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I guess, looking back, I was hopelessly naïve. I didn't realise this of course. No teenage stallion does, you think you know everything and the world is your oyster and everything is either shit or shit hot and you can find the latter and steer clear of the former with magic shitradar. I bet you will be the same, no matter what I say, and that's ok too. I just hope you make less mistakes than me.

I certainly had that delusion, I have enough insight to know that now. It's why I made so many mistakes, got into so many scrapes, and still kept going and learning (mostly the hard way). I was slow to learn though, and maybe that's the place I've grown the most. At least I try not to repeat the mistakes quite as fast as I used to.

It started on a cold January day. I can say that, cold January day, though back then, the concept was completely alien to me though it's probably second nature to you. Seventeen, finished school, and a bit lost. Truthfully, I coasted through year 12, and though my parents knew it, they were powerless to stop me. Football, rowing, going out with mates, drinking way too much beer, everything but studying really. When my results came out, my parents were appalled and I was just kind of glad I passed.

We discussed what to do, and my dad was all in favour of my repeating the year, but I wasn't having a bar of that. I'd done my time; badly, but I'd done it. So what if my only choices for university seemed pretty lame. All my mates were moving on though, to better unis than I could get into, moving ahead with their lives as if they never skipped a beat.

The truth, if I could face it, was I was a faker. I'm not proud of it, but it was all I was capable of then. Underneath the skin of everybody's best mate, the guy you can rely on to liven up the party, lift you up when you were down, and get you home when you were wasted drunk, was a deeply insecure lost colt. I didn't like to think the word, depression, though I knew that's what it was under the laughter and the drinking, so I plowed on like a good horse should, one hoof in front of the other until the finish line.

I couldn't seem to shake off the fear, and more than that, the sense of complete helplessness. I had no idea what life could be like, but I was pretty sure I wasn't equipped for it. In school, with the routine and most decisions made for you, I could coast along. Now I was in deep ocean, and I had to swim. I reached down, and couldn't feel the bottom, and I panicked.

My mum, bless her understanding heart, seemed to read me better than I gave her credit for. She scotched any talk of repeating, just shrugging her shoulders and saying that these things have a way of working out for the best. She was pretty clear on one thing though; there was no way I was mentally ready for university. The solution was obvious, of course, though it took mum to tell me.

"You need to find yourself Paul. And you won't do that here. Defer, and go away for a gap year. You have some money saved, and I will throw in the airfare. Explore, and live a little."

The idea appealed in so many ways, though I was terrified as well. I had lived a pretty closeted life, never really having to deal with anything beyond my own limits without people there to catch me when I fell. It had its down side too; I hadn't tested my own limits yet. I didn't know how strong I could be, or not, as the case may be.

My dad was dead set against it, and I can understand why. According to him I was in the process of wasting my life wilfully, and now I was going to be rewarded for it. He once told me how his own dad had taken matters into his own hands whenever he fell off the rails, with the aid of a belt sometimes, fists when he was really angry. I always got the feeling it hurt him more than it helped, by the way he described it. He threatened it on me a few times when I pushed him to distraction, even in year 12 when I was a 6 foot 8 slab of muscle, but he never did it, and I guess that told the story. I think I would have let him though, even though I could have fought him off. I loved the bastard, even though I never really found a way to show it.

At least travelling, if I crashed and burned it would be out of their watchful gaze. I think mum probably preferred that too; if I came back changed generally for the better, with the scars not visible, and the aftermath carefully hidden in faraway lands, it was mission accomplished. Just so she didn't have to watch, and worry, and cry. I knew she cried, sometimes, when I fucked up and though I feigned the usual teenage nonchalance it screwed me inside seeing it. Almost as much as seeing dad furious because mum was upset, and the way he would pull back his arm to hit and then catch himself and scowl and head to the shed and not come out for a couple of hours. By the end of year 12, he had finished a model yacht from scratch I sent him there so often.

Of course, that was the hope. I managed to fuck that up a bit, but in the end I'm not sorry I did.

So, back to the beginning, or the end of the beginning, on a cold January day, something that came as a huge shock for an Australian equine used to Melbourne weather. I wandered up the aerobridge at Heathrow like a zombie, still adjusting to way too many things. As a tall equine, economy class long haul air travel was pretty much designed as a form of torture, and I could barely trot as I hefted my hand luggage and smiled at the pretty cheetah flight attendant. She had made the journey from Dubai to London bearable, just, flirting and checking up on me and bringing me extra cushions. I always seemed to be able to get girls to like me, something about the politeness mixed with the coltishness. At that stage, I was still too naïve to use it much. That changed of course.

