Three Centaur Mares

Author Note: This is a small collection of shorts that takes place in the same universe as my story 'A Day in the Life of a Pony Centaur'. Here we explore the fates of a few other centaur mares in the same world.

Belladonna, the racing centaur

A racing centaur mare's training begins as soon as she's selected to race, generally at the age of eighteen. The mare we are following today is named Belladonna, and she is excited and proud to be accepted for training.

A metal shield is installed permanently over her clitoris. The shield leaves a sizable gap between the shield and the sensitive flesh of her clit; this allows access to the clit via specially-designed toys for reward purposes, while discouraging the mare from trying to satisfy herself.

This is considered essential to the training of a modern racing centaur, as it both provides excellent incentive for training and also prevents embarrassing scenes such as the infamous interruption at the Ladies Cup of 2012, when the leading centaur Lilybelle disrupted the entire race by mounting the plastic fence along the side of the racetrack and rubbing her clit along the railing to stimulate herself to orgasm.

Although the mare's behavior was found to be the result of poor husbandry practices, including allowing Lilybelle's jockey to make sexual use of her immediately before the race, the incident was such an embarrassment to the centaur racing industry that any racing mare not wearing a permanent shield is required to wear a temporary chastity device during any official race to prevent a repeat.

Belladonna accepts the installation of the shield with pride, as it marks her status as a proper racing mare and means she will be moved to the training stable to live alongside other older and more experienced racers.

When she arrives, she discovers that it is common for the older mares to engage in some good-natured hazing of new trainees: she's surrounded in the yard and one of the older mares massages and fingers her pussy until she's gaping and dripping, begging for the other racehorse to keep touching her. Then she's ridiculed for her slutty response and spanked until her pussy throbs. The trainers and jockeys don't interfere with this, as it's considered a natural bonding activity; if the mares aren't allowed to establish a natural pecking order amongst themselves, fights break out more often among the frustrated centaurs and are more likely to result in injury to the valuable animals.

Belladonna accepts the ritual with good humor the first time, but when it happens again and again over the following week, she becomes discouraged, feeling humiliated and rejected. Soon, she's failing to display the appropriate enthusiasm on the training track. Her trainer introduces her to the encouragement harness.

The harness fits around her hindquarters and is attached to a stallion-sized phallus that slips inside of her aching pussy. Her own movements as she runs around the track make the toy thrust into her, but there's also a motorized component that responds to her speed; the faster she gallops, the harder the toy vibrates.

Belladonna is initially ecstatic. She doesn't understand that this is a punishment. The toy feels amazing inside of her, and the faster she runs, the better it feels.

But it isn't long until she encounters the natural limiter: her own instincts. The closer she gets to orgasm, the harder it is to keep running; her body wants her to stand still and brace, the way she would when being mounted by a stallion.

Her first training session with the encouragement harness on reduces her to a sweaty, shuddering mess, as she frequently stops mid-lap and braces herself in the middle of the track, gasping and then whimpering in disappointment as the toy goes still and silent inside of her in response.

Soon she's begging her trainer to take it off. When she's informed that she will wear it for training for the rest of the week, she cries, and receives a disciplinary spanking for the disruptive behavior.

By the end of the week, she's growing used to the constant stimulation. She knows what speed she can run at and sustain for a while without getting so close to the edge that she'll have to stop. But she's also becoming increasingly desperate, her body heated, her mind preoccupied almost obsessively with the idea that if she could just keep running for long enough, she'll come.

So, on the last day of the week, she tries it. In the middle of a training session, she breaks into a faster and then a faster gallop, whimpering in pleasure as the toy buzzes faster inside of her. She focuses on the movements of her hooves, bullying her body into moving even when it wants more than anything to stop and just experience the sensation of being fucked. An amazing orgasm builds inside of her as she gallops frantically around the track.

As she finally tips over the edge and starts to come, she screams victoriously, but she also loses her iron grip on her control over her body. She nearly trips over her own hooves as she slams to a stop.

