves carry me up the rocky road. All in all, it was quite pleasant, up here by myself. Though I was hot and panting slightly, with my possessions on my back, and I had built up something of a sweat, I could tolerate the heat. I had a destination to reach, after all. A stallion passed me by, and wished me a good day. That almost stopped me dead. A stranger, talking to me! I'd forgotten how good that felt.

The road had chicaned back from the outcrop, and risen into forest. However, I knew this final meandering section was the last part of forest trail. I quickened my step, and soon the trees cleared out into a gently sloping meadow, encircled by steeper banks with timber-framed houses set upon them. Appletree looked so peaceful. And none of these houses were rented from some faceless landlord. Every house was owned, and each had been made a unique home. Some had extra building work, an annexe or outbuilding maybe, others had gardens in full bloom or planted with fragrant herbs.

The village only consisted of a few streets, centred around the meadow. I had taken the western approach, and up ahead, the road looped back around, joining up with the eastern road which followed the stream back to Whiterock. Near to the tight loop, I took a shortcut across the green, towards the village's namesake tree. I picked up a fallen fruit, taking a bite. Still slightly sharp, but crunchier than they used to be. A pathway led off the green, up through a wooded glade. I set off up this final road. And there it was. My home, nestled just off the hilly path. Gardens sloped away from the house and disappeared into the forest, and an assembly of outbuildings surrounded the main house. From one of these sheds came the steady trundle of machinery. Of course. Dad was working the lathe. And beyond this plot, beyond the nearby forest and in the distance, the hills rose high, forested in their lower reaches but sheer and rocky and jagged higher up.

I wondered whether Mom or Dad would see me first. In the end, somebody else spotted me.

"Thought it was you. Cor, I could smell you from a mile off."

"Yeah, all that coal and smog really clings to your fur."

Brendan, the youngest of our siblings.

"Anyway kid," I asked him, "how you doing?"

Snort. "Who you calling 'kid'? I'm nearly eighteen."

"Yeah, and you'll always be the youngest. And I'll be one step ahead of you, all the way."

He grinned a flat-toothed goat-grin, and we softly butted heads, rubbing our short-furred muzzles together.

We had an older brother and an older sister too. Both had decided, like me, that a career in carpentry wasn't for them. I don't think Dad resented that. Though country life was simpler, cleaner and healthier, even he accepted that the city, hectic as it was, had its lure. With so many furs, from so many corners of the world, there was always new food to savour, new wares to browse, and new folk to meet. Plus you could earn more in the city. Mind you, Brendan seemed keen to stick around, so maybe Dad could persuade him to take up the trade. He always was a daddy's boy.

Still, for all the shit he spoke, it felt good seeing him after all this time.

"And how is Mom?"

"Ask her yourself."

Brendan nodded towards the doorway, and there stood our Mom.

I knew I was smiling. Mom was, too. I gambolled down the flagstone path, as fast as the backpack would allow, and wrapped my arms around her. A second later, however, she cut our embrace short.

"Horn of Plenty, you're soaked through."

"Yeah, um, well... it is kinda a hot day."

"Nah, he's just unfit. That city life makes you lazy."

"Oh who asked your opinion?"

"Boys."

We stopped at our Mom's word. Of course we did. Well, apart from Brendan sticking out his tongue. Little siblings. Not to worry, maybe he'd grow up one day.

"Anyway, let's get you inside and into some clean clothes."

"As long as you let me get ready myself."

Mom smiled. "Don't worry, I know you billies like keeping to themselves. I do live with two of you."

I followed her through the familiar eggshell-blue door with its porthole window, and into the hall. Everything looked the same, and everything looked much in its usual place, from pictures to chairs to the little wooden birds Dad made in his spare time. It was as though I'd left yesterday. You wouldn't think it had been two years.

"Well, you know the way to your bedroom. It's another couple of hours to dinner, but I'll give you a call, okay?"

"Okay, thanks Mom."

