Monthly Inconvenience
#4 of Flash Fiction
A muscular horse man is in a bit of a bind due to a condition that was forced on him.
Word count: 972
What a terrible night for this to happen.
My hooves crush twig and grass as I leave the village in a hurry. Only one thought goes through my mind again and again: "Shit! Why did it have to start now?"
It has been a while since this began happening, but I will never get used to it. I blame myself for not preparing beforehand, as I had felt the discomfort that usually precedes it. Well, it's no use thinking about "what-ifs" right now.
My muscular, equine frame dashes through the forested hills that surround my meek home as I look for that sweet-spot where I'm farther enough from the road that no one will hear or see me, but I'm still close enough to civilization to find my way back easily.
After minutes--that in my agony were hours--I finally found it: an open clearing within the woods. By the time I got there, my breath was heavy and my body was tense. It was time to "relieve" myself.
I do a last check to assure there was no one around or close enough to catch me before I undo my red checkered kilt. Once the sight of my slightly wet undergarments meets my eyes, I hesitate in repulsion. I quickly shrug off the pain, however; I must.
When I pull the loincloth down, I reveal my shame to the crisp air; my hole, my vagina damply quivers. The mere sight of it brings me back to how it came to become this way.
Less than a year ago, I made a living hunting animals and slaying monsters for the village I grew up in. Back then, a wandering wizard threatened to harm all villagers with his foul spells, and so they chose me and a handful of mercenaries to stop him. But I fell into a trap. The mage tortured and experimented on me; robbing my masculinity. Eventually, we felled him, but my body was never the same.
I met with the town's physician, the only keeper of this secret, and we slowly learned more about my new form. Notably, once a month--just like a woman--my body would expel unused reproductive material. But, unlike most women who secrete a bloody mess, I now lay eggs; large, round eggs, like an avian's.
I was immediately disgusted by it, by myself; even vowed to take my own life instead of living as an aberration. The good doctor talked me out of that and now helps me pay tributes as I can't fight in this new body.
My remembrance is cut short when my pussy quivers harder. "They're coming," I mutter to myself.
I squat and ready myself for them to come out. But as much as I push and squirm, the bastards refuse to move. That happens sometimes. I just need to coax them out.
Damn them. Is it not enough that I have to go through this? Must I also play with my repulsive hole?
My fingers shyly draw closer to my hole and massage it. It's wet; I'm wet. The emotion is strange but pleasant; powerful waves travel from my entrance to my edges. I keep touching it until I can sense the egg getting closer.
And that's perhaps the worst part of it all: I enjoy it. The moments leading up to it are painful and discomforting, but every second of the actual process is heavenly. As humiliating as it is to say, I always let go of my disgust in favor of my pleasure.
I keep rubbing myself. My fingers dance gracefully, merely scraping my folds is enough for me to moan. This sex is far more complex and powerful than a penis; I'm able to climax again and again from my tender touch.
My mind is no longer in the eggs anymore. It's a sacrilegious thought, but I can't help but imagine the touch of another man on my vagina.
Such profane thoughts have always been there; my new form, ironically, just makes them come out more easily. The problem is that, as I lose myself to pleasure, I keep picturing a man in particular.
One mercenary, the one who saved me, has stuck around town to see me get back to fighting fit. He's kind, patient and attractive; and I think I love him.
Earlier tonight, I had planned to reveal both my attraction to him and my secret. But need called louder, and I had to excuse myself before I could blurt it out.
I cannot hold back from whispering his name as I finger myself. My dancing digits easily become an imagination of his dick penetrating me. I want him badly.
The movements summon quiet, wet noises. I can tell I'm getting close to an orgasm and that the eggs are getting close to escaping my insides.
Finally, I remove my hand and put both my knees on the ground. And as I release a sharp moan, it all hits me in a flood.
The eggs, wet with my fluids, fall to the ground one by one. Bliss flows from my crotch to my brain, every time an egg flees from me. By the end, I'm a sweating, painting mess.
I have no time to linger in the afterglow, as my absence will become suspicious if I do.
As I rise, I inspect them. Eggs, my eggs.
How repugnant.
I crush each of the six of my spawns beneath my hooves, a yellow mess soils my horseshoes as clear liquid falls from my eyes.
They're disgusting! I am disgusting! Even if he reciprocates my feelings as a man, he cannot possibly accept a freak like me!
...
Takes a handful of minutes for me to regain composure. I walk back to the town in silence.
"Maybe someday I'll tell him and he'll discard me," I whisper.