"No!" she screams as the toy goes still inside of her again, her body clenching and shuddering in confusion as the pleasure slips away. She forces herself to take a few shaky steps forward, making the toy buzz in her in soft little bursts, and sobs as the faint pleasure only tingles inside her, little echoes of the orgasm she had been expecting.

The other mares sharing the training track with her snort in disgust as they gallop around her. They all remember trying something similar, when they were first introduced to the encouragement harness; they know what she's feeling, and they have no sympathy for the whimpering mare. One kicks at her flank to get her out of the way. She limps haltingly to the side of the track, her pussy visibly shuddering and clenching around the sporadically buzzing training toy.

That will be the closest that Belladonna comes to a climax for at least a year. She fails to place in her first race, which means that, despite all of her hard training, she gets no reward; instead, she gets to stand aside and watch as another mare in the stable, an older racer who's finally managed to place, receives her own desperately-needed release.

The rewards are given out in the main yard, so that the other mares can be reminded of what they're missing out on when they fail to perform. The trainer wheels out a mounted toy--a stallion-sized rabbit vibrator, designed to work under a racing mare's clit shield. He adjusts the height of the toy while the lucky mare dances in place, nervous and excited, and then turns on the vibrating mechanism.

Then--watched closely by her jealous stablemates--she backs herself onto the toy, squealing and huffing, her flanks heaving, until the vibrating cock is fully seated in her and the tickling prongs slide under her clit shield and dance against her clit. Almost immediately, she's hollering out her first orgasm, braced and shuddering, her muscles cording up with the power of her pleasure.

"Yes!" she bellows. "Yes, this is it! This is what it feels like to fucking win! Fuck! Fuck! Oh, fuck, my clit! Yes!"

Belladonna and the other unlucky mares watch as the winner grunts and groans and shouts her way through upwards of three or four orgasms. When the trainer comes back over and shuts the vibrating machine off, she still cries out in dismay, stamping her hooves and trying to mash herself harder back against the toy, trying to grind out one final come, but the trainer spanks her until she squeals and pulls off the machine to dance away, leaving the machine and the dirt beneath it wet with her fluids.

Belladonna goes to bed that night, pussy aching, clit twitching, and resolves to win her next race, no matter what it takes.

***

Millay, the farm centaur

Millay lives a quiet and lonely life. She's the only centaur on a small farm, purchased cheap due to her dowdy appearance and dull brown coat; not well-bred enough to race, not flashy enough to show off to tourists.

Even so, she was certainly more expensive than a standard horse, but she'll live much longer--like most centaurs, she has the same life expectancy as a human--and the farmer who owns her gets plenty of use out of her; along with having her haul farm equipment around the farm and pull his cart back and forth to town on Sundays, she also acts as his assistant at the Sunday Farmer's Market, an extra pair of hands to serve customers.

And then there's the other use he has for her, of course.

This Sunday, just like every Sunday, he directs her to take the long way home from town, the scenic road that loops around the lake. He's seated behind her, on the cart that she's pulling; he would have a perfect view of her pussy, if she weren't wearing a rubber shield to make herself decent, held into place with a squat little plug that rubs and tickles inside her as she walks.

As the sun goes down and the road around them becomes truly empty, she feels a gentle tap-tap against that rubber shield, echoing down through the plug and into her cunny until it twitches. The farmer is tapping at it with his riding crop. She shivers and resists the urge to moan; she knows what that means.

Up ahead, a wide, flat expanse of grass provides a good spot for her to pull the cart off the road. As soon as she does, the farmer leans forward and tugs at the shield, pulling it away to expose her clenching cunt and her twitching clit.

She stays quiet. She knows well enough by now that he doesn't want her to make any noise when he makes use of her this way; he has a wife at home, after all, even if their relationship is poor these days, and while he doesn't see it as cheating to have sex with a magical beast that he owns, it still shakes him to be reminded that he's fucking a living creature and not a toy.

So she bites her lip back on a moan as he presses the riding crop lightly against her pussy, spreading the lips to look at her, as if checking that she's wet enough. Of course she is; she's always wet, especially after the long walk into town and partway home again with the shield on, rubbing up inside her and bumping occasionally against her clit.