"And I'll heat some water for you. Don't let it get cold!"

"I won't." Moms.

She headed back into the kitchen, and I made my way to the stairs. Strange. Everything was where I remember, but it looked smaller, felt smaller. Even the stairs seemed shallower. Logically, I knew that was because I'd grown. But by this much?

Along the landing I went, following the well-worn runner. And there it was. The final door on the left. My room. I tried the door.

Exactly as I left it. The bookshelf to the left looked untouched, every title in the place I remembered. Half of these books I'd outgrown years ago. The other half had seen me through adolescence: books on science, nature, and the great discoveries happening at universities and on excursions around the world. My bed was freshly made, with new sheets, and a towel on top. I left my bag against a wall, stripped to my fur, and wrapped the towel around my waist. Then, I headed out to the bathroom. It still smelled the same: soap, perfume, damp wood. The warm water was ready for me, heated from our own wood stove. So I stepped into the tub and took my sponge. After my walk, the water felt wonderful over my fur. Well, got to keep the goat musk down, especially in your Mom's house.

Back in my room, towelled and changed, I browsed my bookshelf for old time's sake. I took out a book, a novel. Then I headed to my old reading chair, which sat beneath a timber-framed window, looking out across a great sweep of forest and valley and rocky outcrops. I rested a hand on the chair-back, not minding the light sheen of dust. Many days I had sat here, book in hand, with nothing but the land and the birds to help me relax. And here I sat once more. The book's writing style was far too simple for me nowadays, but I didn't mind. I was home.

Mom knocked on the door some time later, to tell me that food was ready. Though in truth, the scent of herbs and spices had been drifting through our home for quite some time. I washed my hands, and joined everyone downstairs. What greeted me was an array of vegetables, roasted and seasoned (no doubt with the produce from Mom's own garden). How she concocted such flavours from such simple ingredients astounded me. Definitely something I missed in my apartment in the city. Even better, Dad was there. He greeted me with a matter-of-fact, "Hello, son." Still his old gruff self. Still my Dad.

Our dinner conversation was safe. I spoke about my job, and learned the latest village news. There were currently no plans to prospect beyond our own. Two surveying parties, several months apart, had pressed on a few dozen miles, but found nothing more than trees and rocks. Nothing exploitable at least, and therefore nothing of interest. And if the mines back in Whiterock were still profitable, why not just stay and make a living there? That suited me. The more of the wilderness that survived, the better. Particularly for the creatures living there. Speaking of creatures, I decided to wait until after dinner, and we were all in the lounge, before telling them what I saw on the road.

*

"A feral goat?" Dad stroked his chin tuft. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I mean, what else could it have been? He looked like a goat, only, he was walking on four hooves."

Dad frowned. "There's been no reports of ferals since before you were born. And even those reports were sketchy. Probably a bunch of tall tales. You know, the kind them hot-shot reporters cook up to sell newspapers."

"But I'm no reporter. I've got no reason to make that up. So what did I see?"

Dad shrugged. "Could have been anything. You say it was some way off? So maybe a rock slip, or just some bushes moving in the breeze. I guess we'll never know."

"No. I guess not."

Dad couldn't be convinced. I could see his point. A buck in his forties, he'd spent his whole adult life on the frontier, and never seen a trace of a feral. What were the chances his upstart city son would see one on an afternoon stroll?

They say we were all feral once. Then, the world began to warm, the ice in the far north started to melt, and the sea levels rose. It was at this time that mammals began walking upright. We herbivores were first, setting aside large tracts of land to grow our food - far more efficient than foraging and grazing. Carnivores and predators stayed feral for a while. They had little interest in our crops, generally. Our meat, though, that was another matter. However they evolved too, and joined our fold. Out of necessity, they say, once we herbivores could defend ourselves efficiently enough. Adapt or die, to put it simply. Some changed to a meat-free diet, and those who couldn't adapt took their protein from insects, eggs, and the like.

