Oh, Rarity, I Wish You Well; I Really Do ...
No denying it now, as her mane’s purple curled above the toilet, fresh yellow spatter lining the bowl. No denying it then, but she was under no obligation to accept it.
She gagged again as morning sickness insistently pushed its way through her, driven by tidal waves of elevated estrogen. This time she saw a slice of apple, barely digested from her breakfast. Brown and withering, it stood out among the pale stomach milk. At first the vomiting and weakness had excited her, the flu-like symptoms leading her to believe she’d finally bagged the biggest game in the park.
It was just a foal. Not the sort of sexually transmitted condition she’d expected to find herself with, but magic can only control so much birth. She bore the disappointment with the same grace she moved her body, and buried both under a politely stylish sweater.
Still, she sweated as she stepped from the bathroom and toward the pink prophetess. Could Pinkie Pie feel a sympathetic pang in her own belly, or was the look she gave the unicorn just generic concern? Even accidental eye contact birthed panic, rushing Rarity swallow shame and a cup of coffee with equal unease, her jumping stomach begging to escape.
A package of cookies, then back to the boutique where she could give the strange looks and shutter the windows. The pink mare’s hooves slowed as she lowered the brown package to the glass case.
“Be careful,” was all she said.
Rarity shrugged, it didn’t matter.
Disease abated in the soggy mugginess of June. The pegasi had been pushing around single clouds all week, releasing fat, nasty drops of warm water across Ponyville, but they were taking the weekend off.
Saturday night was her favorite, and Sunday her favorite day. Other days of the week, she was required to clean herself each morning. Dressing her gloriously decrepit body up in finery and concealing her prideful wounds, but on Sunday, the day of rest, she remained inside hidden from their judging gaze. For the entire day, she could lay in her excellence, feeling semen tacked to her teeth and filth breeding in her orifices. Feeling the warmth of life within and over her, breeding.
Sunday, the day of miracles, was calling, driving her on a merry canter toward the Carousel Boutique. Sweetie Belle--with all her humid, teenage mediocrity embodied in fears of her friends and surroundings--Sweetie Belle would be with the Apples all weekend. Could life get any better than this, wishing it away in ignorant bliss?
Her passage was impeded only once, at the intersection of Clear Hearts and Gray Flowers. An ancient pony, desiccation in his face, stood post in the center of the sidewalk. Blocked her first, then turned toward her, shielding his eyes from the sun with a single hoof.
His voice creaking through wrinkled lips, asking “what do you think happened?”
Rarity starting in confusion, seeing in the road two carts overturned and tangled. Both drivers standing on either side of Ponyville’s single police pony. The sun drummed down on them, and she stuttered uncertain what answer was expected.
Him repeating, without bitterness at receiving nothing, “what do you think happened?”
What did she think happened? She’d just gotten here, how would she know? Did she look like an oracle?
Without offering an explanation, she pressed passed the old pony. Even the Element of Generosity didn’t owe anypony any answers.
She carried on, pushing through her day in that mindless way of seconds becoming hours and so forth. Pooling beneath her like drool from that ancient stallions mouth, cracked and ignorant asking everyone passing what happened.
At last, the last client of the afternoon walked away from her, carrying with him the product of so many days work. Her own existence, travelling away from her in butcher’s paper. Her life either lost or given away, but always proceeding from her grasp.
Weak knees. Well, it was done now, the day was past. Deep breath. Sweetie Belle with the Apples for the weekend. Excited lightness in her stomach. The shop locked up. Hindlegs twitch in eagerness. Her mind so much consumed in the future, she absent-mindedly touched her stomach.
No.
She forced her hoof away, ignoring the maternal impulse seeking to corrupt her body. Instead, she focused on one of her many mirrors. Her image floating on a sea of glass and polished silver.
The beauty of it--The pristine whiteness of her teeth and the dazzle of her coat, offset perfectly by her purple mane and tail, brushed 100 times before bed and every morning. The ravages of such overgrooming held at bay by the same conditioner that gave each curl a unique, yet elegant bounce--it could not disgust her more as she stared at the hideous mask of symmetry.
