Page 3

The Stud who chooses me will essentially be my Dom for the night. There may be dozens of centaurs at the gangbang, but only he will prepare me, strap me to the bench, and have total authority over who can touch me. Unless I tap out, the herd won't stop breeding me until my Stud decides I've had enough.

The thought of one of these gorgeous stallions choosing me, controlling access to my body, and doling out my holes to his friends like I'm a living party favor is so fucking hot I can't stand it.

The competition could be anything: a race, strength pull, dance, archery, joust, sword fight, and so on. Today, it's apparently a steeplechase. Evenly spaced, hedge-like jumps cast long afternoon shadows over the red dirt of an oblong track. Cicadas buzz in the summer air, their lazy drone at odds with the excited chatter of the crowd. Centaurs and curious onlookers from all corners of the keep gather to watch.

As we approach the track, steady hoofbeats are punctuated by quick, staccato taps when a stallion trots by. There's a lot of shoulder-nudging, back-slapping, and good-natured shit-talking among competitors. I keep my head on a swivel, but I've lost sight of the intriguing dun centaur.

At the track, King Idris and a few members of his retinue gather under a tall marquee on a raised wooden platform. My colleagues and I take the six cushioned chairs under the king's marquee, aiming coy looks at the competing stallions to remind them of the prizes they can win.

I scan the centaurs warming up, looking for — ah, there he is.

His raven-black hair is now in a tight bun. Like the other competitors, he has removed the garment around his equine portion, revealing his full golden-brown coat. I appreciate that he also stripped off his shirt. He stretches his defined arms over his head, one by one, and even that casual movement makes my mouth water. I'm fascinated by the trail of short, dark hair extending down his spine in a pseudo-mane, connecting smoothly with the black stripe along his equine back.

I force myself to look at the other centaurs so my favoritism isn't obvious. Several are cantering the track and testing jumps, though not everyone present for King Idris's announcement appears to be participating in the race. The shorter centaurs — "short" being relative, as even the smallest stallion is still head and shoulders above me — realize they don't stand a chance against the others' long strides.

Stocky centaurs, built like draft horses, clearly won't race either. My eyes snag on one: a behemoth towering above the herd. The massive centaur's barrel-like body is pure muscle. He has long white feathering around his heavy hooves, and his coat is a mix of large black-and-white patches. His hair is black and white, too. The contrasting streaks are evident in the long, thick braids spilling over his muscular back and shoulders. As he crosses his arms over his broad torso, I note that his forearms are the size of tree branches — and his bulging upper arms are even bigger.

The giant stallion is beautiful in an intimidating way. I don't want to think about what weapon he wields between his hind legs. The human body has its limits.

"Ready to be bred by a real Stud tonight, Diamond?" a centaur on the track calls out to Thea. He's ruggedly appealing, with a gravelly voice and a thick ginger beard. His gleaming coat is red roan.

"Sure! Let me know when you find one," Thea fires back. The bearded centaur guffaws heartily.

My colleagues and I offer the herd a variety of flavors both physically and personality-wise. Thea and I play sassy brats while Elle is giggly and sweet. Blake's working persona is eager and obedient — a cheerful ray of sunshine in direct contrast to Anna, whose aloof ice-queen act has clients salivating for her attention. Ashton, the bulky half orc, fills the role of "tough, masculine man who fights back and must be forced to submit," which is always amusing to me because he's incredibly chill and wouldn't hurt a soul.

The red roan isn't the only stallion who trots by to flirt. Several centaurs exchange teasing quips with my colleagues, alluding to previous orgies. I don't have a history with anyone yet, so although the stallions give me friendly smiles and curious glances, few address me directly.

I wonder if being the new mare will make me more interesting and novel to the winning Studs or if they will gravitate toward their familiar favorites. Gods, I hope I'm not picked last.

"Heeeeey, Kitten!" The bay centaur approaching the marquee shoots me a dazzling grin. "When I win, you'll be purring for me all night. How's that sound?"

I appreciate the attractive stallion noticing me. I was starting to feel overlooked. Lounging in my seat, I bite my lower lip as I give him a slow once-over. He has a strong, jutting chin and a square jaw covered with masculine scruff. Elegant light-brown swirls decorate his chocolate-brown body — temporary markings created by artistically shaving his coat. His short hair and flag-like tail are deep black.

"Sounds like someone's feeling awfully confident. Good luck, cutie." I give the striking stallion a smug, feline smile. His handsome grin grows.

As the bay centaur trots away, my eyes drift to my secret favorite. The golden dun centaur is laughing with his competition. As if he senses my gaze, he looks my way. The sly smile that lifts his lips makes me feel like we're sharing an inside joke from afar…yet he doesn't approach the marquee.

Tease.

As the competitors approach the starting line, the energy of both the racing centaurs and the onlooking crowd is infectious. King Idris steps forward and waits for the excited chatter to die down. His baritone voice carries easily as he thanks the participants and those who came to cheer.

The Centaur King raises his fist. As he drops it, a loud bell chimes — and a dozen powerful stallions leap into a gallop.

The centaurs charge down the track, bounding over the hedge jumps and bumping into each other as they vie for position. They're a tight, chaotic mess throughout the first lap. I saw the dun centaur in the initial line-up, but now he's somewhere in the center of the surging bodies.

I don't realize how far I'm leaning forward in my seat. My eyes are locked on the galloping stallions. I finally spot my favorite in the middle of the herd, trying to edge out and find open space. Damn. If he is forced to take the longer, outside track, I don't know if he has time to catch up.

Yet the golden-brown centaur breaks into open ground during the second lap and immediately picks up speed. Dark legs extend his stride until he flies over the beaten earth. My heart pounds in time with the herd's thundering hooves as he overtakes the others one by one. He's eighth…seventh…sixth. Beginning the final lap, my favorite is fifth — and still gaining!

The dun centaur is neck and neck with the chestnut in second place as they round the final turn, then stubbornly pulls ahead. The watching crowd whoops, cheers, and bellows with glee. "Oh, shit!" Blake gasps beside me.

Only the palomino leader remains. The golden-brown centaur eats up the ground in pursuit, barreling down the straightaway until the two gallop as one. Red dirt churns into the air. The short hedge jumps hardly exist, neither stallion breaking stride to soar over them.

At the last moment, my favorite surges ahead and thunders over the finish line.

"Fuck yes!!" I shout, then wince. I shouldn't reveal my bias. Elle hears me and laughs, but I'm otherwise drowned out by the roar of the excited crowd. When King Idris descends the platform, my colleagues follow. I jolt and hurry after them.

The defeated centaurs ruefully return to their commiserating or mocking friends while the six winners trot to where my colleagues and I line up behind the Centaur King. The dun centaur is panting lightly, face flushed. A white sheen of sweat coats his trembling flanks. His bright, triumphant grin as the king raises his fist in the air is dazzling.