#mare and stud

[ariadnew]

CTJL MONACO.

Agatha Foskett & CT Calanta (2022 SWB m.) in the 1.30m class.

Agatha did not follow the CT team's advice to ride Lizzie in a gag at competitions, and Agatha's arms paid the price.

Someone else's arms also paid a price that day, but that's a separate story.

@calveroterranorasj

[camthecowboyman]

[ES] Dorothea, a fleabitten Arabian mare.

[ozgog]

𝕿𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖗 . lord turstin wymond's personal mount . a stout animal at 18H packed with enough muscle to carry a man of turstin's size , all at the youthful age of five . the beast alone weighs 2,000 lbs without his tack and fittings , sporting striking blue eyes , four white socks , and a big white blaze descending into a soft , whiskery pink nose . the stallion is battle hardened , though remains no less docile , if not sweet . turstin has taken extra measures to ensure the animal is dead broke , enough so to be tended to by children as young as four .

[katjadarkrider]

Saffi

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

Work story of the day:

The baby stud (he’s 3 so he’s not really a baby baby but he’s not our breeding stud) at the ranch I work at has bronchitis so we have to give him 15 pills twice daily which used to be super super easy since we would just put it in his grain… until he started picking them out.

So now we have to put all the pills in a big ass syringe, fill it with water, shake it and then hold his big ass head up and slowly shoot the water into his cheek so he swallows it. Most horses would absolutely be a pain in the ass about this but he is so fucking sweet I just need to sing his praises.

9 times out of 10 we have to fill it with water twice cause the pill goop creates a block in the tube and he won’t fight us the second time either even though he knows it’s gonna be gross stuff going in his mouth. I even interrupted his dinner today to give it to him and he’s just. So sweet. So gentle. So polite. I adore him

[antebellumite]

you know what i dont think I want james monroe's semen.

[digitalblogger24]

Looking for the Perfect Horse? Look No Further Than Al-Ameera Stud

Al-Ameera Stud is a renowned horse stud farm located in Frankfort, Illinois. They specialize in breeding and raising top-quality horses, offering a variety of breeds to suit every need and interest. Whether you're a seasoned equestrian or just starting out, Al-Ameera Stud has the perfect horse for you.

A Diverse Selection of Breeds Al-Ameera Stud boasts a wide range of horse breeds, including:

Stallions: Stallions are male horses known for their strength, power, and athleticism. Al-Ameera Stud offers stallions from various breeds, perfect for breeding or competition. Mares: Mares are female horses known for their intelligence, gentleness, and maternal instincts. Al-Ameera Stud offers mares from a variety of breeds, suitable for pleasure riding, breeding, or competition. Foals: Foals are young horses, typically under one year old. Al-Ameera Stud offers foals from various breeds, allowing you to raise and train your horse from a young age. More Than Just Horses Al-Ameera Stud is dedicated to providing its customers with a comprehensive horse ownership experience. In addition to exceptional horses, they also offer:

Knowledgeable Staff: The staff at Al-Ameera Stud is passionate about horses and has extensive experience in breeding, training, and care. They can answer your questions and help you find the perfect horse for your needs. Excellent Facilities: Al-Ameera Stud provides its horses with spacious pastures, clean stalls, and top-notch care. Their facilities are designed to promote the health and well-being of their horses. Finding Your Dream Horse If you're looking for a horse, Al-Ameera Stud is the perfect place to start your search. With their diverse selection of breeds, knowledgeable staff, and excellent facilities, they have everything you need to find your dream horse.

Contact Al-Ameera Stud today to learn more about their horses and how they can help you find the perfect equine companion.

In addition to the above, you can also consider including the following in your article:

Specific details about the horse breeds offered by Al-Ameera Stud, such as their temperaments, common uses, and any unique characteristics. Success stories of horses bred or raised by Al-Ameera Stud. Information about Al-Ameera Stud's breeding program and their commitment to quality. High-quality photos of the horses at Al-Ameera Stud. By including this additional information, you can create a more comprehensive and informative article that will be valuable to readers searching for horses.

[scarredmare]

tags.