“Like a corpse,” she snarled, and gripped her collar with her teeth, yanking the cloying softness from her flesh. In a fit of fury she stamped the garment under her hooves, chipping white polish away and revealing cracked, graying rot beneath. Fungus, a gift obtained from a hoofjob given to a pony at the bus station, had leached out the calcium and weakened the cuticle until even her pathetic stomps crumbled it.
“Like a corpse,” she repeated, hauling her skirt off in a frenzy of scrambling hindlegs. Exposing her hips, visible in the sagging flesh, her cutie mark distorting and stretching with its skin. Without her focus, the shades over her teeth faded and revealed her gums, now turned black and bleeding, her teeth brown with just a few spots of white holding out against decay. Sores blossomed across her lips, yellow streaks through pink lumps.
Like a corpse, all dressed up and nowhere to go but into the ground. Tonight, however, as every night for the past three months, she was no longer in the business of taxidermy. No longer a thing for them to observe as she lay in pathetic self-absolution, elegant in the cardboard box decked in flowers.
She was no longer generous, a feast for the countless uncaring eyes. She was the receiver of other’s gifts. Their beautiful lice, radiant sores and elegant lesions, all eager to find a home in her, and she held them greedily. A thing, still, but a selfish thing, beholding to no pony’s aesthetic but her own.
Like a thief in the night, she stole from the Carousel Boutique, closing the door quietly behind her. The moon hung overhead, barely illuminating the paths she followed toward her darkest hour, and through the welcoming shelter of shadows she slipped along insalubrious passages.
The front of the building was, as is the norm for buildings in Ponyville, yellow plaster and wooden framing. A sign hung in front, announcing the “Covetous Creatures.” Like the fashionista, it had learned to hide itself in plain sight. The unicorn didn’t even knock, simply pressing through the door.
“Like a corpse,” she spat the password at the doorman, although it was irrelevant. She was recognized, she was always recognized. Gaining the most prestigious fashion pony into their little family had been the Creatures’ highest honor in the few years since it had opened.
The death cult opened its forelegs in an eager embrace for their most pristine proselyte. An immensely obese pony, his flab hanging in waves barely contained within his strained, sweat-soaked skin, approached her. With each step, the ungulate’s rotting rolls endured oceanic undulation, swaying and dragging the floor. His folds, shifting uneasily, released the scents of his body.
The smell waved over her, as if he had crammed cheetos and fruit roll-ups into his crevices and allowed it to ferment in her sweat. The vomit from earlier rose up and threatened the back of her throat again.
Every part of Rarity wanted to rebel, to dip out the door and go running down the street. To find a doctor, get tested, get a round of antibiotics, get her forgiveness from the world. That was all the incentive she needed to smile as she approached him. They took one another in hoof, sliding along walls. Harnesses bore ponies of all kinds, stallions, mares and those who had passed beyond such petty distinctions. Lines of diseased cocks dripping acidic precum and mares flaring, prolapsing anuses blooming like rotten flowers.
Her giddy anticipation returned as Rarity beheld their hideous forms. Brown and green mottled fur, like rot spreading across her stallion’s softness. His legs huge and elephantine, bloated and spilling everywhere.
Punishing her weakness she pressed him back into a chair. As he leaned back, his penis flopped out into view, and Rarity stared down in wonder at the open sores, painless though they wept. Clots of blood and feces hung amid tangled and matted hairs growing out long and crazily.
No more weakling hesitations. No more fearing fun.
She didn’t waste time with licking, lunging directly onto the diseased male. Sucking in air along the edges of the foul phallus as she attacked. The stench of his pubic excess and scurrying insects, drove up her nose. She could feel the pus rolling along his cock, and his grunts of pain as she tore open his sores with her teeth.
Wet and dripping with disease, the head shoved against her tonsils. She gagged, nearly vomiting on the rancid meat, barely suppressing the desire to bite down all the way and tear it away from the body it was attached to. Unworthy form. Unworthy of her skill as her tongue slid across the vile uneven texture.
But the prospect of sores in her throat, growing and breeding, turning her breath into a wheezing, bloody cough, it was enough. She needed his disease, needed the impurity. Needed to be reminded of something outside the bundle of nonsense where old stallions asked her what she thought had happened there.
