Gay Erotic Stories

“Damn,” I thought, “If I get soaking wet out here I’ll really be pissed-off. This job is miserable enough.”

Because of a useless degree I had once achieved in animal husbandry, I’d been taken from a comfortable job in agriculture and been promoted...they said, to an official sounding position in Animal Control and Protection which included supervising husbandry and breeding. Which meant, rather than spending my time in an office close to home I had to travel all over the Republic to places like this; stables and ranches where racers were raised, trained and bred.

After a ten year ban, racing had been legalized and had quickly become the Nations number one sport. But because of the huge amounts of money involved, both legal and illegal, the Government had established strict guidelines for breeders, like the man I stood beside now, beneath the lightning slashed and boiling sky. Feed manufacturers and owners, both large and small of racing stock also came under my jurisdiction.

I had accidentally become one of the watchdogs of the system, a position I rarely relished. I studied each animal, wondering when the sky would open up and drench me, as the field of twelve rounded the far turn and surged toward us again.

They all appeared especially fit, big, good-looking and healthy; wearing the regulation heavy, black boots and this farms colors, a small triangle of crimson silk covering the animals sex and held in place by a thin cord drawn up between the ass cheeks and joined to another that girdled the hips. Large numbers tattooed on their right bicep and branded on their left flanks and the varied color of their long manes were their only distinguishing features.

Their flesh was deeply tanned but clean and unmarked, a sign that these animals were not routinely beaten as many others I had seen. A film of sweat coated their backs and limbs and glimmered on the solid mounds of the muscular rumps.

A coppery red-haired beauty bearing the number ‘8' came out of the pack and charged toward the lead, his arms and legs pumping and his deep chest and flat belly heaving with exertion.

“Is that one a gelding? His pouch doesn’t look very full,” I asked.

“Number 8?” He leaned his weight on the top of the fence. “Yes, it is...”

Gelding the animals was even more scrupulously regulated than breeding.

“You’re a breeder. Why keep a gelding?”

“I am also a racer, Zorkon, and that one runs like the wind. He’s a contender for the Nationals.”

I could understand why he kept this colt. The Nationals which were held in September, carried a purse of three and a half million golden sipacs; almost five million dollars in the old currency.

“You have already registered him, then?” I asked.

“Certainly; you’ll look over my books. You’ll find everything in order.”

At that moment number 8 passed the entire group in the last furlong and easily took the heat. The man clicked his stopwatch and smiled.

Grooms appeared to take the animals back to the stables. Sturdy leads were clipped onto the black harnesses that crisscrossed the racers chests and backs and their forearms were drawn back and secured behind them.

“The rain is coming on fast. I’d like to be inside when it arrives,” I said.

“Perhaps you’d like to see the stables?”

“Please.” I was happy to be heading toward cover. I sensed something wrong about this man but he did own one of the largest stables in the Republic. He was very important to racing and consequently, my job.

His main stable was a huge, long and low pole building, sparkling with a fresh coat of whitewash and trimmed in red. Small windows, evenly spaced, marked the exterior walls.

Inside, it was bright and the air conditioned atmosphere was pungent with the clean scents of fresh hay and male animals. I did enjoy the smell of a well kept barn. It was a sign that his animals were well taken cared for. The one giant room was divided by a center aisle with 25 stalls on either side, half of which were occupied. Even at that he actually had more stock than I’d expected.

When racing had been banned many animals had been destroyed or put to stud. It was only the very large farms which could afford to maintain breeding programs, waiting. His was obviously one of those. By law, racers were male and had to be eighteen seasons old; breeders twenty. It would have been an extensive and expensive process to get back into business after the ban. He had done well.

All around us grooms and stable hands were busily working, readying the steeds, which had not been raced, for the night and washing and massaging those that had. My gaze followed one into a stall to my immediate left.

A large numeral ‘5' on the fence matched the brand on one of the most beautiful beasts I had ever seen. I was always amazed at how much larger these animals appeared up close than they did on the track.

This was a powerful, raven haired stallion with an angular handsome face and keen piercing eyes. A thick corded neck flowed into his broad shoulders and exaggerated chest. I watched the groom remove the animal’s harness and hang it on a peg in the wall.

“He is one of my most stunning...would you not agree?” asked the owner.

“Yes,” I said. “Indeed he is.”

“And a fine runner,” added the man.

