"San Francisco - A man died of internal injuries from sex with a stallion at a ranch used by a bestiality ring, police in the northwestern United States state of Washington said on Monday. The man suffered fatal trauma while being sodomised by a stallion at a stud farm that catered to men who wanted sex with animals, Enumclaw Police Commander Eric Sortland told AFP."

http://www.news24.com/News24/World/New s/0,,2-10-1462_1739698,00.html

(This news source is amazing; it's got loads of stories like this. lol.)
UPDATED
My son was a fine man. He always made me proud.

His first school sports day, 1992. Egg and spoon race, with golf balls in place of eggs. Kevin there, in his stripy shorts and Ninja Turtles t-shirt, one hand gripping his spoon, making a steady beeline for the finishing post. Dropping his golf ball, again and again; bending down, picking it up, putting it back on the spoon, and patiently continuing his short journey. The other competitors were furlongs ahead, but Kevin didn't seem fazed, immersed in his own world, pleased enough with his own effort. Eventually reaching the end, the last by miles, handing his spoon and golf ball to the headmaster with a careless smile, and sitting back on the grass next to his friends, peering over his knees and chatting away. Not giving a damn about his failure. I know this might sound stupid, but at that moment I could've cried.

And that was always the way he was. Happy with being a loser, which was so admirable. Content in himself. Focused on his own journey through life and reaching his own goals, without concerning himself with impressing anyone else, or with their stifling complaints. Like when I saw his art teacher, who was nagging about how he would never complete any of his work in class time, or his English teacher who told me he'd never finished a story; he'd usually hand in two paragraphs that were mainly crossings-out. It was like he was a perfectionist, but he couldn't give a damn if the world knew.

I never tried to discipline this behaviour out of him. I loved that about him. I had never wanted to raise some insecure conformist as a kid, and here I was with the most confident, content young boy you could ever imagine. It would've felt like sacrilege to have told him to 'get his bloody work done at the class's speed or he'd always fail at education'.

When he was a little older, he fell in love with nature. We used to stroll down the tree-lined streets, go down to the parks, walk through the wood, and he would look around, wide-eyed, commenting on how beautiful the trees were, pointing out birds and talking about their plumage, fishing with a net in the river, throwing his catches back. He really wanted a pet dog, and I didn't allow it - it would have ruined the carpets. But whenever the neighbour's cat came over, he would stroke it and play with it and treat it like it was the best thing ever, and it wasn't long until it was over at our house more than theirs. To be honest, I hated the mangy creature, but Kevin loved it - he'd buy tins of tuna out of his pocket money and he even bought a food tray for it when I told him off for using our breakfast cereal bowls.

He loved the world. He said it was overpowering. He said he used to lie on the grass, arms outstretched, and hug the Earth. He was fascinating. I would adore our walks around nature. Like on that one glorious April afternoon. I was pleased the sun had come out after the showers, and proposed a walk. He jumped at the opportunity. He opened the front door and groaned with joy as the sunlight streamed in. We stepped out, and he was immediately noticing the blossom. I hadn't even noticed. Some people say Spring is the moment of rebirth, but he went on a gripping monologue about how the bees and the frogs had hibernated all winter, bursting out as the first pink leaves landed and rejoicing to live again in the Spring. The pavement was glistening wet and covered with errant earthworms, and he said how he hadn't seen a worm for months, and here were thousands of them, all out at once, throwing a street festival for the subterranean.

I wanted to walk into the woods, but he insisted we sit at a bus stop on the lazy suburban streets and wait. And within 15 minutes, dozens of birds, of all colours and breeds, fell to the ground like a blanket and feasted. The sight was remarkable, unforgettable, after what seemed like decades of winter that there was all this life. I turned to Kevin, concerned that he might be empathising with the worms, but he was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes wide open, brimming with water, desperately trying to sink as much beauty as he could on to his retinas. And then he talked, with deep passion, about how the birds would be taking the worms to feed their chicks, who were resting at the top of the pink-and-white trees that had burst through the concrete, and how next year, the baby chicks would do the same. And I felt so pleased, and so full of hope that Kevin would one day be saying the same things to his baby chicks as he was to me.

It was impossible to know Kevin and not eventually share this deep and gorgeous infatuation.

When he was about 17, he got this new bunch of friends. They used to all go to this ranch, and it wasn't long before they'd got a job there. I'd spent his lifetime bursting with pride for him, and this new job seemed perfect. He wasn't the most athletic or academic kid in the world, but he had character, and he loved nature, and he loved animals too, and a ranch was ideal. He was becoming a real man, confident, deep, passionate, and ruggedly good-looking. I used to think he saw a bit of himself in the cowboys.

Why did I never notice the signs? Like when I'd pick them all up, they'd all be red-faced, out of breath, and they'd be walking funny and bow-legged, and I'd put it all down to horse-riding. In retrospect, I wish I'd never driven them down and collected them. Like, people ask me, "do you not feel let down?" but I only feel let down that he made me an unwilling accessory to his deviancy. I'll always feel partially responsible for his death, solely because of those car journeys.

He started to get a bit of money, and when he was 20 he had his own place near the ranch, with all of his friends. He would still visit me often, take me there, show me his horses, or any new horses they'd gotten, ride them around the dramatic landscapes he was spending his life in, and he'd tell me how happy he was, how perfect his life was. He seemed to be on the up-and-up. He was looking healthy, it all seemed to be going well; my only complaint was that he hadn't found a girlfriend, ever - to be honest, I always thought he just wasn't interested. But we were always really close. I would've liked to have thought he could have told me anything. But I understand.

I remember the day he died. 23 years old, and dead. I got a phone call from the hospital. I don't remember what they said at all. I remember standing in the kitchen, crying, retching over the sink, and sitting on the floor in silence with my head in my hands, the phone swinging back and forth like a pendulum, wailing the 'call ended' tone like the shrieks of the banshee. My brain had suddenly stopped working. This new piece of information seemed to make no sense. I remember repeating it to myself over and over, before the realisation finally hit me, before I sprawled over the linoleum floor, emptied my soul of tears, pounded the world with fists until my hands bled. No words can describe losing your son - my little boy with the deep heart and the carefree smile, so full of life, brimming with confidence, larger than life - he couldn't possibly be dead.

Stricken with misery and choking back tears, I eventually phoned the hospital back. "How did he die," I asked.

"They're still doing autopsy reports. We'll tell you as soon as possible." I hung up believing them, but they were probably just trying to spare a grieving parent's feelings.

When I found out the truth, which was a respectful and agonising length of time following, I didn't care at all. He was still just as perfect. I winced at the details, but it took me no time to realise that he thought it was enjoyable. So he liked to be fucked by horses; big deal. At least he died doing what he loved.

http://earfetish.abortedfoetus.com