# Stan Gets Fucked Author: Hawk Tags: Anal, Bad Language, Bareback, Doberman, Dog, Drugs, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Pony, Public, Toys "Stan Gets Fucked", by H. A. Kirsch. Copyright 2007. This story is edited slightly, only by me. I wanted to strip down my process a bit. It takes place \*before\* "Strake Was Here", so don't be confused. --- Stan had been in Lainsville for a week, and had another week to go before he could get the rest of his things from back home in Kentucky. The city was an odd place; more suburb than city, with a bustling moderately-sized downtown that had made a turnaround from dilapidated ex-steel town to trendy in-spot. The city planners had also been unusually progressive, and so the town was home to a sizable gay population. This led to a 'red light district' that was more a rainbow; book and porn shops, fetish stores, coffee shops, bars, nightclubs, a community center. Much of the 'gay district' was really just the stretch of Parker St, between 5th and Merrick four blocks away. At first glance, it was a seedy neighborhood, mostly due to the aging of the city and the reluctance to spend a lot of money to extensively re-build the infrastructure. After a little picking through, it was a vibrant and well-tread place. To the west and south, along Merrick and through the former Indian Spring Heights subdivision, the city suburb was gentrifying.   Stan's first encounter with downtown Lainsville was his trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get a New York state license. That afternoon, caught in a torrential downpour and finding himself standing in front of Dirty Dick's Toyshop and Bookstore, the doberman introduced himself to the depravity that Lainsville had to offer. A short jack-off session later, after watching an old videotaped human fuck film in one of the video booths at DD's, Stan was introduced to his first big attraction in the city. Actually, his first attraction in a few years. Coming into the shop, he'd been nearly knocked over by a large buck rushing out of the rain behind him. The buck had made his way into a video booth, only giving the cowboy-hatted dog an over-the-shoulder glance and a soft, "Sorry." Even with just a glimpse, Stan was more than impressed. The buck was leanly built, but broad-shouldered and cut well, packed into snug jeans and work boots, wet shirt clinging to the curves of his torso. With the apology, the buck's white tail flipped up, and Stan imagined what was underneath the denim that covered below it.   When Stan emerged, ears red inside, smelling like hand disinfectant and latex, the buck was checking out at the register by the door. He had a stack of a few magazines, a rental video disc - the packaging very clearly said "RENTAL ONLY - PROPERTY OF DD'S VIDEO RENTAL" all over it in obnoxious orange letters - and a small bottle of something. While Stan tried to look nonchalant, the buck gave him a cheek-bunching grin, eyes following the dog around the room. The look wasn't predatory at all, but it was knowing. Back home, Stan would have tried to puff himself up, or simply leave. Lainsville was different; Stan knew that having his splinted ears torn off was something that he wouldn't have to worry about. He'd have to worry about other kinds of 'attacks'. Embarrassed, the dog tried to hide by walking around the clothing racks to the wall of toys. An entire section was devoted to 'butt toys'. Stan looked at his butt over his shoulder; it certainly needed a toy. --- Stan was setting his purchase down on the counter, when he noticed a little plexiglas box full of all kinds of small glass bottles. "Hey, uh... I saw that buck who was here, he had one of.... so, what's-"   The cashier just slid him a pamphlet. It was written by the New York State Department of Health, and was a boring and dry treatise on the dangers of alkyl nitrite inhalants. The take Stan got was that he should never, ever concentrate and inhale nitrites. He squinted at the paper. "You know what? Every fucker who reads that does the same thing. I swear, they make us put that out or we can't sell them anymore." The cashier said this while munching on a bag of Funyuns. The cashier was a rat, and appeared to be about five years younger than Stan's twenty-eight. "'Smooth muscle relaxant', huh," Stan said, and put the pamphlet back. "What's a smooth muscle?" "Your asshole," the rat said. Besides rudely eating, he was red-eyed and smelled like wet socks and freshly-cut lawn. Baked. "If you're some hardcore fuck who wants a guy's thigh up your boy pussy, buy one of the bottles. Otherwise, it's going to just go stale and make you feel like someone whacked your head with a hammer." The kid said this with a stoned lack of emotion.   