I survived the English customs inspection, just. My smile made no impression on the lioness on the desk, who looked over my passport like it pained her and proceeded to grill me on my plans for the next twenty minutes. Suddenly I got the impression she was actually considering not letting me in and perhaps all that followed may have been averted.

A supervisor intervened at the last minute though, and rang my contact. My mum's best friend from school, Marjorie. I knew her then as a perennially brooding mare with silver coat and black mane, who had moved to London to follow and marry an English deer who was a barrister of the Inner Temple. The marriage soured but her love of London hadn't and she managed to salvage a flat in Notting Hill from the wreckage of the relationship and live a comfortable enough life. She had agreed to take me in and be my base in London, for however long I needed. She managed to convince the border security Nazis and I got a stamp and a grimace and a wave to go on.

It was as I exited the terminal that the magnitude of my adventure kind of hit home. There was white stuff beginning to fall from the sky, and I poked out my tongue to let some of it touch. It felt amazing, but numbing.

Snow!

This may be hard to believe, but I had never seen it for real. Not actual falling from the sky white fluffy stuff, and it was a strange experience. I didn't have long to appreciate it though, as I suddenly felt the other aspects that usually accompanied snow. My mane almost seemed to snap frozen, and my tail shivered. My ears tried to flatten on my skull to keep warm, and I deeply regretted the stupidity that saw me embark wearing shorts and polo top.

It was 40 when I left Melbourne, waving to mum and dad and my younger brother and sister as I turned to walk through those doors at Tullamarine. It was barely less in Dubai. But it was definitely not 40 here; not even Fahrenheit.

I managed to catch the eye of an attendant by the roadside, who was eyeing me up with undisguised amusement.

"Err...bit cold mate..."

"Right you are Sir. Actually, warmer today. It was too cold yesterday for snow."

Too cold for snow...another foreign concept I was to get used to.

I managed to get directions to the train, and trudged back inside to find a toilet so I could change into something vaguely warm. When I headed off again though, I realised that even my warmest gear didn't seem to keep me all that warm. European winter was the first unwelcome surprise of many.

We had arranged for me to make my own way to the flat, and I headed for the railway station at a brisk trot designed to keep me from freezing to death. Marjorie had sent an Oyster card ahead, so it was fairly easy just to top it up and ride, except it seemed to take an awful large number of pounds before I had enough credit for the trip. My second nasty surprise; London is an expensive place, even compared to Melbourne.

So it was a cold, slightly nervous and completely jetlagged 17 year old colt who thought he was a stallion who tried to look very blasé and altogether over it as I rode the tube for the first time in my life. For any Aussie though, it's part of our cultural heritage, all the places and the names. We see it in British TV, and hear it in stories, and even the bloody Monopoly board has a case to answer. So I failed miserably to stay blasé as the stations rolled past, even though there wasn't much to see except the tube logo of circles with the name inside.

Then we pulled into Paddington station.

In spite of the jetlag, I was excited. Inside, there was still a decent slice of the young colt who loved his dad reading to him at night, and along with Winnie the Poo my favourite was Paddington bear. Now here I was, unloaded on the platform at Paddington station. All I needed was a badge reading "Please look after this colt"

So it was a kind of rush to come around a corner off the concourse near an escalator and find the bear himself. Or at least, a statue of him. Shiny and bronze, a couple of schoolgirl tigresses were laughing and giggling while they took photos of each other with the bear, who was leaning almost as if he was in conversation with someone.

I didn't care if it looked naff, or if it broke the sophisticated mature stallion of the world façade. I was taking a selfie with Paddington, for mum and dad. Just not facebook; my mates would never let me see the end of it.

I was lining up the shot, after the tigresses had left in a cloud of giggles, when a shadow crossed us both (me and the bear).

"You English and that bear..."

She had almost no accent, just a hint of one I couldn't place, but she definitely wasn't local.

"Um...not English..."

"Canadian?"

I looked up, and fixed my eyes on her. Tall and lean, a pantheress. Her dark sable fur contrasted with an amazing pair of green eyes. She was smiling, which showed her teeth. Something of the inner horse stirred in me, and I shuddered, and for the first time since landing it wasn't due to the bitter cold.