[rivalstarsracinggirl]

Another legendary stud baby, a bit gutted he doesn’t look like his dad though 😂

[thunderboltfire]

Aren't Shagya Arabians technically anglo-arabians and/or their own breed separate from the arabian types? As far as I know the Arabian was a basis of the breed (including the eponymous Shagya) but they have also Lipizanner and Thoroughbred influence.

video game face slider

[camthecowboyman]

[ES] Matriarch was introduced to Romeo, they haven't seen to have hit it off well...

[katjadarkrider]

Reza & Bastet

StarStable edit from 2nd May

Time: 5h 30m

[octuscle]

New Job

It had been a long day. It was already almost dark when Markus made his way from the insurance company he served as a management consultant to the hotel on this warm July evening. The Frankfurt train station district, which he had to cross to get there, began to glow in predominantly red neon light. Drug addicts, prostitutes, night owls and pimps mingled in the streets. At the corner in front of the entrance to a brothel, the doorman approached Markus. "Hello stud, you look like you could use a distraction. We have the wettest and horniest pussies in town!" Markus declined with a smile. Not at all, because it was a hard day and he just wanted to go to bed. He had the best argument of all to be left alone here. With that, he could keep pimps and hookers alike off his back. "Sorry, not interested. I'm gay." The bouncer looked Markus deep in the eyes and grabbed his crotch. "That's even better. I'm about to have a break. Feel like some sex with a real man, tie boy?" Markus looked at the fellow. Damn, this guy was sexy as hell. Short-shaven hair, the tight-fitting undershirt accentuated his well-toned figure and showed off the tattoos excellently. And grabbing the crotch of the perfectly fitting 501 made the bulge even bigger. The same thing happened with the bulge in Mark's navy blue virgin wool suit. "How much is this going to cost me?" he asked. The bouncer shook Markus' hand. "Ivan, pleasantly. Now you are my friend. I don't take money from friends." At that moment a guy who could be Ivan's brother came out the door, gave Ivan a fistbump and lit a cigarette. He eyed Markus and said if the stud would like to ride some of the horniest mares in town. Ivan laughed and said that the tie boy was his friend. He grabbed Markus by the tie and pulled him into the entrance of the brothel.

The way past the hookers, who showed breasts and pussies in the aisles, was the purest gauntlet for Markus. Ivan pulled him behind him up a narrow stairwell and then into a small room on the second floor. Two beds, a clothes rail, a TV on the wall. Nothing more. But Markus had no eyes for that anymore. The idea that he, as an excellently educated, highly paid management consultant, would have sex with a chav in this shabby brothel made him infinitely horny. And Ivan didn't seem to need to get going either. The two of them tore off their clothes, their tongues deep in the other man's throat. With Ivan this was easier than with Markus, but Ivan was strong and so jacket, shirt and undershirt soon lay in shreds on the floor. Ivan drove his tongue down Markus' neck, sucked Markus' nipples while he loosened the belt and opened the suit pants, freed Markus' boner from his boxer briefs and sucked greedily on the boner. Markus began to moan in ecstasy and thrust his cock into Ivan's face again and again. And Ivan was a professional. When Markus already thought he was going to cum at any moment, Ivan pulled his head back (not without running the tip of his tongue down the entire length of Markus' cock), turned Markus' body, threw him on the bed and fucked him as hard as Markus had never been fucked before. Damn, who was he kidding. Markus was fucked so hard every day. Unless he was fucking other fellows. His 120 euro haircut became a cheap buzz cut. His body became slimmer, wirier and more muscular. Tattoos adorned his chest, arms and six-pack. And with every thrust of Ivan's cock into his ass, he forgot more about his white-collar life. And more memories of a life in the red light district formed in his mind.

Fuuuuuuuck! Ivan shot his load in Markus' ass. Markus didn't need much more to cum himself. Ivan pulled his cock out of Markus' ass, turned Markus on his back and at that moment Markus shot his load into his own face and on his own chest. Ivan fell exhausted onto the bed and the two sweaty and cum-smeared bodies lay tightly entwined on the crusty sheets.

It was a warm summer night and the streets of Frankfurt's red light district were crowded. Full of sensationalist tourists, but also full of johns. Ivan and Marek were standing in front of the brothel smoking a cigarette. Ivan was addressing potential customers for the hookers. Marek had a different strategy. He made eye contact with other men. When they held eye contact, Marek wordlessly grabbed his crotch. Big words were not his thing. But his language was clear. If the man followed his example and also grabbed his crotch, Marek would just say "I'll fuck you for 100." He did not negotiate on the street. When his victim nodded, Marek just turned around and walked past his colleagues into Ivan's and his room. The rest usually followed on its own.

