You may call me Fawn, I am a trans man and go by he/him pronouns. I’m using this blog to explore my sexual preferences, though I do feel attraction to all genders and prefer to take on a more submissive role.
If you recognize me from my main blog, no you don’t <3
Situational/Exploring: bdsm, cnc, possessiveness, age play/pet play. These are kinks that I’m willing to hear more about, and are subject to move up/down.
Hard No: misgendering/forcefem, scat, really most bodily fluids.
DNI: anyone under 18 years old, racists, pedos, bigots, any blog with “DNI men”
I may also post my art here occasionally, and may be open to requests. Send me an ask, if you’d like!
Shane is incredibly picky about who gets to touch him and when. Usually the answer is nobody and not at all. Everyone assumes he's just touch averse.
The truth is, Shane is horribly conflicted. He hates that when most people touch him, his skin feels sore. He hates that he can't tolerate most hugs. He feels separate from his body and it makes him want to weep. Because deep down, where no one can see, Shane is desperate to be held, to be caged in firm hugs, to be caressed and kissed and driven wild. The crazy part is that Ilya doesn't know any of this, and yet still he gives Shane exactly what he needs. He kisses Shane with fervor, like he wants to devour him. His hands leave burning trails of desire as they map Shane's body. He grasps Shane's hair, pulls on it when he fucks deep into him. He closes his large palm around Shane's throat, squeezing gently. "Too much?" he asks, and Shane shakes his head. No, more, please. Moremoremore. Ilya chuckles like he can read Shane's mind. His thumb traces Shane's lips. "You want something in your mouth solnyshko?" Shane suckles on Ilya's thumb, feels the pattern of his fingerprint on his tongue.
"Want to come again?" Ilya asks, languidly pushing into him over and over again. Yes, he thinks. Please let me feel, I just want to feel. He nods, past the ability to form words. But Ilya knows already. "I know what you want malysh." He says, picking up the pace. Shane cries out around Ilya's fingers, he is so full, everywhere. He can't think, and he is, for once, consumed in sensation.
Yes, puppy play in the “put a collar around my neck and make me beg to suck your cock” way, but also puppy play in the “I want to sit at your feet as you cook us dinner, tasting bites from your hand at each step” way. Maybe “hose me off with freezing water in the front yard and wrap me in a soft towel, cooing at me that I was such a good boy”. Or even “pry my jaw open with your fingers after I start chewing something that shouldn’t be in my mouth”.
But yeah, you can still put the collar on me if you feel like it.
i love cockwarming, i want to do it all the time, i’m so warm and wet and comfortable inside, don’t you want me to cockwarm you too? i just wanna sit in your lap and shiver and clench around you while you play a video game or work. want you to rub my back and pet my hair and hold me so close as i start to fall asleep with my head on your shoulder, so full and complete with you inside me.
then maybe you can use me while i sleep- who said that
there's a pretty big size difference between dennis and robby- after all, robby is at the very least six foot, and big. and dennis is not that.
both men are into it, unsurprisingly- dennis likes to feel completely overpowered and owned, and robby would be lying if he said it didn't give him a headrush to be able to pin down such a pretty thing as dennis. the size difference didn't stop at their height either.
dennis would say that his boyfriends cock was nicely proportional to his body, which it was, long and thick and veined. however whilst this was true, and it didn't look at all out of place on robbys body, it also meant that when dennis was treated to it, it was a different story.
sometimes during foreplay, robby would have dennis lying on his back on the bed, naked, and he would hover over the smaller man, holding his dripping cock straight, so that they could "investigate" just how far he could reach into dennis' body when he finally got inside of him.
dennis would have to strain his neck to look down at his belly, and would see the plump head of robbys cock being held above his belly button, almost passing the little hole entirely. it would make his head swim thinking of just how far into his guts his boyfriend would be able to push. his eyes would blurr and cross and he would spread his legs, hoping to get robby into him as quickly as possible.