Like most racers I’d seen that possessed some body hair his had been clipped down to a dark stubble on the mounds of his pectorals, around his big nipples and across the plain of his segmented belly. Governed by regulation, the hair of his head was shaved short above his ears but left to grow into a long mane which hung down to the middle of his rippling back. Manes were to be washed and brushed often and this one glistened like onyx in the barns bright lighting.

Anxious to have his boots removed and to be bathed and fed, the stallion pawed at the hay-covered floor and tossed his head as high as the collar around his neck and the tether which secured him to either side of the stall would allow.

Only when running were a racers arms to be free. At all other times their wrists were kept bound together above their buttocks in thick padded, leather cuffs. All racers were, by nature, highly sexual and in constant need of release but pleasuring themselves were never allowed. ‘Milking’, the routine discharge of their seed, and the breeding of them was conducted on a strict schedule on every farm.

I was becoming anxious to see this entire fine animal; but my wait was short for as soon as one groom had removed his boots another came with a bucket and towels and loosened the straps which held the bulging pouch in place. As he pulled the fabric away a thick, dark penis fell free to sway into place between the animal’s prominent thighs. It hung long and tumescent, swollen with fresh blood but not erect. I watched the cock squirm and stretch out naturally after its confinement until it arced out away from his pubic bush and over a scrotum the size of two balled fists. At the cock’s tip and through the shroud of flesh that covered the burgeoning head a large silver ring had been installed, inscribed with the long serial number which had been given the steed at birth. Completely nude and with his bright, dark good looks this one was the epitome of the ideal racer--the perfect product of years of research in breeding and training, diet and drug therapy.

I reached forward and lifted the stud’s penis until I could read the numbers on the ring. I felt a surge of life course through the stout shaft.

“In spring this one will be ready to breed,” I said.

“And he’ll produce fine stock,” added the owner. “He’s due to be milked while you’re with us. You will see how potent and copious his seed is. He puts out a good ounce each time.”

I let the cock drop and took number 5's clipboard from the fence.

“Mind your legs,” said the groom through a thick Australian accent. “This one here’s ready and a sprayer, he is.” As he spoke a thick, yellow stream of urine arced out from the tip of the colt’s cock and splashed into the aisle before the groom could direct it into a trough cut into the concrete floor.

“The trainer’s record keeping was neat and quite accurate,” I remarked.

“Come...number 23 is being collected for breeding tonight,” said the man, “And we have the Bureaus newest equipment. I think you’ll be interested. This is also a stunning animal....as fair and sinewy as number 5, here is dark and robust.”

As we walked the length of the barn I gave only a cursory glance at each animal as we passed. He did have an incredibly handsome stable. They were all nude now; bound identically in the stalls, their skin still damp from bathing, the manes washed and brushed. They chuffed quietly and pawed easily at their bedding.

Some were still eating from shallow pans set on high rolling tables. Racers were fed a prescribed vegetarian mixture saturated with vitamins, protein and hormones, designed to keep body fat at an absolute minimum and their musculature at its maximum. Only when they were to be bred did a stud’s diet change to include drug supplements which enhanced virility and increased the viscosity and potency of their seed.

Passing number 8 I made a mental note to return and check the records of his castration. Generally gelding was performed only as a last resort on the most incorrigible beasts. I never liked to see it. The young colt stood passive in his stall and watched with curious eyes as we went by. Behind his lengthy cock I could barely see the pink scar where its testicles had once been.

Racers were bred only by artificial insemination. Sperm was collected from selected stallions after they had reached their breeding season. The Bureau of Animal Control had determined, before the ban, that at that age the stud was at his racing and reproductive peak.

Collected sperm was flash frozen and delivered to nurturing farms, generally in the South Republic where birthing mares were chosen and injected. The mares and the offspring were as meticulously controlled as the male racers were, if not more so.

The breeding studs were not run or exercised at all for two full months prior to the collection being done. They were kept in their stalls where they could be closely monitored and fed the special diet while their seed developed. An owner could not afford to have a breeding racer running off its precious sperm.

Number 23 was being held in a corner stall, nervous and agitated; frustrated by his long confinement; he was stamping his feet, pawing and tossing his golden-maned head. He was surrounded by grooms who were holding his shoulders and sweating hips while his vet, covered in a white lab coat sat on a stool before the struggling stud.

The owner had been right, this one was an awesome animal, big and handsome with hair so blonde it was nearly white and liquid blue, wild eyes. His body was lithe and naturally strong, devoid of even an ounce of fat; his arms, legs and buttocks thick with corded muscle and sinew.

