"Come on," you plead with a slight stutter, "y-you--we both know you aren't REALLY gonna do this to me. I'm, I'm your son!"
"A son who lounges around all day and parties all night, costing me more and more money. A son who breaks everything I give him, up to and including sports cars. A son I've been single-handedly responsible for because of your mother's legal machinations. A son who won't get off his ass and go to college even though I can afford tuition for the best ones in the world, and who would probably flunk out of the cheapest ones anyway. No, not anymore. It's time you were more of a gain for me than a loss."
"But, but mom--"
"You're mom isn't gonna know. She's probably forgotten about you already. This thing I'm holding doesn't just change your body. It changes your life story! You and I are the only ones who will know. The farm, my holding companies, your mother, your high school, the government--our new arrangement is their old arrangement: my farm gives you food and a place to stay; you give them foals and sperm samples they can sell from a pure quarter-horse bloodline."
You shiver and look back toward the bathroom, seeing some of the wet towels on the tile floor, remembering the chunky cum underneath them. You realize what it's for now, what the sperm in your oversized balls is for now. It's for making foals. Quarter-horse foals to make money for your dad. Well, for one of your dad's many nationwide business ventures.
And then something unnerving happens. The towels disappear, leaving a dry floor underneath them. You video games start disappearing, getting replaced by business folders and some more of that weird European art your dad likes to collect. It's really happening: reality is changing! You're life is disappearing before your eyes, and soon it will be as though you never lived here.
"Please, dad, there's gotta be something we can work out, some way I can stay with you. I'll, I'll go to rehab! Yeah, yeah, and college! You don't have to give me any more cars, I'm sorry about the Mercedes. And the, the Corvette, and the limousines, and the--whatever, just stop this! I'll get a job or something, you'll see, I promise!"
"You already have a job, son, I just told you. You're a stud now!"
"No-no-no--"
"I think you're perfect for it. I think it's perfect for you! Come on, we both know how much you like having sex. All the times my maids have banging sounds in your bedroom with a sock on the door, all the times the guards have seen women in bikinis sneaking out over the front fence at night..."
"You can't be serious..."
You want to keep arguing, but a numbness in your hands has you worried. You can't feel your fingers anymore! Well, you can, but it's more like you can only feel one. You hold your left hand out in front of you nervously, and gasp at the long, round pillar of bone that your hand has become. At first glance, at least, the closest thing you can see to a "knuckle" is what horse people would call a fetlock: a sharp bend almost at the end, where you can wave your wide "fingertip" up and down. And worst of all, you could see, at the very end, that your fingernails had grown and fused together into broad, rounded cups that already looked almost exactly like horse hoofs. Your already pounding heart picked up speed when you saw your right hand, which had shifted into a more equine forefoot as well.
"Think about it," says your dad, with the tone of a concerned relative suggesting a doctor's visit or a new support group. "You'll keep getting laid, you're better hung than any guy you've ever met, and we both get to benefit from it now. What more could you really ask for?"
You want to say that you could ask for your humanity back. You'd like to say you'd wish for a father who would rather have a son than a piece of livestock, who hadn't seen you and your mother as expensive inconveniences for as long as you anyone could remember. You could ask for a second chance at trying to see your father as more than a bank account. But the sight of your new front hoofs has you too mesmerized to speak. They look perfect for a horse to walk on, and perfectly opposite to the hands you wish you could ask for. Your mind is screaming at you to try to remember what opposable thumbs felt like, and you're terrified to realize that you can't!
You snap out of it, your tail flicks behind you, your ears flatten against your skull, and you get ready to yell something, anything, at Joe Avila, the man who wouldn't be your father in this new reality he was creating. But it doesn't work. All you can get out are loud, unstable vocalizations that sound more like neighs as your face lengthens. You can't talk anymore. Your own father is sending you off to a life of eating grass, walking around on hooves, and fucking quarter-horse mares--just to sprinkle a few extra drops of profit into his lake of riches--and you can't even protest!
"Haha, easy big fella!" he mocks at your string of frantic neighs. "You'll be having your next booty call before you know it! Heehee."
The worst part is that his talk of a life of sex, even if it is horse sex, has your huge dick hanging out of its sheath again. It's flopping around between your knees, starting to firm up just a little as it grabs your attention. You try to stop it, to just will it back into your sheath, where it belongs. You try not to think about how sensitive it felt, especially around the middle, or how it felt to come out of something so, so ... damn, it really is huge! But it's TOO huge, and too inhumanly shaped! This isn't YOUR cock! Or at least it shouldn't be ... NO man was meant to have a cock like this, but ... shit ... what guy hasn't wondered, you know?
You shake your head a few times, trying to clear your thoughts--and your vision. You just can't seem to get your eyes to focus right! The colors of your bedroom are off, too, with a few vivid blues or yellows here and there, but mostly a sort of dim gray or even sepia everywhere. You can barely even see your dad anymore, standing right in front of you, unless you tilt your head just a little bit. And yet, you can see off to your sides with less blurriness than anywhere else, and you can even glance the fluttering window curtains behind you in your peripheral vision. What could possibly be going on with your eyes? Oh yeah, horses have them on the sides of their head, and you should have known they'd be color blind, kind of like dogs. You're not even going to get to see the color of your new quarter horse fur, like a human would see it? You whicker a bit and shake your head around one more time, feeling a long mane of fur brushing around on your longer neck. At last, a sharp pain down your back makes you start to stumble around, and you have even more trouble keeping your balance when your ankles start to ache and you can no longer put your weight on your whole foot anymore.
You stand their stumbling around for a minute, feeling your feet grow longer, trying to keep yourself upright on your toenails, or more accurately the hoofs they are becoming, but it's no use. You drop down and feel your front hoofs take your weight for the first time. You rear up, trying to get yourself back into a standing position, but you just plop right back down on all fours. It's your new standing position, for the rest of your life. You raise yourself back on your hind legs for a second time, just to feel yourself rear up again like a horse can, and that's when you notice how big you've gotten: your ears are brushing the high ceiling, even though it's almost twice as high up as your head used to be! You let yourself back down one more time, and your left standing in front of your father, noticeably taller than him even on all fours.