robbys favourite way to fuck his dennis on days like these was to bury himself into the other man until his balls were pressed against the entrance to his hole, and then gather dennis up and hoist him so that he was sitting in robbys lap, legs splayed either side of his and wrapping round his back.
dennis would usually cry. he would already be squirming and sweating when robby first entered him as he lay down, the stretch and push and pressure inside him making him drool, but when he was lifted upwards to sit on it? god.
when he was pulled upright he'd squeal- if he thought his boyfriend was deep inside him before, it would always be nothing compared to now. he was so big that it felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs, like he could physically feel it so far inside him that it was stopping him from breathing deeply, stopping him from thinking at all.
his g-spot would be under constant pressure, being hit and pushed at and rubbed by robby within him- by now he'd be drooling unashamedly all down his chin, head wobbling unsteadily as his boyfriend cooed at him and comforted him.
you're so good for me, mouse, no one else could take me so well, you're so small and still you've managed me all! such a good boy, making sure that every inch of me is well cared for. oh, oh, don't let you head flop like that baby, don't want you to strain that pretty neck- let's have you rest that muddled head on my shoulder, hmm? good boy, just like that.
and then robbby would start rolling his hips. gently at first, one hand on the back of dennis' head, and then harder, and harder, until every thrust was punching out wails and gags from dennis, like he was buried in his throat and not his ass. there was no part of his insides it felt like robby hadn't been able to explore. hadn't been able to fuck, and claim, and mark.
and then he'd pause, and kiss dennis on the nose, and cheeks, and lips so lightly and sweetly it was like he wasn't fucking his boyfriend into unconsciousness. and then he'd pull dennis back a little, off of his chest. and then-
ohhhhhh, sweetheart, would you look at that? it seems that we underestimated our guesses earlier! look at this mouse... look how far i've filled you...
and dennis would try and look down, and he'd see robbys hand on his pale belly, and he'd see a bulge. and then robby would thrust hard, and the bulge would move, pressing his skin out. there were stars in his vision. robby was so big inside him that they could see how he filled and filled and filled dennis. so full. so tight.
robby took one of dennis' hands and placed it on his tummy, and then placed his own over it. and he thrusted again, and again, and again, and dennis felt the imprint of his enormous cock inside of him as it moved. he didn't have any thoughts left in his brain apart from full oh god so full so big robby robby please oh god, and robby would just keep going.
eventually dennis came all over his distended belly with a wail, and promptly passed out onto robbys chest, who cradled his head like he was made of glass. his good boy taking him so well that he'd passed out.. so good of his dennis. robby came too, with a guttural groan, and made dennis' stomach distend even more with his cum alongside his cock.
god, his boy was perfect.
eventually he rearranged the two of them so that he was leaning, still panting, on the headboard, and dennis was laying on his belly with his head in the crook of his neck, slumbering peacefully with his tummy still full of robby, in every sense of the word. he wouldn't take his cock out of his boy yet, not until his dennis had had a chance to wake up and see just how much more robby had filled him up.
dennis deserved to see and enjoy the fruit of his labours, of course, he'd earnt that full belly, and robby would never say no to some post sex cock-warming.
Deertaurs are pregnant for seven months. Draft centaurs are pregnant for a year.
I was only supposed to be pregnant for seven months. It’s been 11 months and 23 days, and I’ve been screaming through labor for two of those days. I’ve been pushing for five hours, trying to foal my fawn-foal twins. They’re each over half my weight.
It hurts.
“The front hooves are staying outside of you now,” my partner says, his hands on my haunches. “They’re cloven, you know. Just like yours.” I feel him pat me. “But they have my white socks.”
“And your hoof size,” I gasp.
“Well…yes.”
I know he feels guilty. He’s the one who knocked me up and put me in this much pain. But I’m the one who didn’t want to abort, even at the fifth month when we could plainly see on the ultrasounds that they weren’t even halfway ready. Seven previous pregnancies, six by another deertaur, one by a satyr, easy pregnancies, easy deliveries. I was bored. This birth was my chance to feel an unimaginable stretch, even though I knew it would also come with unimaginable pain.