The colt had radiant, richly tanned hide covered in soft, golden hair even onto the mounds of his solid rump. Patches of longer, coarse pale hairs decorated the hollow at the base of his spine, the valley between his prominent pectorals and the triangle below his navel.

He pulled and strained against the grooms hold, layers of reactive muscle flexing and reflexing under his sleek flesh. His massive chest rose and fell rapidly with each excited breath, causing the thick gold rings pierced through each of his big nipples to dance above the taut plain of his abdomen.

Between his striking thighs waggled an impressive penis, a long, tick tube of flesh, not yet hard but swollen with blood; pale, almost pink in color and etched with a network of blue veins, pulsing with life. Behind the cock his sac looked red and full, the twin orbs bloated with his pent-up juice. Our drug therapy used before collection was clearly effective, I thought. The colt would certainly produce well.

The animal was trimmed, a practice some vets were experimenting with and one that the Bureau had not yet ruled on. While it did prevent certain diseases and aided in keeping the stock clean, it was generally thought the removal of the foreskin lessened the visual essence of a male.

The steed’s bold, spongy head flared away from the cock shaft like a dark helmet, the thick ridge curving in beneath it to form the long slit in the tip, already wet with a drop of crystalline ooze. Because the penis lacked a foreskin, the heavy identity ring had been fed into the urethra and pierced through the meat behind and under the cock’s crown. The position of the ring did not effect the elimination of waste or the discharge of seed when the animal was milked or a collection was done.

Gently rubbing his hips and thighs, the vet was quieting him while also stimulating him to erection with gentle manipulation to his genitals. It took little effort to arouse one of these youthful breeders.

For the first time I heard the deep thunder and the heavy rain pounding on the buildings metal roof. The noise resounded through the barn. The collection device on the table beside the vet was the newest from our Bureaus engineers. Like the older models it consisted of a small electric air generator connected to a two-ply transparent sleeve by a thin plastic hose. Unlike the others the new sleeves were more contoured and had wide ribs designed to provide more stimulation to the male, making collection much more efficient. There was no more crude, direct suction to the animal’s penis anymore, only a constant massage provided by pulses of air between the layers of the sleeve. Three vials attached to simple valves at the base of the sleeve collected the discharged sperm with the aid of slight suction.

Number 23's cock now stood up hard and throbbing from his crotch while the vet switched on the machine and laved the erection with a warm lubricant. I saw the sleeve pulsing inside as the doctor began working the tight opening over the stallion’s rampant head. Once on, the device slid easily along the shaft until the fold was pressed firmly into the pubic patch and against the skin of his scrotum. The head of the penis was wedged in ideally at the connections of the vials.

The big stallion whinnied and struggled but the expert hands held him fast while the sleeve mechanically massaged up and down the length of his throbbing rod. I could not even imagine the sensations flooding the base of the colts body as the machine worked on the thousands of nerves along the steely shaft of his cock.

Suddenly all of his muscles seemed to recoil and his breaths were coming in ragged gasps. His testicles had nearly disappeared up into the stud’s body, the head of his erection had become almost purple in color and the rigid shaft had doubled in girth, straining against the plastic sleeve.

When a low moan came from deep in him the vet opened the first valve. Above him, the stallion tossed his handsome head and a quake raked through his body. I saw the first bolt of opalescent fluid erupt from the lips of the cock and stain the glass. When it was nearly full the doctor opened the second valve as the animal continued to cum. He replaced the first tube with a fresh one in the event it was needed while I made notes for the Engineering and Chemical departments.

This stud’s sperm appeared rich and viscous, a perfect color and there was definitely no problem with the measure of it. The steed had filled three and a half vials before he was finished and the last of the semen was suctioned off. I would take one frozen tube back to the lab for examination.

After another day of collection they would begin exercising the stud again and he would race again until his next breeding. The decision was the owners, but if he proved very successful, this male, like many others could become a full time breeding stud.

Over the next two rain soaked days and the three clear ones that followed I spent my time pouring over the farm records and the clipboards in each of the animals stalls. And, I supervised thorough medical examinations on all twenty-five of the racing and breeding animals. They were a generally fine and healthy lot, I found.

With the man’s permission I adjusted the ‘milking’ schedules so during my stay I could collect and test the sperm and semen produced by most of the males. I froze several samples to be returned to the Bureau. He had followed rigidly the guidelines set by the Bureau and all the animals in his stable were of excellent quality.