The world was vast though, and unexplored, and there was every chance that somewhere beyond this frontier, the ferals had survived. However, apart from the reports my Dad mentioned, and a hoax skeleton or two, nothing concrete had been found. Still, you can't stop the dreamers from dreaming.

And if my feral was close by - this close by - I had to find him.

*

It took me an age to fall asleep that night. And not just because of Brendan and his night-time indulgences. He must have thought he was quiet. Never had been though. Maybe if he'd had my room, next to Mom and Dad's, he'd be that little bit more careful. Like I had to be. Mom and Dad never said anything to me, so I must have kept it quiet. As the breathing and the snorting grew in volume next door, I sat on the edge of my bed, looking out of the window. Here, in the privacy of my own room, I'd slipped my hoof into the waistband of my underwear, taking that light and practised hold under my goat balls, feeling their weight. I'd always been proud of my size, especially after my first few encounters with other men. I learned rather quickly that others tended to exaggerate. So my honesty got me a few plaudits (and a fair few wide eyes). I had to thank my forebears for what they bestowed me. And I didn't simply mean Dad - though the glimpses I'd caught as a kid had certainly impressed me. No, I meant way back. Back when we were feral, unbridled, beasts of instinct and of pleasure. Like my feral.

I bet he put Brendan's teenage moans to shame.

Through the wall came a stifled stuttering bleat, followed by some long, deep, nasal grunts, and finally a sigh of satisfaction. It didn't even matter it was my brother. Now all I could think of was Goat Buck. Thanks Brendan. As my brother's breaths stilled and became inaudible, I bedded down for the night. My sheath was full, my balls pleasantly heavy after a day's abstinence, and the tip of my erection had emerged. But I decided not to follow my brother's example and indulge in that youthful ritual. Instead I lay there, for a good long while, the light of the moon and the stars offering scant illumination. I stared up at the ceiling beams. I marvelled at the strength of the wood, as solid today as when Dad built this place. I came from good stock, and I was filling out nicely now I was full-grown. But that feral goat... he was a whole other level. And now, maybe, I had a chance to encounter that strength for real.

*

When I woke the next day, I was hard. Not exactly an uncommon thing to happen. And this erection was fearsome, throbbing, taunting me, reminding me of my treachery for neglecting it last night. I gave myself a few lazy strokes. This itself was a luxury. Back in the city, I rarely had time to tend to myself. Usually once my alarm began to drone, it was straight out of bed, hard or not, to prepare for the day ahead. I was certainly tempted to give in. However I decided to behave. So instead I paced my bedroom, waiting for my arousal to soften somewhat, before I headed downstairs. You'd still see my half-hardness, but luckily there was nobody around to look.

Breakfast was oatmeal. Another home comfort, courtesy of my Mom. As usual, she'd used a little salt, a little cinnamon, and a great helping of maple sugar. I had never managed to replicate her recipe. Simple, hearty, and just what I needed to kickstart this day.

Mom joined me at the kitchen table. As good a time as any to tell her my plan.

"Again? Didn't you do enough walking yesterday?"

To tell the truth, I didn't. But I didn't answer her that bluntly. Instead I said something about 'being back home' and 'exploring my old patch'. She accepted that response, though she didn't look convinced. Mother knows best and all.

After breakfast, I packed some provisions: crackers, figs, carrots, and a few slices of fruit cake from last night's dinner. Mom suggested I take Brendan with me. Much to his delight, I explained that I'd rather go roam alone. Oh, and she also had advice for me. Of course she did.

"Now, I know you haven't been out in the backcountry for a while..."

"Relax, Mom, I know how to stay safe. I know to look out for snakes and spiders, and I know to be home before dark. I'm not a little kid anymore."

"You are to me."

In truth, I think she just wanted my company. Well, I would be back before dark. I knew better than that.

Before starting off, I detoured to the spring which supplied the drinking water in Appletree. There, I refilled my canteen. And then, I double-backed on myself, and set off through the forest path.

