Mmmph. Right. Well, um...thank you for...for scaring them away, and um...
[In another life, Matt would simply speak his thanks and leave. He would let it be. He wouldn't be tucked back near tense, quivering hindquarters with knife-sharp hooves that could trample him without any effort. He wouldn't be nosing, soft and seeking and affectionate, at the stallion's soft flank, while his hands slip curiously over the delicately twitching skin. He wouldn't be wondering if all the rumors are true, if a well-placed touch could coax this magnificent creature's magnificent organ free of it's protective sheath, if his hands would be big enough to reach around it's girth --
-- what it would feel like in his mouth.
His knees are trembling, and he wants to be down on them, wants to bend over against the stall wall and set his hooves wide, lift his tail and offer his gratitude for the centaur saving him in the best way he knows how. He wants, and the tight quarters are abruptly frustrating, getting a small huffy snort of irritation. If there were only a bit more room he could do this better.
So instead he lets his hands -- not trembling, not tentative, knowing, like they've done this a million times before -- massage gently at the shape of the centaur's sheath, squeezing and coaxing, accompanied by Matt's soft warm body cuddled up to the broad side of the stallion, and a gentle, sweet:] Can I? Please? Please?
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[In another life, Matt would simply speak his thanks and leave. He would let it be. He wouldn't be tucked back near tense, quivering hindquarters with knife-sharp hooves that could trample him without any effort. He wouldn't be nosing, soft and seeking and affectionate, at the stallion's soft flank, while his hands slip curiously over the delicately twitching skin. He wouldn't be wondering if all the rumors are true, if a well-placed touch could coax this magnificent creature's magnificent organ free of it's protective sheath, if his hands would be big enough to reach around it's girth --
-- what it would feel like in his mouth.
His knees are trembling, and he wants to be down on them, wants to bend over against the stall wall and set his hooves wide, lift his tail and offer his gratitude for the centaur saving him in the best way he knows how. He wants, and the tight quarters are abruptly frustrating, getting a small huffy snort of irritation. If there were only a bit more room he could do this better.
So instead he lets his hands -- not trembling, not tentative, knowing, like they've done this a million times before -- massage gently at the shape of the centaur's sheath, squeezing and coaxing, accompanied by Matt's soft warm body cuddled up to the broad side of the stallion, and a gentle, sweet:] Can I? Please? Please?