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Panting. Yips of pleasure. The wet sounds of thick shafts entering loose holes.

Two PM in the Crew Room, and the Stables Crew was hard at work. The metal rings at their necks jingled as they rode massive stallion dildos, stretching holes that had not been tight for weeks and making hard, muscled bellies bulge outward as they frantically pumped lube into themselves.

Lube that happened to be freshly provided stallion semen.

Some fucked one another, their strap-ons pushing deep into their fellow pups until they broke, whining and shaking uncontrollably as cumless orgasms wracked their fit bodies. And yet others practised their oral, sucking and slurping along the lengths of replica silicone masters, doing their best to fit the gigantic flares into their needy mouths.

Rule fourteen: your time is not your own. If you are not on active duty, you will be training.

Always failing. Always trying again.

Some were bad puppies, working off past failures with mere toys in the pens to earn the right to be a good puppy again. Some were the sub-alphas: those whom the stallions requested time and time again to fuck, until the pup's heads spun and their holes gushed equine cum like broken faucets. There were almost a hundred pups in the Crew now, servicing a stable of twenty prizewinning racehorses...but there was only one Crewpup Sixty-Nine.

He stood apart from the mess of debauchery and need, waiting indolently. The leather straps across his chest and neck were polished, immaculate. Bindings around his wrists and ankles awaited restraint, and his tail--lifted high by a rope tied to the back of his neck--made sure his sweet pink hole was always on display. The cold metal caging his dick shone in the light, ensuring he could never pleasure himself again. The only pleasure he felt now was on the end of a stallion's cock...and he was exceptionally good at it.

Crewpup Sixty-Nine was just a title, but whoever carried it was the true leader of the pack. And he always led by example.

Rule nine: your body is not your own. You belong to the stallions.

The light in the crew room dimmed suddenly as a tall figure stepped in from outside. Not a single other pup ceased their frantic efforts, but Sixty-Nine perked his ears, and his heart sped up.

The figure stood for a moment, taking in the lechery before him. He grinned.

"Sixty-Nine." Sixty-Nine's ears perked instantly. The voice of Master was commanding, and they knew never to disobey. "They're done."

It was time.

Sixty-Nine quickly followed when the figure left, each step tugging on the rope attached to his tail, making it bounce like a husky's. Outside, he could hear distant noises of cheering from the racetrack, but the pup ignored them. The races didn't matter; only what came after.

Ahead of him stood a group of racing stallions: tails and fetlocks bound with linen, blinders on their faces. They'd only just finished racing, he could tell. Sweat still ran down their enormous, muscular bodies in rivers, and they snorted and whinnied and snapped at one another as the testosterone coursing through them set their fractious, competitive natures alight. The pup could smell them from a hundred yards away. The wind carried their scent to him, and he fought to remain on his feet. His training had been comprehensive, and it told him that the smell of stallion required being on his knees.

Rule seven: if you are not being bred by a stallion, you must be worshipping one.

When the horses noticed their approach, they ceased their bickering and turned to watch. The pup squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to keep walking, doing his best not to simply fall onto his belly like a worm and crawl up to the incredible studs standing before him. The studs who never wore any clothing that might obscure their crotches, who saw it as a mark of achievement to race without bothering to restrain the monstrous balls that hung between their legs. They pushed through the pain of those giant nuts knocking into their tree-thick thighs as they hurtled down the racetrack...because they knew, when they crossed the finish line--their balls aching, full, needing to be discharged--they would have a whole harem of pups to use to ease the pain.

Pups that existed for their pleasure and their pleasure alone. Pleasure made possible by the enormous, veiny horse pricks that hung between their legs. Each a perfect match to one toy in the Crew Room, and each named for its owner.

Beast. Thor. Python.

