In all the land of Equestria, there is no building more beautiful to you than the Apple Family Barn. There’s a certain magic to it that you can’t quite explain—a poignant sense that it’s something more than what you can see. Thank God for that too, as the barn is a hulking monstrosity of splintering wood and lead paint, cobbled together by your poor human hands after you knocked the last one down. Objectively speaking, it is a menace, a public indecency, and a blight upon all the earth. If not a somewhat functional barn.
Yet, somehow your attachment to it goes beyond the horrifying results of mankind’s ingenuity. The barn is, in fact, a symbol of your commitment to survive and thrive in this harsh land of Equestria. The product of your blood and your sweat and all your other bodily juices. A monument, even, to your boundless determination and inexhaustible stamina.
Yes, you thought proudly, whenever you passed it by, that is where I shall have sex.
And here you stand now, before the barn you have wrought, ready to have the sex of your life.
A dream come true, really.
“Hurry up, partner,” says Applejack beside you, her knees bending and shaking with need. The very air around her is thick with the scent of what is presumably her dank, southern arousal. “The heat’s bad today.”
“Just one more minute,” you say, still basking in the realization of your wildest sexual fantasies. Applejack beside you grunts impatiently, but all that does is direct your attention to her wonderful form. She really is an attractive mare, all said. That luscious, squeezable flank, those adorable freckles... And everything else about her. You’re not entirely certain what’s supposed to be attractive on a pony, but Applejack has it in spades.
“Now!” she pants, her face a bright reddish-orange. “Take it or leave it.”
“Okay, okay,” you reply. Naturally, you’re happy to help Applejack out with her biological imperatives—or at least the sexy ones—but you really wish she’d be patient enough to let you finish daydreaming. Still, her wildly inconsiderate attitude aside, you suppose it’s time to get a move on. This might be your only chance, after all, to have crazy hot intercourse with Applejack. You can’t just let it slip through your fingers like a vaselined cock.
Not that you’d know anything about vaselined cocks.
The barn doors creak and groan as you pull them open. Instantly, a heady mix of hay-scent, paint fumes, and animal odors assaults your nostrils. This and the scent of Applejack’s own animal odor, mixing in slowly with the smells from the barn, is almost enough to make you woozy. A thought creeps into your mind that perhaps this is not the best of ideas, and that perhaps it would be better to bed Applejack in the house, where it smells less like a... well, less like a barn.
But no. How could you? This is what you’ve always wanted, after all: a rousing bout of arousing roundabouts with everyone’s favorite southern mare in the barn. You couldn’t have sex in a house, for God’s sake. Nobody back on Earth would be impressed by a story of passionate pony love on a boring old bed. And what if Big Mac or Apple Bloom or—dear Lord—wrinkly old Granny Smith were to walk in on you in the midst of it?
What if she wanted to join in?
The very thought of that is enough to make you feel more nauseous than the barn ever could. So, for the sake of your dreams and your blood-red erection, you breathe through your mouth and press forward. You can almost taste the air of the barn, thick and unwholesome as it is, but it’s much better than smelling it. You can only pray your lungs will last as long as you can in the sack. And that you’ll last a while in the sack.
“Come along, my love,” you say to your first Equestrian conquest, ushering her inside. In your absolute wildest fantasies, you would be carrying her, but Applejack weighs like five hundred pounds, so that’s certainly not going to happen. Still, you’ve done well so far. Applejack is in the barn, and so are you. Barring the barn collapsing over your head—which you’ll admit is still a real possibility—steamy barn sex looks to be certain.
“Y’know, partner,” says Applejack dreamily as she stumbles into a huge pile of hay, “Ah always sorta liked you humanfolk. What with yer hands, and yer practical finger-type things...” She moans and shivers, quite possibly caught in the throes of her own fantasies. “You could probably do so many chores ‘n’ such that’re too tough for hooves.”
“And, uh, sexual acts,” you remind her, fiddling clumsily with your button-down shirt. All the blood necessary for proper motor control is currently rushing to your thoroughly stiffened dick, making things that much harder for you. You aren’t strong enough to just rip your shirt open like an aroused gorilla, but at least you’re moving your practical finger-type things as fast as you can. “I can do so many sexy things too with these. Like massages and stuff.”
“Mmm, yeah, sure.” Applejack moans, steadily working her hips against the hay. The tempo of her gyrations builds, slowly but surely, as she works herself into a rhythm. “Massages. Right.”