Stan took out his wallet, to pay for his purchase of a toy. 'The Assistant,' the box said. It looked like a wavy, nobbly purple piece of abstract art. The box said it was, 'Perfect for beginners, or experienced anal excursions.' "I don't think I want anyone's leg up my ass," the dog said, ears flattening out against his hat when he heard his own drawl compared with the loud, East Coast accent of the rat. "If you want an easy to use thrill, go old-school. See these?" The cashier took out a demo sample of a piece of gauze with a glass ampule. "Roll, snap, and bend over. Lasts about fifteen minutes. Box of about.. well shit, fifteen for fifteen. I'll take off four bucks because you're nice and one buck because that buck was giving you pretty-eyes." "Uh, sure, add those in." The price came out to a neat eighty dollars, which made Stan wince. 160 dollars and all he had was a dildo, some dubious drug that you were absolutely \*not\* supposed to use, and a driver's license. --- That night, Stan ate dinner - takeout from a chinese place down the street from his little ranch apartment - and then tore off the day's clothes. After a brief fight with a box-cutter, he had the new purple toy out of its clothes, too. It wobbled dangerously, and was significantly squishier than it looked in the package. The largest 'bulb' on it was bigger than Stan's own knot; the smallest the size of a fat marble.   The dog was already hard as a rock as he hopped into bed, lying back against a few pillows. The bedroom was oddly-shaped, and the only way his queen mattress fit was if he had it across from where the closet was. The closet took up almost an entire wall, and the doors were mirrored. Stan got a look at his taut, sleek-furred thighs, and the pink little hole above his tail stub. He often preened in front of a mirror, making sure his workout regimen was working. Now, he wondered if this is what guys liked to see. He twisted around and rummaged in a nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of silicone lube, and splurted a dollop onto the purple monster's head. His fingers spread it around, and then he hooked an arm around under one knee, splaying himself apart. The marble-sized knob of the toy wobbled and smeared glistening lube around the pink hole, then pushed inside. Stan liked that; no pain, just a wonderful little thrill as his hole closed up around it, knotted dick tensing up, then slapping back down against his slick abs.   The second knob wasn't so easy, a little prick of pain. The third didn't feel good at all, a sudden cramp seizing the dog's virgin anus. He howled and yanked the toy out, curling onto his side, panting and grabbing the sheets. After a few moments, the cramp subsided, his red dick leaving streaks of precum on the sheets, knot half-deflated. Out came the box of poppers, out came an individual ampule in gauze. The dog balked at the idea of it; gauze didn't seem to be strong enough to withstand glass. He shrugged and snapped it, the cloth quickly soaking through, growing cold. The smell was overpowering even a couple feet from his nose, and when he held it up to huff at it, he coughed and snarled a quarter through the breath. The leftover ache from the cramp turned faded to nothing, run over by heat in his face, ears, crotch, all the way to the tip of his cock. In went the toy, up halfway with a twinge of pain, then back out. Each bump made his tailstub thwap the sheets, his cock jerk and spit precum out onto his belly.   He had another inhale off the cloth, this time smashing it against his nostrils. When the headrush hit, everything seemed darker, a little spotty, a big purple explosion in his vision. The toy slid in deeper, a wet slurp with each knob, until there was nothing left to push in. Stan grabbed his cock, pumping the meat of the shaft, setting the gauze aside as he reached for his knot. It wasn't even fully swollen, but he felt like he would go off any second. In the head-pounding, sex-lust haze, ass milking and tugging the toy in hard enough that he could feel the flange keeper bump his cheeks, he had a vision of the buck. Rack half-in, upper body clad in just a wifebeater, brawny chest, thin waist, powerful rump, slender and hard legs, chiseled muscles twitching, hand grabbing his crotch and unzipping his fly, cock spilling out - here, Stan inserted the human cock of the 'top' in the porno he'd selected while having a round in the video booth, hands pushing Stan's black and tan legs up and wide, pushing in, pumping back and forth, snorting like a rush of steam as he shot inside-   Stan accidentally snorted from the poppers-soaked gauze again, and seconds later his consciousness was obliterated by his climax. The only thing that existed