The Centaur Coach

***The characters referenced in this story are Sixth-Formers, aged 18, or they are teachers. No character is any younger than 18***

There is a deviant satisfaction in laying on the floor of the shower.

Of the various peoples who humanity now shares the world with -- and lives with, as well, in their own world -- there's always been a vague stigma around the more bestial ones. Some groups blended readily, like the elves, and even the orcs (who, contrary to expectations, are closer to sexy muscular exotic-skinned humans than hunch-backed brutes), while others -- dwarfs come to mind, and halflings, and gnomes -- found more difficulty (particularly the men, being so short.)

It's part of what surprised me with Jen, to go for Marcus, but one of the things I always liked about her was her tolerance and kindness and generally unique approach to things. Because Marcus, as a minotaur, was always seen with a certain amount of concern. Same with the wolf people, or the horse-folk, or the various draconids.

It's no secret -- it's part of our education now -- that these people have bodies incorporating things that can only be described as "animal" in nature. Muzzled faces, furry bodies (even if the fur is so fine that it might as well be slightly velvety skin), scales, bestial orifices and organs. But even then, even with someone like Marcus, he's anthropoid in nature. Or most of him is.

Yet here I am, on the tiled floor, slowly coming to my senses, with a bloated stomach roiling and churning with litres of the thickest and richest virile semen produced by a middle-aged centaur stallion. A centaur, of all things.

Kyln, of all centaurs.

Jesus Christ.

But...but it feels good, feels fucking great, to be digesting him. To lick my lips and taste the memory of his monstrous phallus, his salty pre-seed. To sniff and find my face marked, to get yet-potent whiffs of the older beast's dominant muskiness.

My belly is still a little distended, so thoroughly did he pack it with potential foals. I give it a pat and picture, with a naughty blush, the mental image of trillions of his fat white tadpoles melting away inside of me, becoming one with my body, the ultimate acceptance of this dangerous and dominant male of another species.

It makes my cock hard. Makes me begin stroking myself, finding easy relief as I tug away and recall the sensation of his erect horse-cock between my lips, and that expulsion of such a volume of centaur spooge as a reward for my efforts.

I...I want to do it again. Want to suck Kyln's cock again.

I'd just wanted to be mounted, just wanted to sit back and have him pleasure me, but there's something in the act of sucking dick, especially when the man being serviced is the centaur Coach, that I never expected I'd come to desire. Gay, and straight, and all that, is the least of my worries now.

When his load has sufficiently settled I rise and shower, get changed into my school uniform, and head to the train station. It's a beautiful day, summery and bright, endless blue skies and a golden hue to all things, and yet my mind is in the gutter. I keep giving my -- much smaller -- belly the occasional rub or pat, my own private secret, no matter who happens to watch the motion.

I know, on some level, that this is wrong. Coach Kyln shouldn't be doing what he's doing, and I shouldn't be involving myself in this vulgar disparity of power. He should know better, should be restrained, should be...

...but he's not, and I'm glad of it.

I've never been so sexually satisfied before.

*

I don't eat much that evening, full -- though no longer showing it -- from my earlier meal.

Porn is one of the weird things, post-merging of worlds. The UK government, prudish to begin with, were caught between allowing these fully sapient beings to partake in the making of pornography and in the process allowing the production of content that previously might've been classed as bestiality -- at least in some cases -- or otherwise denying the same rights that humans have to cognitively similar and, in some cases, superior beings on the basis of pre-existing moral norms.

Suffice to say that stuff is still being worked out. But you can, with the right keywords, find what you're looking for.

And...there's a lot of stuff with people having sex with centaurs.

Centaurs are interesting, to be blunt. They live longer than humans by three or four lifetimes, and -- rare for a non-supernatural species from their home realm -- are capable of omni-breeding, able to create hybrids with every other known sapient form of life. They're faster than Earth's horses, and exceedingly strong, despite on some level appearing to be mere human torsos attached to equine bodies.

Their semen and breast milk are heavily prized back home, and the latter is slowly becoming a popular -- and, technically, vegan -- alternative to dairy milk on Earth, but the "semen as food" market is going to take a generational shift before people come to accept it, to say the least. But just as breast milk is highly nutritious to feed babies, and centaur milk even more so given the size of what they call "foals", centaur semen is...well, special. Apparently, centaurs evolved nutritious and calorie-dense jizz to feed their mares during pregnancy, which explains a lot about why Kyln's semen was surprisingly delicious.