The day was a little cooler. So in the places where the tree cover broke, the temperature contrast wasn't overwhelming, and I wasn't darting for the next patch of shade. So there I was, back at the frontier, where the mammal kingdom ended and the wilderness began. It was untamed, uncharted, and perfect. The path wove and undulated here and there, but mostly it ran straight and downhill.

The path ended in a broad shallow-sided gully, where a trail of stones and pebbles cut parallel across it. A trickle of water flowed left-to-right across my path, the last remnant of the once-great river that had carved out this very valley. Some summer days I had reached this point, and the stream had dried up completely. I rested for a few minutes, chewed some figs and took a drink of water, before I pressed onwards. Most of my journey from here was uphill.

The forest trail was indistinct now. The going was tough, even for a sure-footed goat, and I could see why my father and his generation had pushed no further. After all, they had plenty to enjoy in Appletree: clean water, open skies, and peace away from the modern world. If they wanted more civilisation, there was Whiterock, three hour's walk away. And if they really wanted more modernity, they could take the railroad to the city. Even maps only detailed a few miles further this way, and beyond that, most simply said 'Forest' or something similar. Curiosity aside, nobody had reason to venture much further. There were enough riches elsewhere in the world. Riches to sell for profit, anyway.

Suddenly I stopped. There were hoof tracks up ahead.

They looked deep, and fresh, sunken a good inch or so into the soft ground. And they were big. As an experiment, I put my hind hoof in the imprint. Our shapes matched: the distinct ungulate cleft at the front, rounder at the back. But in terms of size, my hoof was dwarfed. How big was this animal?

Forest gave way to lone trees, and then to grass, before this too thinned out. I was high up now, though the hills in the distance rose higher, jagged and irregular. The hill formed a ridge, rising above the forests to form an outcrop of sparser vegetation and some bare patches of rock. One side of the ridge faced the valley, back to the road I took yesterday. I headed for the other side, where the terrain was rockier and the cliffs steeper. There were countless cracks and crevices in the rock face. My goat could be lurking behind any corner.

I reached a patch of mostly-flat ground, sheltered by a rock-face, the hills and peaks to the southwest looking lush in the midday sun. But still no goat. Maybe there was some way I could... attract him? Lure him? Would a wild goat eat fruit cake? Then I had a better idea.

Ferals were supposed to have keener senses, particularly their sense of smell. Maybe he wouldn't smell me if I simply walked around. Maybe I needed something more.

I turned to the bare rock face. I had no qualm about answering the call of nature with others nearby. Still less when I was the only one around.

I unfastened my trousers, took a wider stance, took hold of myself, and relaxed. Seconds later, I sighed, and began. I hadn't relieved myself all morning, so I had plenty to give. I sprayed my musk high, marking a good area of the rock face. My stream tapered away, and a soft breeze picked up, carrying my scent back down the trail. Good. That would help.

The day had almost reached its halfway point. As good a time as any for lunch.

I walked on a short way, uphill and upwind of my mark, and slipped my backpack off. I must have spent a good hour there, working through my provisions, or else drinking in my personal view. The sun was passing its zenith, ready to begin its slow journey west. I was all but ready to call it a day, to turn tail and begin my trek home, when I heard the hoof-steps.

It was a rapid step too, crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch, regular and solid and focused.

And when he appeared, I was mesmerised.

The goat stood proud, up above me on a rocky crag, surveying his kingdom. The wind ruffled the thick white pelt which covered his entire body and upper legs. His front hooves were a single stumbling step away from the precarious ledge. Yet he stood firm, and calm. And he was massive. Every part of him. Atop his head stood two solid greyish-black horns, which curved backwards and partly around his ears. His muzzle was long, broad and handsome. Long fur the length of his under-muzzle formed into a beard. And even with his thick fur, I could see the sheer bulk of his muscle.

And when he turned to face me, all I could do was stare back, dumb. He was magnificent. A hardy beast, sculpted and honed for a life in the wilderness.

