The Scootaloo Project

A lot can change in a few months.

The kitchen smells like a proper meal—or at least, the beginnings of one. The hiss of steam over the stovetop says that something is cooking, and the aroma of freshly chopped vegetables and an unidentifiable sauce gives in the indication that in some form or another, parts are coming together to make dinner.

I hold the handle of the skillet and give it a few half-hearted flips. Culinary expertise is something of which I am not possessed, so an imitation of a real chef’s procedure when stir-frying vegetables is the best I can hope for.

The sound of hooves on the kitchen floor is telltale. I don’t have to look over my shoulder, but I do anyway.

Scootaloo is there. She’s low to the ground, as necessitated by her height. She’s a lot shorter than I am.

Without speaking, she walks to me and nudges me in the leg. She rubs her nose up and down my jeans like a cat, nuzzling with her chin and the side of her face.

I give the vegetables another flip.

Scootaloo makes a noise halfway between a pout and a mewl.

“Scootaloo,” I say. “We can’t. I’m making dinner.” Without any direction on my part, my hand moves to turn down the heat on the vegetables, like I’m defeating my own protest only an instant after it’s left my lips. Like I know what’s going to happen.

“Aw, you’re no fun. Can’t we have dinner later?”

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s already into the early evening. I didn’t mean to put off cooking anything that long, but even in a world with no distractions, I’ve never been the best at staying on task. Here, I’m practically guaranteed a forgiveness for my procrastination.

“It already is ‘later’,” I say. I adjust the heat on the saucepan to a similar simmer to the stir-fry. Low enough that, even ignored for a few minutes, nothing is likely to burn. Like I’m saying no while saying yes.

Scootaloo nudges my leg, then pulls away. I stare at the vegetables like they might convince me to finish cooking them. LIke I should ignore the filly rubbing against my leg, begging me without even speaking.

Like I shouldn’t think about the rock hardness of my erection pressing up against the oven-handle through my apron.

Scootaloo’s face against my leg vanishes, but it’s quickly replaced. Something else rubbing there. Softer.

I turn my head to see Scootaloo grinding her rump against my jeans. She’s still like a cute little kitty, but now she’s in heat, casting an eyes-half-open glance over her shoulder in her best imitation of a sultry stare, more accurately translated as ‘fuck me’. I feel a twitch under my jeans telling me to take them off.

I clear my throat.

“Scootaloo...”

“Please?” she asks. She grinds herself back with more insistence, letting the softness of her butt squish into my leg. The second I feel it, I don’t want to believe it, but I know that I have to. There’s no convincing me otherwise: she’s wet.

“Scoots...” I say, trying to find a protest in her name, when I know the only thing it’s going to make me do is beg to scream it out while I’m inside her.

“Please!” she says again. She turns around, giving me a wag of her tail and a perfect view of her dripping underage slit before her face is back on my knee. She stares up at me with wide, puppy-dog eyes, and sticks her bottom lip out. With her eyes locked to mine, she raises a hoof and paws at my zipper, leaving it sealed only out of obligation to her lack of something to open it with.

“I need it,” she says. “I need it at least one more time. One more time before dinner, please?”

I don’t say anything. I scan around the room in search of a final excuse. The vegetables won’t burn. The sauce will be fine. I don’t even know why I’m saying no. Because it’s—

Scootaloo’s mouth is on my jeans. She nibbles and sucks on my crotch, trying to pull my dick between her lips, tonguing at what she must know is the head of my cock, already dripping with pre as much as she’s dripping with filly-juice.

“You don’t even have to fuck me,” she says, pulling her mouth away. Her tone becomes pleading, bargaining. “I mean, you can just let me do all the work. Lemme suck you off, I don’t even care. I just need it, I need you so bad...”

I’m not about to give up on the idea of rutting her for a second, when I know it’s what she really wants. But maybe when she asks like that, it’s easier to pretend to give in.

“Well...”

“Can you take ‘em off? Please? I promise I’ll make you cum real quick, you can shoot it in my mouth, fuck me, whatever. Just hurry up.”

From pleading to insistence. Like she’s felt my resolve break.

I guess the least I can do is make it the only casualty of a dinner left to sit.