He leans forward, planting his feet on the axel of the cart, and unzips his pants. She bites her lip to hold back a moan. When his cock enters her, she shudders all over at the feeling of it.

He's very strict about what she has access to, inside of her paddock and her stall. A few months back, he found her standing over the tall grass at the far end of the field so that it would brush against her clit, and he had it mown down. It's been over a year since she's last managed to have an orgasm, and that was on a Sunday like this one, when the vigorous thrusting of his small, human cock finally pushed her over the edge in a feverish rush of pleasure.

Every Sunday, she hopes for that, but she is virtually always disappointed. Her pussy aches for the proper, deep penetration of a true stallion's cock, the heavy weight of a centaur man braced over her haunches. The slick slide of the farmer's cock is nothing more than a cruel tease, leaving her body aching and desperate.

The farmer is still holding the riding crop in his hand. He leans forward after a couple of thrusts and braces himself against the pulling bar beside her; the crop angles inwards, brushing tantalizingly under her belly, and then, when he adjusts his grip, the corner of it flicks ever so lightly over her clit. Millay is surprised into a loud, fervent moan, her whole body shuddering.

"Quiet," the farmer warns her, slapping her on the haunch in punishment. Millay puts a hand over her mouth and breaths heavily through her nose.

The crop brushes her clit again, and again. The farmer certainly isn't doing it on purpose; the touches are at random, a pure accident of the angle he's bracing himself at and the movements of his thrusting. The touches are unpredictable and maddeningly light, dancing softly against her clit, there and gone again in little shocks of pleasure.

Each one drags her torturously closer to the edge. Her whole body is frozen in place, her muscles tensed, ready for any touch that will be firm enough to get her to the point of climax. Her pussy is squeezing vigorously around the farmer's cock pumping away inside her.

"Fuck," the farmer grunts, and then he spills into her. As he does, he twists his hand and the end of the crop rests, feather-light, directly against her clit.

Millay breaths so hard through her nose that she's getting dizzy, her hand clamped down hard over her mouth to keep back the noises that want to break free. She's going to come. She's going to come. If he just leaves it there for another second, if he just moves it the tiniest bit--

The farmer sits back and pulls the crop away, leaving her clit twitching and throbbing in the cool air.

Millay stands there, stunned, her sides heaving, so close to coming that she can feel it in her teeth. The farmer takes no notice of her state; he climbs down from the cart and unhooks her from it, then pats her on the rump and points to the nearby river that feeds into the lake.

"Go clean yourself up."

Millay hesitates for a moment, lifts one hoof. Her pussy throbs so urgently that she's afraid she'll pull a muscle.

"Please," she whispers, her breath shaking.

The farmer narrows his eyes at her. She's supposed to know better than to ask. She looks away without finishing her request.

After a few seconds, she's able to force herself to take shaking steps forward, down to the river. The water is cold, which is uncomfortable around her hooves, but pulls her up out of her lustful torpor. She swallows back her frustration and lowers herself to lay her horse body in the water, preparing to rinse her pussy clean of the evidence of their coupling.

The spot she's lowered herself into, though, has a stronger current than usual--or maybe she's just so close to the edge that she's too ready to respond. She gasps quietly as she feels the cool water flowing around her clit, the surface of the water dancing at the base of it.

She bites her lip and shudders. It feels good. She already feels so close to coming, and it feels so good.

"Mmm..." she relaxes further into the water, her flank twitching as she feels the flow caressing her sensitive clit and lapping at the lips of her pussy. It's different from the glancing touches from the riding crop, not as rough and immediate, but she can feel herself slowly, slowly approaching the edge again. "Oh..."

"Hurry it up over there," the farmer calls from the shore.

"Wait, just wait," she gasps, her pussy twitching and winking against the tickle of the water. "I'm not clean yet, just wait--wait--"

The farmer, though, is starting to understand what's happening. "Get back over here now. Don't make me come in after you, missy."