Here, she knew what was happening as her mane was pulled back in a grimy hoof that forced her head down. Her nose filled with pubic hate; her tongue slithered out to make room for more, in search of more. The sweating scrotum, the knowledge of it swaying, rich with crabs, she needed that too. Needed it all.
He attempted the thrust his hips, taking control from her. Her jaw practically dislocated as she hauled down, fighting him. He couldn’t escape, lodged deep and bleeding into her mouth until his body surrendered. Shudders released a landslide of sweat and dirt from his stomach.
The head pushed her tonsils aside, leaking venereal discharge, the yellow grease lining her pink, gripping throat. Gurgling, her body and conscience rejecting, but she denied them each equally. This taste, like licking salt off the filthy ground, like an addict or whore.
Her tongue hung out like a dog. The shame of it would outlive her certainly, an eternal memory within her family, and the thought of her idiotic father pushed her further, his stupid hawaiian shirt made her rub her legs together, loving the taste of shame.
Bobbing abruptly, his hairs brushing her nostrils, but she couldn’t breath. Tickling her and begging her to sneeze, to breath. From her vantage point, she could the little creatures crawling across his crotch in a panic.
Pressing down, pulling her cheeks inward, capture all of it. Every delicious, delirious disorder of the moment. Blood and pus in her mouth now, her neck stretching.
Still couldn’t breath. Still could taste. The room was swimming, the taste of sweat--stale--sliding her teeth, gripping his head, head held down, gripping, don’t bite, tastes like salt, like dirt, sweat--stale--
Rejecting the pressure upon the back of her head, she snapped up, gasping for breath. Already, her face was damp with sweat, the hot box environment of the Creatures’ guaranteed that, warm enough to preserve and breed the ailments around her.
Rarity stared for a moment into the stud’s maw, drooling and short of breath as well although he did nothing, barely could she make out his face past the mountain of mouldering flesh. Like the fat, stupid face of a brown worm. All glistening and gaping idle flesh.
When she noticed his glazed eyes returning to life, she pressed back down, choking the copper taste of blood and the salty taste of pus and the succulent lubrication. She slid her lips and tongue across the head, the discharge had already started to recrust, crumbling into hot liquid in her mouth.
Another surge brought fresh tears to her eyes as she went down. This time, at last, all the way. Her eyes pressed against the sweating ledge of his belly, sealing her eyelids shut, plunging her into a dank, uterine cave. Her tongue slithered out, seeking the tangy sweat of his balls, feeling the little bumps and nits crawling across seeking fresh territories.
Rarity nearly leapt, biting down and drawing an ecstatic groan from the stallion. Shock, surprise. Someone was licking her asshole. Their tongue coarsely sliding around, dislodging crusts of feces and filth. Peeling the crusts back, she shuddered, pulling up again.
Her back arched, bending upward in agonized ecstasy. The hot air, now drawing tears from her as it touched raw, revealed flesh. His tongue slid down to her taint, suckling flecks of blood and nibbling at her sores, brushing briefly the crusted folds of her marehood before returning to the apple of his eye.
The strangers tongue forced through her sphincter, prodding her from the inside, seeking out her secrets. She gasped drunkenly, dribbling down the soft curvature of her downy chest. She could resist the mystery no longer and turned to see green eyes gazing over the svelte curvature of her rump.
Big Macintosh smiled back, revealing flecks and stains of his teeth. Employed by the Creatures as security, the stalwart oversaw the orgy of death happening around him, his penis bright red and hanging in ragged display. He was the one who had recommended the place to her, showing her higher purpose to save her from swirling in the torrent of flesh. Now he would save her from denial at the hooves of her lackluster partner.
The muscles rippled under his coat, his coat still clean and concealing the herpes and lice riddled flesh. The perfect image of the family stallion climbed onto her back, pressing her face back down, his voice whispering into her ear, promising that he would plant his orchard in her.
Rarity gasped for air around the fat stallion’s cock as Macintosh’s cock prodded her asshole. Even lubricated, she wasn’t ready for his thrust, and her flesh rent. Blood vessels shredded, ripe for mixing and easing the passage of his sickness.
His forelegs gripped her, caressing the curve of her ribs as he fought her, pushing for position. Big Macintosh and Rarity tore each other, his wart covered dick sloughing off skin inside her fetid, feces lined filth hole.