He stared me down, unmoving, save for the flare of his nostrils. Taking in my scent. He had to be.

The feral goat descended a rain channel, every hoof-step landing perfectly despite the loose and shifting terrain. And as he dropped, stooping to my level, I watched his every step. The way he moved, the flow of muscle underneath that thick pelt. All of it was beautiful.

He stopped when he was a few steps off. I swallowed, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Um... do you... understand me?"

Silence. No shake of the head, nor a nod. Instead, he walked past me. He stood slightly shorter than me at the shoulders. But with his head, his horns, and his powerful body, he was by far the bigger buck.

And that body of his body was radiating. Both heat, and musk.

Confused for a moment, I followed him, until we reached the cliff-face I had marked. My scent was still noticeable here, though the sweeter notes had evaporated, leaving a bitter and slightly stale quality. The feral goat sniffed the cliff-face, taking in my scent, ending with a grunt.

Then he cocked his leg, and overlaid my scent with his own.

His scent struck me like a bell. There was a crispness to it, like dew on meadow grass. But he was still decidedly musky, and masculine, the concentrated liquid scent of an unwashed buck. And I thought I had pissed hard. This goat sprayed like a fire hose, an audible hiss issuing from his cock even before his mark splashed across the rocks, across the ground... He even marked the fur on his underbelly, amplifying his scent further still. And I watched it all, every spurt, every twitch of his sheath and that emerging length of pink. The civilised part of my brain told me not to watch, that this was dirty, this was primal... and therein lay my downfall. _This_was a goat. Raw, primal, how we should be. How we were meant to be. And how we were, when life was simpler and healthier. In seconds, all trace of me had been washed away, replaced with something wild and feral.

When he had finished, he lowered his hind leg, slow and measured, resuming his solid four-hoof stance. He stood broadside, his head tilted in my direction, an easy smile on his muzzle and a casual flick to his ear. A presentation, showing off his size to the maximum. He shook his head and thick neck, while the last of his musk dripped from his sheath. I watched it drip, and licked my lips.

The goat made no further move. He didn't need to. Like he knew I would close the distance. His breath was steady, and deep. He looked so calm, so assured. I reached out to him, with a trembling hand, and touched his pelt. It felt... familiar, but different. Coarse and bristly hair, similar to mine albeit longer. And yet, combined with the gentle shift of muscle, so much rolling muscle, it was unlike anything I had ever felt.

I took him all in. His size, his scent, his power. And as I stroked, pressed up closer to the buck, I noticed the familiar heavy warmth of my own arousal. I looked around, an instinctive action to preserve my modesty, but the goat had already dipped his head to my crotch. That was deliberate. He was pressing in close, nudging with his broad nose, feeling for my arousal and tracing my outline, with remarkable diligence for a beast so large. My cock twitched, constricted in my clothes. I felt so prudish. I needed to be closer to this animal. As close as possible.

I slipped off my jacket, and unbuttoned my thick cotton shirt. I took a final glance around, before I slid my trousers and underwear down, stepping out of them with a wag of my stubby tail. I cast my clothes to the side, and I felt the mountain air against my short goaty pelt.

So here we were. Two goats, one bipedal, one gorgeously feral, and both of us decidedly horny bucks.

He stood still, ready for my approach. This was only fair. I had trespassed onto his domain, his territory, the land he had marked and claimed. It was up to me to state my intentions. So, I began. I scritched his chin first, and the side of his muzzle, before moving behind his ear. That got a steady breath, and a twitch of the ear-in-question. When I stroked his neck and between his shoulders, that gained a full-body shudder and a stamp of the hoof. So I worked deeper, right between the shoulder blades, where he couldn't reach himself. But I wasn't about to stop there. I moved lower, along his strong back and onto his flank, before I dropped to my knees. I had to. I was not on the same level as this massive buck. Not even close. He stood, proud as ever, while I kneeled at his side. I stroked his rump, but something about the quiver of his hindquarters suggested he knew where my hand was heading. Where else? And when I reached underneath him, he widened his stance, giving me full access to his generous undercarriage. I rubbed along his fur, a single smooth movement, until I reached what I sought. Those goat nuts hung heavy in his furred pouch, and I took hold of one precious orb, lifting it and feeling its weight. The heat from his crotch warmed my hand, and I caressed the buck, one testis and then the other, until he issued a grunt, and his hindquarters began to buck. By now, the first of his arousal was slipping from his feral sheath. I used both hands, one on his balls and one on his sheath, taking my time to massage the buck, who shuddered and grunted. This must have been new for him too. It couldn't have been easy finding someone to caress him this way. If anyone ever had.

