When I lost my diary, I have to admit I flew into a panic. As my personal log of each day, I had filled it with not only critical business information, but the most personal of thoughts and the most exotic of fantasies. It was, to be honest, one of my few escapes from my quotidian lifestyle; design and extravagance were all elements of my life, but - as any mare my age will and must, you understand - I have had baser desires. Desires that make every filly swoon and every mare... well, seek mechanical assistance in properly swooning. Yes, I kept my diary with those mechanical aids, properly locked away from the eyes of prying fillies. However, one day, I left it out, where dear Sweetie Belle found it.

Oh, don't look at me like that! Besides - for what it's worth, she could not understand it. The high Unicorn calligraphy which I employ in my personal diary was beyond her reach - what are they teaching in schools nowadays? Then again, I suppose I shouldn't complain; for it was only by sake of my extravagant script that she could not divine the true purpose behind the various costumes and outfits I had designed in the pages of my diary. That being said, Sweetie Belle still found it, and she was on a cleaning spree - and so, it and various other 'inspirational' books were returned along with overdue library books to the Golden Oaks branch.

Unfortunately for me, the librarian not only could read the script, she had seen it several times before, coming out of a quill held in my grasp. The jig was up, well and truly.

That evening, when she visited, she returned my books and my diary to me. However, she did not simply drop them off, but instead stayed by the doorframe, and asked if she could talk with me for a while. Well, I am hardly one to turn away a friend - and so I invited her in, and we made company. She was nervous - incredibly so. Inevitably, the conversation turned to my books. She asked about my books, speaking of them disdainfully, as if she had found contemporary romance and not the tawdry fantasies they are, complaining that their use of metaphor in describing passionate act was dense to the point of ridicule. (Perhaps she fails to understand the point of such metaphor - as if I had chosen work less florid, I would be faced with the unenviable problem of having to explain even more to dear Sweetie Belle.)

Then, excitedly, she spoke of my own work. She put my poetry in the same echelons as such laureates Emily Nickerson and Lipizzan Hughes! Hardly one word was made of the illustrations; she never quite inferred that poems with titles like "An Aurora - knows no Cessation-" or "Sacred Joy, in daybright Rose" were referring to some of our mutual friends. But when she spoke the poems which referred to my thoughts about her - well, I was certain she at least had cause to suspect.

She begged me for a reading of one, in particular - "Would She allow me to Yield-" Yes, I spelled it as I pronounced it - it was Written with needless Capitals for passionate Emphasis - if you had a ounce of poetry in your soul you'd understand. Yes, she had asked me to read a poem about herself. I hated it that poem - the rhyme was terrible, the meter was off, and the subject matter was outright pornographic. But she threw herself at my hooves begging. and she looked at me with soulful eyes - eyes that I had longed to have seeing me the way I saw her. And so, after having my friend compose herself and sit up straight, I put on my best High Unicorn accent and began to recite:

Would She allow me to Yield-
And seize my Reins for the Day-
To bring my Horn respectfully low
At her Hooves - come what May-

I could see her shifting about, but I continued, lost in the moment - doing my best to bludgeon the lines into something approaching recitable. The trick with poetry is to keep going. After all, poetry is lyric, lyric is mathematics, and when you slow down mathematics enough it stops being magical and starts being mechanical. So I struck what I hoped was a dynamic pose and continued, describing submission, desire shown by obedience, need shown by gentle pleads and hopeful looks instead of my usual... well... direct approach.

I probably should have noticed the look in her eyes, the soft squeaks and whispers under her voice as I described the heroine's first experience with ropes and blinders, but - suffice to say, I was embarrassed enough to be giving a recitation to anyone. She whispered something in a tone of voice that should have given me fair warning. I could barely pay attention to my own lines, much less her voice.

Her Crop assuages - and I Comply-
then She withdraws my Bit-
And with a Tap, she guides my Lips,
My Lady's forbidden Slit-

Oh, I hated that last line, but seriously, what rhymes with bit?

But I think that line did it. In one word, I was beyond any hope of claiming my poem was simply metaphorical. If she pressed, I couldn't back out and claim it's just phrasing, it's a symbol for life and the meaninglessness of existence in a world where satisfaction is derived from material goods - no. I, Rarity, had written a poem about becoming a sexual servant to a thinly veiled stand-in for one of my best friends, and I was happily reciting said poem to said friend. And, if the groan that just escaped her lips was any sign - it worked for her.

"Rarity," she said, her voice confident but nervous, a student who knows she's right but who's afraid of being wrong anyways. "Were you writing about me?"

Celestia forgive me, I told her the truth.

I explained my fantasies in some detail - prefacing half my sentences with variations of 'hypothetically,' of course. My diary was full of fantasies about my friends. About giving up my horn and sharing a sweet, earthy, farmer's romance with Applejack, becoming the country girl by her side. About a crazy love affair with Pinkie Pie, a life given over to affectionate spontaneity and lewdness that was not lustful, but joyful. About Rainbow Dash the Wonderbolt and the joys of a strong, wiry mare who was unflaggingly bold and direct both in and out of uniform. About Fluttershy and gentle romance, of evenings spent side by side with book in hooves and tails draped over each other's. And, when I could no longer put the topic off any further, about the look I saw in Twilight's eyes.

I told her, to her face, how crazy she sometimes looks - how her passion can drive her. She winced at first as I reminded her of her more embarrassing lessons, but I comforted her. Madness was her term for it; passion unfettered was mine. Even when fully restrained, she was a mare that desired perfection; when she finally got around to desiring something more than she desired to maintain her mask of propriety - well, I could so easily imagine her making demands of me. Sexy demands.

For a long moment looked at me, her face dangerously unreadable, until it finally broke into a small half-smile. I was a little unnerved by that smile, and had been about to protest - but then she leaned in to kiss me.

It wasn't a soft or a gentle kiss. It was a question she made with her tongue. So I answered it with my own. When she pushed forwards, I let her lean me back. I could smell she had been moved - and I was certain she could smell the same on me. And as soon as she broke contact, she smirked smugly, looking down on me.

"You know, Rarity... it would have been easier if you had just asked."

She had never thought hard about my kink - and, likely, never thought much of it. But my poetry made her see something in it. Oh, princesses help me - she can see herself becoming the mare of my fantasies.

I'm sure it's just for science. My poetry shook her to the soul, stirred feelings in her she didn't know she had, and now she wants to explore them, the same as she explores any other endeavor. Our correspondence arranging tonight's interlude was highly technical, concluding with a formalized contract to consent to revoking consent; she did her reading on the subject, no doubt. When I let her in the front door, she will be my friend; but if I open the door for her and let her into my bedroom - from that moment forwards, she is to be my Mistress, and (until sunrise or I invoke the safeword) I am to do as she pleases.

'Mistress'. When I think those words, I see her face. Haughty, proud, smug, confident - in many ways different from herself. I have longed, these long years, to throw myself before her hooves, to be at the mercy of her whims. But now, it's minutes away, and even though the title suits her perfectly, I'm scared witless from the thought of actually being at her command. So that's why I'm sitting here, narrating to a mirror, because if I don't focus on my diction I'll start focusing on my hair and-

Oh, dear, that must be her knocking at the door now. Well, now; mustn't keep Mistress waiting...

Author's Note

Thanks to Alkali and Archonix for their assistance in proofing!