You barely get your hand into your shorts when your shaft starts to tingle. Closing your digits around it tightly, you start to stroke while lapping up more rivulets of liquid fire from that shaft. The smell—the taste—is almost too much for you. You open your mouth wider, but there's no hope of getting that thing past your lips.

It takes one good thrust from the shaft's owner to teach you that you were wrong. It's like having a ball gag two sizes too big in your mouth. Pumping with your hand, you feel as your shaft gets smaller—shrinking away. It's a race you know you can't win. Will you get off one last time before you aren't a man anymore?

Faster, harder, you strain your fingers until you can feel them clench with a muscle cramp. Your shaft slips out of your hand while your tongue seems unable to stop lapping at the too-big flare in your mouth.

You lost—fair and square—and pull your hand from your pants only to find there's no hand there anymore. Your fingers are curling and screwing up into a ball—into a hoof. Closing your eyes so you don't have to watch the rest of the changes, you only wish you could blot out the feeling of it. Your other hand aches too, and your feet, and there's a sharp sensation on your back and at your rear. Your guts churn and you mind fizzes, then the most amazing single event of your life takes place.

Hot ropes of thick horsecum pump into your throat, forcing themselves down your esophagus in the vain hope of impregnating your stomach. It's all too much. You cough, snort, and a blast of hot, stinging seed sprays from your nostrils. Kneeling now, he moves with you to keep his shaft in your mouth while you fold in on yourself.

Opening your eyes, you realize you are looking down a long, fuzzy muzzle at the hefty shaft still within your mouth. A deep breath reminds you of the semen in your nasal cavity—but you don't care. More semen means you belong to him more.

"Good little filly. Want another go?"

Days. Weeks. Months. The collar was still locked around your throat, though you weren't exactly kept as an animal. Soft bed, carpeted floor, and good food had seen you not just adjust to being a broodmare, but start to embrace it.

Your stallion had came to you every day at first. He'd take you, breed you, and leave you to be washed and cared for. It had taken two months of such treatment before you'd started to forget what a human even was. Two months, too, and your belly had firmed up.

"Pregnant, m'lord," a mare had said.

The look he'd given you was not just possessive, but full of pride.

This was the first morning since your state had been confirmed, and you hadn't even realized how much a new fear had grown in you. You wanted his cock so bad your tail itched and stood up all on its own. The smell of your desire hung heavy in the room. Biting your lip at each sound outside, you were caught completely off-guard when the door was opened and he stood there.

The collar around your throat felt just a little heavier, as if reminding you that you belonged to him. But, there were proper ways to show your desire and appreciation of him, so of course you turn and show him what a state your nethers are in.

His heavy hooves are almost silent in the soft carpet, but you soon feel his breath across the furless flesh under your dock.

"Stand yourself." It was the command he'd used each time and one you'd learned to obey. Bracing your hooves, you angled your spine just right so that—as he climbed on your back and settled his weight on you—you not only support him but are perfectly lined up to receive him.

The first thrust of his heavy, hard shaft completely wipes out all misgivings and worry. This is your place. This is where you belong and whom you belong to. He grunts, shoving himself into your body so deep you feel his shaft kiss your cervix firmly enough to drive all thoughts from your already singly focused mind. Your whine, whimper, and push back to meet your master's advancing thrusts while he jerks back from you only to repeat the motion. Your world focuses down to ignore everything but how he uses you—and he is using you. This is no longer about getting you pregnant as his broodmare—you're now his plaything. You bring him pleasure on top of bearing his foals.

You can't stop yourself. You moan aloud as he takes you again and again. You barely even register when one world-shattering fucking ends—him flooding your body with his virulent seed—and the next round of pleasure starts. Orgasms blend together, and you are reminded with each thrust and each climax that you bring your master pleasure.

At last he leaves—leaves you laying on that soft carpet in a sticky and slimy mess. You smell of him, you are drenched in his sweat and his semen, and above all you carry his foal. There's nothing in the world that would wipe the smile from your face, and the realization that he'll be back again tomorrow only makes it wider.

Author's Note

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Awesome ponies who are already helping to keep me in keyboards and rum:
A.P.O.N.I.
Canary in the Coal Mine
Daremo
Dio-Drogynous
Ender Voidwalker
KFS Crimson
Sirion123
Vi Watch
Wind of the Skies

And special thanks to the following, for careful eyes and friendly words:
Lab