No wonder it tasted so good. No wonder it was so filling.

Kyln's mare obsession makes more sense, in that light. A cursory glance at the more sociological and psychological aspects paints the centaur species as sexually hierarchical, studs having mares, and to be fed by a male is in a sense to become that male's mare, I suppose in the way that some people, who otherwise despise the idea of having kids, involve themselves in breeding roleplay.

And there's a lot of stuff focussing on the consuming of centaur semen and becoming a mare, with a particular market for it in gay porn. But the males, as impressive as they are, are just not equivalent to Kyln.

All but a handful have only two testicles, each smaller than any one of the Coach's four. Their cocks, while still massive and bestial, are obviously shorter and thinner than Kyln's, and the colouration isn't as attractive. I bite my lip at the thought, that new thought, that first-time-ever casual appreciation for the penis of another man. He...he really has woken something, hasn't he?

And the appreciation for Kyln's unique qualities only deepens as I do a bit of reading, to find that of the centaurs -- and you have various sub-breeds, like zebra types and warrior types -- the stallions and mares, the most virile and fertile of their species, make up about five-per-cent at a push. And of those, ninety-per-cent stayed back in the other world, where they more traditionally keep harems.

That such a peerless specimen of masculinity would pick me as his...as whatever I am...it fills me with a dirty fluttering of the spirit. I was so ashamed at the beginning of this, questioning my sexuality, doubting myself despite having a natural attraction to the centaur stud. It seemed wrong on so many levels, being inter-species, being old on young, being a mismatch of hierarchical authority.

But the Coach is right, about so many things. It's in my nature to submit to him, to be a slut for him, to call him daddy and fall to my knees and worship his powerful, superior body. There are whole message boards of human women -- and not a lack of human men -- who seem to crave the attention of centaurs, and stallions most of all. And these people accept that, likely, a stallion will never show interest in them. The competition is simply too great.

They almost remind me of incels, in some cases, the way they talk! The hopelessness, the genetic factors, the "evils" of the way things work.

And yet, here I am, smiling stupidly, knowing that I have a stallion in my life.

I...want to see him again.

I do as Kyln asked. No packed lunch.

My stomach is rumbling before lunchtime, but I remind myself that the wait will be worth it. Daddy's going to reward me for my efforts. Regardless of whether that leads to him mounting me, it's difficult not to be excited for the end of the day. But, as the lessons go by, and my hunger grows worse, maybe it'll be wise to eat a bigger breakfast, going forwards. If...if this is going to be a regular thing. Which...which I hope it is.

When the bell rings at the end of the last lesson, I reflexively blush. Will that bell, in time, have a Pavlovian effect on me? Because, fuck me, I really need to eat.

Everyone else starts heading home, but I go to the PE block. To the centaur Coach's specialised office, suitably resized to accommodate a man of his stature. To that secluded place at the back of the school, where it verges into the surrounding woodlands, where we can enjoy our time together without interruption.

The door's open when I arrive, and Kyln is stood by the window looking out. Tall and muscular, his black hair, greying at the temples, falls behind his head in a long ponytail. With arms crossed, the definition of his broad shoulders, powerful back, and bulging biceps is impossible to ignore. The centaur's equid lower half, brown-furred and similarly robust, shows off his hefty sagging loins when his tail slowly flicks left and right.

'Greyson,' the Coach says. 'Shut the door.'

I do as he asks, and lock it for good measure. Hearing the click, Kyln turns towards me, twisting only his human torso. The flexibility of that upper portion is impressive, perhaps even more so than a human's body. In profile he has the faintest paunch, a frame closer to that of a powerlifter than a bodybuilder. 'Did you eat today, sissy?'

Beneath his powerful verdant gaze, that fear of old returns in a muted form. I'm stricken with a hot flush to my cheeks, and an urge to lower my eyes, to look anywhere but at the brawny middle-aged stallion.

'No, uh, daddy. I did as you asked.'

Kyln chuckles, the sound warm, baritone. 'Good answer, slut. I like the change in attitude. Unsurprising, really, given how fat that cute little belly was after I stuffed it.'