was the howl of pain-pleasure, seed arching up and splattering his face before pumping out in an unusually forceless orgasm, pouring out over his hand and onto his shimmering abs. After the initial wave, Stan cramped up inside and yanked the toy out. He almost immediately fainted, the toy wobbling in his hand, seed hitting his face as he curled over to the side. The explosive climax faded quickly once he let go of his knot, and the doberman faded into a blissful, spent sleep. ---- When the weekend came, Stan decided to go out on another adventure. He couldn't stop thinking about the buck; normally he wasn't into anything other than canines, but this creature was such a fleeting glimpse at masculinity. The more Stan thought about him, the more it became an obsession. As the dog parked his car, he wondered if it was a good idea to try barging into a gay bar. Doberman pinschers were thought of as guard and attack dogs, and Stan had almost gotten into several bar fights simply by existing. He wasn't sure how a bar fight in a gay bar would go, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't go any better than in the rest of the public drinking world.   Stan's attempts at making himself look non-threatening also made him look like he was showing off. Butt-tight indigo 505 boot-cut Levi's, needle-toe black cowboy boots, tooled leather cowboy belt that his grandfather had given him, un-buttoned southwest-motif camp shirt, sand-cream felt cowboy hat. Back home, he'd been called a pretty boy, but attempts to put on baggier clothes got him called a ghetto-hound and he couldn't pull off the tough look since he was so thin. Looks were deceiving; Stan knew Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He just didn't fancy using it except as a workout. Parker Street was bustling with people. Teens up through middle-aged, club boys up to gray-beard leather daddies, muscle stud clones up through stone dykes. The few blocks that made up Lainsville's gay district seemed to house three bars: Maryanne's, which seemed to be a general bar and grille; the Parker Street Public House, a more standard-seeming bar; and The Pit, which looked like a featureless slab of concrete with a metal door. The dog was prepped mentally by some internet research. Maryanne's, despite the name, was almost entirely a gay bar, and often featured campy drag shows. PSPH was an all-inclusive LGBT spot. The Pit was, "Not for the faint of heart."   Stan made a few circuits up and down the street, getting his ego alternately pumped and his paranoia goosed by comments from a few guys. He wasn't sure what was worse; a single man giving him a leer and a swipe of the tongue over muzzle-lips, or two pairs of eyes following his ass halfway down the block as their owners walked arms-around. He sat down on a bench to people-watch, smartly snatching up a newspaper so that he wouldn't be mistaken for a prostitute. It wasn't a long wait. Over some traffic came a pair of antlers; when they cleared past a car, they belonged to a substantial buck. He was clad in rolled-cuff 501's, heavy work boots, and a thin bar vest. Instead of black leather, it was orange.. something. Hunter orange. Stan was in front of Maryanne's so that option seemed out. The buck was already past the Parker Street Pub, and just as he was moving in front of The Pit, a truck rumbled past and blocked the view. When it passed, the buck was gone. \_Oh shit\_, the dog breathed, and got up. He hadn't come out all the way out to downtown just to tuck his tail and get back in his truck. He didn't even have a tail to tuck. He picked his way across the street, and headed for the black metal door.   Inside was a little foyer and the thrum of bass. There were two doors, one up a few steps, the other down a significant staircase. There was one sign in between: "Get High", arrow pointing to the upper door, and "Go Down" pointing to the lower. The club music was coming from the lower door, and the buck didn't look like much of a kandy kid. Stan took Door #1. The door opened past a bouncer, who checked Stan's ID and collected a ten dollar bill. The dog found himself standing next to the end of a bar, a few tables over by the front wall on his left. Stan got himself a glass of Jack and paid up, then wandered around. The bar was dark and smoky, wood-floored and walled. Instead of normal light fixtures, there were cast-iron gaslight replicas. The walls were decorated by cowboy and riding boots, chains, shackles, hopefully non-firing single action guns, whips, the like. \_This is totally not my thing\_, he whispered to himself, trying to sort out the crowd. About half the patrons were clad in leather of some variety, the others at least wearing jeans and boots. There was a hatrack by the door, but no one was using it. That made Stan feel less bad about tromping around indoors with his hat plastered on his head. The walls were rimmed with booths and couches, tables making up most of the floor. A surprising number of the patrons were engaged in nothing more than drinking or talking, a few off in the corner apparently giving someone a bent-over spanking. It didn't seem too harsh, as the vulpine target was laughing.   