“Can—can you get to the ankles yet?” I stammer. My legs are quaking, but this standing position has been the only one that helped move this first foal.
“Yes, I think so.”
I feel his hands in my pussy, trying to get a grip around our foal’s legs. I moan at the sensation—pain, stimulation—and I take a step back into his hands chasing the feeling.
My partner growls, “I’m busy. You can’t possibly want that now.”
“It might help,” I protest. “It helped me foal in the past. I came most of them out.”
“Later,” he says. “When you’re crowning.” His hands still and I feel an experimental tug. “I’ve got it. Tell me when you have a contraction.”
I take a deep, steadying breath and look back over my shoulder at my partner. He’s bent low at his waist just to reach my pussy. We lock eyes and he nods.
I turn and grip the knotted sheet we have thrown over one of the rafters in the living room, bracing myself. A few moments more and a contraction begins to mount, bringing with it a desperate instinct. My triangular white tail raises high and I bear down.
“I’m pushing!” I cry.
My partner digs in his hooves and pulls.
Agony sears throw my belly and hips. I throw back my head, and a sound comes from my throat that I never knew I was capable of. A bleating scream, filled with panic and pain.
My partner lets up immediately. “Oh my god—baby?”
“It hurts so bad!” I shriek. Even though he’s let up the tension, I still feel a stretch like I’ve never felt before—the stretch I’d always wanted. “Oh god! Oh god! It’s working! I’m crowning!”
“No baby,” he says, his voice high with stress. “It’s still the legs. I can’t see the head.”
“No!” I wail, and my legs buckle. My partner drops the foal’s feet and they slam into my backside, pulling me towards the ground. My partner barely catches me. His arms wrap around my torso and pull me into his abdomen—about as high as my head reaches on him.
The legs dangle out of me as I grip my partner’s midsection, breathing heavily. I hear a noise, feel a vibration in my feet as the foal’s legs sway behind me.
“Oh god—oh god! Are the hooves touching the floor?” I try to twist around to look, but it’s an impossible view behind my oversized belly barreling out around me.
“Yes,” my husband says, barely above a whisper.
“And the head isn’t showing?!”
“Barely,” he says. “I saw hair.”
I bury my face in my partner’s belly and allow myself one little sob. Then I pull away and grab onto the hanging sheet with renewed determination.
“If the legs are mostly out,” I say. “Then it’s working.” I look up at him with what I hope is a fiery spark in my eye. “Go back there and pull, and don’t stop until my contraction lets up. No matter how much I’m screaming.”
“Baby…” he says.
“It has to come out,” I say. “They both have to come out. There’s no ending this until they’re out.”
He still hesitated.
“Go!” I say, and point urgently.
He trots around behind me again, and I feel the legs change position as he picks them back up.
“I’m ready. Tell me when.”
I wait for the next one, breathing evenly. A little tingle of fear crawls up the back of my spine, anticipating the return of the most intense birthing pain I’ve ever experienced. I’m wet. I’m wet with birthing fluids and somehow, in spite of it all, wet with arousal. A contraction begins to seep through my body. I raise my tail.
“Now—now!” I shout, and lean heavily on the birthing sheet, and push.
He pulls.
I hope I can feel movement, but I don’t know. My brain is graying out with pain and pressure.
“I have to,” he says. “You’re about to reach the widest point. You have to stretch!”
I push fruitlessly—there’s nothing I can do without his help. “No…no…” I moan. I roll my hips. “Please, I need you. I can cum out the head on the next contraction. Please! You promised!”
He snorts. “I can’t believe it—you’re hard. This head is as big as yours and you’re hard.”
I look over my shoulder. “Please…”
He shifts the foal’s legs to one hand and reaches for me. I shiver as his thumbnail zings down the length of my tdick.