The unicorn lowered herself again, taking the fat stallion one last time. His legs under her, immense, elephantine and filled with water, began to jerk. The knees, feeble and arthritic, twitching. The fury of death overtaking him.
She felt the hot disease slide down her throat, tacking over her teeth and splattering his Chlamydia laced creme across the roof of her mouth. After the pus and the blood, the cum was always a let down. Slightly salty mucus that rolled down her throat, hot only because of the bacteria it bore. She slurped it anyway, adding more sores to her mutilated larynx.
In this moment, she remembered the speech she’d given to Sweetie Belle, concerned that her parents would fail their second born in the same way they had their eldest. The importance of condoms, of faithfulness, the joys of monogamy. The hypocrisy of it made her heart beat trill.
Another spurt bounced the decaying dick off her tongue, working its way into her sinuses already overwhelmed by the pubic reek. She released the cock from her mouth, letting it flop rich with blood and saliva, but no cum left on him, his disease already taking root within her. Grunting as if dying, the fat stallion pulled himself out from under the unicorn, allowing her to fall face-first to the floor.
Growing hotter, the floor reeked like a slaughterhouse. Slick with the imminent death, the carpet matted down and destroyed by the constant orgy happening within. Her hooves squished in her own shed juices, promising the future state of her fur, molded together in the mess of flesh.
She had only a moment to appreciate the filth of the floor, before feeling a stream of warmth pour across her mane. Damping down what order her sweat hadn’t already destroyed. Rarity opened her mouth into the stream of piss, rich with blood, rancid with asparagus as it poured into her eye sockets and up her nose. She gagged, coughing. Almost scalding as it rolled into her mouth, filling her stomach.
A part of her wanted to protest, to move. She punished that part, the weakness within her suffered more intensely than anything else as she endured the shame and the poison. Staring up until she could see nothing.
Not that she could have escaped anyway, Big Macintosh had shifted his weight, careful to avoid the urine of the male, but he still held her fiercely. With a grunting slam, he completed entry, remaining lodged in her bleeding and torn anus. Their fluids were mingling, strains of virus and parasite merging and trading advice on how best to destroy their host.
Rarity felt her mane gripped between Macintosh’s jaws, saw the ceiling, a dripping mirror. Mascara streaked down her face, adding dark blue hues to the red and yellow creeping across her, damp fur falling into her mouth. Dripping, like a cave.
She released a ragged, wordless howl as he snapped her back, nearly cracking her spine. Her hooves scrambled against the carpet for purchase as he lifted her forelegs off the ground, taking the crude form of the biped, showing off her tender teats and scars to all these sexless demons.
He shoved her back down. Face first into the carpet again, inhaling the spores as he ground her out like a cigarette. Each attack a fresh stab through her, his timocratic anatomy overcoming her resistances. Invading her deeper and deeper.
She felt a fresh, raging burn as he filled her asshole with his hateful seed. An inferno that spread through her colon and intestines, promising to destroy her utterly and leave her body a wreck. A wreck that only she could love.
He pulled out, sloughing more skin from his tortured genitals, and Rarity fell. She cursed herself, knowing she shouldn’t have been so eager. She’d never be able to fight her way through the crowds and into one of the harnesses like this, and without a harness she would be passed out on the floor before long.
Rarity was suddenly aware of fresh air, she turned her eyes upward, wondering who had chased away her loving horde. She was ready to complain, to insist that she hadn’t had enough yet and was good to continue, instead, no words came out.
It was Him.
One of the oldest members, perhaps the original son of Cain or Canaan, wherever the Creatures began. Skin hung like the sails of a ship off his feeble, cracking ribs. He staggered through the room on a demonic auto-pilot. His eyes, red and distant, bulged out of half-shuttered lids. Morality and instinct gone, completely depersonalized, everything replaced by the last thought the disintegrating brain had formed.
From her position, Rarity could see the undercarriage of the beast. His sheath hung, ragged open and limp around the permanently released penis. Blood drooled down from his flaring head. His testicles like two fat pears, sagging and swollen with purple, black fluid. The skin peeling away from the bruised flesh.
Even the eager members around her retreated. A carnifex or hangman, that’s the sort of analogy Twilight would make, and then she’d go on to lecture Rarity about things she already knew, as if she were a child.