Suddenly he shunted his hips forward and arched his back, on instinct, assuming what I guessed to be his mounting stance. I pictured a doe underneath him, held in place by those strong front hooves, utterly unable to stop this enormous breeding buck from indulging his drive to rut. This was a big goat, a mature goat too. How many animals had he mounted? The doe in my mind was gasping, bleating, even mewling beneath this buck. My cock throbbed at that thought, a drop of precum pooling at the tip.

Well, why did it have to be a doe?

I released my grip on the buck, and turned my tail, heading for a small grassy mound nearby. Much as I wished we could stay close, this moment apart would be worth it, I knew. I lowered myself to hands and knees, arched my back with a sigh, and lifted my tail. I flagged it high, real high, giving my feral sire a full view of my furless under-tail. A fair number of my more intimate partners had remarked on my goaty tail, how much they appreciated soft flesh and only soft flesh as they sunk in, how the diamond shape and loose tailhole reminded them of something familiar, something that was 'meant' to be penetrated, or at least that's what they were taught. It was a comfort for those who had more to explore.

And here I was, exploring again. The next stage of the journey was a moment away. All I had to do was begin it.

So glanced over my shoulder, and uttered a bleat.

I tried to make it high-pitched, but not so loud that the sound carried. I caught his eyes, gleaming and amber, and I saw his smile, that warm confident smile, before I turned away, finishing with a sway of my hips. Again, that felt right.

He was moving closer. I heard the pad of his hooves on the firm ground. I took a breath.

He slammed his weight onto me, making me gasp, while he grunted his hot breath down my neck. I almost collapsed, but he held me up, gripped me with his hooves until I widened my hands, so I could take more of his weight. I needed to, because in an instant he started to shunt, and I felt him. Hard, insistent, feral and undeniably male. I shuddered underneath him, and breathed out, deep as I could. The pressure built under my tail, that feeling of his heated firmness at my stubborn tailhole muscle, and I willed myself to relax, to permit that union which our bodies craved, feral and bipedal alike.

He drove into me, and that time, my bleat was all natural.

The mountain rocked underneath me. The goat was brutal, taking me with full vigour from the start. He grunted on each thrust, and each thrust sent a jolt of pain through me and a yelp from my muzzle. The goat was firm and solid within me, and though I relaxed as best I could, as I always tried to, my arms were quivering, just with the effort of holding myself still. As a result, the buck did most of the work, ploughing and rutting into me, making sure I was compliant and ready for his full length. I felt myself yield, inch by inch and painfully so, but when he duly indulged me with his full obscene length, pleasure overrode pain in seconds, while he stretched me wider and drilled deeper at the same time, his thick-furred haunches nestling against mine, pinning my tail up, his quick bucks already accelerating and every muscle in his body drawing tighter. Had he nearly reached his climax this soon?

His thrust, full-bodied and tense, was my answer.

The goat's bellow was primal, almost unearthly. All around the hills it rang, to the forests and valleys and into every reach of this goat's territory. And at its heart, under the goat's very body, there I kneeled, breathless, wincing in pain, but taking every shot from the goat's hard cannon. Six of them I felt in rapid succession before I felt a familiar liquid warmth, a new and perverse dimension to our bestial sodomy. The goat continued to deliver, at least six more jets, at longer intervals but with barely any decrease in force. All too soon I felt him slipping from me, and I clenched my tail, praying that I could keep him in. But feral copulation is fast, and the buck withdrew all the same. He popped free and I yelped, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists, the pain of my stretched tail making me shudder.