Not a single racehorse was under ten feet tall, and not one sported a cock less than twenty-eight inches. The top of a pup's head would barely graze the underside of a stallion's penis if both stood face to face. At times, Sixty-Nine had found himself lifted into the air by a stallion unwilling to wait longer and fucked helplessly like a living fleshlight, suspended from the horse's firm grip on his leather gear. Forced up and down the stallion's incredible length, the thickness of the equine's member spreading the pup apart until he felt nothing but the sweet ache of muscles that could not stretch any more and the hot pressure of a stud's flesh against his.

Sixty-Nine desired it more than air. It was his purpose.

Rule eighteen: if a stallion is unsatisfied, you are a bad puppy.

Walking past the wall of erect stallions--their dicks so big they could only ever hang straight down, their muscles hard from the exertion of the race, their immense forms the very pinnacle of male fitness and power--was always the most challenging part for Sixty-Nine. The desire to be a good boy, a good puppy, a good slave--to drop and moan and beg and suck and swallow and earn his daily cum ration here and now--he stumbled a couple of times, resisting it. Nobody helped him. If he fell, if he failed to do as he had been told, if he chose to be weak and pleasure the stallions right here with his throat, rather than in the manner they preferred...well, there were a hundred more pups eager to earn the title of Crewpup Sixty-Nine.

There were always more.

But he had not earned the title for no reason. He remained aloft; he kept walking. The racehorses' musk, their scent of sex and need and sweat and sheer stallion dominance, assailed him...but he did not fall. He walked through temptation and survived. They were into the stables. Master waited by the mounting bench, and the pup shivered with anticipation to see it.

"Get on," Master commanded him.

As if Sixty-Nine needed to be told. He climbed atop the bench, resting on his belly and spreading his legs and arms wide. Master knelt to chain them in place, ensuring no free movement--no escape, the pup thought, his thoughts churning wildly--and then tightened the rope at the dog's neck to hike his tail up even higher. The canine's dark pink hole pulsed like a starfish, begging for anyone to use it. Repeatedly, if possible.

Sixty-Nine was ready.

For a short while, the pup's hard panting was the only sound in the stable. The air was thick with the promise of mating: a mix of his own excited leakage, the roiling, hormone-soaked air from the stallions grouped outside, and the memory of past breedings: soaked into every atom of this place. This was holy ground, and the high priests would soon arrive to begin their carnal rituals.

Master reached down to push a gag into the pup's mouth, fastening it behind the pup's head. The horses did not care to hear much from the pups they bred. It was not, after all, their pleasure that mattered. He took a few steps back, looking over the restrained pup, then nodded in satisfaction. His clothes came off next, landing in a pile next to him, and the pup got a greedy eyeful of Master's own horseprick. He was nowhere near as big as his racehorses, but he was still a stallion, and his cock still made drool run out around the gag in Sixty-Nine's mouth.

"Stables Crew lucked out with you, huh, pup?" Master drawled. Master was so attentive to his pups and his stallions. He always watched them when they were together. One hand cupped the massive balls between his legs while the other stroked lazily up and down his fat shaft. "Takes three other pups to keep those big boys drained, and you do it all by yourself." He stood up suddenly, walking back over to the pup's face until his ball sack pressed against the dog's nose. "I like your dedication, Sixty-Nine. And so do my boys. As you know."

A snap of his fingers, and the pup heard a stomp behind him. He shivered uncontrollably, remembering which stallion had been first in line outside--and all the times he'd fucked the pup before this. Both personally and by proxy: late at night, when the pup would take his lifecast dildo and ride it for hours until endless, primeval orgasms wracked his form and left him a twitching, whining puddle on the floor.

Thor.

The biggest racehorse of them all. Thor always won. He always had first go at the Pup of the Day. With his gigantic legs, corded with muscle, built to run for hours...or to fuck. The thick chest that heaved as he fucked his cock down a dog's throat or into a dog's hole. His immense form, so much bigger than any pup, looming down over them like a force of nature. A force of lust. And the cock that force possessed...fuck, Sixty-Nine dreamed of cocks like that every night. But Thor was, somehow, bigger than the dream. Every time. The racehorse didn't have a cock; he had a battering ram. Nothing could stand before it. It expected--demanded!--worship.