"Please, please, just wait," Millay begs. She shifts her weight a little and gasps as the tip of her clit brushes ever so lightly against a rock at the bottom of the stream. "Oh!" The farmer is coming into the stream, and she knows she has to get up, but she's almost there, she's going to come, she's going to come-- "No, no, please!"

Just as the waves of pleasure begin to break inside her, the farmer reaches her and slams the riding crop hard against her gaping pussy. Millay screams as the sharp pain cuts through everything else, ruining her orgasm horribly and leaving her squealing and scrambling up out of the water, her pussy grasping in confusion on the air as it simultaneously tries to clench against the pain and to finish coming.

He slaps her there again and again, and then aims another swat at her straining clit. Millay stumbles away from him and then races for the dry bank, sobbing.

"Dirty fucking beast," the farmer hollers after her. "You'll behave civilized, or I'll beat it into you!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Millay sobs. The farmer rinses her rubber shield in the river as well, then walks back over and shoves it roughly back into place, making her squeal as her pussy rings simultaneously with the echoes of the orgasm it had tried to have earlier as well as the pain from the stinging crop.

"Thinking I'll have to put one of those clit shields on you, like they use for race horses," the farmer mutters angrily as he straps her back in to the cart. Millay shakes her head and stamps her hooves in distress.

"No, please! Please don't!"

"Why the hell not? I'm tired of the dirty little thing," he snaps. "Rubbing all over shit. Humping rocks in the stream. That's obscene."

"I won't do it again, please, please," she begs.

"Hm. We'll see." He climbs back onto the cart and slaps her again with the crop, this time across the ass. "Get home, before the wife starts wondering where we're at."

***

Chestnut, the captured runaway

Chestnut is a former racing centaur. Five years of racing, with not a single place to show for it; the only trophy she walks away with is the little shield on her clit. Her new owners, a petting zoo, buy her cheap and don't bother to take it off.

After a few years, she jumps the fence in the petting zoo paddock and runs into the open countryside. She has no plan; she thinks maybe she'll find a wild centaur herd--she has no idea that all centaurs on this continent were domesticated over a century ago--or, barring that, she hopes to at least find a stallion somewhere who will fuck her.

Instead, she finds bondsmen. Poachers in all but name, they linger in the open spaces around centaur farms and wait for runaways. An escaped centaur is free to whoever recaptures them, and that's a valuable find.

Within days, she's caught in a trap, two hooves tangled in nooses holding her in place between two trees until she has to lay on the dirt to keep from breaking an ankle. Of the two human men who approach her, one is more confident; the other hangs back, younger, nervous.

"Here we go. This is a healthy one," the older one says approvingly.

"Please, let me go," she begs, and he ties a rag into her mouth, shutting her up.

He walks around behind her, kicks her haunch until she hauls herself into a more upright position on the dirt. His rough fingers part the folds of her pussy, making her groan into the gag. "There it is," he says to his young apprentice. "Nine out of ten runaway mares will have those bits of hardware."

"What's it do?"

"What's it look like it does?" the older man snorts. "Caps off her clit. Keeps her from getting off. It's how they control the racers. That's why we keep these little things." He smacks her on the haunch. "Hey, filly, you paying attention?"

She snorts, struggles a little against the rope. She wants to kick him, but she's too tied down.

Then something slides under the clit shield, caressing her clit. She stops struggling and leans forward, bracing her hands on the dirt and moaning loudly.

"Just like that," the older man says. He pulls it out again, leaving her clit twitching and aching for sensation, and she makes a pleading noise into the gag. "That's right. You want more, huh? How about you let us untie you real nice, and then I'll give you a few strokes with my little friend here?"

She looks back at him. What he's holding is nothing special--a vet's tool, honestly, just a little flipper of silicone meant to slip under the shield for cleaning and health purposes--but he obviously knows how to use it, and her clit is begging for more. Her pussy is twitching and drooling, frantic with the promise of that touch.

Chestnut whines into her gag, and then nods.

The men untie her and then lock a set of shackles around her back ankles, hobbling her so that she can only take short steps and can't kick. She allows it, defeated and desperate. Once she's on her feet and haltered up, the older man pats her on the flank.