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In Which Master Goat and the Famous Cock Part Company

Chapter 1

The goat was in his element. A small crowd gathered round, some regular customers, some simply curious to see the spectacle. A broad and, some might say wicked, grin spread across Milo's delicate, youthful caprine face as he railed the raccoon's ass.

Milo liked to keep it fun, theatrical. Since it was right out in public, and in front of some good customers, might as well put on a good show, after all. The lithe teenaged goat, manager of the family-owned Master Male-Modders, had something of the ringmaster about him in red jacket-and-bow-tie combo he'd taken to wearing recently, top hat nestled majestically atop his horned head framed with his long, dip-dyed headfur, which nicely contrasted with the total and unrepentant lack of trousers or underpants on his lower half. This was, as it happened, all part of the dress code of this store, a renowned establishment of deviancy owned by Milo's venerable grandfather. Since the old goat himself didn't actually come to the store in person too much, though, as far as Milo was concerned it was his swashbuckling young self who ruled the roost round here, laying down the law with the mighty truncheon between his legs.

Which, as it happened, was precisely what he was doing right now. The raccoon, Milo's employee, gasped and whined, letting out the odd little yip of alarm as the hard helmet-head of the goat's prodigious phallus slammed punishingly into his prostate. The young manager only grinned wider, the horns on his head seeming to lengthen to match his devilish expression at the sound of those little yelps. Music to his ears! His engorged stud-muscle only grew harder still as it slid rhythmically in and out of the coon's tortured ring, the Jacob's Ladder that ran along the underside of Milo's lengthy shaft chafing the inside of that chubby butt even more. The spectators whooped, chuckled and whistled.

The whistling reached its climax at the same time Milo did, his supple bare thighs and calves tensing up as his caprine fingers dug into the coon's round rump. His thick adolescent seed filled his employee's asshole almost to the brim, making the masked fellow moan most submissively. Finally Milo pulled the great length of his schlong out casually, almost lazily, and, panting lightly, stood back up before his appreciative audience with that gently softening meat swinging pendulously between his legs, dripping carelessly all over the floor. As the goat casually lit himself a cigarette, the smiling and blushing raccoon stood up straight too, revealing the little nub above his coinpurse where his own penis had once been, now gently dribbling coon-cum.

"So there we have it ladies and gents," Milo said at length, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand, taking the lit cigarette louchely in his other. "Enjoy the show, ya god-damn pervs?"

The small audience chuckled and murmured appreciatively, many of them blushing and grinning.

"And that's a very cogent example of how a penectomized male, such as my charming little assistant Ristin here, can still get his rocks off," the goat continued. "Of course, having a magnificent specimen such as my illustrious self available to bust open his asshole with this huge hot hose of mine is ideal, but other, less impressive, males could also do the job in a pinch. So we here at Master Male Modders especially recommend this procedure for males who like to take it up the posterior, or for males who deserve no more." He gave them a little wink.

Many customers chuckled at this. Many of them had their phones out now, and began asking if they could take a photo to post for their various friends and followers. Milo happily obliged, grinning broadly, hands on hips, as he stood with his long bare legs spread confidently to give them a good view of his trademark thick, heavy merchandise, while Ristin also posed bashfully with his dickless crotch on full display. This was an all-too common request given the store's cult fame as a temple of niche debauchery.

"Excuse me, young sir," one plump sheep-lady asked Milo, "I hear there are certain days of the week when customers can also take advantage of your... talents?" She eyed the goatlog between the manager's thighs with a mischievous little smile.

"Right you are, madam," Milo grinned toothily. "On Friday afternoons we have the Manager Meat Special, with a full money-back guarantee if the manager, that's yours truly of course, can't fully deeply satisfy you. We take no responsibility for any damage that may occur to the customer's cornhole, mind, so do exercise caution."

"Oh, I'll bear that in mind, you naughty boy," she chuckled, before walking off looking rather hot under the collar.

The rest of the afternoon consisted largely of Milo and his raccoon employee giving other customers the usual spiel about the various extreme and kinky piercings the store had on offer, and even attempting to talk a few males into contributing to the Collection. One rabbit-guy, who showed them his goods while getting measured for a piercing, got all offended when Milo tried patiently to explain to him that there was simply no point in keeping that little bean of his intact, and that it would look better decorating their wall while he got his cute little nub pierced instead. Another customer, a handsome (but very dumb) blue-eyed, white-furred husky in his mid-twenties, sheepishly showed the young manager the penitent stub where his cock used to be, explaining that he had been tricked out of the pride and joy in question a few years ago (no wonder), and enquiring as to whether there was any way they might, given their reputation for harvesting malehoods, provide him with a fresh organ for transplant. Milo naturally ignored these pathetic entreaties in favour of constantly cracking dickless jokes until the silly prickless pup finally flounced out in a huff. There was just no reasoning with some folks, the goat later observed with a smirk as he was lounging with his hooves up on the desk watching Ristin clear up for the day.

"Well, sir, I sometimes find a nicer approach can work wonders," Ristin replied with a little smile from his kneeling position as he scrubbed the remains of his manager's seed off the floorboards. "You know, telling the customer about all the upsides of having their..."

"Nice? I'll have you know I'm always nice, you cheeky crop-cocked coon," the goat snapped. "Besides, I don't pay you to have opinions."