She wasn’t a child.
Rarity dragged herself to her abused hooves, presenting her rent posterior. Slaked in blood and phlegm to the point that only the flowering prolapses were visible, as risen hunks of wasted flesh. There would be no hope of discussion or foreplay, no more, no less than the final act. He drove his cock into her without waiting.
His dick was barely more than limp, flopping into her. His testicles made a wet thump against her haunches as they swung, like two damp sweat socks. She could feel the blood already flowing from him as it dribbled from every orifice.
He drooled it across her neck, his breath hot and speckled with black flakes. The disintegrated remains of his lungs clung to her mane. How could he still stand? How could he still fuck? The erection was less a matter of arousal than it was gravity, the blood had simply pooled in that fat sausage.
The hot disease rolled into her vagina. The syphilis and gonorrhea didn’t stand a chance. Ebola doesn’t negotiate with other parasites or strike mutually beneficial agreements. No negotiation, the original predator spread like hemorrhagic fire.
Each movement was spasmatic. The body lifting off of her and falling back down, hooves clawing against her hide for purchase it couldn’t make. One cuticle released with a sound like scooping mud, drooling blood into the carpet. Rarity turned, reaching to lick the death that was her right, but the creature on top of her would not allow her to move that far.
She whinnied in desperation, her tongue stretching for the discarded flesh and its viral load. Couldn’t reach, couldn’t escape. A clenching contraction surged through her abdomen. Her entire body, starting at her diaphragm, shuddered. Muscles clamped down and pushed against the melting meat within her. Her clitoris brushed the ragged flesh of the dying things groin, sending a spasm back up.
Ebola had a special love for placental tissues. Another contraction pushed the unicorn to the ground, and the thing followed her. The life within her ended as another life moved to fill its place, devouring the lining of her womb. The foal disintegrating into a soupy mess that her body was trying to force out. A moment of regret, she punished it as well, grinding back against the jagged edges of the pelvis behind her.
Her rotten cunt coughed out bloody scraps saturating her legs as the life within crashed and bled out. Her abdomen shuddered, turning rigid. She felt another surge, as if something within her stomach were trying to turn itself completely around.
The unicorn gasped, tears and phlegm streaming down her face, struggling for air. The pain tore through her, then released, a sick feeling of relief spread throughout her body. Then another surge, this time she felt it, besides his rotting dick, the bones, the dissolved flesh of her child being forced out. A limb, hung loose, bones barely formed, stretching and sliding as her walls and innards dissolved.
The relief, as she felt it flopping to the ground behind her, like a sack of stones, the fetus gone. Never again would she worry about it. She was almost completely numb now, riding on waves of higher sensation. In the ceiling mirror, she could see the barely formed skeleton, still hanging partially out of her. The dangling bones brushed against her shredded clitoris, making her aware of how sorely she’d missed such tender ministrations.
Rarity drooled, eyes rolling back in her head, unable now to tell how much of the blood in her mouth was from the stallions and how much of it was from her. It came out in a rich torrent, and had her esophagus not been sealing shut she would have swallowed.
He finally came, pushing a load of semen and his own hot blood into her body. No more eggs, no more children, she was a cradle for his disease seeds now. A well planted field that would grow so many children.
She collapsed, completely detached now. Her body, covered in filth, but it was her filth. Chosen for her and by her, no social construct that bound her. There were no fashion magazines or trite lectures for this feeling. As she lay on her back, blood still dripping from her digestive system being digested, she smiled between coughing gasps.
He had no face to smile back with. Just those eyes, blind, putrid sacks full of hot blood, and the now bare bone of his face. A reaper’s grin greeting her and the world, still dribbling thin crimson that would never clot.
The specter of death held aloft by will alone. The will to propagate and destroy. Rational rejection of an irrational world. She couldn’t choose the circumstances of her birth or her life, had no say in her education or other’s perception of her, but this was her choice. Finally, she knew what had happened.
Lying on the floor, covered in disease, her ravaged womb already bleeding out with half the twitching corpse of her abortion hanging between her legs, the orgy already starting up again around her, ignoring her as if she were invisible ...
She’d never felt more empty or more beautiful.
Author's Note
No tender scar, no twist of fate will save you now.