“Yes,” I moan.
He circles the base of my tdick with his thumb and I press back into it, with the rest of my pussy stretched taut in a crown. I wonder if he’s right. I wonder if my foal’s head is as big as mine. But the thought fades into a haze of pleasure and pain as he works on me. I tug hard on the hanging sheet as my tail twitches and I get closer to orgasm.
I can’t see and can barely imagine how he manages, but he begins pulling on the legs with one hand while his other hand strokes me.
“Push, baby. Push!”
“It hurts!”
“I know, but push!”
I tuck in my chin and haul on the sheet and push. Blood rushes in my ears and I know I’m fading, the only thing keeping me grounded is my partner’s touch, inching me closer to—
I scream and cum.
The pressure in my pussy vanishes—or, at least it suddenly lessens. My hips buck as I ride my orgasm, and my partner keeps stroking me through the shocks until they fade and I’m left shaking and twitching.
“The head is out,” my partner says.
“I crowned,” I whimper. “I crowned.”
“There’s a lot of hair,” he says, and I can hear his smile. I laugh breathlessly.
“How big is the head?” I ask.
He pats my haunches. “Big.”
“Come here,” I say, and I can feel myself swaying.
He comes around and I let go of the sheet and wrap my arms as far around his middle as they’ll go.
“Let me push out the rest on my own,” I say. “The worst is over. Just hold me—let me foal in your arms.”
He holds me tight.
I push on the next contraction. Not much happens, but the first set of shoulders doesn’t feel stuck—just big. I push through the next several contractions. A few times I whimper softy, “It hurts.” He rubs my back each time, gazing over me at my upright tail while I push on his foal.
Finally I sense a shift. “The first shoulders are coming,” I gasp, and push. One shoulder pops out and I moan. “Almost!” I push again and the second shoulder jerks out of me.
“I see it,” my partner says. “Push and get the upper body out.”
I push and feel the torso slide steadily out of me until it stops at the second shoulders.
“Good,” he says. “It’s half out.”
“I’m half done with the first twin,” I say, a perhaps sardonic tone in my voice. I feel his arms tighten around me.
“Yes,” he says.
Ah, there’s his guilt again. He’d better get over it before the end of my next pregnancy by him. I could never go back to normal-sized deertaur fawns after this.
“Pushing,” I groan. The second shoulders, the foal-fawn hybrid shoulders, begin to stretch me out again. “Ow…” I shift my hooves. “I need to lay down. I’m so tired.”
He helps me lay my massive deer belly down on my side and kneels beside me, supporting my torso upright in his arms. At this angle I can finally see the fawn coming out of me. Hair, so much hair on that head. Cloven hooves, his white socks on the front legs. It stirs slightly in the puddle of birth fluids that have accumulated on the floor. Good—it will be strong. But it’s so big. As I take in the size of my fawn, my foal, I can barely believe that I squeezed any of it out of my body—but it’s still half in me. That’s my proof. Proof that I’m really giving birth to this massive taur.
“It’s coming out of me,” I say. I think I’m a little stunned.
My partner takes my hands and squeezes them. “Push when you’re ready.”
I nod and lean my head back against his chest. “I need to push,” I say after a moment. “I need to push—I’m pushing!”
As much as I want to squeeze my eyes shut against the pain, I also want to see this. I push. I strain against this fawn, grunting and moaning at the back of my throat. My grip on my partner’s hands must be painful, but he bears it. I definitely have it worse right now.
The second set of shoulders erupts out of me, and I yelp with the release of pressure. Fluids gush around the lower body, but it’s still partially in me.
“Do you want me to pull it out?” my partner asks.
“No,” I moan. “I can do it. Let me foal like this.” I squeeze his hands and push.
The rest of the body spills out of me, and with an instinctual kick of its back legs that makes me groan, I fully foal onto the floor of our living room.
I sag in my partner’s arms. “Oh my god,” I pant. “I did it. I foaled. It’s out! Oh my god, it came out of me, I got it out!”