I worked around the racing and exercise schedules because he had a goal of training several of his racers for the upcoming Nationals. One was number 8 and another, number 11, oddly also a gelding that ran like a champion, but one I had not particularly noticed during my walks through the barn on those first days.

He was strikingly beautiful also, with a dark brown, long mane and a growth of stubble on his cheeks. A untried colt, yet fully grown, well developed and thickly muscled. He didn’t possess the body hair that grew on many of the others, except for the thick bush at the base of his body and a coating of fur on his muscular legs which spread up and the outward from the deep cleft that split his perfect, round buttocks. The twin spheres of thick muscle forming his chest were decorated with small, taut nipples at either edge. The flat of his belly was corrugated with ridges of sinew like steel bands to his navel and below it, his hips turned in sharply from his sides, dipping down into his groin. According to his records he had been neutered, as had number 8 to correct severe behavioral problems. They had both been fighters and biters and had wounded several stallions in clashes both on the track and in the barn.

After the surgery they were both more placid, with only minor problems reported by grooms and trainers, the result of higher levels of testosterone still present in their systems.

I took up his cock by its broad root and let its weighty length lay across my paw while I copied information from the silver I.D. ring. He looked directly at me when I hefted the member to the side and touched the mean scar where its scrotum had been.

His great penis felt cool on its surface but warm in the interior when I pushed back the canopy of flesh covering its tip. The big crown popped free, quite dark and bloated with fresh blood. I pulled along the veiny shaft and squeezed at the pouting lips until a drop of transparent liquid appeared at them. As I released the cock it arced away from his body in a fat, lazy curve while it continued to fill. Soon it was jutting up toward his belly, pulsing and begging for contact.

I entered his stall and stepped around behind him, keeping a reassuring touch on his slender flank. He jittered slightly but I soothed him; stroking his side. Striating the bunches of muscle forming his back and ass were the stripes of long, brutal beatings from a trainer’s whip; more severe than those marking number 8's body.

“You must have been trouble, after all,” I whispered.

Coming back to the front, I gazed long into his eyes, down to his leaking erection and up to his face again. I was reaching toward his magnificent cock, ready to pleasure him and thinking how wrong it was to remove from this wonderful animal his vital parts when his lips formed one silent single word of the old, forbidden language.

“PLEASE...”

I was so stunned I literally stumbled backward and fell into the center aisle, attracting the attention of several working grooms. I pulled myself up and bolted out of the barn toward my room and my computer.

It couldn’t be...it was impossible. Racers didn’t...couldn’t speak. They had never known how to...especially the old language. I knew that humans had once spoken but they hadn’t for centuries.

The Bureau of Animal Control kept records of mares and racers and the offspring as reference for members like myself. I had no problem accessing their tremendous amounts of data.

Using the symbols I had taken from the I.D. rings I found that both the young males had come from Rancho Supremo, a nurturing farm in the section once known as New Mexico.

I touched more keys and opened numerous files before I found the information I needed. An automated female voice said, “...Numbers XJRR97 and XJAR914...both colts dead...at birth...thank you.”

A sudden hollow knock at my door disturbed me. With a start I punched the power button on the monitor. The owner entered the room. “Come along. They are going to ‘milk’ number 5 for you. I know you found the stud intriguing. It should be interesting to watch. I’ll not understand where these animals get there stamina...or desire. Or the pleasure they seem to derive from the discharge of a tablespoon of seed.”

“It’s the species...and their diet,” I offered, yet still thinking.

“Perhaps that is correct,” he said. “Now come along.” I walked silently along with him back toward the stables, slowly piecing together parts of a dangerous puzzle in my mind. I was so occupied I barely noticed the big naked animal or all the grooms and trainer with him in his stall. I leaned forward on the fence and made my move.

“Where did numbers 8 and 11 come from?”

His spiny green tail twitched nervously and his fiery red eyes widened. “Why...they came from the Southern Republic....I bought them at auction, I believe.”

The grooms held number 5 secure between them yet he pawed the floor and pulled against them. The trainer pinched at each of his large nipples and stroked the front of his body slowly from his chest to his pubic patch and then up and down again.

“I believe otherwise, sir. I’m sure you remember the crash of that transport....when did that happen...four years ago?”

“Yes...I remember.”

