Stallion

Epilogue

It had been three months since the birth of Ginger and Tad’s son, Nate (short for Nathaniel, Tad’s grandfather’s name). Mace doted on the baby boy and was happy to endure his employees’ jokes about Mace being a grandpa now. Mace even let Ginger sleep in the bedroom with Tad and Nate so that she could nurse the baby without having to get up and go down the hall.

Randi seemed to enjoy having Mace to herself. The girl just starting her third trimester and would be giving birth at the beginning of summer—whether to a boy or a girl, they didn’t know, because Randi wanted it to be a surprise. Randi still enjoyed having Mace squeeze and fondle her now somewhat larger tits in his big hands each night before he fucked her in the pussy and ass for hours, making her scream with orgasm again and again.

After dinner that evening, Mace asked Ronnie and Randi to do the dishes. Meanwhile, Mace sat down with Tad and Ginger.

“So,” he said, “we’ve reached the end of our one-year deal. Do you two feel ready to get a place of your own?” Mace was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it, anyway.

“The truth is,” Tad said slowly, “we’re…not quite ready to move out. My business isn’t taking off the way I’d hoped, at least not yet. I need some more time.”

Mace nodded. “There’s should be enough spare crawlspace upstairs to build a nursery. My guys could do it in a week. If, that is…” 

He wrapped his arm around Ginger’s shoulder, pulled her close, and looked at her face as he finished, “…we renew our deal.”

Ginger looked at him excitedly. “That sounds fair to me.” Then she looked at Tad. “Don’t you think, sweetheart?”

“Um, sure,” Tad fumbled. “Yeah, that, that would be okay.” 

“Well then,” Mace said, “I suppose it’s time for bed.”

“Oh, yes,” Ginger replied. Looking at Tad, she said, “Put Nate down for the night, would you? I’ll come feed him later.”

They went upstairs, and within minutes, Tad heard Ginger crying out in pleasure. And as soon as Nate fell asleep, Tad was in the upstairs hallway, pleasuring himself like mad.

***

The next morning, Mace was about to leave for work when he got a call. It was from an area code he didn’t recognize, but his phone wasn’t flagging it as possible spam.

The other strange thing was that it was a video call. Mace only rarely got those, and when he did, the caller was usually some mare he’d fucked at some point and who was now drunk and hoping for a little phone sex, probably with her husband or boyfriend in the next room. But those calls usually came late at night on the weekend, not mid-morning on a Tuesday.

Mace’s curiosity won out, and he answered. On the screen appeared a teenage filly with a stocky build. Her coat was roan, but she had a paint mark on her forehead the same color as Mace’s coat. Which was why Mace recognized her immediately, even though she had changed a lot since the last time he saw her.

“Sarah,” he said, his eyebrows rising a hair.

“Hi…Dad.”

“How are you? You look terrific.”

“I’m, I’m good.”

Mace swallowed. “Look, I’m sorry that I- that I haven’t-”

“It’s okay,” Sarah cut in. “Mom told me that she didn’t want me to see you. And…she told me why.”

Mace swallowed again. “I see.”

“But…” she went on, scratching behind her ear, “just because I can’t come visit you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know you. To know my dad.”

Mace sat down, holding the phone in front of him like a precious thing. 

“I…I want to know you, too,” he said. “So…what do you like to do?”

“Well, I like sports. Right now, I’m doing field events—javelin and shot put.”

“Really? I was a shot putter myself when I was your age! I did the hammer throw, too.”

“I tried that, but it made me too dizzy.” She chuckled. “I almost puked right there on the field.”

Mace chuckled, too. “So what else have you been up to? How’s school?”

“It’s been okay. My favorite subject is history, and probably my worst is science, but this year…”

Mace just closed his eyes and listened to his daughter talk about her life. He had experienced many pleasures in his time, but this rivaled any of them.

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