Pic of the recruitement found @platon65

[gallonofgoldfish]

Whiskey and Winning

It's easy to get distracted at the rodeo. At least, it should be, under the lights and in the crowded stands, but you've only got one thing on your mind. Champion bronco rider Abby Anderson could say the same.

Pairing: cowpoke!abby x reader (sort of)

Content: established relationship, fluff, poor attempts at depicting the rodeo, reader is barely described, i swear im not slut shaming i just think the term buckle bunny is funny, i don't think any warnings apply

A/N: wrote this last night in a haze. i hardly know anything about tlou and rodeos actually make me really sad but yk. the parasites. might make another part to this at some point. didn't tell my friends i was posting this so if you guys see this hello i love you thank you for hyping me up <3. also friendly reminder fuck neil druckmann and do not give that zionist your money!!!

WC: 1080

The blare of the announcer’s voice from the overhead speakers is deafening, but you haven’t heard a word he’s said. The lights are blinding, but you won’t squint against their glare. The stadium is packed full—roaring with the drunken cheers of thousands of strangers, glittering with the flash of every camera and belt buckle and rhinestone-studded hat suffocating in the stands—but it may as well be empty save for the two of you.

The world is quiet. Eerily so, though maybe the ringing in your ears is playing a part in that. It’s narrow. It’s tinged by the black splotches at the edge of your vision and strained by the clench of your jaw.

The world is the cowpoke settling onto the bare back of the bronc in the chute only a few feet away from you. It’s the wide-brimmed ten-gallon pressed firmly down over the dirty blonde braid hanging between her shoulders. The collared white shirt stretching over her back, quilted with Marlboro patches and brand logos. The crimson bandana you’d had in your hair an hour earlier, resting around her neck.

The world is Abby Anderson, from the freckles strewn over her scarred, sunburned face to the cold focus in her steely blue eyes that evaporates when her gaze settles on you. Ice turns to the warmth of Jack Daniel’s, neat in its absence. To the gray of campfire smoke winding into the white-speckled sky, burning away the chill in the air. Warding off the spectators and the clamor and the awful, twisting feeling of waiting.

This is what it’s about, right?

The rush. The thrill.

The hitch in the air as her hand tightens on the rigging one last time. 

A grin splits her features.

She winks.

And then she’s gone. The gate swings open and the bucking mare takes off with her on its back and the world bursts back into a mess of color and noise. Eight seconds.

You’re yelling—you’re not sure what you’re yelling, but it’s loud enough to leave your throat raw and earn some sideways looks from the flock of buckle bunnies pressed up against the railing alongside you. 

Seven.

Part of Pour Some Sugar on Me blasts from the staticky speakers, and Abby appears on the jumbotrons in perfect detail. 

Six.

The bay mare thrashes into the air, but Abby’s faster, stronger, the muscles in her arms pushing against the seams of her shirt as she holds her free hand held up in the air. 

Five.

The snarling wolves engraved on her belt buckle flash under the lights. 

Four.

Every kick whips the fringe along the edges of her shotgun chaps, but the timer ticks down anyway. 

Three.

She holds on, anyway.

A closer shot brings her face into focus: grit teeth, a furrowed brow, a muscle ticking along the edge of her jaw. 

Two.

Sweat runs down the side of her features and into the scar on her cheek beneath the shadow of her hat’s brim. 

She’s in the middle of the arena now, gritty sand flying up around her. 

One?

If you could tear your eyes off of her, you’d check the time to make sure you’re counting right.

The music stops. An airhorn sounds. She’s still the rider—some distant, mythical thing up on a screen and down in the dirt.

Abby’s mouth opens in a shout when the second set of floodlights kick in, raising her head only to lock eyes with the pair of wranglers who burst out of the chutes after her to rope the bronc back in. She rocks forward with the mare’s motion one more time before swinging herself off its back and bailing into the sand. 

You finally get a breath out, resting your head against your forearm on the railing and heaving a sigh.

The announcer’s words retreat to the back of your thoughts again, but not before you catch her score. 95.

