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Hoof rot

By Jan L
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Updated24 Sep 2013
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Hoof rot?” I stare blankly at the doctor, some three feet below me as I lay in the examining sling in his office, a cross between a normal human doctor’s office and a veterinarian’s. When you’re a centaur the ability of just checking into an emergency room no longer work.

“Yup, hoof rot. It is actually not uncommon, especially among recent bodmod changers. Especially if you are a naturalist. Are you?”

“No,” I blushed, embarrassed to think he might believe I was one of those nutcases who renounced all civilization, and slept standing, outside in all weather, just because I could. I mean, I got changed because I had the money to do it, and I made sure the good things in life would be available for me and any partners I might choose to associate with. In fact my crystalline-grown home was downright sybaritic, dual-width showers and Japanese baths able to hold three studs at one time, a kitchen the size of any normal living room so no-one interfered or hogged a corner making food, bedroom with sleep lounges or slings, I even had a guest stable for the purists, with stalls with daily refreshed bedding but I drew the line and insisted they use the toilet facilities, which were a long trench that flushed.

“Strange. It is usually those folks who get this kind of problem—standing in their own manure and so on.”

“Not me, doc. I mean when I’m outside galloping around my land for fun, sure, I just let loose, after all that’s part of the reason for being a demi-human, you drop the clothing taboos and the other nonsense-at least in our home dimensions, but not in the house, f’r heaven’s sake. And I don’t have to go over the same ground so I’m always stepping on past production, if you get what I mean.” I grumpily reviewed my activities over the past few weeks. Nothing seemed to have encouraged the onset of the disease. Only yesterday had a certain soreness in my forehooves made me make the appointment for today. He chuckled and said-“It’s like the old athlete’s foot fungus, lad, it sneaks up on you when you least expect it.” I frowned at him as he kept examining my foot.

“Lad?” I thought. “I have at least 40 years on you young feller!” but then I remembered, I had chosen a specific age adjustment. I was a yearling centaur, fully-developed and mature, but retrogened as if I had been born one with their natural lifespan, which beat the heck out of what I could have anticipated if remaining fully-human, but they had a dramatically fast process through their youth stage just as horses did, in fact they matured at about twice the normal equine rate. The doctor was about thirty or so, sandy hair, well–muscled for a normal, though here on Centaurica I was more normal than a full human, with a nice v-shape to the shoulders now bending over my hoof and a trim waist any ‘taur’d be glad to have at his jointure. I wondered if he was just here for the money, or if he was a prospective “immigrant” earning his way to a change for himself. Most of the full humans around were wannabe immigrants, though some just wanted the pay bonus until enough ‘taurs with the needed skills got trained or changed. I felt a familiar stirring in my loins at the sight of him.

“Oh God, do NOT let me get erections now! How embarrassing it would be!” I had gone overboard on one part of the change you see.

I had volunteered for an experimental adjustment in reproductive technology. Up until recently most centaurs had been made, not born, though a few female centaurs did exist the vast majority of those who underwent the change were gay or bi males who did not want to change the basic style of their equipment, and as a result the centaurs were now separated into two subdimensions. Centauria which was male and female, and Centaurica, which got its name from an old website with people who had the inclination towards it as a gay fantasy. They along with all the demi-human dimensions, Faunica (mixed), Nymphalia (all-female), and Satyrica (all-male) for the satyr-folk, Aerie, Nestia and Airleon for the winged ones, Hissta, Hissto and Hisston for the nagas, and the merfolk who inhabited the seas and rivers and lakes on all as well as Oceania and Mara were all variants of Earth prime dimension where, for whatever reason, intelligent life had not developed.

But as the people who got changed went forth to colonize these places the human need for progeny and reproduction proved a bad stumbling block. The artificial means such as uterine replicators, or surrogate parenting, just lacked the personal involvement most wanted and longed for and were moreover awfully slow in being able to populate these empty worlds, even at maximum output. So some whiz-kid came up with an idea to redo the method of reproduction, away from the human duo-sexual approach. They tried several alternate methods inclusive of budding/fission but only a few of the plant-folk liked that, and so Dryadica was settled, but the rest made do with the traditional method in the mixed colonies, and suffered in the rest.

Some positive results were coming of an all-oral method in the female-exclusive ones, but this was not yet perfected, and they could use stored male seed for some centuries to come if necessary so they were not in any hurry. But the all-male ones had a dramatic problem demanding quick resolution. I was supposed to be part of it.

They came up with the idea that the usual method of sexual satiation would be the best way to go, and basically redesigned the colon. It remains the principal way of transmitting waste material from eating, but it became lined with a thin but strong membrane that covered a trench-like fissure going along its length, which contained cells like a female’s zygotes, and the membrane was permeable to sperm only. By this means the recipient’s body could, in many ways, pick and choose among the genetic attributes of the projected offspring from any seed left in the passage that penetrated, so they altered the system again requiring two separate seed donors to “quicken” the egg material, with the recipient’s body having to select the majority of the attributes from the Sire-studs not the Sire-dam. Once some cells were quickened they would meld to form an egg, which when it grew to a certain size would rupture the membrane that then would become senescent and hardened like leather, forming a tube which could be used to excavate a brooding nest and serve finally as an ovipositor and breathing tube for the eggs as they would mature to cracking open.