"Australian. Oi Oi Oi!"

She managed to look dismissive then and gave a snort. My first experience of feeling like a cultural leper, though after meeting a few of my fellow Aussies in Europe and contrasting them to the Europeans, I had to agree. We are cultural ignoramuses, as well as linguistic. My only consolation is that Americans make us look good.

At that stage though, I wasn't going to take it lying down...though I was sitting down, next to a statue of a bear, but that wasn't important.

"Hey! What's wrong with Aussies? And where are you from anyway?"

She looked down her long and elegant snout, and managed to be simultaneously dismissive and smokily erotic.

"I am from Germany, and you are all rude and you are always drunk and you have no manners. And you barely speak English, and not any civilised language. There are other things but they will do."

There really was no pithy comeback for that and I probably just sat there looking stunned for a little while. Her expression softened when she realised she might have hurt a bit.

"My apologies, I am just tired and a bit angry, what is the word yes? Crunky?"

"I think you mean cranky. Cranky is probably lowballing it."

"Lowballing?"

"Ugh...let's not have a conversation about this. You speak English probably better than me anyway."

"That would not be hard. I am German; we are not barbarians."

"Fine. May I introduce myself; I'm Paul, and I'm Australian. It's been...oooh, three days since my last vegemite sandwich. I'm seventeen, lost, cold as fuck, tired, jetlagged, and I want a picture of myself with a three foot tall bronze teddy bear before I fucking die. Preferably without being bitched at by Germans. Now, either take a photo for me, or rack off."

Her expression softened further during my rant, with the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. When I finished, she reached out a paw, claws thankfully retracted.

I handed her the phone.

*click*...*click*

"You are seventeen?"

"Yes"

"You look older, even with the bear."

"I grew tall and played sport so I got big. I can't answer for the bear."

"Hmmm...I wonder..."

I ignored her cryptic comment, and the evil grin, as I stood up and retrieved my phone from her paw and hefted my bag. I was looking around for some useful signs when she tapped my shoulder.

"Yes?"

"You said you were lost. Where are you going?"

"Ahh...Notting Hill Gate."

She nodded her head.

"Follow me then."

She turned and I got the rear view. Her back was perfect, even under the clothes. Her tail swayed, and I was kind of mesmerised, unable to do anything but follow that motion with my jaw open.

"Um...where are we going?"

"District and Circle line. Green and yellow colours...you should like that."

I noticed the signs she was pointing to, with their green and gold stripes. The colours of Australia; suddenly I felt a little homesick.

We plunged down a set of escalators onto a platform, with an electronic sign.

"Thanks, um..."

"Sabine."

"Thanks Sabine. Where are you going?"

"Notting Hill Gate."

"Huh?"

"Same as you Mr Paul the lost Aussie colt."

Her mocking smile made me blush and I didn't really believe her, but when the train pulled in she got in after me and took a spot next to me standing in the carriage. I gave her silly looks as we passed through the tube, trying to get her to react. She didn't, just regarding me with a look of infinite superiority.

We arrived at Notting Hill Gate, and sure enough, she got out too, and I followed her up the stairs and through the gates, only after she reminded me to touch off my card when the barrier wouldn't open with a shake of the head for my complete newbie cluelessness that made a well-dressed English doe titter as she passed us.

I blushed. I was good at blushing.

When we finally found our way to the surface, I felt the first hint of something hitting my head. Not snow now, sleet. We were standing in Notting Hill Gate road, with furs everywhere pushing past us, the sky overhead was dark and dreary, and I was getting sleet in my mane. It was so cold it hurt.

Sabine calmly popped an umbrella, and lifted it over her head. It was only then I noticed her heavy coat, scarf, and long leather boots.

"Take care Paul. You really are nice for an Aussie. Though, I do have a thing for colts. Just try not to freeze to death."

She kissed my iced up nose and headed off across Notting Hill Gate Road.

"Um...where do I go now?" I managed to shout at her as she dodged traffic across the road.

"Ask someone who cares colt."

I think I fell in love with her in that moment. The uncomfortable truth was I was a sucker for girls who treated me bad, and even worse if they were older. I'd like to be able to say I've cured myself of that, but nope. Worse than ever. I hope to hell that's not one thing you have too.