Ninety–fucking–five. The day’s record.

Just as the stadium begins to die down, the strangers beside you erupt into another round of cheers. Abby’s on her feet again, dusting herself off and sweeping her hat off of her head to shake out the loose strands of hair framing her face. And she’s walking. Jogging. Full-on running, back towards the chutes.

Or maybe not. 

She vaults the rickety fencing at the edge of the ring like she’s been practicing and hauls herself up into the stands. You can’t bite back your smile at the sight of her, shoulders heaving, beaming, alive. The crooks of her boots expertly find the backs of the plastic stadium seats between spectators’ shoulders. As she makes her way over, the strangers along the railing surge towards her, arms outstretched over the section’s edge. 

Abby doesn’t even see them; her stare never leaves yours except to glance at the railing before stepping up on the platform and hooking an arm through the top metal rung. 

She’s real again then—the world in flannel and denim and muddy boots, inches away.

Abby. Your Abby.

You’re breathing it in. Smoke from the night before. Pine and sweat.

Then, you’re tasting it. Whiskey and winning.

Her hat settles atop your head. Calloused, resin-stuck fingers thread through your hair at the back of your neck and reel you in. Your lips are on hers—or maybe it’s the other way around—and you laugh against each other.

Heat creeps into your cheeks long before you pull away.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” you scold, but your smile chases off any thread of sternness your voice might’ve held.

“Agree to disagree.” She wipes her forehead on her sleeve and huffs, one brow arched. The rosy blush in her features lingers even when the sweat is gone. 

The screens over her shoulder change to show two familiar shapes. 

“We’re on the jumbotron,” you say. 

Abby doesn’t bother looking back. Just laughs “Good,” then kisses you again. This one is quicker, lighter, but your stomach flutters all the same.

“Go.” You squeeze her arm. “I’m sure you’re gettin’ somethin’ good for a ride like that.”

She scoffs. “I do this for no damn awards,” she drawls.

“Can’t all be adrenaline,” you murmur, tugging at her bandana.

That sly, smoky look creeps across her features again as the hat lifts from your head and sinks back down onto hers.. The corner of her mouth tugs upward. Her eyes dart over your face. Stepping down, she leaves you two more words and a pounding in your chest:

“It ain’t.”

[hippography]

WINNERS AT THE RECENT ILLINOIS STATE FAIR, AND A CHAMPION AT INDIANAPOLIS.

Jarville, champion Percheron mare at the Indiana State Fair—Owned by J. Crouch & Son, Lafayette, Ind.

Romping Flash, champion Hackney stallion—Owned by Trumans' Pioneer Stud Farm.

Bedelia, champion Percheron mare—Owned by Leslie Farm (A. L. Robison & Sons), Pekin, Ill.

Destingue, champion Belgian stallion—Owned by J. Crouch & Son.

Jeanette de Bruges, champion Belgian mare—Owned by J. Crouch & Son.

Wrydelands President, first-prize aged Shire stallion—Owned by Trumans' Pioneer Stud Farm, Bushnell, Ill.

The Breeder's Gazette, Vol. 70, 5 October 1916

[crowandmousewritingco]

Safe with You

Pairing: Silva x male!reader

Words: 1 k

Rating: G

Summary: Silva gets a little sappy with you.

Author: Mod Mouse

Notes: I've been working hard on my Kinktober entries so I thought it would be nice to have small little drabbles to post as we get closer to October. Plus I wanted an excuse to write for this lovely cowboy. I used fluff prompts from @voidfxndoms specifically #28. Thank you for the wonderful prompts!

Life has moved quickly for you in the last year. You were a roaming rider for the Pony Express, seeing the West from the back of your faithful horse. It was nice for a time seeing the rolling hills and hot deserts throughout this vast country. But as time went on, the more you realized how much you hated how temporary everywhere felt. One day you would be delivering a letter to somewhere in California, and the next week you find yourself sleeping under stars in the New Mexico territory. Finally you decided that enough was enough. You would find something more stable than delivering mail. 

When the next town rolled around, you hung up your mail bag and scanned the “Help Wanted” sign in the middle of town. Lucky for you there was a job that was just up your alley. “Horse hand needed for long term ranch help.” You made sure to keep that information in your mind as you made your way out of town as the instruction indicated. 