I was starting to get up when I felt a hoof on my rump. I dropped back to all fours, and once again glanced behind me. There he stood, staring me down with those amber eyes, his cock as hard and twitching as ever. Stud.

I braced myself for the force to come.

And still he knocked the air from my lungs, almost knocking me muzzle-first into the grass too. Immediately he started to buck, and by the time I steadied myself, he had found his target. He penetrated me, smoother this time thanks to his copious cum. His vigour and his enthusiasm were as great as before, but he was grunting harder, and his thrusts were harder too, more deliberate, rending along my tender inner flesh, making me twitch each time, and making him grunt. He was working harder, driving himself to that second wild climax. And I had no doubt he would reach it. There was a raw, innate instinct which drove the beast. It was contagious, intoxicating, and I found myself flowing with him, rolling with him, bucking against him, shuddering out my breaths and spurring him on, giving myself over entirely, and aching for him to repay me double, remind me of the beautiful primal beast who was my forebear. Had I been so receptive, the ensuing surge of caprine semen would surely have furthered our species. And, had I been so receptive, I could think of no finer sire than this magnificent buck. But I was male, for what little it counted here, and thanks to a chance twitch of feral animal inside me, my own cock jumped to rigid attention, slapping my under-fur, and making me flow with a thin runnel of precum. I wasn't thinking then. I just grabbed my erection, and hoofed off as hard as I could. I pressed slowly back, only managing an inch or so before I met the resistance of solid unmoveable goat haunch. But the feel of him, combined with that little extra stretch of my tailhole around his thick cock-base, that was enough for me. I called out in pleasure, stuttering out a bleat which was nowhere near as magnificent as his feral cry. I shuddered, managing a paltry two shots before the rest trickled, wasted and useless, over my hand to the hillside.

This time, we held still. Goat upon goat. Buck upon buck. But we were not the same. Not even close.

If I had expected some post-rut affection, or even hoped for some, my sire was not forthcoming. In fact I was still basking in my afterglow when the goat withdrew from me, dismounted, and began to make his exit. I glanced upwards, and he granted me one final glance. He gave me a nod, before turning tail and skipping up the cliff-edge, his goat-balls heavy and pendulous behind him.

I stayed huddled over a few moments more, breathing hard, my arms shaking from exertion. My furless tailhole was too stretched to clench, and his feral goat semen was warm and viscous and deliciously filthy inside me. On top of that, I knew I reeked of him. However nobody paid much heed when I returned home and made a beeline for my room. After all, a goat on a day-long walk builds up a fair musk himself. In the privacy of my own room, with one hand around my cock, the other teasing my tailhole, and the memory of the rut burned into my mind, I brought myself to two, tense-bodied, near-silent climaxes. I hoped the scent of my own cum on my fur would mask his.

For the next three days, I returned to our breeding ground. However, the buck never returned. I would have thought it a daydream, were it not for the ache under my tail that took the full day and much of the next to subside. (In case you're wondering, I feigned a pulled hip from my walk.) My family were a little surprised that I still wanted to walk, and wouldn't I rather see out my vacation resting? But I told them I was fine. "Well, if you're sure..." Mom had counselled. And I was sure. Sure I didn't want to pass up another opportunity like that. But the opportunity did not return. I could understand why. Twice the buck had ventured close to civilisation. Almost too close. After all, the more of this world we tamed, the more danger for his kind. He knew the risks. And now he knew to stay away. We had our limits, the civilised world and the wild world, and he would respect those boundaries, even if I wouldn't.

However a frontier is never fixed. It shifts. And from time-to-time you stumble across a frontier, sometimes by accident, only to find that the creatures on the other side are more similar than you thought.