Faye (Centaur, Masturbation, Excessive Size/Cum, Growth)

Hey all, I'm an extreme lurker on FP and have been for a long, long while.

I honestly have no idea how this story came into being. I was writing a short horror story, and then suddenly opened up a new word doc, kept the name of the main character and a couple hours later, this happened. I've barely even written a story before, so it was interesting to say the least. I have particular fetishes, which rarely get written about on here (especially the centaur one) so I guess this is the product of that.

I have no idea if I'll continue it or not, but I thought I might as well post it for anyone who has even remotely similar interests to me. Apologies in advance if it's terrible :22:

Faye

90’s chart hits served as musical undercurrents to the conversations of the dwindling crowd in Bar 33. Faye blew the bangs of her long black hair out of her eyes as she looked around through the dim light of the bar. The humid, alcoholic air was causing her to sweat a lot, her jeans and bra chaffing against her curvy, athletic body. She was almost regretful of the fact she’d worn a bra under her black shirt that day. Almost. She’d worn thin clothing to stay cool during the hot summer evening, and going braless on top of that was bound to attract the attention of any unsavoury characters that were still here. It was approaching 2am, one of the worst hours to still be working in the dark and dingy venue, where the only people still left were either drunk off their faces or looking to get laid.

“If you’re none too busy wondrin about what shoes you’re gonna buy tomorrow, can I gera nother pint, swee ‘art?”

“Oi oi, thas not what ya really want, ‘ey Martin? Wha’ my friend, right, what he meant to say was give us yer number ‘nd we might see fit to givin’ ya a go. Ya know, if we’re still this drunk termorrow!”

On this particular occasion, it seemed to be both. Faye sighed irritably as the two men swayed on their stools and laughed raucously at their own terrible jokes, knocking two glasses of the bar in the process, and started pulling their 8th (or was it 9th?) drink of the evening. Her brother in arms against the assholes, Jake, cursed under his breath and went round the back to fetch a dustpan. The pair had been stumbling around the bar hitting on every woman they saw, and incredibly poorly at that. Having already damaged a chair and numerous other glasses, they were seriously beginning to get on Faye’s nerves. The mantra of “the customer’s always right” was something she tried to operate by, but there was always a limit.

“That’s £7.20, boys.”

“Wait up, darlin’, we’ve been ‘ere a while now, why not giv’us a discount?”

“Sorry, no can do.”

The switch from jollity to sternness was jarringly quick; a frown crossed one of the men’s faces, and standing up, he leaned over the bar looking down at Faye menacingly. She d