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~ Bent Over the Fence ~

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

June 2026

All Rights Reserved.

Afternoon heat pressed thick across the paddock, carrying the sharp bite of hot iron, fresh hoof parings, and lazy pipe tobacco. Jericho buckled his farrier apron with practiced snaps, tools clinking like promises yet to be kept, while Elias leaned against the weathered fence rail, drawing slow on his pipe.

Smoke blasted from the Shire’s broad nostrils as Jericho closed the distance and slapped his thick thigh—firm, deliberate, fingers lingering long enough to feel the muscle twitch.

“You know,” Elias drawled around the stem, ember flaring brighter, “what’s the difference between a farrier and a prostitute?”

Jericho’s ears flicked back. He set paws on hips, one cloven hoof tapping once in the dust. “I’m here to shoe you, Elias. Not trade punchlines.”

“Cranky mule, ain’tcha?” Elias chuffed, tail flicking once.

Jericho snorted, paws still planted. “Figure you’re the only stallion in my stable?”

A snort of his own. Jericho slapped higher—harder—brushing the hem of the overalls. “Turn around.”

Elias raised a brow, slow grin curling around the pipe. He turned without haste, broad bay backside presented to the rails. Wood groaned as he braced wider, massive frame settling heavy.

“Leg up, big man,” Jericho said, voice dropping low, professional calm fraying at the edges.

The hind hoof rose slow, settling into Jericho’s grip like quiet surrender. Elias arched forward against the timber, rails pressing into his chest. Jericho stepped in tight behind—muzzle brushing the back of one ear, compact body radiating warmth against the Shire’s flank. One gloved hand settled on Elias’s hip, thumb sinking into the soft dip above the tailhead, fingers curling lightly around the dock.

“Some clients need a firmer hand,” Jericho murmured, breath ghosting across short fur.

Elias huffed smoke in a long plume, tail brushing Jericho’s wrist with intent. “Gonna rasp me, or keep feeling me up, farrier?”

Jericho’s grip tightened, forcing Elias’s knees to dip. The rasp scraped once along the hoof wall. His free hand slid higher, possessive.

“Depends,” he rasped. “You gonna keep that mouth running?”

Elias chuckled low, the sound rumbling straight down to where Jericho held him pinned. “Thought you were the professional.”

Jericho set the rasp aside. Fingers hooked the waistband and tugged once, fabric drawing taut across broad hips. The other palm pressed firm at the base of the tail, keeping the big stallion spread.

“Nothing,” Jericho said, muzzle grazing Elias’s neck crest, voice edging toward a growl. “If they’re not bent over… they’re not getting paid.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Elias arched higher; the fence creaked beneath the shift, breath catching. Pipe smoke drifted upward in lazy spirals while tools lay forgotten in the dust. Jericho leaned closer, antlers framing the Shire’s withers as though they had always belonged there.

He held the pose a moment longer—breath warm against the crest—then eased back. “Hold that thought, big man. Work first.”

Jericho lowered the leg just enough to pivot, turning his back to Elias’s flank as he stepped between the powerful hind legs. His compact frame slotted in close, thighs brushing the cannon bone. With a swift motion he drew the hoof up again, cradling it high between his own legs. Knees locked firm around the thick calf for leverage; Jericho’s weight leaned forward, pinning the leg steady against hip and thigh.

The position forced Elias to brace harder—hips rolling back instinctively, tail flicking in a slow arc that grazed Jericho’s side. No protest came. Only a low huff of smoke, pipe stem clamped tight between his teeth.

Jericho reached down without turning, gloved fingers finding the clinch cutter and scarred hoof stand. He wedged the block under the toe, then rested the hoof’s front edge on it. Thighs clamped like a vice around the calf; one hand braced on Elias’s haunch, thumb sinking deep into muscle just behind the point of hip.

“Stay square,” Jericho said over his shoulder, voice low and edged. “Don’t make me tighten the grip.”

The hammer rose—sharp tap against the cutter. A metallic pop rang through the hot air. Elias’s leg twitched; Jericho squeezed harder, holding everything locked. Another tap. Another pop. Nails gave way one by one, vibrations rolling up the leg and through both of them.

Sweat darkened the Shire’s bay coat along the flank. Jericho worked methodically, each strike rhythmic and teasing in its precision. His free hand slid up the inside of Elias’s thigh mid-tap—high, possessive—fingers splaying wide to feel the muscle jump.

“Every nail coming loose,” he murmured, loud enough to carry. “Feels like something else giving way too, doesn’t it?”

Elias let out a rough chuckle that fractured into a breathy groan. “You’re a cruel bastard, farrier.”

Jericho rocked the loosened shoe with the pulloffs until it slid free with a low scrape. He set the old iron aside, bare hoof exposed on the stand, and stayed in position—thighs still clamped, weight forward, antlers casting long shadows across the Shire’s withers. One hand remained braced on the haunch; the other traced the edge of the bare hoof.