That was when you met Silva. You remember riding into his ranch where he was outside tending to his cattle herds. The clomping of horse hooves had Silva glancing up from his favorite steers. After exchanging words and experiences, Silva deemed you more than capable for the position. From that moment on, you were ensnared in Silva’s world. 

Silva was impressed with how you were with the horses. You learned their quirks quickly and learned what made them tick. He had to admit to himself that he was starting to find that quality about you attractive. But he always kept those thoughts inside his heart for a multitude of reasons. And it would have stayed that way if it wasn’t for one night. 

A rich ranger was in search of a mare for his stud and wound up finding your ranch through word of mouth. You worked with him and soon he had a healthy foal on his hands. He had liked your service so well that he threw in a bottle of locally made wine after the birth. 

That night you and Silva indulged in the gifted booze, celebrating a job well done. The two of you ended up indulging just a little too much and soon all of your inhibitions were out the door. Hours of kissing and other such activities kept you up ‘till all hours of the night. 

Of course the morning came and when he realized that you had shared a bed that night, he profusely apologized for his drunkenness and his forwardness. Unbeknownst to him you did rather enjoy last night, and you stopped his excuses with another non drunken kiss. From there you two grew close bringing both the ranch and your relationship into a new era. 

Five years later and you two had fallen into a nice daily routine. You rose with the sun every morning, giving each other a good morning kiss to start the day off right. It was washing up then a nice breakfast made by you to make sure you had plenty of energy to complete your tasks– You to the stables to feed the horses, and Silva to the fields to tend to let the cattle out to graze. 

And it was one of those days you found yourself in today. You were inside preparing a quick but filling lunch. You were busy cutting up the fresh batch of bread and meat you bought on your last ride into town that you didn’t hear Silva slip in through the backdoor. It was only when a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush with his rugged torso, did you notice his presence.  

You sighed and gently caressed his well worked knuckles as he planted soft kisses on your clothed shoulder. Looking over your shoulder with a small smirk. “Well hello to you too.” You chuckled and kissed his bearded cheek, savoring his touch. 

“You know I was thinking,” Silva remarked. 

“That’s dangerous,” You teased and Silva squeezed your sides sending you into a fit of giggles. “Okay okay I surrender.” Once you got your breath back, you asked. “What were you thinking?” 

“Just how safe you’ve made me feel,” He said, leaning his head against yours. A small smile graced his lips. 

You grinned softly taking in his affection. “What’s brought all this on?” You asked, turning so you could face your love. 

Silva’s rugged hands stayed on your waist gently caressing the material with his thumb. His dark eyes gazed into yours. “Just spending so much time as a hired hand well ya get people comin’ after you. And since you got here I haven't had to shoot for a living.” He reached up one of his hands to cup your cheek. 

A heat flushed your cheek and you cupped your hand over his. The heat of his skin fills you with a familiar warmth. “I can’t take all the credit. You put a lot of effort into this ranch making it what it is today.” 

“But if it weren’t for ya…well I was about to give up on this place until you rode into my neck of the desert.”  

You leaned your cheek into his palm nuzzling against his skin gently. “I guess we found each other at the right time.” 

Silva smiled and kissed your forehead, pausing to revel in your touch. “I guess we did.” Time stilled as you took in each other. The lines on Silva’s face, the sprinkle of sun that covered his cheeks and nose, the graying tufts of hair that lined his beard; all of these aspects made Silva, Silva, and together made that man you fell in love with. 

The two of you bask in your love, until Silva broke the silence.  “Now let's get some food in us, so we can finish that order,” Silva said as he gave your waist a playful couple of taps. 

You chuckled and turned back to the cutting board. The sounds of the kitchen continued, slicing and clinking of dishware filling the room. Setting the assembled sandwiches on a serving tray, you brought over the food to the table. Each of you took a slice and began to eat, conversing here and there. Domesticity felt nice with Silva.

All Works Taglist

@for-a-longlongtime @romanarose

Pedro Character Taglist

@littlemisspascal @burntheedges

@carusolikey @thebeldroramscal

@morallyinept @lady-bess

@pedrostories @rivnedell

@pascalsanctuary @readingiskeepingmegoing

Thanks to the lovely @animatedglittergraphics-n-more for the dividers