“Blackjack, do you really think that I, or any of the mares in 99, enjoyed begin breeding equipment for the stable?”
“I… wha… well… I mean… it’s just you… I…” he gave a nervous laugh. “I mean… most of the females seemed happy to… you know… do it?”
“There’s almost a hundred of us in medical, trapped, allowed to leave only when some males want to use us for sex. The alternative to not being rutted with you was being in a store room with ten other mares. We craved any time that door opened because it meant, no matter how terrible you were to us, that we’d get a few hours of interaction. So we had to be nice. We had to be pretty. We had to make you feel wonderful. Otherwise we never got out.” she stepped closer to him. “Do you know what happens to mares that aren’t requested?”
“Ah… um…” I stammered. She was giving me the fluttery eyes and the smile that was making my bits all eager, but something threatened danger. “I never really thought about it.”
“Not surprising,” she replied, stroking my chest with a hoof. “If we went long enough without a request for our ‘service’ then we’d be taken to a back room, given a shot, and ‘retired’. Not if we were too old to bear foals. Not if we were unpleasant or traumatized. If we were unpopular.” She smiled up at me. “Do you have any idea how painful it is to grow up knowing that your entire life rested in stallions wanting to rut you frequently?”
“Uh… no…” I murmured.
“No,” she said coolly in that low, purring voice that just drove me nuts. “I was barely older than Scotch Tape when I had him. It was the best moment of my life. Every mare dreams of the chance we’re allowed to have a child, because for a full year, we get to have someone to love and nurse unconditionally. And when they took him away from me, I wanted to die, because I knew if I ever had another, I’d go through it all over again.”
“But… if you hate sex then why have you been all… you know…” I said, backing up a little.
“Because all stallions want sex. In heat. Out of heat. You want to do me. I want protection. You get pleasure. I don’t get eaten. But I don’t like it, Blackjack. I don’t want it. I endure it.”
“But… you seem to…”
“Trust me, Blackjack. Every mare in 99 are experts in making you think we want it.”