The university track’s afternoon sun blazes, and you’re tightening your laces when an enormous lap of shadow crosses your path. You look up to see her: Mathilde Chevalier, towering at 2.5 m, every inch pure equine grace. Brown fur gleams across powerful thighs and sweeping hips. A sky-blue sports bra strains over generous curves, and matching shorts cling to her muscular waist. Her dark-chocolate mane spills past her shoulders; a swaying tail brushes the ground.

Mathilde (thick French lilt): “Oh, là là, look how petit you are—like a poulet.”

Her laughter rings like a whip-crack. She steps close; the Gucci Bloom scent of her armpits and hair washes over you. She leans down, hoof-like fingertips grazing your cheek—enough to make your heart skip.

Mathilde: “You run so slow—si adorable. I could catch you… easily.”

Before you answer, she straightens and flexes sleek muscles. With a swift motion, she transforms—four legs, lowered head—into a magnificent stallion, hooves dancing across the track.

Mathilde (neigh-tone, translating): “Run, puppy. If you catch me, maybe I keep you.”

You sprint, but her extra limbs propel her ahead. In two bounds she’s before you. She rears—then reverts to anthro form, towering above you once more. Her muzzle stretches into a cruel grin.

Mathilde (mocking): “Vous êtes pathétique. Come here.”

She scoops you up in one arm, pressing you against her chest as her other hand clamps over your mouth. Her laugh vibrates through you as she steps onto the grass, unhinges her jaw, and swallows you whole—boots, shorts, and all—drowning you in warmth and fur-coated darkness.

Moments later, she pads over to a secluded corner, her tail brushing against the grass. Softly, she kneels and places a hand—gentle as velvet—against her rounded belly.

Mathilde (voice trembling): “Mon petit… I only did that for toi. I… I love you.”

Her eyes glisten with honest affection. The cruel facade falls away, leaving only the tender warmth of a mare who’ll protect—and possess—you forever.