When I finally managed to dump my stuff in the tiny lounge room of Marjorie's flat, I could only fall on the sofa and groan. The fatigue finally hit me in waves, and I checked out the fridge while I wondered what to do. There wasn't much in it; I was to find housekeeping wasn't one of Marj's strong points.

She had left a note though, with instructions on the flat and surrounds. There was a Tescos near by for supplies, and anything else I needed was probably in the main road. I found the bedding I was supposed to use, and the couch that would fold out to provide my bed. While I tried to get the energy to go out, I pulled it open and crawled under the duvet and turned on the TV to see what English TV might look like.

When I woke up next Marjorie was opening the front door and the TV was still going strong. I had fallen asleep and become totally disoriented. All I knew was it was dark out; the windows were open but only glowing a little with street lights.

I hadn't seen Marj for two years now. She had come to Australia and stayed with us when her marriage finally ended, and she was like a shipwreck survivor then, prone to crying spontaneously while shopping for toilet paper. Mum was busy with work, and didn't know what to do with her, and as it was school holidays, I took her under my care. She was fun to be around, after she stopped crying, and as mum gave her the keys to the spare car, we formed a sort of team, with me picking the destination for the day and Marj driving and chatting while smoking and weaving between lanes like a taxi driver.

She even used to buy me beer, sneakily, when we went out. According to her, 15 was old enough for your first beer; I hadn't the heart to tell her I had already tried most things. We would stop in pubs and she would buy me a small glass of light that I sipped and tried not to gulp too much while the froth coated my upper lip and she would finally talk about life in London and her husband, and I'd tell her about girls and sport and stuff she probably wasn't interested in.

Marj was the first person I ever told about losing my virginity. Just before she arrived, I had gone to a party, 16thbirthday for a mate of mine. We were in different years but in the same footy team (go the mighty Sharks U16 A division premiers!) and we were best mates there. His party turned into a slightly wild affair, in the backyard of his home. His parents tried to supervise, but we all got in booze anyway, handing it over the back fence and stashing it in the hydrangeas for afters.

Steve's sister was there too, though she wasn't enjoying it. Leesa was in first year at uni, an impossibly remote and beautiful husky girl with perfect body and shiny fur and a wicked laugh. I had the hugest crush on her, and when I saw her so upset, I tried to cheer her up, even though I was slightly drunk on Bundy rum and completely out of my depth.

I managed to get her laughing though, and smiling, and I confessed how much I liked her and how she was the epitome of beauty for me. I even used those words, drunk and all, and I think she gave me extra credit for managing that many syllables while pissed.

She had been dumped on by a cheating louse of a boyfriend who had fucked her best friend, and she still really loved him. I told her in my best knight in shining armour tone that I would beat the crap out of him if I ever saw him, and that he was a complete loser for cheating on the most beautiful girl in the world. I meant it too, and she seemed to realise that, because she gave me this "awwww" look and suddenly we were kissing.

Once up in her room, it rapidly got serious. Kissing turned to groping, and I had a handful of her left breast as she dived inside my pants. I was hard in an instant, at 15 an erection was pretty much constant anyway let alone with a beautiful girl gripping my sheath. I was too terrified to do anything, and just stood and let her undress me and lay me on her bed and straddle my groin.

Suddenly it happened. She held my shaft and pressed her warm lips to my cock and I felt the heat of her and she groaned and I groaned and I wasn't a virgin any more as she kissed me. No protection, not much foreplay, I did everything wrong, but for her I was everything right in that moment and that was all that mattered. Even when I climaxed way too soon, she still kissed me and told me how cute I was and I stayed hard so we went again and then again when I came and I was still hard.

Finally I got enough boldness to roll her over into missionary and hold her and lick her nipples clumsily and thrust away like a stallion is supposed to and I think she even came too around about the time I lost it again and finally lost my erection. She told me I had, and that I was her best, and the sweetest colt, and she kissed my nose and held me and I felt like I was king of the world.

Then of course she never returned any of my calls, texts, emails, or even one especially heartfelt tweet.

Marjorie of course had the answer.

"Hun. She is probably a little embarrassed, and guilty. Plus, she actually broke the law. She probably did love it, and she wanted you right then, partly because you were safe for her, and partly because you made her feel good again. But in the cold light of day, she regrets it."