I surprise myself with my own speed. My hands are on my jeans, belt-buckle and zippers falling away before I have time to take a breath. Before Scootaloo has time to speak, her eyes widen in that way they do when she gets really, really excited. I can practically hear her winking, asking me inside in the most forward way she knows how. It’s kind of stupid that she needs to ask at all now, but there’s still a part of me that wants to pretend. That can say that once a day, twice a day, even three times is enough guilt to ignore, but that anymore than that, she has to make me pretend to give in to.

And this is time number five, counting the way she was bouncing on me as I woke up...

Scootaloo tugs my cock out of my boxers without even waiting for me to pull them down myself. I shouldn’t have expected anything less—in the time it takes for my head to spring free from the undone button in the front, Scootaloo starts to suck. Not earnestly—she really did try to suck the first few times, in such an adorable naivette that I almost didn’t want to correct her, no matter how much better her eventual understanding and technique got to be. If she’d known what the word was beforehand, I imagine she might have just puckered up and blown a cool stream of air onto my head. Amusing enough, because knowing her, I probably could have cum like that. Just the thought of splattering her cute little face with cum is enough to bring me almost close enough to do exactly that.

“Mmm!” Scootaloo moans with a frenzied excitement as she takes my head into her mouth. She’s nothing if not enthusiastic—even though her mouth is as small as the rest of her, she fits a third down on her first go, like a champ. Just like I like, she starts to drool too, slobbering obscenely and getting drips of spit on my boxers from the residual. Pre-cum is unnecessary; after a few second, my cock is as well lubed as I imagine she is, and she starts to go to town, bobbing her head up and down, humming and moaning with her eyes closed as she swallows as much of my cock as she can manage. It’s not a lot, but the tightness of her mouth and the tiny, excited flutter of her wings as she blows me is always enough to get me close.

Even when she told me this would be enough, I know it’s not. I could blow my load down her throat in no more than a minute, but that wouldn’t make either of us as happy as the alternative.

I place my hand on the back of her head for a few seconds while she bobs. I can’t tell if it’s intentional, but she starts making a miniature version of that gluk gluk gluk sound that always comes along with overly enthusiastic blowjobs—it would sound fake, or trashy coming from anyone else, like a pornstar legitimately choking on dick—but when she does it, it’s the hottest thing in the world, and it has the polarizing effect of making me want to fuck her face and fuck her somewhere else all at the same time.

“Stop, stop for a sec.” I rub along the back of her neck, running my fingers through her mane. She follows direction after a few seconds, pulling back until just the head of my cock is in her mouth. She lets it rest inside, pushing one cheek out, pressed up against the side of her mouth. She looks up at me with wide eyes, and a drop of drool drips from her mouth to the kitchen floor.

“Mmmhm?” she says. Adorable enough to make me consciously clench to avoid busting a nut in her mouth right that second.

“Can you get up to the table without help?” I ask her. Her eyes sparkle, and she ponders for a few seconds before seemingly remembering to remove my cock from her mouth. She glances to the table, then back to me, looking up at me past the ridiculous hardness of my swinging erection.

“I think so,” she says. “Are you gonna fuck me on the kitchen table?”

“Do you want me to?”

She nods her head so rapidly, I wonder if it might fall off.

“Yes. Celestia, yes, I want you to so bad. You’ve gotta spread me out and rail me so hard the table shakes, okay?”

I can’t imagine a world where I would have caught her talking like this a month ago.

Time and experience can change a lot of things.

I nod. She nods back, her eyes brimming with the eager fire I see in her these days more often than not. She turns to the table and hops, with some minor difficulty, on top of a nearby chair. Her wings flutter to give her just a little extra push, and again when she hops a second time, to the dining room table. A tablecloth is laid out over the whole thing; a purple and orange checkered pattern. I couldn’t pick anything else once I’d seen it.

Scootaloo turns to me and flips onto her back a second after. She scoots to the edge of the table and spreads her hind legs, holding herself just at the edge of the wood.

I can already see her starting to leak onto the tablecloth. Her tiny little pussy winks at me, so damp I could drink from it in a desert.

“Hurry up,” she says. “I need your cock in me so bad right now.”

I have enough time to take my pants and boxers all the way off before the magnet pull of her dripping hole drags me forward. My hands grab her hind hooves as I position myself.  My cockhead presses against her slit naturally, sliding up and down her well-wetted, slippery lips, rubbing over her swollen little clit, making her thrash and moan in her high-pitched voice before I’m even inside.

“Please,” she says, mixing the word into a moan. “In, I need you in, fill me up with your dick, please...”

