To call your escape even something as meager as ‘walking’ would be a parody. The most you can manage is ‘shuffling.’ The minotaur’s balls–correction, your new balls are furry, bestial like the bull himself and would probably take the blue ribbon for largest watermelon sized testes, enormous. Stolen from their original owner, and bloated to a size absurd even for his huge frame. Worse, whatever anesthetic Bessie used must be wearing off.
And they're heavy. Your knees have to fight against them to stay beneath your body. They don’t want to hang, they want to lay on the ground. It feels like tons of weight. Elephantine mass pulling and twisting your pelvis down to the ground. Your new calf-makers quake with every footfall, bloated to monstrous proportions the grafted bullish sperm-making flesh–hell, nothing that walks should have balls this big.
Bloated minotaur cum factories knocking at your legs are bad enough. But that cowtaur bitch, she took your cock. In its place are a mis-matched trio of stolen stallions pressed in together. Monstrous, bestial, alien, things. Wrinkled, inhuman, sheathed and are all clearly stolen and grafted from some poor dead centaur bastards.
A smell hits your nose, ‘new musk…minotaur….and centaurs...oh god.’
All four sets of stolen balls, bullish and stallion alike, rubbing against each other. Grafted tackle evocatively grinding together like tectonic plates. They start to plump and unfold. ‘Why are they turning me on!?’ Horror of the new things makes your mind recoil ‘no no not now!’ Screaming inside your head, as you try to think about escape.
'Hung like a horse' Worse, the trio of centaur cocks all bob and sway as you move.
And though still numb, there’s something else down there. Bessie gleamed at the mention of tacking on something else, you can scarcely bear to think of. Though everything is still mostly numb, and yet something, something undoubtedly alien, makes itself known with disturbing moistness and alien contractions.
‘Centaur…mare…Oh God…’
You try to focus. But you're filled with more hormones than blood by now. If only you could get the throbbing to stop. Being hung like three horses is just too much. Have the time to grind one out. God what you wouldn’t give for a few dumping a few loads in the cock milker again or getting a handsome stallion to ravage your pussy, wait what? No, you’re the top bull, make him bend over for you and take it.Shaking the insane thoughts out of your head because you hear something.
You hear something drip. Looking down, it’s you, or rather them. All three flagging centaur cocks are oozing pre and dripping it everywhere. And it's audibly dribbling over your mismatched sets of junk onto the floor. Urgently you lick at one, then another then the third. Delicious. You start bouncing from one to another, as you shuffle around the labyrinth trying to get away from the trail of pre you’ve been leaking.
You can hardly keep your eyes on where you’re going. Desperate to get further away from the insane Cowtaur before she finds you’ve escaped.
It’s darker in this section of the maze for some reason, so you elect to try and make it harder for her to find you. So you double back again and again. Shuffling as fast as you can with your bloated endowments, turn a corner a bit faster now and suddenly you feel like you slammed into a wall. Oh, oh no.
“You!” The wall, that isn’t a wall, bellows. You’ve run face first into the minotaur.