“No, seriously,” you say as you finally manage to pull your sweat-soaked shirt off. You hold your hand up to her and wiggle your protruding digits suggestively. “I can get these babies in all the right places. In fact, back on Earth, all the ladies used to say I had magic fingers. They even used to call me... uh...”
Wait. Shoot. You’ve memorized this. It’s on the tip of your tongue. Come on! You remember looking this one up! You went over the entire script this morning in the mirror! What was it?
“They called me los magicos... fingeros,” you finish awkwardly, pretty sure that wasn’t what the hypothetical ladies back on Earth used to call you. “Yeah. That’s right.”
“And you could hold two things at once,” Applejack mumbles, hips bucking even faster. “Land sakes, you could pick up twice as many apples when it’s time for sortin’...”
Well, she doesn’t seem to have noticed your horrifying mutilation of the Spanish language. Or your awful delivery. Or anything you said at all. That’s... decent, you suppose. About as well as you could’ve expected the sexy-talk phase to go. Actually, considering that your primary source of experience on the subject is poorly-acted pornography, that went pretty well.
You had rather hoped to tell all your heterosexual guy-friends on Earth that you romanced Applejack with a little gratuitous Spanish, but you suppose it’s for the best. Probably Applejack doesn’t even know Spanish anyway. It’s already grossly improbable that she speaks English, isn’t it? Seriously, what are the odds? They can’t be very high.
Thus, you decide to focus less on cheesy pre-fuck dialogue and more on getting naked, so as to start engaging in actual inter-fuck dialogue. It’s not an easy task, of course, what with Applejack moaning and groaning and humping her hay-pile like it was your manly meat-rod. How can you pay attention to slipping your shoes off when she’s over there, rhythmically bouncing her perfectly shaped butt up and down? It simply isn’t possible to undress when your eyes are drawn to her marble-hard orange flank, glistening with sweat, as it...
…
It’s... like staring into the face of God. If the face of God were a horse’s ass.
No! Get a grip! You slap yourself and let the stinging sensation on your cheek bring you back to reality. True, Applejack is unfairly sexy, but you have to concentrate on getting a piece of that gorgeously muscular flank, not ogling it like the gorgeously muscular flank it is. You’ve done enough ogling for one day. Your ogle quota has been completely filled. It is time now for action, lest the hay get more of Applejack than you do.
Yes! You fling off your shoe and stomp your foot defiantly on the ground. For commitment’s sake, you stamp it deep into the barn’s earthy floor, shoving aside assorted pebbles, straw, and—Jesus Christ, was that a nail? How many of those did you leave lying around? A man could get tetanus in here if he doesn’t watch his step. Honestly, what were you thinking?
With infinitely greater care, you remove your other shoe and set your foot down gently. Satisfied that you aren’t about to stab yourself in the foot, your pants and polka-dotted underwear are quick to follow. Soon enough you’re standing tall and proud in all your naked primate glory, virile mammalhood cocked ‘tween your hips like a six-shooter loaded with only one bullet. You are a human specimen in his prime, with all the raging hormonal imbalances that implies, and now that you’ve finally removed every physical barrier to sex with Applejack, it’s time to get dirty.
In more ways than one.
“Hey, babe,” you whisper to Applejack, in between her husky grunts. “I’m ready now.”
“Yeeeeees,” Applejack moans in response. You’re not entirely sure if that was supposed to be an affirmation or a mid-pleasure outburst, but her hips just continue to gyrate against the hay instead of your penis, and that clearly isn’t right. You can only assume she hasn’t heard you.
“Applejaaaack,” you call, a little bit louder. “Time for sexy times now? Me Tarzan, you pony. Yes?”
“Don’t stop, partner,” she whispers to her hay-pile. “Don’t ever stop. Not on your life.”
Welp. You tried. You’re not sure what sort of dry-animal-fodder-based fantasy she’s currently enacting, but it doesn’t prominently feature you. Not even as a secondary character. It’s time to break out the big guns. The secret weaponry. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t ever resort to this, except in the most dire of emergencies, but you can think of no greater emergency than missing out on sexy times with Applejack.
There is no option left. You steady yourself, take the deepest breath of stale barn air you can handle, and—
“Applejack!” you cry, “The, uh, apples are in danger!”
Instantly Applejack freezes, her eyes widening in panic. “Not the apples!” she yells, jumping up from the hay. “We’re ruined if we lose this season’s crop! We don’t got the money to do without right now!”