The doberman didn't get too much attention, which would have had more impact if Stan wasn't trying to keep his eyes peeled for the deer. It didn't seem like it would be hard, thanks to the neon-orange vest, but the cervine had vanished completely. Stan took up at a lone table, and nursed his drink. He found himself gravitating to a group of bikers by the bar. He figured they were actually bikers as they were dressed in real riding suits, helmets making a neat row on the bar. As he watched, a gloved hand moved from one wolf to a boar who sat next to him, disappearing in front of the boar's body. The arm started to move rhythmically. Stan's ears pinned back and he looked away. His gaze fell on the bathroom door at the rear just as orange exploded out of it. The buck. Stan tried to figure out how not to stare, and ended up making himself look antsy, like he was meeting someone, flicking his eyes down at his watch, digging his phone out to check for messages that weren't really there. As the doberman watched from halfway across the room, the buck immediately spotted someone else, a splotchy brown and white pony-horse-something who was wearing a driving harness and a pair of saddle-leather chaps and a black cotton jock strap. The two apparently knew each other, both brightening up on sight. The buck then lifted hard-wrought, lean arms and embraced the pony, muzzles meeting in a wet, but quite short kiss. The couple moved around, arm around shoulder, the pony with a drink in his hand.   Stan felt defeated, and got up off his seat. He made his way to the bar, exchanging his empty whiskey for another, and just wandered. The archway to the back room looked like a black hole, just dim light coming out, the shape of a pool table and a booth in view. Stan moved up to one of the supports, in between the two worlds of the bar. The back room was full of sound, the jukebox music from the other room piped in all over the place, noticably louder. It smelled as dark as it looked, leather, floor polish, liquor, some smoke, and the smell of sex. The back room was intended to be some sort of pool and game room. Foosball, pool tables, a couple arcade machines. The arcade machines provided half the light in the room, the rest coming from a few no-trip lights or dim tiffany lamps that hung over the pool tables. The room was all booths, and they weren't even normal tables. Each had dark wood surrounds that went up over Stan's eartips, a little curve in the front that made a door. Inside each was a U-shaped leather couch and a wood coffee table. Two of them were occupied, and the lupine occupants weren't enjoying their drinks, but each other. Specifically, one was enjoying the taste of the other's motorcycle harness boot, while his friend's hand made the unmistakable motions of an in-pants handjob via the boot-licker's jeans pocket.   Stan wandered in, lingered by one of the pool tables, adjusted his hat, then dug around for some change. He figured he'd pretend he was going to do a little practice. Then he thought about the implication of poking a stick at some balls and splayed his ears. It didn't help that he got a look from each of the wolves, before they went back to their own fun. The dog swiveled his head as he saw orange moving in the corner of his eye, out by the part of the bar near the back room archway. The deer spotted him right back, eyes meeting while making a cursory look around the room. The buck's head swung back to his equine friend, and then the pony's head moved over into view, getting a look towards Stan. It was entirely possible that the look was meant for someone else, but the only thing nearby was the dark gloom of the back room and the opening to behind the bar and the kitchen. The pony grinned before his head disappeared behind the buck's, and hands slid up around the orange-draped shoulders, then the two parted.   