“Shoe’s off,” he said quietly, almost intimate. “Now… let’s see what else is ready to come loose.”

The fence groaned beneath Elias’s shifting weight. Pipe smoke curled lazy in the thick heat.

No rush.

But Jericho wasn’t stepping away anytime soon.

He let the bare hoof rest a moment longer, thumb pressing lightly into the sole. The frog looked overgrown—soft, uneven. Perfect excuse to linger.

“Still with me, big man?” he asked over his shoulder, voice calm but laced with command. “This part’s going to tickle.”

Jericho picked up the hoof knife again—sharp, curved blade catching the fading light—and braced his shoulder against Elias’s haunch. The contact pushed the Shire forward; rails pressed deeper into his chest, drawing a soft grunt around the pipe stem. Smoke came in shorter puffs now.

He started at the quarters. Careful slices peeled away excess wall in thin curls that drifted to the dirt like pale shavings. Each scrape sent faint tremors up Elias’s leg. The mule deer’s thighs stayed locked around the cannon bone, knees flexing to rein the big stallion back into place.

Elias’s tail flicked restlessly, brushing Jericho’s apron. The mule deer ignored it and moved the blade to the toe. Long strokes thinned the wall evenly. The vibrations built steady and rhythmic between them.

Sweat rolled down Elias’s flank in dark rivulets, pooling where Jericho’s shoulder pressed. The Shire’s breathing grew heavier, ribs expanding against the timber.

Jericho paused to blow away loose trimmings, then angled the knife toward the frog. “Breathe out,” he murmured. “Gonna open this up.”

He cut in careful wedges, exposing the sensitive central sulcus and trimming away overgrown tissue. The frog yielded with soft, wet sounds. Elias’s leg twitched hard—once, twice—muscle jumping beneath Jericho’s thighs. The mule deer squeezed tighter, clamping down like he was breaking a colt.

“Easy,” Jericho said, almost gentle. “You’re doing good. Just a little more.”

The knife worked deeper, paring the bars clean and leveling the sole. Every scrape sent fresh shivers racing up Elias’s spine. His knees dipped lower, hips rolling back into the rails with nothing left to resist. Pipe smoke came in broken, ragged wisps.

Jericho set the knife aside. He ran a gloved finger along the freshly trimmed frog—slow, testing. The touch lingered far longer than necessary. Elias let out a low, shuddering sound that wasn’t quite a word.

“Look at that,” Jericho said quietly, thumb circling the cleaned sulcus once. “All opened up. Sensitive now, isn’t it?”

He stayed in the straddle—thighs locked, weight forward, one hand braced on the haunch while the other traced the trimmed sole. Antlers tilted, casting jagged shadows across the Shire’s back.

“Hoof’s level. Ready for the shoe.” Jericho’s voice dropped lower. “But I reckon… something else is ready too.”

He shifted his weight and pressed his hip firmer against Elias’s inner thigh—deliberate pressure. The fence groaned.

Elias’s head dipped lower, pipe nearly slipping from slack lips. Smoke curled in thin, trembling spirals.

Jericho leaned in—antlers brushing the rail with a faint clack—muzzle close to the stallion’s ear. “Still think you’re the only stallion in my stable?” he asked, soft and dangerous.

Elias didn’t answer. He simply arched higher, tail wrapping once around Jericho’s forearm—loose, needy, obedient.

The paddock stayed quiet except for the slow creak of wood, distant cicadas, and two sets of breathing that had stopped pretending this was only about shoeing.

Jericho smiled against Elias’s neck—small, satisfied—and reached for the new shoe without breaking contact.

No rush. But the job was far from finished.

He set the plain steel shoe against the trimmed hoof. Too wide at the quarters. One long rasp stroke fixed it. “Almost,” he said over his shoulder. “Hold still.”

The first nail drove home with three controlled taps. Each strike rang clear, sending a jolt up Elias’s leg. Jericho clinched it tight, then moved to the next. Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm built—slow at first, then steady, like a heartbeat gathering speed. Elias’s breathing synced to it without meaning to. His knees dipped lower; Jericho’s thighs flexed harder in response, locking the leg in place.

Sweat slicked the Shire’s flank. Jericho worked the toe nails, then the heels. Every clinch drew a faint metallic creak. Elias’s tail lashed once, twice, wrapping around Jericho’s forearm before sliding free. No words—just the low rumble in the stallion’s chest growing deeper.

Jericho set the last nail, tested the shoe with a firm tap—solid, no rock—then eased the leg down. The Shire shifted weight. Steady.

“Good. One down.”

He didn’t let Elias straighten. “Other side, big man. Lift.”

Elias complied. The second hoof rose, and Jericho pivoted straight into the straddle—thighs clamping calf, weight forward. This time he worked faster. Old nails popped in four sharp strikes. Rasp, quick frog trim, new shoe. Nails hammered home in a relentless rhythm. Vibrations rolled through both of them, building, unrelenting. Jericho’s free hand stayed braced on the haunch, thumb digging deeper with every strike.

