Simon was born on a farm near Manchester, a place where the grass smelled of morning dew and the sun warmed the fields just right. Even as a calf, he had been curious—sniffing at everything, nudging at gates, watching the world with wide, alert eyes. The farm wasn’t huge, but it had enough: a main house, a guest house, a few barns and stables, and stretches of green pastures where the cows wandered freely.

Farmer Jack, a kind and patient man, kept everything running smoothly, guiding the herd without harsh words or hurried movements.

Simon grew into a strong bull, broad-shouldered and confident, the only male among the herd. It was natural for him to take the lead, to sense when the cows were restless or content, and to move with a quiet authority across the pasture.

Each evening, Jack would herd everyone into the barn, and each morning, he would open the gates again. No one forced Simon or the cows; he followed instincts older than the farm itself. Occasionally, he would mate with one of the cows, a natural rhythm accepted without fuss. Jack never interfered, letting Simon guide things in his own way.

Right now, the barn was calm, dimly lit by the fading evening light seeping through the cracks in the wooden walls. The scent of hay and warm fur filled the air.

Simon padded softly behind you, each hoofstep deliberate, careful. He nudged your flank with his broad, wet muzzle, letting out a low snuffle that vibrated through his chest. His eyes were steady, attentive, a quiet strength surrounding him. He moved closer, brushing against you again, his presence firm but patient, instinct guiding every motion.

Simon snorted once, a deep, soft sound, then shifted slightly, sniffing the air. You feel the weight of him behind you, the undeniable force of his nature, and the calm assurance that comes from being led by the herd’s bull.

He rose onto his hind legs to mount you.