Rule two: any stallions will use you whenever and however they desire. You will not decline.

The pup whimpered and lifted his tail even higher, spreading his legs as much as his restraints would allow. His body would be the temple for that prick. It was the way.

"Look at that," Master murmured, petting the dog's head. "I can smell the need coming off you, pup. And so can Thor. He's dropped all the way, now, pup. That giant cock is hungry to breed. You think you're up for it?"

The dog's tail wagged wildly.

"Good. Let's see."

Abruptly, the racehorse was looming over him: gripping the metal bar over the pup's head with one hand for support and pushing his cock against the dog's needy hole with the other. The pup almost screamed with anticipation to feel the pre-cum-slickened head of the stallion's cock pressing against his madly flexing hole, seeking entry with wild, excited thrusts. Master pulled his balls from the pup's nose and walked around to the side, laughing.

"You've got Thor so excited he can't even fuck. Impressive."

A low whisper and two hands gripped the racehorse's cock, guiding it lower until the massive flare caught snugly against the dog's tight hole. The pup had a second to wonder again at the incredible size of the horse--and then, with a scream of triumph and a single powerful thrust of his hips, the stallion entered the pup.

The pup's muffled scream was still audible through the gag. His eyes rolled up into his head as his body filled with the hot, pulsing, throbbing, masculine might of thirty-one inches of prime stud dick filled him instantly. The racehorse had no word, no concept for "wait". He was a racehorse: a living machine, created for a single purpose.

And right now, that purpose was to fuck.

Sixty-Nine was reduced to reactionary sounds: moans and yips and guttural noises from a primal place, deep inside, that knew that being filled by a stud's cock was all he was good for. As the stud's purpose was to fuck, so was it the pup's purpose to be fucked in turn. To receive the stud's hot seed. To be a vessel for his pleasure.

Each mighty thrust of the stud's dick into the pup's body rocked the bench with its strength. The horse's mouth curled into a flehmen rictus, spit drooling from one corner and landing on the back of the pup's head. The lack of mercy in his fucking was impossible, fantastic, unbelievable. Each thrust made every single inch of his prick disappear inside the dog's hungry ass, stretching it ever wider and bulging the stomach on the other side. His flare was soon so large that he could no longer withdraw it and merely fucked it back into the dog's churned depths on each snorting thrust.

"Fuuuuck..."

The dog's glazed eyes and pleasure-dulled senses could just make out Master standing next to them, his greedy, lustful gaze locked to the sight of his racehorse's cock ramming into the dog. Master was masturbating with wild abandon, lost in lust. His own cock--impressively large, but nothing like that of Thor--aimed right at the dog's face, his flare fat and hot.

"You like Thor fucking you, huh, pup? Fuck, you're taking all of him... that's so fucking hot." He grunted, and a shot of pre-cum spat from his pisshole to hit the dog's face and dribble down his cheek. "He's breeding you so fucking hard, you little horse-slut... you're gonna have a belly full of colts when he's done..."

The dog could barely hear Master's words through the assault of pleasure and smells and sounds. He could feel the stallion's balls smacking against his taint, the monstrous orbs easily ten times the size of his. The slap echoed through the stable, matched with the wet sounds of Master's masturbation and his own choked whines of unimagined pleasure...but all of it secondary to the slurping, sucking noise of the incredible cock turning his tight ass into a well-fucked gaping tunnel.

The racehorse's whinnies grew faster and louder, and Master moaned. "He's gonna cum, pup. Oh, he's gonna cum soon..."

The pup's eyes closed, scrunched tight, and he did his best to tighten his ass around the colossal dick inside him. He never wanted this to end. He wanted to be the stallion's fucktoy forever. But if it had to end...he would keep every single drop of that fantastic cum inside of him. Until he was alone later and could push a toy all the way inside him and relive this all over again...