By the final clinch, Elias’s knees trembled. The pipe lay forgotten in the dirt, ember dead.

Jericho tested the shoe, then lingered in the straddle a beat longer—thighs still clamped, hip pressed firm, antlers brushing the rail. Both hooves shod. Both legs steady.

But he wasn’t stepping away.

He eased the leg down, turned to face Elias’s side, and stepped in close. One gloved hand slid under the base of the tail, fingers curling around the thick dock.

He lifted—slow, deliberate—high enough to bare everything.

Elias arched without prompting—hips rolling back, knees spreading wider, breath escaping in a long, shuddering exhale. No smoke remained. Only raw, unguarded need.

Jericho pressed flush against him—chest to back, hips slotting tight, antlers framing the Shire’s withers like a crown of bone. His free hand hooked around Elias’s barrel, steadying the trembling stallion.

“Shoes are paid for,” Jericho rasped against the base of one ear, voice rough with restraint. “Now… let’s settle the rest of the bill.”

The fence creaked beneath them. Elias’s head dropped low, a broken whinny rumbling from deep in his chest.

Jericho didn’t rush the first entry.

But he didn’t pause either.

He tightened his grip on the tail dock, drawing it higher and easing the thick brush aside. Elias canted forward instinctively, knees parting further. Jericho settled fully against him—sweat-slick hide gliding together—then slipped his hand beneath the barrel. Fingers curled around the thickening warmth at the base of the sheath, stroking once with firm intent.

Elias shuddered. A fractured whinny broke from his throat—half groan, half plea. Head low, muzzle grazing the rail, ears pinned flat in total surrender.

“There you are,” Jericho breathed against his ear. “All that strength… and still the one opening for me.”

He rolled his hips forward in one measured glide, easing the first inch inside with careful pressure. Elias’s knees buckled; Jericho’s thighs clamped tighter, anchoring him against the fence. Another glide—deeper—antlers scraping the rail as he leaned in, muzzle brushing the stallion’s poll. His hand rose to the mane, fingers threading through thick strands while his hips claimed every inch with quiet authority.

Elias’s breath came in harsh bursts. His length dropped heavy and throbbing against his inner thighs. Jericho encircled it, stroking gently, then trailed hooflets over the medial ring, drawing a sharp snort and twitch.

“Steady, mare,” Jericho growled, squeezing tighter. “No hurry…”

No words passed between them now. Only the steady creak of the fence in time with each deep drive—slow at first, then building. Jericho kept Elias spread and held, forehead pressed to the Shire’s withers, tines brushing hide. Sweat dripped from his brow. The big stallion’s legs trembled, hips rising to meet every thrust, soft groans blending with Jericho’s rough exhales.

Elias reached the edge first. A sharp, keening whinny tore free as his frame locked tight. Thick pulses streaked the fence and dirt below. His knees nearly buckled; Jericho’s grip on mane and tail kept him upright, hips still rolling through the aftershocks.

Jericho followed moments later—burying deep with a low guttural sound, antlers scraping wood as he pressed flush. Warmth flooded inward. Elias shuddered again, tail dock flexing weakly in his hand.

They remained locked together—Jericho’s chest rising and falling against Elias’s back, both breathing ragged. The mule deer didn’t withdraw immediately. He stayed buried deep, muzzle pressed to Elias’s poll, one hand tracing slow, soothing circles along the Shire’s flank.

Elias managed a crooked grin, voice rough as gravel. “Reckon… I just got evicted.”

Jericho chuckled—low and warm, the sound vibrating where their hides met. He nuzzled Elias’s cheek, muzzle grazing the base of one ear.

“Rent’s due next month,” he said. “Bring the front feet… and maybe don’t smoke so much. Makes you wheeze like an old bellows when you’re taken deep.”

Elias snorted, weak but genuine. “Cruel bastard.”

“Professional,” Jericho corrected. He stepped back at last, bent to gather the scattered tools—rasp, hammer, pulloffs, and the dead pipe—tucking them neatly into his apron. The new shoes glinted dully in the fading light, clinches tight and even.

He gave Elias’s flank one last firm, possessive pat, shouldered the apron properly, and turned toward the barn path.

“Walk it off,” he called over his shoulder. “And don’t limp tomorrow. Folks’ll talk.”

Elias stayed braced against the fence a moment longer, legs unsteady. He tested his weight on the new shoes—solid, balanced. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

He pushed off the rails, straightened with a groan, and shook himself once—full-body, mane flaring, tail swishing. The movement sent a final faint tremor through him. He huffed, amused at himself.

“Next month,” he muttered to the empty paddock.

The sun dipped behind the barn roof, painting the dust gold and stretching long shadows across the ground.

Tools were put away. Shoes were set. Payment was collected.

And somewhere in the barn, a mule deer farrier was already planning the next visit.

-FIN-