“Uh, actually...” You say, edging around her as she frantically gallops around the barn. It’s tough to get a word in edgewise when you have to keep all two of your fragile naked feet far away from all four of her heavy shod-in-iron hooves. A broken foot, you imagine, would pretty instantly kill off your boner. “The, uh, apples may not actually be—”
“Granny Smith won’t be able to afford her fancy new hip! Apple Bloom won’t be able to buy all her fancy new school supplies! Big Macintosh won’t be able to afford all his fancy new sexual devices!”
“Wait.” You stop for a moment. Probably a bad idea in your current environment, but you really need to think over that last one. “...His what?”
“C’mon, partner! What’re we standin’ around here fornicatin’ for when there’s apples to save?” She sprints over to the barn’s door and starts pounding on it with all the force her sturdy hind legs can muster. “We may already be too late!”
Crack!
The earth-shattering force of Applejack bucking against the doors you built tears you from your visions of Big Mac’s new sexual devices and their purported fanciness. “No, no, no!” you shout. You are reasonably sure that your shoddy craftsmanship would not survive the sustained onslaught of a stiff breeze. Much less repeated abuse from those jackhammers Applejack calls hindlegs.
Crack!
Too late. Another mighty buck has already sent the barn doors flying straight off their flimsy hinges. A rush of fresh outside air enters the barn as your naked glory is exposed to the world beyond and Applejack is exposed to an orchard of pristine, not-at-all-in-danger apple trees.
She turns to you, a dangerous frown forming upon her face. “The apples weren’t in danger at all, were they, partner?”
“Well, uh, not as such, no,” you tell her, hastily covering your crotch on the off chance that someone will walk by and see your throbbing humancock. “But you could make the argument that in these uncertain times, there’s a very real possibility they could have—”
“Ah don’t take too kindly to liars, partner,” Applejack tells you pointedly. “Not when it comes to apples. ‘Specially not when it comes to apples.”
You chuckle weakly, hoping against hope that this hasn’t irrevocably damaged your chances at sex. Or Applejack’s opinion of you either, you guess. That’s probably important too.
“Would it make anything better if I promised to never ever do that again?” you ask her, trying your hardest to sound vaguely sincere. “Vis a vis our ongoing fornication?”
Applejack’s eyes narrow. “Hm... Dunno about that one partner.” She sits back for a few moments to ponder your fate. Her gaze darts to your crotch, lustfully appraising your wriggling prehensile fingers as they attempt to conceal your veiny manhood. Then she looks to your human face, grotesquely contorted into a human smile, and recoils slightly. “Hm...”
Eventually, she shrugs. “Eh. Guess it couldn’t hurt,” she says, sitting up. “But you’re on thin ice, mister.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” you tell her, practically falling over yourself with gratitude. You can almost feel your dick sigh in relief. Bullet dodged. “I promise you, I will be the best one-time sexbuddy ever.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Applejack trots over to fallen barn doors and props them back up, so as to somewhat conceal the nastiness to come. That done, she returns to her favorite hay-pile and bends over, rump presented proudly toward you, and wiggles it invitingly. “Now hurry up, partner. ‘Fore this gets any weirder than it already is.”
This is it. The moment you’ve been waiting for your entire life. The moment to which all of your crazy adventures in Equestria have built up toward. Every magical portal you’ve unwittingly stumbled into, every talking horse you’ve attempted to romance, every barn you’ve destroyed and rebuilt under mysterious circumstances... It’s all led up to this: noncommittal sex with Applejack.
You cannot help but feel fulfilled.
Reverently, you approach her rear end. The temptation to simply stick your dick into any of the available orifices is overwhelming, but you restrain yourself from doing so. If there’s one thing you know about sex—possibly the only thing you actually know about sex—it’s that you can’t just jam your willy-wong up a hole. Tempting, though it might be. You’ve got to build up to it with pseudo-romantic gestures and sexy talk. Foreplay first, as... someone once said.
You rub your hands sensually over Applejack’s masterfully-sculpted flank, enjoying the simple sensation of a warm and muscular booty in your hands. It is, in many ways, everything you have imagined it to be.
Applejack, meanwhile, seems to be enjoying the sensation of having her warm and muscular booty in your hands. She shudders and moans as your fingers dance lightly over her cutie mark. “Keep it up, partner,” she groans. “Keeeeep it up.”