The mature stud turns fully towards me, giving me a better look at his salt-and-pepper hair in the form of a thick mat of the stuff on his chest and his dense close-cropped beard and moustache. He saunters over to me, the paralysed human boy just inside the entrance of his office, and puts his sturdy hands on each of my shoulders.

'I didn't expect you to show up, to be honest,' the Coach says. His male stink, wild and characteristically cock-twitching, fills my nostrils. 'You humans are such scared little creatures in my presence. The only ones of my kind you're happy to see on your TV screens are those that cover their bodies and quell their instincts to the point of being pathetic.'

His frame is so much larger than mine, so rippling with musculature, broad-chested and cannon-armed, each movement of his upper humanoid torso resulting in the bulging of some dense muscle or other. I can barely look at his face, so passively fierce it is, so smug and proud those vivid greed eyes, coloured the same and every bit as lawless as the endless green fields that doubtless this man would be a lord of, back in his home realm.

'You still scare me,' I say, eyelids fluttering in my attempt to meet his gaze. 'But...but I was wrong before. I...you showed me things I never want to forget.'

The Coach runs a brawny hand up my throat, hairy fingers tickling my skin. 'I felt such pride, to see your belly swollen with my seed, Greyson. To claim you is my right, and your privilege, and you realised that yesterday. You looked happy, despite how reluctant you were when this began.' He cups my jaw, easily lifts my chin so that our eyes lock, and my cheeks redden. 'If we yet lived in better days, I'd keep you for myself. You'd never stand in my presence, only kneel. Your line would end with you, sissy, and all our attempts at breeding you would obviously end in failure. But your life would have meaning, as the personal outlet of a stallion.'

The mental image of this man, as some khan-lord in his fantastical home dimension, taking me as some cumdump for his own personal harem, is at once both fitting and all-consumingly appealing. I'm reminded, passingly, that the sperm which I tasted, which I swallowed, carried this stallion's feral magnificence etched into their genes.

I...I have to resist the powerful urge to lick my lips.

'Coach, uh, daddy...'

'Be my mare, boy,' Kyln says. His face has no humour to it. This is serious. This has great meaning in the dominant mind of this sexily arrogant stud. 'You know that this is right, slut. You were clearly made for this purpose.'

I should be upset. Should be opposed. For all the attraction there's that other element, that realisation that for the Coach, this is nothing short of some vital natural order. Handsome as I am starting to find him, there will never be love here. Affection, in Kyln's world, involves the honour of being allowed to service his equid manhood, and swallowing the voluminous produce of his loins that results. It might, if I am so lucky, result in being fucked until I walk funny. Or, per experience, pass out.

But...but...but he's pushing on my shoulder. And maybe it's his musk, or maybe I'm just wired in this terrible submissive way, but it doesn't seem so ill a fate. If there's such a thing as fate, perhaps this is just mine.

And as my knees touch down upon the rough carpet of the centaur's office, the only thought on my mind is that holy shit his cock is gigantic. It hangs there, half-erect, creamy white and brown velvet flesh, slick with whatever oils naturally glaze that thing which ordinarily inhabits his leathery brown sheath. A horse cock. A centaur cock.

Coach Kyln's penis.

I reach forwards and touch his forelegs, feeling the raw heat of his mighty body against my palms, and lick my lips. A thunderbolt of thought strikes, a realisation, an instantaneous desire that surely I must follow.

'I'll do it,' I say, nodding weakly, attempting to meet his gaze but failing to look away from that big intimidating stallion schlong. 'If it means...if it means I have the privilege of serving you, daddy. Of sucking your incredible cock.'

His penis, hearing my intentions, throbs and thickens that much closer to full firmness.

'It does, Greyson,' Kyln says. 'I'll teach you the most important knowledge in this life, sissy. The way to behave, and live well, as befits your station in this world.'

That suggestion, at least, provokes enough concern to ignore his phallus for a moment and pay the smug smirking centaur some attention. 'Befits my station?'

He reaches down and pats my head. 'Of course, sissy. The moment you graduate, you'll move in with me. You'll cook for me, clean for me, wash my body, take care of my sexual needs. You're my mare, slut. You will do what I want, when I want it. I will sculpt your mind, and your body, into accepting its true purpose. You were born to be a dumpster for my cum, and in return, you will want for nothing. Do you understand me, Greyson?'

