This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.
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Stud Farm
There is nothing like dawn over a stable yard.
Sure, 'business', as they said, picked up during the day, but those initial moments of weak winter sunshine creeping over the hills were the most serene. Consisting of barn, feed room, tack room and lower stable block, the yard buildings were modest and immaculately kept, nestled in the arms of the hills. The countryside stretched for miles upon miles around and one could walk or ride all day if they so desired, sweeping across the hillsides at canter with not a soul to caution or restrain. There were hillier, wilder, places, of course, in the country as a whole, but this particular patchwork of fields and barns was perfectly secluded from mundane life. Even better, the stud farm was privately owned and the owner, perhaps one with more money than sense, frequently left the yard manager in charge of the day to day operations for weeks at a time.
The quiet, however, meant that all the work that was to be done was to be done alone. There was little time for mucking about, only mucking out, and the yard manager was busy. Despite the majority of the native breeds living out throughout the winter months, fluffy coats and rugs freckled with frost, the stretch of stalls still needed to be spotless by lunchtime. And then there was training to be undertaken, youngsters to be schooled. There was no rest for the wicked upon a breeding yard.
The bay equine snorted, slinging a pristine red head collar over his shoulder. Bare hoofed, his fetlocks were caked with mud and his tired eyes bore witness to the fact that he had been up for hours already, taking care of his charges on the yard. He could have done with more sleep and yet his steps were lively, ears pricked and head constantly turning to take stock of his surroundings. Though the work was hard, Pulley would not have had it any other way. What more could a stallion want than to trot up to the fields on a sharp, winter morning to bring in the youngsters? To see a foal take his first steps and take care of the stallions as they flicked up their heels? He chuckled to himself, mirth disappearing into the quiet. He could want for many things, most of all a short break or two or three, yet he never would. Later in the day he would have assistance from the new stable hand, someone he had hired part-time. It was good that the owner trusted him to hire at his discretion: it lightened the load just enough to keep him smiling.
It did not hurt that the bull he had hired was not bad looking either, he mused as he swung open the gate to the 'top strip' of field, whistling softly. It was always amusing to see if the youngsters had heard him approaching or not. Some days, they would be clustered around the gate, keen for a bucket and breakfast, but mostly they were to be found at the far end, bothering the neighbour's goats. The bull, a strong, black fellow with nicely curved grey horns had seemed impressed with the breeding facility and Pulley had the feeling that he would fit in very well over time.
If only he could get the bovine to relax. Mark was drawn as taught as the lead rope on a nervous colt, dashing from task to task with a kind of nervous energy that the stallion found exhausting after a time. Fair enough, he could not complain that the bull had not gotten all of his tasks done during the few afternoons that he had worked so far, but it would be nice to have some conversation too. It got lonely on the yard sometimes. Was it too much to ask for another voice?
The stallion rolled his eyes, leaned against the metal barred gate and whistled again for the youngsters: no doubt they were getting into trouble. His mind was on the bull, imagining his strong, able body, how the musculature of his body appeared when hard at work, strong arms sweeping in a firm line as he curry combed a piebald mare. That had been the day before and the memory was too fresh and sharp for comfort. Cursing himself, Pulley shifted his weight to the other hoof, the tightness in his jodhpurs both uncomfortable and decidedly pleasant. He was always half-dropped, the outline difficult to hide in the close fitting stable wear. Perhaps the bull had noticed. Damn it! He shook his head, overcome with images better suited to action than contemplation. Did Mark not know how hot he looked? While the two bays and single chestnut ambled their way down the length of the field, taking their sweet time, Pulley drifted into thought. He had time to kill, after all.
"What are you looking at?"
Pulley started and dropped the bucket with a loud clatter. It rolled across the paved slabs and came to a halt at a pair of dark grey cloven hooves.
Bemused, the bull bent at the waist to collect the wayward bucket and offered it to the stallion by the handle. He cleared his throat and took it as if nothing had happened, holding it beneath the end of the hosepipe so that a steady stream of water trickled in. The tap was broken, again, so it was a slow process. Much like talking to the bull. The sweaty equine they were waiting on pricked his ears attentively, eager for a drink after a hard training session. Even on the lunge, the horses could be worked to thirst.
"Sorry," he chuckled, feigning innocence. "Must have zoned out there for a second. Seems like there's too much to do today, can't stop thinking about it."
Mark looked for a second and shrugged, taking a step back. The equine cleared his throat, tail swishing anxiously against his legs, the long boots reaching his calves. Despite the jodhpurs showing every carved muscle, the spatters of mud did not add any elegance to the look, only an air of long hours and dirty work.
He hoped the bull would prove some companionship on the quiet days when nothing much but conversations with the four-legged equines took place, routine and non-routine rolling into one another like a bale of hay.
"You been around horses for long then?" Pulley braved the silence, paw shaking lightly on the handle of the bucket.
The bull tilted his head fractionally to the left, only enough for the attentive to notice, brown eyes curious.
"You asked me that already," Mark said. He was almost too softly spoken to be heard.
Pulley laughed, brushing off the embarrassment the best he could. He could not help but be tongue-tied around the bull, but he'd be damned if he showed it.
"Well," he smiled, hoping it conveyed a sense of reassurance, though he feared his nerves shone through. "Have you?"
Mark rolled his shoulders in a shrug.
"Kinda."
"Kind of?" Pulley pressed for more information.