Not one to ignore a lady’s request, you lean down to her side and eye her adorable cutie mark. Three, crimson red apples, shining with Applejack’s sweat. You’ve always wondered if they actually tasted like apples. Or maybe oranges. Her being bright orange and everything... But her name is Applejack...
You’re not entirely sure which sort of fruit you’ve been dreaming about Applejack tasting like, but now’s your chance to find out. You close your eyes, open your mouth, and give Applejack’s flank a long, sensual lick, discovering that she tastes like—
Hair!
“Gak!” That’s disgusting!Your hands instinctively fly to your tongue, but they’re at least as covered in sticky orange fur as the inside of your mouth now. You try to spit it out, but—Oh God, you’ve swallowed some! That can’t be healthy. Your throat, primed as it was for shared saliva and sexual fluids, reacts violently to the influx of dirty horse hair.
Does Applejack even shower?
“What’s the hold up back there?” Applejack asks impatiently, as you cough and convulse. “Are you goin’ to put it in or not?”
“Right... right away,” you say, choking out the last of Applejack’s unwashed flank coating. That’s enough of foreplay for one lifetime, you decide. Honestly, you have no idea why anybody would want to do that. Or why you ever thought Applejack would taste like a fruit. Even by the standards of your sexual fantasies, that one was kind of a long shot.
Questionable judgement aside, though, it’s finally time for the main event. The coup de grace. The vagina. Everything before this will have been worth it if you can just relieve the unfathomable pressure building up in your balls right now.
You bend down again toward her gorgeous rump, pushing aside her straw-blonde tail to inspect the fleshy entrance that lies beyond. The air, already thick with barn-stench, grows ever thicker with arousal and horse pheromones as your nose presses forward, until you suddenly find yourself face-to-labia with Applejack’s dripping wet pussy.
It is... unlike anything you have ever imagined. A quivering mass of pink and black muscle, cavernous in design. Applejack’s pussy winks at you in evidence of its waiting arousal, opening and slamming shut with viselike strength. A globule of lubricant drips from its hungry maw, salivating in anticipation of its next meal. It, like any god, demands sacrifice, and you are its virgin offering.
You are afraid of it. You fear it. More so than you have ever feared anything in your life. Despite the corresponding want of your own penis, you are smart enough to admit that this pulsating monster before you was designed for a horsecock, not your sad, human genitalia.
“A-hem.”
But you cannot back down. You have staked everything on this, and to retreat now would be the greatest of failures. Still... you are unsure. The monster winks again at you, open and shut, open and shut. It is a terrifying rhythm. You have seen industrial machinery with less force behind it than Applejack’s vaginal muscles.
You wait for it to open once more, then, experimentally, stick your finger inside it. Applejack’s pussy instantly clamps down tight on your digit, sucking at it like a vacuum. Panic-stricken, you attempt to reclaim your index finger, but to no avail. The monster is simply too strong for you.
“Ooooh, yeah!” Applejack moans above you, clearly aroused by your struggles. “It’s exactly as small as Ah’d imagined!”
You would have taken some minor offense to that, were you not currently in danger of losing a finger. Your feeble attempts to pry yourself loose are serving no purpose but to spur Applejack further on.
“Dunno what you’re doin’, partner,” Applejack says, gasping in pleasure, “but that’s dandy. Keep it up.”
She takes a step backward to encompass more of what she seems to think is your manly pony-pleaser and unwittingly engulfs the entirety of your right hand in her depths.
“Oh God,” you whisper.
“Oh Celestia!” Applejack screams.
She takes another step backward to swallow still more of your forearm, forcing you to take a step backward in turn. You’re already prepared to say goodbye to good ol’ Rightie. You can’t afford to lose any more of your arm to Applejack’s soaking clam.
“C’mon, partner!” Applejack urges you, taking another step backward. “Pull your weight!”
“I’m, uh, pulling all the weight I can!” you say, backing up in turn. You cannot help but notice that the walls of the barn are getting uncomfortably close. Soon there will be no further retreat from Applejack’s advances.
You pull desperately at your wrist to free Rightie, eliciting still more pleasured gasps from Applejack and a couple steps further back. Your elbow is already disappearing into slimy Applejack fluid, the suction force of her pussy refusing to give up whatever it claims. It’s entirely possible that you’ll have to gnaw your own arm off before—
Bump. Too late. The wooden wall of the barn scrapes against your back, and the rest of your arm disappears into Applejack. Applejack, however, seems completely oblivious to the lack of give. She continues to back you into the wall, crushing you between a rump and a hard place. This, again, was one of those fantasies you hadn’t entirely thought through.
