Once I was giving a handy to this guy in exchange for weed, and all of a sudden out of nowhere he tells me he thinks he’s a horse. I’m not super sure what to do that information, but I keep stroking. He’s got a real nice cock, girthy, long, velvet-textured. Maybe it is kind of like a horse cock, I don’t know. I can’t remember ever actually seeing a horse cock in real life.

“Is that a kink?” I ask him. “Like pony play or whatever?”

“Nah,” he says, in between throaty getting-off breaths, “I’m not even that into sex, to be honest. But I know I can trust you, ‘cause of the whole trans thing— I’m a horse in a human body. My soul is the soul of a horse.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say, nibbling his neck, getting into things. “Why would a horse deal drugs?”

“We all do what we can to get by,” he says. “You, me. Everybody.”

“I guess horses are known for loving grass.”

He doesn’t laugh. Or make any noise. I worry I’m losing the mood, so I try again: “Do you feel like any particular type of horse? I mean, when you picture yourself in your head, do you see a horse? What does it look like?”

Now he’s paying attention. He tips his head back and shuts his eyes and my hand moves up, down, up down.

“I’m a palomino stallion. Not too big, light on my feet. Lithe build. I can run faster than anything you’ve ever seen. Wild. No one’s ever nailed shoes to my hooves.” His breath quickens, goes ragged. Up, down, up, down. His thin chest moves beneath his black t-shirt. “There’s a star on my forehead and my mane swirls long in the wind. I can smell the dirt below me and the musty scent of other horses.”

Up, down, up, down. “I can picture it. A whole herd of horses on the plain.”

“Yes. I’m running…” he gasps. A line of drool creeps out from the corner of his mouth. “I’m running to join them.”

He jerks and spasms and I hold him tight. Cum shoots out of his cock, and some of it lands on my jeans. I gently let him go, limp, to sag into the couch while I wipe at my leg with a wad of Kleenex.

“Good horse,” I say. “Good boy. Easy.”

“Ryan, that was dynamite. Jesus.”

“I was a horse girl as a kid. Always wanted one of my own.” I stand up and collect my baggie of weed. “Maybe next time I’ll even ride you.”

---

Briar Ripley Page (They/he)
Briar Ripley Page is the author of Corrupted Vessels, a surreal southern gothic novella from swallow::tale press, and Body After Body, a self-published erotic dystopian body horror novel. They can be found online at briarripleypage.xyz.