"Of course, you are, sir, sorry, my mistake," his employee replied with a bashful little smile. "Although to be fair, sir, technically you don't pay me at all. It's your grandfather who..."

"Pff, don't give me that sauce." Milo waved his cigarette-holding hand irritably. "I don't remember you being pedantic before, for frick's sake don't start now. Anyway, this is basically my shop now, s'far as I'm concerned. My grandad used to run it himself back in the day, till he got too old, crotchety and, let's face it, ugly, but now I think we can agree it's hit its stride again thanks to me, and, who knows, maybe even to a far lesser extent, you..."

The young manager broke off suddenly, catching sight of Ristin's wide-eyed face staring at a point just past his own shoulder.

"Oh, for fuck's... he's standing right behind me, ain't he?"

The raccoon nodded apologetically.

Removing his feet from the table, Milo swivelled slowly round on his chair, the long, austere and bespectacled face of his grandfather, Markus P Bulginski, gradually gliding into view.

Scarcely missing a beat, Milo's own face slid into a broad and cheery grin. "Evening, Gramps! Didn't hear you slip in!"

His grandsire didn't grin back. "Evening." He was dressed in a dark suit which was lent an extra air of gravitas by the cane he always carried. Lifting a wrinkled, knobbly hand, he tipped his top hat coolly. "So, what was that you were saying about this being basically your shop now, boy?" he asked matter-of-factly after a brief pause.

"Eh..." the young goat shrugged expansively. "Well, ya must admit, Grandad, this place has been getting a whole lotta customers under the watch of yours truly, what with my natural charm, charisma, and... well, talents..." a cheeky little smirk crossed his impish face as he gave his bare penis a casual little scratch where it flopped lazily between his legs.

Markus' eyes flicked down momentarily to his grandson's great trouser-snake before fixing him with the same cool gaze once again. The young caprine liked to fancy that there was a hint of jealousy in that look - a hint of annoyance, at any rate.

The old goat paused for a moment before speaking. "So, Master Milo," he said coolly, "You're the up-and-coming young star and I'm the crotchety, ugly old grandad who's had his day, is that the way of it?"

"Erm... well..." Milo felt a little unnerved by the combination of his grandsire's blunt words and the baleful stare of those inscrutable old eyes. "I mean, I think that's a bit of a harsh way to put it..."

"Your own words, you mean?"

"Ahaha... well, touche, Gramps. But, ah..."

"You know, perhaps, you're right." The upright old goat turned abruptly away, strolling across the room, inspecting the vast wall housing his prized Collection. Pausing next to a particularly fine stuffed bat-dong, he picked a speck of dust off the tip. "I cannot ignore the realities of life simply for the sake of my own ego. Every beast has his time, and must accept it with grace and humility when his time is up. The way of all flesh, as they say."

Without answering, Milo glanced curiously at Ristin, who was looking up from his cleaning duties with a similar air of bemusement.

"Perhaps it's time. But then again, perhaps not." Markus turned back towards his grandson, a curious half-smile playing about his lips. "You believe you are ready to replace me, my fine likely lad. Not content to be just the manager of this establishment of ours, you wish to be the proprietor. Don't try to deny it! Well, challenge me for it you may. I propose a contest, maybe one that'll be right up your alley."

The venerable goat tapped the sensitive head of his grandson's fat glans with the pointy beak of the carved bird's head that topped his cane, making the lad flinch a little, though Milo tried to regain his composure and meet his grandfather's penetrating stare steadily.

"You put great stock in this great cock of yours, don't you, my young friend? And well you might. But let's find out if it can come through for you when the chips are really down! The test I propose will pit your swinging young malehood against my trusty old one. It will be a test of male sexual prowess, that's all I will say for now. As to the exact details of the contest, well, figuring those out will be part of the test."

Milo stared back at his grandfather incredulously, convinced he must have misinterpreted some part of what he'd just heard. "And... so... if I win, you'll... give me the shop? As in, make me the owner? And you'll just, what... retire?" It all seemed far too good to be true.

The strange half-smile on the aged caprine's face only grew wider. "You're wondering what the catch is. Well, you're right of course, since I'm risking the shop, of course there have to be some other stakes too, but these stakes will apply to both of us."

Pausing, Markus slowly turned to admire the Collection, Milo following his gaze.

"You know, it's funny, isn't it. All those fine phalluses, and not a single one of our own species among them. A bit of shame, wouldn't you say, considering how gifted we billy-goats are in the trouser department? One of us could be the crowning cock of the Collection, my lad. Especially you. But I daresay mine would also serve, if I'm the one who comes up short in the end."

Milo's eyes widened as he stared at the wall of preserved malehoods, his heart beginning to pound a little as the full implications filtered through. A little tingle ran down between his legs through the bare organ in question, his strong shaft twitching a little as the thrill of sudden danger coursed through it. Risk it all, his pride and joy itself, for a chance to (in effect) replace old Markus as head of the family? And all before his twentieth birthday? All the members he'd helped his grandad harvest from other hapless males in the last few years, and yet the prospect of his own majestic ladhood being put in peril has never even crossed his mind... but, a test of "male sexual prowess"? Against his doddering old gramps? How could he ever lose?

The younger goat glanced sidelong at his elder. "You're... actually serious about this, aren't you, Grandad?"

"As a priapism, my boy."

Milo's malehood stirred and twitched harder still, as though to give him courage.

"You're on, old man."