I denied this loudly, and skulled my beer and demanded a full strength this time, and denied it again, then cried like an emo. Marjorie just held my hand and nodded understandingly, as I had done for her. That night, I went around to Steve's place, and managed to catch Leesa and we had a tearful conversation that confirmed Marjorie was right and I told her it was ok then went home and cried and wrote bad poetry about longing and betrayal and cried some more. I'd lost my virginity and my heart in the space of one glorious moment. I had also lost my best mate, who was totally pissed off at me and threatened to smack my face if I came round again.

If I have one suggestion, it's that when you reach the emo poetry stage, it's time to go out and get hammered and moon oncoming traffic from the side of the road instead. Much less damaging and on the whole less embarrassing.

After that sharing of vulnerabilities, Marjorie and I had become close. I told her other things too, the things I didn't tell anyone, and she told me things about her relationship even mum didn't know. When she left, she gave me a long hug and a kiss, one that graduated to tongue much to my surprise, and we kept on chatting by email right up to year 12. I'd stopped talking though, mostly because she knew me too well, and she would have been able to tell how much I was sinking into the swamp.

Now I was in her kitchen sipping tea and I was tired and completely disoriented 10,000 miles from home and about 10 timezones from where my body thought it was and she was still smoking, and still smiling at me the way she did when we parted over two years ago.

I was not much use that first night, barely able to walk to the toilet as the cramp in my back and hamstrings finally went full retard and I could only lie on my side whimpering. She rubbed something from Boots into my coat and it made me feel warm, almost more from the touch than from the pungent stuff itself which had a kind of Deep Heat smell that made me cringe and protect my testicles from the memory of too many footy team jock strap practical jokes.

After a quiet dinner that tasted amazing as it wasn't airline food, I fell asleep again without meaning to, nestled against her chest while she stroked my mane.

Marjorie had a killer schedule at work, so we fell into a practical routine in that first week. We would have breakfast together, usually oat porridge which tasted great and for an equine was close to heaven when stewed apples got added to it. Then as Marj headed for the tube and work, I'd join her and head into the city of London.

I went on a sort of mixed tourist binge cum Monopoly board tour, checking out all the things I remembered from TV and history lessons and my parents' misty eyed reminiscences of their time in London. Parliament and Big Ben. Westminster Abbey(full of dead people), St Pauls (slightly less dead people but still a lot). The British Museum, where I managed a selfie with the Rosetta stone. Harrods...just because it was there. Buckingham Palace. Wembley, Lords, etcetera etcetera.

In the evenings, I would come back to the flat and tell Marj about everything I'd seen and we would talk about life and everything and nothing while she smoked half a pack. Her smoking hadn't improved at all.

On Saturday, she planned a big special day. My birthday was coming up, and I would be 18 finally. It felt like I should be excited, but I couldn't manage much enthusiasm. Another sign of getting older and being no closer to having a clue how to live my life.

We went shopping, and Marjorie insisted on buying me all sorts of clothes. After initially being a bit over it, I got in the groove and picked up an awesome coat and scarf and woollen trousers and warm hoofboots and thermals. She was determined to make a fuss of me, and to stop me freezing to death. I was horribly embarrassed, as I couldn't possibly afford it all with my limited finances and small stash of Sterling, but she insisted it was a present, and a long overdue thank you for helping her out when she was all at sea two years ago.

As darkness descended over Notting Hill, all that remained was a nice dinner and a night at the pub. And she had chosen one nearby, the Churchill Arms, for dinner and a celebration.

When we trotted down the street and in the normal looking pub entrance, I was in for a couple of surprises. The restaurant looked bizarre with the walls and ceiling covered in ferns that sort of hung over your head through dinner. If I wanted any greenery between courses I just needed to reach out and bite.

The second surprise was the sight of a German pantheress behind the bar, who gave me a long stare and a slow smile and wink as I followed Marjorie in to dinner. That wink stayed with me all through dinner, even when the waitress brought out an apple and carrot birthday cake and I blew out the candles.

I was clueless, you see. You are allowed these mistakes when you are young.

Instead of heading home, Marj decided to take me to the bar for a proper drink. I loved the drinking age in the UK; for once I didn't need to steal booze or use fake ID. And of course, Sabine had to be our bartender.

At some stage during the evening, I found myself talking to Sabine and ignoring Marjorie. I didn't mean to, and I really wasn't thinking much by then. My normal defences were down so far from home, and so far from all my normal cares. The panther was so beautiful, and she finally seemed to ditch the disgruntled German act and I found she was sweet and funny and interesting.