The stallion came.

The first shot hit Sixty-Nine's insides like a punch from a boxer. The second, too. Hot fluid filled him, and the volume was so immense that for a moment, he thought the horse was pissing inside him. But no: this was just how much a true stud came. How much semen those giant baseball nuts held. Of course they did; he was a racehorse, but that was just what he did. What he was born to do was breed: to make a new generation of ultra-hung studs. Those massive balls held enough cum to create thousands more of him. Thousands more horny, needy stallions. All needing a pup to satisfy their endless lust.

Three, four, five, six...

The ejaculations kept coming, and the horse kept fucking.

Something wet hit the dog directly in the face. Master was orgasming at the same time as his racehorse. Every thrust the huge stallion's cock made was now accompanied by a wash of searing hot cum, flowing down the pup's ruined hole, caged cock, and quivering legs. And yet, the stallion just kept going. The flare felt bigger than the pup's head; his stomach bulged with stud dick and horse cum. This would never end. This was his life now. He would be fucked by this horse for all time, watched by Master: the two equines orgasming together forever as their caged, obsessed fucktoy whined and begged and shivered under their combined desire.

Thor did finish, eventually, and his pull-out made Sixty-Nine cry. Partly from pain, and partly from the anguish of being empty again. He realised, as he always did, how he'd been so empty before he'd joined the Crew. Only horse cock had managed to fill him, and now nothing else could ever match it again. Cum splashed out of him, his loose hole unable to keep it all, splattering down over his thighs and feet and cock. He would stink of Thor's seed for days. Oh, he hoped he would. The racing stallions were the peak of equine power, and mares would pay millions for a single night with them, merely for the hope of carrying their colts. Yet he was granted the privilege of receiving that kingly seed over and over again...and all he had to do was serve his powerful equine masters without question.

No sooner had the racehorse dismounted than the pup felt hands on his ass and a tongue on his hole. Master's greedy moans as he sucked up his racehorse's priceless semen were nearly bestial in their intensity. When he stood back up and forced his still-hard cock into the lubricated hole before him, it barely registered on the pup's overloaded nerves and senses. Master only lasted three or four thrusts before screaming and emptying another load into the pup, adding his cum to the vast sea swilling about inside him. Master groaned happily, then pulled out and walked back around to the pup's face.

"Fuck, boy," he panted, "that really is a fine ass. Thor fucking wrecked it, though. You're gaping like a mare in heat." He lifted his cock and smeared the cum on it over the pup's face. "That was a surprisingly good opener, I must say. Do you think you'll make it through all twenty this time?"

The pup could barely lift his head, but he managed a nod. The last time, he'd passed out after the thirteenth cock. The pleasure had simply been too much.

"Good boy." Master undid the pup's gag, inserting his cock in its place and slowly fucking its length down the dog's throat, accompanied by minimal choking. "Because watching them fuck is the best fucking aphrodisiac in the world. You agree, don't you?"

He did. For their birthdays every year, Master gave each pup a video. It would be many hours long, and it would contain every second of footage of every single time they'd pleasured a racehorse in the previous twelve months. They'd be given the day off--and a room full of dedicated toys--to watch it and enjoy themselves. It was the best day of the year for anyone in Stables Crew. Apart from every other day.

Master walked a little distance away. Sixty-Nine heard metal clinking against metal and leather being loosened--followed by a huge gup of air and desperate whining. Ah. A new pup. Restrained somewhere close by during a session, to learn how to be around a stallion's breeding musk for an extended period without passing out.

The whimpering got closer.

"Wash him up, pup," Master commanded, and Sixty-Nine felt a tongue lap madly against his legs and caged cock as the new pup did his best to clean him up. Before he was close to done, though, Master snapped his fingers once more. Sixty-Nine heard hooves stamp the ground behind him, and a deep snort. The next racehorse had entered the temple.

Rule one: the stallions are the masters. Always.

His restrained tail wagged with all its might.