His baritone voice, harsh with demand, makes me tremble, makes a shiver run up my spine. I want to scream "no!" atop my lungs, but as my eyes make their way down his heavily sculpted human torso, down between his equid forelegs, and set themselves anew upon his cream-and-brown erection and those huge hanging balls behind it, I'm caught up in confusion.

Confusion, because this suggestion of what amounts to voluntary servitude would not so long ago have had me in something like frantic rage, but it now elicits little more than faint shock, and even then, it does that poorly.

Would it be so wrong, to become his? Since that Friday, my hopes to find a girlfriend, my attention towards women generally, has been muted. And since yesterday, since sucking his mammoth horse cock for the first time, I've not even thought of girls. Not even Jen. Not even the girl I thought that I loved.

My entire focus has been, without a moment's failure, Coach Kyln.

Coach Kyln, who is a stallion centaur, who is so much older than I am, who has the biggest dick I've ever seen, who has the largest balls I've ever seen, who shoots the most voluminous loads I've ever seen. Would it be so wrong to be his, to belong to this man? To have an easy life, and to be his fuck-pet, and to tend to his ever-present needs?

I...I felt so good, yesterday. Enjoyed blowing him so very much. Enjoyed the taste, the smell, the sensation of his ejaculate, the feel of it as it bloated my belly to the point of distension, utterly packed with his hot fresh sperm as I was.

I've been looking forward to this all day. I...

'I understand,' I say, wetting my lips, silencing my doubts. 'I'll do it.'

The Coach snorts. 'You will? So easily?'

I nod slowly, stroking my hands down the fine fur of his front legs. 'Nobody else can give me what you do. Nobody can compete with you, daddy. Beyond your ego, you know I'm not wrong.'

The centaur's tail flicks about, and his cock drools. Praise results in bodily outcomes, even if the smug smiling face above will never truly own how pleased he is to have me say such things.

Kyln musses up my hair. 'Impress me, sissy. Take care of your stallion. Be a good little mare.'

Nothing more needs to be said between us. Those remaining doubts, problematic though they may be, get lost in the shadow of my rising lusts. I crawl forwards -- of course I do -- and the stink of his wild manhood singes my nostrils with its humid potency, the lance of equid meat radiating heat and musk into the space beneath the centaur's horse body.

There's something lasciviously impersonal about servicing a centaur in this way. No eye contact, no interaction at all with the human upper half. He could so easily focus on anything else in the world and leave me to it. Perhaps they did, back home. Perhaps it was not so uncommon to have a suck-slave tending to a beast like Kyln while he went about his other daily functions.

Daddy twitches as I take him in hand, throbs against my palms. He bucks needily, tail swishing, as I size up the turgid equine erection. Thicker than my wrist, the vein-laced pole is ridiculously long, its flared all-but-blunt glans drawing the full attention of my eyes with its cum-vein's intriguing protrusion in the cleft below an overhanging upper prominence of thick cream-and-brown glossy flesh.

To hold his penis is wonderful. To take big inhalations with my nose, to fill my head with his tangy bestial musk, only makes it better. And to lean in close, so near that the thing warms my face with its proximity, makes me grin.

'Fuck yeah,' I think aloud, so lost in arousal that I don't truly register myself say it. Kyln, if anything, makes a sound of approval, but that might be because I begin the act with a wet kiss upon his goo-slicked crown. 'Mhm.'

His cock-flesh has no right to be as pleasant as it is, so pearly smooth against my intrepid lips. The centaur's glans eagerly spreads its sticky salty oils across my mouth, the merest contact eliciting a generous helping from his flare-helmet's eyelet. I lick my lips, dirty grin growing deeper as a result. Delicious.

Crazy to think how scared I was just yesterday, and now, so eager. Somewhat selfishly eager, yes, but I cannot ignore how his horse tail flicks, how low grunts emanate from that smug mouth, and how his throbbing lance strains at my hands, veins bulging and broad crown oozing tastiness.

'Good mare,' Kyln says, rich voice pleasing on the ear. 'Good little sissy mare. Take care of your mate.'

I will. I want to. 'Mhm. Smooch.'

I run my tongue around the broad flared tip, the thick band that rings his glans apparently extra sensitive, given how he trembles. A gooey wad of pre-seed drools out and I slurp it up, loading my mouth with saltiness. And then I find myself hesitating, unsure. I pull back and take in the full vista, wondering quite how to proceed.