Originally from Berlin, she had come to the UK for a holiday after university and ended up staying and working. She had a bad night before she saw me at Paddington, first with some drunk Aussie yobbos who had come to watch rugby on Sky, and then had an argument with her flatmates, so she was pissed off at life and Aussies in particular. She told me all about Berlin, and I fell in love with it from her descriptions, and promised to go there when I got the chance.

At some point, Marjorie clamed tiredness and headed off, and I let her go. I had my own key, and I could let myself in a bit later, once I had some more time to chat with the intriguing panther with the wicked smile.

A bit later turned into closing, and we met outside and I got my first time at The Conversation.

Sabine lived with four other girls in a flat outside central London, and shared a room with two Estonian cows who hated visitors. Whereas I lived near, and had the lounge to myself...

Walking up the street, I felt like a total stud with Sabine's arm laced with mine. I was blushing, and my mane was frozen into a sort of cracker, and my breath came in great steaming gouts like an ancient monster, but I was feeling no pain, and had no regrets. I still hadn't internalised what we were planning, not really, not until we got inside and she asked me if I had protection.

I did, though it caused me much embarrassment. My sister, bless her, had given me a last present as we hugged and kissed before I headed through passport control at Tullamarine. A nice big box of Trojan Maxi Stallion, slipped into my pocket as we hugged.

When I went through the x-ray and they told me to empty my pockets, I had done it dutifully, as I was a mostly obedient young horse, and only realised precisely what my sis had done as my box of condoms slowly rolled along the conveyor past three other passengers, the x-ray operator, two other security officials and a federal cop. They all tried to stop laughing, and they all failed.

My practical sis knew me though, enough to know I could end up in a situation like this. So I did have protection, and a nice warm fold out double bed, and candles from the kitchen, and the remains of a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

I'd had a couple of girlfriends back in Aus, Denise who asked me to the year 10 dance and told me the price was of course we were now boyfriend and girlfriend, and as a boyfriend I had certain duties. That lasted longer than it really should have. Then Sharon, popular and into netball and hockey, who made a set at me when I broke up with Denise and hooked her fangs into me and wouldn't let go until my depression caused her to drop me because I was no fun anymore.

I had sex with both of them when we could, which wasn't often with the watchful gaze of our respective parents, and truth was I was still nervous and nowhere near any good. Especially after Sharon ended it, one traumatic Saturday night at a party when I was so depressed I drank so much I couldn't even get it up for her and she swore and kicked my fetlock and called me a loser in front of everyone. I felt like it, right enough.

Sabine showed me everything, and I owe her so much. We still Skype a lot, and she still gets me hotter than just about any girl I know, even from 10,000 miles away. That night though, she was all patience and sweetness, even when I spurted like a fountain almost as soon as she jacked my length. I was still prone to premature explosions just like my first time, when someone beautiful and in control took a hand, or a paw. Extended claws just sealed the deal.

I got a good education in the finer points of pussy licking, when to take your time, when to focus on the lips and let your tongue slide inside those folds, and when to work her naked clit. I was dripping like a tap after a couple of loud feline cums, and ready for anything. She took me into her first, straddling my hips and controlling the action, faster and slower, holding back when I was close to the edge, then speeding up until we both lost it and I felt her pussy gripping and flexing on my cock.

I think that night was the first time I made a girl cum more than once, which made me feel great and like a complete loser at the same time. Denise and Sharon, please forgive me, I wasn't trained and didn't know how shit I was.

Well, we did it twice more that night, first a wild hard fuck, with her hindpaws over my shoulders and her claws digging into my butt. She didn't even bother with the condom the second time, convinced I was probably a virgin I was so callow. I gave her the hardest stallioning I'd ever done though, and after cumming twice already, I managed to last a long time too. She was roaring my name, which is kind of hot even with a German accent, and moaning in German, which is the only time German is hot ever.

Ya...ya...ya...mehr...mehr...mehr...

Hearing her go back to her native tongue under the pummelling from my cock really got me going, and I didn't want it to end. Unfortunately, I still didn't have great control, and I didn't have much warning to stop and slow down before it was too late and I flooded her pussy with my third cum of the evening. She was caught on the upswing, and I got the first evil look for the night from my pantheress, but she kissed my muzzle and pulled me off her, before gripping my mane in those clawed paws and pushing me down to her.