Now, the deer was turning, but instead of stalking right for the back room, he just disappeared towards the rest of the bar. The figure that did approach was the pony stallion, wandering over with the lazy clomp of expensive, lug-sole engineer boots. Stan swallowed hard and turned away, into the darkness. The sound enveloped him, the jukebox changing tracks. Someone decided that, "I'm So Afraid" by Fleetwood Mac was good bar material. Despite being old yuppie music, Stan though the song made a particularly nihilistic match with the bar. It also matched the dog's mood. The doberman bent over towards the pool table's coin slot, looking for how much it cost. He then stuffed a bony hand into his pants pocket and rummaged around. Keys, a condom, some receipts, and a little hard torpedo-shape; one of the amyl nitrite ampules. No change. He pulled his hand from the pocket. A hand descended down on his shoulder, and the dog jolted forward, thigh stabbing into the corner of the pool table. Stan swung his head around, looking up the arm from the thick hand; pony. A solid chocolate sort of color, with a few splotches of cream here and there, one large splotch on the chest divided into four unequal pieces by the ring and straps of the driving harness. Stan knew enough about horses to know that it wasn't just some sort of fashionable items; it was a real driving harness.   "Need some change, dog?" The dog's left thigh hurt, and he looked down at it, before looking back. "Uh. Well, I guess." "Bet there's some in between the cushions over in one of those boots. Back one's good. Way back by the exit sign. Guys're always taking their pants off back there," the pony offered. His voice was thick with a New Jersey brogue. "Let's go have a look." The pony left Stan, and walked to the back of the room, leaning on the opening to the boot. Stan followed, and by the time he got there, was aware of a wet sensation against his leg. It was more than wet, but cold, as if he'd spilled rubbing alcohol on himself. He felt at the spot, then sniffed his fingers; the noxious paint thinner stench of poppers. He felt a little twinge of heat flush up into his ears, cock stiffening in his tight jeans. When the dog came up next to the pony, he looked around; no one else had entered the back room, no heads were sticking out of the occupied booth. Stan pushed into the booth, and went to sit down. The pony didn't sit; instead, he drew up a huge boot and tromped it onto the corner of the low table, shoving it off to one side. Stan stared up at him.   "Don't know what to do? Well, you can bend over the table, or you can kinda sit your ass on it and lean back real far against the seat, or just kneel up on the seat. The one in back, there's a kinda ledge there, lets you lean over better." Stan's gaze dropped from the horse's mouth down the expanse of packed-in muscle - emphasized by the relative compactness of the pony's build - and towards the black fabric stretched over the horse's package. It was now so full of curved shaft and balls that it was actually pulled away from the equine's body. The horse dropped a powerful hand and started fooling with the fabric; when Stan saw black next, it was glistening wet. The dog felt a little twinge of panic and looked around the inside of the booth. The first two suggestions seemed a little ridiculous; the first involved sticking his butt nearly out the opening into the rest of the back room, and the second meant he'd get a nice look at anyone who walked by. Eye-contact was not what Stan wanted with on-lookers, or maybe even with the pony. Stan didn't even know what he was doing; he'd been hoping the buck would be there, but couldn't really imagine getting into a situation with him. Now that a pony with an impressive hard-on was about to fuck him, the dog's brain simply shut down and left him hard as a rock and scooting to the far end of the booth. Stan kneeled up into position, facing the wall, and undid his pants. His cock came out and he quickly unsheathed it, groaning as the furred flesh popped behind his growing knot.   The pony approached from behind, leather squeaking, and laid hands on the doberman's back. They stroked down the shirt, then slid under, pushing it up and feeling over the lean muscle. The equine leaned in, chaps creaking, the hard bulge pushing up against Stan's cleft. The dog hadn't felt anything like it before, body shivering at the hard male contact. The big hands slid back down from his shoulders, fooled around with something. Stan looked back to see the pony fooling with something under the belt of the chaps, then the black jock came up and off the cock it was hiding, the waistband disconnected. The horse's dick didn't look too bad, Stan thought, although it was still throbbing and stiffening up. The shaft looked to be about seven inches, but quickly ballooned up once it was free, and had to top out over a foot. "Not too bad" quickly became "Bad". The dog wanted to call the whole thing off, especially because his asshole insurance had run down his leg when the glass ampule broke inside his pants pocket.   