My partner kisses me with a fierce tenderness.
“You pushed out my foal,” he says, his voice ragged. “I’ve been so scared you wouldn’t get it out.”
“Get the fawn,” I say. He gathers pillows and cushions from the couch in a single hand and props me up, and retrieves the foal in his big arms. Honestly, it doesn’t look so big when he’s holding it.
“I see the next set of hooves,” he says while he’s around by my tail. “They’re cloven too. Push, baby.”
“I’m so tired,” I say, my upper body quaking against the pile of pillows.
“I know, baby,” he says. “I didn’t mean to put two in you. It’s almost over, you just have to get this one out.”
I push half-heartedly, but I’m surprised when I feel the hooves begin to emerge. “It’s coming already,” I gasp.
“You’re very stretched out,” my partner admits.
I push harder and see the tips of the cloven hooves between my legs. “Oh! It’s coming!” I reach for my partner. “Hold me! Hold me! I need to foal again!”
He shuffles back up to me, juggling our newborn fawn in one arm while he wraps the other around my shoulders and holds my hand. I grip his wrist with my other hand and squeeze hard.
“It’s coming—it’s! It’s..! Oh god!” I give in to the overwhelming urge to push, and my second foal’s legs slide out of me. And out of me. And continue stretching out between my legs, growing thicker as the head and shoulders approach. “Ohhhh it hurts. It hurts! Hold me! Oh god!”
I bear down, my half-empty belly tight and hard. My pussy begins to bulge, and open, and I see hair. I didn’t get to see myself crown the first time.
“It’s huge!” I scream. “Oh god—I have to crown! I…I…I’m crowning! Hold me! I’m crowningggggg.”
My pussy opens and stretches tight over the head, growing wider and wider as I push. The ring of fire burns through me as I watch.
“Push!” my partner says. “Push hard!”
“Oh god! It’s coming out! Aaaughhhhhhh—“ The head reaches its full crown, stretching me obscenely. I hold the pressure, moaning through the agony. Almost, almost…
The head pops free and I scream at the release.
“Oh! Ohhhh that hurt so bad!” I cry, my back legs shaking. I’m glad I’m already lying down. The head between my legs is equally as big as the first foal.
“Can you get the first shoulders? Or do you want me to pull?”
“I can do it,” I whimper. “Don’t help me.” The next contraction washes over me and I push, eyes fixed on my oncoming foal. I stretch around the shoulders, and it’s painful, but the head was worse. One shoulder. Two shoulders. I fall back against my partner, panting. I pant through the next contraction and am rewarded when the foal begins inching forward on its own. So I pant. My partner holds me tight and I pant his foal’s upper torso out slowly over the next twenty minutes. I pant a little longer, but I know what I have to do.
“I need to push.”
“Second shoulders?”
I nod wordlessly and shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. But that’s impossible with a foal half-born out of my body. I finally collapse back against my partner’s chest and just push.
“Oh…ohhhh,” I moan. “This is it. I’m about to foal. It’s coming, it’s coming! Oh my god, it hurts so bad! OhhhhhHHHHHHHHH!”
The second shoulders lurch out of me, and with a rush of fluids the rest of my fawn is born on the floor where its twin just came out.
“Yes!” I shriek. “Oh, fuck! I did it! Oh my god—they’re out!”
My partner cleans the foals and helps me into the shower, where I labor on the placenta. It’s painful—I’m raw, and the placenta is nearly the size of any given fawn from my previous pregnancies. My partner holds my hand tight during my final moments of pushing and screaming until I give birth to it.
As my contractions fade away, I begin to scheme about how soon I can get my partner to breed me again. I want to be pushing out a new foal when these two are barely yearlings.
Was it a good use of my time to mock up the sizes of a human parent and newborn if they were proportional to kiwi birds? Probably not. Do I now have a buckwild reference to draw hyper egg preg from? Yes 😳