I'd never gone down on a girl after I'd cum in her. Yeah, terrible admission, I was such a selfish fuck. Well, this time I knew I had to do my duty, and I lapped at her clit and lips until she gripped my mane painfully and pushed up hard into my muzzle and came screaming a loud Germanic curse. I got a good muzzlefull of her juices, as well as a decent sized taste of my own cum.

I realised pretty shocked that it hadn't tasted so bad. Nothing too much, kind of claggy but not unpleasant or anything. I breathed a sigh of relief then, knowing I could probably hack it in future when required. Knowing my limited skills as a lover, I figured finishing off a girl after I'd cum already was going to be a pretty common thing. I had learned an appreciation for the many tastes of a girl though, and that would hold me in good stead always. There is no such thing as being too into eating a girl out, and no matter what they say, it always tastes amazing.

We finished with a long slow fuck, not even fucking really, just me inside her from behind, lying against her long sleek sable form, thrusting so slow, cupping one breast and fingering her clit after she gripped my hand and brought it against her flesh. We fell asleep together like that, and it was the first time I ever fell asleep still inside a partner. I love it now, that feeling of exhaustion but still stimulated, close and hot and covered in sex and too tired to do anything but hold.

Well, I should have known better I guess. The flat was tiny, really tiny, and I was using the pull out couch to sleep, with my host in the only bedroom.

Some time during the night, Marjorie had woken up and come downstairs. I was too busy experiencing the best sex of my life to notice much or stop, but she got a good eyeful. She must have just tiptoed into her bedroom and stayed there, though the soundproofing wouldn't have done much good, the whole block was made of tissue paper. Every sigh, every wet sucking noise, every cum.

Next morning, after Sabine left, I was treated to the pure undiluted anger of a pissed off woman. She gave me the cold shoulder, and pointedly asked when I would be moving on, and if I had plans for the continent. I was stunned, and upset, and kind of lost. I knew it wasn't polite, but this seemed...well, yeah, I was naïve. I didn't understand, and much would have been better if I had, but I didn't.

That Sunday was one of the loneliest of my life, walking through the parks in a daze, trying to get on to Sabine, who left me her number but obligingly left her phone off. I ended up in St.James Park watching some guy feed squirrels until it rained on me and I trotted back to the flat and entered dripping wet and lovesick and sorry and sad and confused. She refused to talk to me and went back to bed, and I lay on the pull out couch watching BBC. Sometime in the night I realised there was an envelope on the table, with my name on it.

A ticket on Eurostar to Paris, one way. For tomorrow evening.

Marjorie left a bowl of porridge for me before she trotted out into the morning cold, and I ate it still stunned. The message was clear though; I was equus non grata now. I was still confused, and hurt. She knew about my girlfriends, and she was the only one who knew about Leesa. Being sexually active couldn't have been a surprise.

Somehow I had crossed a line with Sabine though, and I had to pay the price, for how long I didn't know.

I managed to convince myself it was ok. Paris was on my list, and turning 18 in Paris could be an experience. Booking a bunk in a shared room in the 11th with my small amount of money, I determined to make the best of it.

I left a long letter, though shorter than this one, full of thanks and regret in equal measure. I also left the Oyster card and the clothes. I couldn't wear them knowing she seemed to be this angry at me. I also couldn't ask why. I didn't want to know how much of a loser I was, how much I fucked up everything as always. Time to go where nobody knew my name, not even mum's best friend. Heading to St Pancras on the tube, I got there well ahead of time and prepared to check in.

A mare suddenly engulfed me in a hug, and I barely avoided falling over as she clung to me like a limpet. It was Marj, and I realised, whatever I had done wrong, it wasn't a permanent hurt. That was something.

She brought the clothes and dressed me in them while we waited, joining me in the men's toilets and staring down any guys who looked censorious. New thermals, new pants, new coat, long hoofboots made in English leather. Then she wrapped the scarf around my neck, and pulled me into a long sloppy kiss that drew a round of applause and leaned in to kiss my ear and beg me to forgive her, and to stay.

I don't know if it would have turned out better if I had or hadn't, but sometime that day, I had gotten the itch for Paris, and I wanted it. And, if I was being honest, the emotional rollercoaster of being around Marj scared me enough that I wanted breathing space from it.

She was crying as I waved and headed through customs and down towards the platform. I wasn't, then at least. She would make me cry of course, in a hundred ways and times, but not right then, and not now either. I thought you should know the last, in case it mattered.