She moves her foreleg to press my head down, but I wave her away. One or two more teases of her clit, enough to make her roll her head back, and I’m ready to give her what she wants. What we both know I want to. I line myself up and press forward, and my cockhead pops inside her. She clenches immediately, and I’m not sure I can go inside further.

“Fuck,” she says, curling the last bit of sound into a low whimper. I mouth the same word under my breath, but don’t say it. “Celestia, you feel so good, more, please please please, gimme more...”

“You’re too tight,” I say. I’ve called her tight before—she know it’s a word that suits her—but not like this. This is too much for me to get inside. I push, but I don’t feel any give.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She lets her tongue hang out, almost panting, and wiggles her butt against the table, pressing my head against her walls on either side. “I can’t help it. Fuck, you feel so good.” She wiggles again, and I groan at the feeling of her pussy gripping my head like she’s trying to make me cum with a vice-tight handjob.

“Can’t you try just a little further?” She looks up at me with imploring eyes, asking me to do the impossible.

“Can you try to relax a little bit? Even if I could manage to get inside, I’m gonna cum in like five seconds if you stay this tight.”

Scootaloo shivers, and I bite my lip to keep from grunting when I’m only an inch inside her.

“Fuck,” she says. “That is so hot. Do you think you could cum just like this? Like, not even inside, but like, just a little bit? If you wanted to?”

“Scootaloo,” I say. I open my mouth to add a further explanation, but she clenches around me, tightening even more, squeezing my cock, trying to milk out my restraint when we’ve only just started. “Fuck...”

“Do it like this,” she says. “LIke this, cum in me like this, it’d be so hot, just with the tip inside...”

“No,” I say. I make to pull myself back, but my body won’t let me. “Don’t you wanna—”

“I can. I mean, I’m gonna. Lemme... here, lemme, and then you, you’ve gotta, you’ve gotta shoot in me like this”—she moves one of her front hooves down, to the top of her slit, and starts to rub it back and forth. Instantly, her motion becomes delirious, desperate and fixated on this thing she’s decided she wants. Even though I’m not sure it’s possible, she feels even tighter, locking me inside, only giving enough to let me wiggle a half-inch in either direction.

“Ohhh, fuck, c’mon, shoot in me, cum in me, gimme your cum like this oh Celestia please cum in me...”

If I was outside her it would be a struggle not to get off from hearing her talk like that. Inside, I don’t stand a chance.

A guttural mix between a moan and a grunt escapes my lips, and I cum, just like she’s asking. I cum so fucking hard, and her pussy sucks it in, quivering as she cums too, leaking and dripping her girljizz everywhere, her tiny little slut-hole sucking in every bit of my cum and more.

But she’s too tight. Too tight to get it all in, so it start to leak, because there’s so much of it. Even if it was all the way in, I think some would start to leak, but now it squirts out, oozing out of her slit, dripping down between her butt-cheeks, onto the tablecloth, some of it spurting onto her hoof which she doesn’t stop moving. She keeps frigging herself, squealing and moaning like she’s on another planet. Her eyes don’t leave the sight of my orgasm for a second—I can feel her stare on me as she watches my balls empty, as she watches me squirt what feels like a gallon of semen into her tight, fertile, underage cunt. And she drinks in every second of it, moaning like it’s the hottest thing imaginable, which it probably is.

She comes down with a fluttering of her wings, finally relaxing her cunt enough to let me pull out.

“Ohhhh, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck, that was so good, soooo good, Celestia, fuck...”

I have to lean on the table to keep from collapsing. My legs feel unsteady. A long strand of cum hangs from the tip of my cock, still hard. It drips onto the kitchen floor and lands with a noticeable ‘plap’.

“Ohh,” she says again. Still leaking cum onto the table, she eyes my cock like it’s a long-awaited dessert after a gourmet meal. She sits up, and a spurt of jizz sloshes out of her pussy, dripping downward like someone’s emptied a hose of cum into her snatch. She moans softly as the sticky white goo leaks out of her and onto the table, but doesn’t let it draw her focus away from my dick.

“You’re still hard,” she says.

“Give it a minute.”

She shakes her head.

“I gotta taste you.”

Before I can pull away, she lunges forward, and has her mouth on my cock again with a hunger that’s almost frightening. She slurps as she wraps her lips around my head, tracing her tongue over the tip still covered in the remnants of the earth-shattering emptying into her pussy. She laps at the leftover jizz, sucking it up with a desperate moaning, the vibrations in her lips tingling along my shaft as she leans over the edge of the table to get a full mouthful of my dick.