“It crashed somewhere near here, didn’t it? It was a transport shuttling refugees from Glarus to A7...all humans...some were young males...Remember?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly, narrowing his reptilian face.

“When the soldiers arrived at the site some of the survivors had escaped, hoping to hide somewhere until they could be rescued. Those were quickly hunted down and exterminated yet several have always remained unaccounted for...they were males.

“I believe numbers 8 and 11 are two of those youths. Your men joined the search and discovered that, even with injuries these animals could run, and run fast while they were being tracked. When they were overtaken they were not destroyed but returned here...weren’t they?”

Number 5 had responded to the trainer’s gentle touch. His cock was fully hard, standing straight up in front of his body. The big crown capping the penis pressed its way out past the folds of foreskin into the trainer’s palm. Like a cat waiting to be stroked he arched his body forward and tipped his pelvis. The trainer coated his hand with warm brown lubricant and closed it easily around the stallions throbbing dark erection. His other hand cupped the animal’s swollen scrotum and massaged the contents, knowing what manipulations gave pleasure to the big animals.

“That’s ludicrous,” the owner bristled. “I have papers for both of them. They’re in order...you’ve seen them.”

“You have falsified records and identity rings from two colts that died at birth at Rancho Supremo. You stole those youths and trained them as racers. But, they were problems, weren’t they? They could speak and they were rebellious. So, to demonstrate your control and power you had them beaten...brutally and often by that trainer. But, they still acted out so you had them castrated, hoping to break them...and you nearly did.

“Well...I think I have ruined your chances for entering those geldings in the Nationals.”

“You cannot go back to the Bureau with that preposterous tale.” He looked at me, keeping his voice very low. “They’ll never believe you. No one will. And, why would they?... What do you care about these animals? They are just animals, good for only two things, racing and making more racers. Beautiful--but stupid. Where would our world be if we were driven by that pathetic wad of flesh between the legs as they are?

“Look at him, my friend. Nothing matters to the beast right now...no thought pervades that tiny mind at this moment except his need to release an insignificant amount of fluid from that penis; when that has happened, his only desires will be for food and the need to run until he needs relief again. How can you be so concerned about what happens to him?”

“It is not this animal that concerns us....it is the two illegal geldings. They are not part of our world or his,” I said, nodding my head toward the big stallion.

“I’ll be taking them back to Quantico Headquarters with me tonight.” I said, gathering all the courage I could. “You will be hearing from my superiors. There will be examinations of your records, be assured of that.”

Behind the owner, the muscles on the big hirsute stud began flexing and his breaths were coming out in short gasps. A groom produced a silver flagon and held it in anticipation as the trainer increased the speed of his strokes on the beast’s long, broad cock. They both smiled, looking up into the colts grimacing face, not understanding how the ministrations could produce such sensations.

Finally, with a great moan he came, spraying the inside of the silver container with his warm, milky seed. Again and again his erection clenched, each time adding another thick wad to the collected juice until finally the male was spent and the last drops were pinched out from the cock’s lips.

The cup was offered to me but I shook my head in refusal. It was then handed to the owner who swirled the fluid in the bottom and drank it down. His long tongue flicked into the chalice and collected the last of the cooling sperm.

He grinned an evil grin at me and it was then that I suspected he had eaten the severed testicles of the two colts, probably as they looked on in horror.

“If you take them, they will be destroyed and then they will be of no service to anyone. If you leave them, I’ll make it worth your while. I am a very wealthy Krylon.”

The stallion stood tall and quiet behind him as the grooms began sponging his body.

“I am pleased with your offer but I must refuse. I have my job to do....I’ll take them at 7 o’clock. Have them ready.”

The owner growled behind me as I walked along toward number 8's stall.

I drove the craft I’d been issued up the East coast and into Virginia with the naked geldings bound together in the rear of the vehicle. Away from the cities, I followed the untraveled roads until I recognized the familiar scenery near my farm.

At the stable I turned the colts over to my trainer with instructions to begin exercising them in preparation for the Nationals. And, he was not to use his whip.

I would enter them and the owner would continue breeding stock and not say a word because I had not exposed him after all. One of the geldings would win because my trainer was the best in the business and the boys were two of the fastest animals I had ever seen.

I drove on to the Bureau offices with my reports and the frozen samples I’d collected. At the interview with my superiors I was asked if I had anything interesting to report from my tour.

I answered, “No sir, nothing outside the usual.”