The shaft lay against Stan's cleft, pushing past the tail stub; the pony fiddled with the few inches of tail that were left, stroking at it and curling his fingers around it like it was some other part of dog anatomy. The feeling made Stan go cross-eyed, the sensation turning purely sexual as the fingers left and stroked just above the tail, awakening the ancient fuck reflex that most mammals had. While the pony stood there, pushing his hips forward to nudge the fat mushroom head of his cock back and forth against the shiny black dog fur, he fished in a coin pocket and pulled out a little packet of something clear. He tore it open and, to Stan's dismay, produced not a condom but a streamer of oily lubricant around the head of the ebony shaft. There were no words from the pony as he pulled back and pumped a fist over his cock, leaving the skin glistening in the dim light. No words again as he took one of the slicked up fingers and plunged them into the dog's tailhole, making Stan push his muzzle down against the back of the booth couch as he was entered. The dog was stretched out from a few play sessions, all involving the purple toy and the image of being pounded by a strapping buck, but along with the looser muscle was a sort of sore ache. Stan's worries about being seen evaporated with that finger inside; all he could really feel was the skin and fur sliding through muscle. Then, two fingers, a little twinge of pain fighting with the impossible-to-describe feeling of fullness, penetration.   Then, cockhead. The pressure of the pony's dick denting Stan's hole in was very nice, but the actual insertion made the dog arch and gape his muzzle open. Stan bumped the wall, knocking his hat ajar; the pony helpfully straightened it, tilting it back to avoid further upset. The dog's muscles cramped up and he lurched forward, popping off the fat glans with an audible wet sound. The equine didn't seem fazed, rubbing his shaft back and forth, before pushing the head through again. The second round was much different, a twinge of pain but a rush of pleasure that felt more like awe to the doberman. Even the pain felt good, endorphins coloring the ache and burn the way a back massage can be painfully wonderful. And the fact that Stan was experiencing something for the first time, in the worst of circumstances, in public, with a stranger, was a powerful head-rush. The pony pushed in, and was soon almost as deep as possible, only a couple inches left. To keep the right angle, the stud had to pull a boot up and half-stood on the edge of the couch, knee bent. He dodged to the side and pushed in the rest of the way, forcing through the inner ring deep up inside the dog's bowels. Stan's jaw fell open, drool pouring off his chin and landing on the little ledge above the couch back. The dog pushed forward and felt a hard twinge run up his spine as the fat equine dick pulled back, then popped forward again. The pony got the message and gripped at the dog's shoulders, starting to thrust.   Each push forward felt like Stan was being punched in the gut, from the inside; each tug back made him tense up hard, body unwilling to let the invading cock escape no matter how unpleasant it was. The toy had prepared him for the girth of a cock, that important pop at the beginning, but not the sheer brute animal force of being violated by at least two hundred pounds of horse muscle and a foot of cock. After only ten or so thrusts, Stan's eyes were watering and squeezed shut, bowels aching from the hard pounding. The feeling of being punched increased until the pony snorted and brayed, his thrusts turning into just a deep, hilted push. Stan looked over his shoulder, confused, just in time to see the pony pull out, cock drooling white seed. The equine pumped a hand up the length, one last shot coming out, a messy blast that hit the dog between the shoulders and drooled down the back-pointing fur along his spine. Stan looked down; his cock was still knotted, the shaft slick with precum. The pony gave him a grab to the shoulder.   "Shoulda told me you were a virgin," the horse smiled, grin all square teeth, then stuffed his spent shaft into the jock and left. Stan stared after the horse, then skinned his shirt back down, feeling it slick down against the wet spunk. He pulled his pants up and stood, legs shaking, thighs sore inside from holding himself at some funny angle. Without looking back at the rest of the room, he pushed through the back exit and out into an alleyway, hurrying to his truck. Stan had to keep from looking back, because if he forgot about the incident, it would never come back again. Except when he jacked off, every night, for a week, the buck's face replaced by the glossy black chaps and bulging chest of the pony. Source: https://sofurry.com/s/YnLXovnL