“Mmm, mmmm...” Even after her orgasm, even after being pumped full of cum, she still needs more. She still wants me to fill her up again, enough that I can feel it in her moaning. Even though she only asked for a taste, I can tell she wants another. She wants me to blow a load into her throat so she can frig herself against the table, rubbing against the cloth and hard wood, hammering away at her tiny clit with a hoof as she drinks another pint of jizz more than the bit that’s already inside her, until she can feel the warm trickle of semen sliding down her throat and filling up her stomach. I know all this because it’s what she always wants; there’s no need for asking anymore.

Even though I’m sure the time since my last orgasm is minutes, I can feel a tingle brewing again. I tap her on the shoulder, and she looks up from halfway down my dick, slobbering all over the shaft and grinding her leaking pussy onto the table.

“Close,” I say.

She pauses for a moment. Her eyes widen.

“Mmm,” she says with an excited eagerness. She pulls her mouth off after a second, and rubs a hoof up the length of my cock. She smiles at me.

“Yes,” she says. “I wanna taste it, I want you to do another big one for me. You can do that, right?” As she speaks, her free hoof moves between her hind-legs, and she moans to punctuate her sentence, closing her eyes for a second as her hoof finds her clit amidst the jizz pooling out of her pussy and her own juices besides.

I bite my lower lip to keep relatively quiet, and nod.

“Yes,” I say, halfway grunting the word out.

She opens her eyes. and licks her lips.

“Please, right down my throat, don’t hold back, okay? Gimme as much as you can, I wanna get sick on your jizz, make my whole tummy fully of your cum...”

The sweet little filly that I remember from months ago. Before she knew what to think about my nakedness. Before she knew what it meant to be touched there. Begging for me to cum so much inside her that she wants to throw up.

I start cumming before her mouth is even back on my cock. Her eyes widen, and she dives back in after a moment of shock. The first spurt that caught her off-guard sprays across her face, leaving a white trail along her nose and cheek, but the second she catches, moaning and touching herself as I fire off a second strand down her throat. I imagine the path my cum is taking, winding down her esophagus and filling her stomach up the way she asked. I imagine firing off as much as I did before, bloating her belly, making her a sore, wriggling, cum-filled mess, leaking from one hole at each end, murmuring and still touching herself in the throes of her pained, post-coital-cum-swallowing bliss.

Despite her determination, I can hear her start to choke as the third and fourth shots fire into her mouth. A bit dribbles out of the side and down her chin. Though I’m sure she’d like to catch it, her moaning keeps her tongue from moving coherently. She’s cumming again too. I can tell by the way her eyes close, and her face flushes, and her wings flap and flutter and go stiff, her whole body goes stiff. I can tell by the frantic squish squish squish of her hoof between her legs, rubbing her clit like she’s starting a fire, keeping herself in the perpetual delirious haze of getting off while tasting load after load of my cum. She gags for a second, but keeps swallowing. I watch her throat move as she guzzles down the fifth and sixths shots, the latter dribbling out onto her tongue, which I feel snake over my head as she swallows its load.

I’m the one who has to pull back, because she’d keep sucking like that, over and over again, if I didn’t stop her.

I lean backwards against the oven, still somehow possessed of the presence of mind to keep myself away from the hot burners. Scootaloo pants as my cock pops free of her mouth, and she stays her hoof, laying it over the side of the table and sprawling out, like she’s exhausted from a marathon, instead of just being railed in both ends.

A bit of the cum she didn’t catch drips from her mouth onto the floor. She licks her lips absentmindedly, and wiggles her butt, leaking more of my jizz onto the table.

I let out a long breath, and then take one in.

“Are you ready for dinner now?” I ask.

She raises her head slowly and nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “Go ahead.”

The vegetables aren’t even close to overdone when I turn back to them. Sauce too. I adjust the heat on both back to normal, and the sound of dinner coalescing returns.

I don’t bother asking her to clear the table. Even if I manage to get the food on the table, she’ll be touching herself the whole way through the meal. I know she’d rather lick my cum off the cloth than eat a proper dinner.

So I’ll have to pretend for long enough that I’m more interested in eating vegetables than her, until she breaks me down again, and we spend another evening eating cold leftovers, sweating and exhausted when we finally drag ourselves up to bed.