[Matt nods approvingly, affectionately, nosing along the centaur's side, tail twitching back and forth in impatience. He likes the feel of twitching, sensitive skin under his hands, likes feeling the working of the stallion's powerful muscles, likes the sounds rumbling in the cramped space. Too cramped, actually, and with a scuffle of small hooves and the gentle scrape of nub horns against the underside of the equine belly, the half-calf is carefully getting down on his knees under the stallion, sighing in approval.
It's actually probably safer under here, especially once Matt reaches out to untie the rope hobbling the centaur's back legs, then shifts onto his knees, his ears just long enough to flick against the underside of the stallion's stomach. He hums appreciatively as his eyes adjust to the darkness, just in time to see the centaur's inner thighs shivering, the muscles alongside his sheath working as his cock slides into view, right into Matt's eager, soft hands.
There's only a heartbeat of hesitation, because the stallion is huge, thick and hard and hot, and Matt's mouth shouldn't be watering, and he shouldn't immediately begin stroking along the massive length, fingers barely reaching around the thick girth. He's squirming on his knees, thighs pressed together hard, tail crooked instinctively and held to one side, soft pleading sounds filling his throat until he finally gives in.
It's explicitly taught to any stablehands responsible for milking any gladiator beasts that the process be quick, efficient and clinical. It's a chore, same as mucking out stalls or hosing down the hallways, and it wouldn't do to condition any of the gladiators to anticipate it as anything more than a simple release. Matt undoes that the second he leans in and lets himself drag his soft, hot tongue up the length of the stallion's cock, moaning loud and shameless at the taste, hands tugging harder, sliding quicker over what's now slippery from his mouth.]
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It's actually probably safer under here, especially once Matt reaches out to untie the rope hobbling the centaur's back legs, then shifts onto his knees, his ears just long enough to flick against the underside of the stallion's stomach. He hums appreciatively as his eyes adjust to the darkness, just in time to see the centaur's inner thighs shivering, the muscles alongside his sheath working as his cock slides into view, right into Matt's eager, soft hands.
There's only a heartbeat of hesitation, because the stallion is huge, thick and hard and hot, and Matt's mouth shouldn't be watering, and he shouldn't immediately begin stroking along the massive length, fingers barely reaching around the thick girth. He's squirming on his knees, thighs pressed together hard, tail crooked instinctively and held to one side, soft pleading sounds filling his throat until he finally gives in.
It's explicitly taught to any stablehands responsible for milking any gladiator beasts that the process be quick, efficient and clinical. It's a chore, same as mucking out stalls or hosing down the hallways, and it wouldn't do to condition any of the gladiators to anticipate it as anything more than a simple release. Matt undoes that the second he leans in and lets himself drag his soft, hot tongue up the length of the stallion's cock, moaning loud and shameless at the taste, hands tugging harder, sliding quicker over what's now slippery from his mouth.]