Ideally every centaur on Centaurica would be thus equipped in a couple of generations but for now at least I was one of the first. They gave me scent-glands to signal I would be in “heat” for the incredibly dense among us, or if I ran into any full equines for, in accordance with the demi-human laws, we had to remain fully cross-fertile with the original species. But me they made different, I had two rear-hindquarters, so I had 6 legs, and two rectal procreation colons, in hopes of being more readily fertile and able to “clutch” twice as often, in a new “Herd mare” template they hoped would catch on.

To sweeten the deal they agreed to make other changes at my specification. I got double dicks, equine ones out of both hindquarters, with inflatable knobs at the end to stay locked until satiation, and two human-styled cocks on my forechest just under the jointure in sheaths, which when extended reached just past the nipples of my pecs in mouth range when erect, I demanded an extra-long tongue in case of a need to execute personal cleansing of my holes, which stretched to about 3 feet at fullest extent, and it could serve as a siphon being hollow—or a sheath itself.

Finally I demanded a set of dorsal equipment as well, a sheathed cock along my withers and my jointure although horsehaired at the waist like all centaurs, I remained human-like on my backside with the swell of a bubblebutt just high enough off my barrel to permit a hole there, suitable for being filled by my dorsal cock or any rider or fucker astride me with a frontal dick, and a canal to take any seed from this along into the main two rectal chambers for possible fertilizing. They agreed and threw in my choice of equine. I chose a Lippizaner, they had beauty and rear leg strength bred into them, and were an alezan, they began with black hair and it changed into white by their 5th year, which I preferred to being a white or “grey” horse as they often had problems.

So here I was in the doctor’s office my barrel in a sling to get me off my hooves, my rear hindquarters drooping off it, and with 7 cocks beginning to stir in their various sheaths.

“Er, doc,” I said, eager to distract him, “did the hoofrot adversely affect the fingers under my platen in my forehooves?”

“What?” he asked absently—stillprodding at the mushy infected area.

“They gave me a sort of semi-hand under the platens of my forehooves, it was a rather silly sort of experiment, they cannot do much unless they are fully-extended and they then cannot support my weight like forehooves should, but they felt both hindquarters I have could support me enough for the foresection to rear up and be able to work.. Did this, uh, hoof-rot adversely affect them?”

He prodded the platen of my left forehoof and it rotated away, showing the fingers it hid. They were odd-looking for humans, very long and thin, arachnid-like, as they had to fit in the space they had three knuckles not two per digit, and they were capped by small nails that completely covered the tips and formed slight claws. Except for added help I got in playing a piano or organ I had yet to find a real use for them but they were still part of me and I did not want to have to get them, well, amputated or whatever due to this problem.

“They seem to be alright.” As he fingered them the unusual touch of his warm hands between my hidden fingers was so sensual I began to stiffen in seven awkward places even more noticeably, and he apparently began to sense it—stroking them gently. They were warm with the salve he had been applying to the affected hooves and it made a nice lubing ointment which became clear was not by accident as he lifted one hand up to casually pat my withers, but his cup cupped my semi-buttock and his middle finger found my dorsal hole and began moving along its rim.

I could stop myself no longer, all of my cocks began inflating to the max, shooting out of their sheaths as if they not their seed was the missile.

“Well, that is more like the reaction I wanted,” he purred, turning to face me and unbuttoning his lab coat. Underneath he was naked, with a respectable 6 ½” length of his own drooping then elevating to full mast.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to respond. I was part of the research team that designed your modifications, and I always wondered how they’d turned out.” He dropped my hoof to let it hang and used a hand on each of my forecocks to guide their helmets to our mouths, I took the right one, already streaming pre down its length and he mouthed and licked the left, saying, “By the way, I designed the scent aspects, did you notice your pre smells of vanilla?” I mumbled.

“Hmn-hmn,” as I licked and slurped it up, then extended my tongue to its longest and stretched it wi-i-i-d-e and stuck it out of the corner of my mouth as I bent into his embrace, searching, finding his erection nestled between my own and covering it.

“Ohhh. That’s nice” he moaned.

“I also added the internal ring muscles in your tongue, they ought to act like kirlian exercises had been learned at birth. Try to milk me dry if you can figure out how to do it.”

As if—it had been one of the first things I had tried when I first masturbated after the change, using this attribute to suck off all seven of my cocks with this phenomenal, wonderful tongue the change gave me. But I did not answer him with words, letting the alternating tightening and relaxation milk him as suggested, siphoning up his pre and seed as he came, explosively, feeling it surge upwards through the twists around my own forecock sending me off in my won mouth from the head I still encircled with my lips, and up into his from the adjacent monster he was so eagerly slurping on. We held each other tightly, just lost in the moment, until he pulled away and said

“You know you have to remain off your feet until the medicine works, that means about a week of sling rest.” I can write a prescription for you to get the medicine delivered at home if you want, but I would really prefer you here for observation—” he looked up at me anxiously.

“What, no participation, just observation?”

“Well, could might be some ‘participation’ if necessary.”

“Oh, it’s necessary. Especially right now. Climb up on my withers and settle down on my dorsal cock, and plug that hole you’ve been playing with. The itch is about to make me nuts!”

“Whatever you say. The patient knows what’s best.” I barely heard him. Two of my monsters were sated but that left 5, and none of my holes had had satisfaction either. But it was shaping up to be a good week ahead.

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Updated24 Sep 2013
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