The crude wooden walls of the barn creak as your naked back is pressed against them. You grimace in agony as splinters start to riddle your delicate skin. Shoot, you’ll be pulling those out of your back for weeks. With your left arm.
You’re not sure how much longer you can hold out, or for that matter, how much longer the barn can hold out. If the doors could barely handle Applejack’s kicks, you can’t imagine the rest of the barn will last long against her continued backward press—arousing as is painful.
“Yeehaw!” Applejack shouts. At... least she seems to be enjoying this.
The walls creak again as she forces her rear back into your head, pressing you against planks of wood that were never intended for such abuse. Or for construction. Stars and pony plot swim in your vision as your lungs burn for oxygen. Your right arm feels like it’s going to dislocate any moment, and the mounting pressure on your head forces you to yell out in agony.
“Applejack!” you scream at the top of your lungs.
“Partner!” she screams at the top of hers.
At which point the wall summarily collapses, bringing the barn’s roof down with it.
***
You wake in what seems to be a hospital bed, surrounded by clean linens and sterile whites. Not that you care much about that, considering your head feels like it’s been split open. Your head is aching, pounding even, as though it was crushed by a walnut-cracker. You’re not quite sure what’s happened to put you in this state, but you can only imagine it involved copious quantities of alcohol. Your hospital visits often do.
You attempt to push yourself up out of your bed, but find that your right arm is solidly encased in a plaster cast. Jesus, did you break it? How did that happen? You’re... pretty sure that most of your alcohol black-outs don’t end in broken limbs. Some of them. Maybe one or two didn’t.
You really should learn to lay off the cider.
“Oh, good, you’re awake!” the nurse says, trotting in with a cart of food. “You should’ve seen the state you were in when Applejack dragged you in here earlier. Wasn’t at all a pretty sight.”
Applejack? Were you out drinking with her last night? You try to think back to what you might have been doing earlier with Applejack, but your obscene headache dashes apart the memories before they can form. Still, drinks with Applejack... That wouldn’t be too surprising, you suppose. You always did have a soft spot for the southerly orange mare. Not to mention a hard spot whenever you think too much about her...
The nurse sets a tray of peas and jello on your lap and gives you a warm smile. “The Apple family sent you a Get Well card,” she tells you, setting said card down on the tray. “You can read it after you’re done.”
With lightning speed, you inhale your peas and jello, shoveling them into your mouth with all the grace of a wildebeest. A card? From Applejack? And the rest of the Apple family too, you guess? Hot dog, that’s progress! Hopefully another step toward fulfilling your wild sexual fantasies involving Applejack... and not the rest of the Apple family.
With the nurse’s help, you open the card and read it over. “Dear Such and such and so forth,” you say, reading it out loud. “Though the Apple family does not intend to press charges for the destruction of its treasured barn, under mysterious circumstances, it is believed that you are culpable in... yadda yadda... and that you fix it as soon as you are physically able.”
Ugh. A letter from their lawyer. How did you even manage to destroy the Apple family barn? What sort of foul drunken wizardry did you perform to make that one happen? There are limits to the mayhem you can manage while under the influence. Or, at least, there should be.
But wait! Idea! You smile sinisterly as a plan begins to coalesce in your mind. If you rebuild the Apple family barn all by yourself, surely the Apples—and Applejack by extension—would feel grateful, wouldn’t they? And that gratitude might even lead to steamy barn sex, like you’d always imagined. The steamiest of barn sexes in the barn you rebuilt with your own two hands.
Yes, you like that idea.
You refrain from evil laughter until the nurse has left the room with your empty food tray, but let loose as soon as you’re sure she’s out of earshot. As soon as you’re out of the hospital, and this stupid cast is off your arm, you’ll be able to begin rebuilding the Apples’ barn. And with any luck, Applejack will see your honesty and your willingness to atone for your actions while inebriated, and she’ll...
Well. No need to go into the juicy details. The mere idea of it is already enough to get you grinning from ear to ear with anticipation. Any more and you’ll make a mess of the sheets, which would be rather awkward to explain to the nurse.
Suffice it to say, though: It’ll be just like a dream come true.
