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          Inky and Blinky Get All Kinds of Kinky!          
               -by The Illusive Badgerpony-                
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         everyone who reads this will feel unclean         
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everyone who reads this will feel unclean
A photographer walks into Carousel Boutique.
Now, that’s simply not enough context for our tale, so let’s assume that this photographer, who we have decided shall remain nameless, was offered a job by the esteemed Madame Rarity of Ponyville, who is famous for her exciting evening gowns, her trendy takes on the clothes of popular culture, and a line of sensual, sensational and sultry lingerie. Naturally, since we shall assume that one would only be interested in the last item, we shall also assume that the photographer has
A. an interest in such items of clothing much akin to our own
B. has been offered a job to take the promotional photos for said articles.
Naturally, A and B have combined to form C, in which the still-nameless photographer absolutely cannot believe his immeasurable luck, almost as if the fates themselves had worked to created a contrived coincidence of celestial caliber. Which, since we are in fact telling a story here, is partially true. We shall refute the character judgement one would make about the photographer on the surface of his interest in lingerie, which would be that he is a relentless sexual deviant. This is only mildly true, as he is only as perverted as any one of us would be, but considering that some of us have interests involving ententacled beasties, stomachs engorged with ejaculate, defecation and not showering, this is not reassuring information.
It is, of course, conducive to the development of our yarn here to describe the photographer in further detail, amongst other things. The first thing one should notice is that he is not a news photographer. A fedora, a press pass, ties, or a gabbering mouth are nowhere to be seen. Rather, he is closer in appearance to something more artistic, a scarf swooped around his thin neck in the middle of summer, his flowing lime green locks almost covering the thick glasses he must wear due to his near-sightedness, a photography-related cutie mark stamped upon a flank that, like the rest of his body, is grey. Do not say anything about the discrepancy of grey versus gray, as that is inconsequential to describe the lighter-than-black-but-darker-than-white tone of his form. Even mentioning it is massively tangential, and as such, we shall move on from describing the photographer to describing the Carousel Boutique at six AM sharp.
The room was darkened, the overhead lights still turned off, and the early-morning sun cast orange rays over the showroom floor, slits of light cutting sharply across through the blinds. The photographer found something rather beautiful in objects in the light of blinds. He felt that the aesthetic was striking, as if there was a constant, pitched trench-battle between light and dark, cast over the poniquins, the stands, the large, circular desk that stood in the middle of the shop like an island of commerce.
Of course, the effect was not lost upon moving objects. In fact, the photographer found that moving objects looked even more striking underneath the light between blinds. Beams of light moving across one’s face and body seemed to accentuate and yet also downplay the existence of movement. The bending of the light both obscured and entranced, giving the viewed object a mystique of mystery. This mystique could be manipulated for various purposes, but in this particular instance, these purposes would be a ragged-looking, marshmallow-colored mare walking towards our titular character of the photographer to give him a greeting.
“Good morning,” her bladelike voice sang, clipping through the air in a manner not unlike a gilded katana. “Do forgive my appearance, truly nopony could handle Pinkie Pie at six in the morning. A shower was rendered impossible.”
The photographer nodded. He was a stallion of few words, which is very much unlike this narration, looking both backwards and forwards. This quiet nature was not lost on Rarity, as much of Ponyville’s stallion populace happened to be quiet, shy types, which made it a haven for male models. One would see that Rarity had no entourage of professional models, and would often call upon family, friends, family of friends and friends of friends in order to have the second half of what the photographer required. Not that Rarity wasn’t a beautiful mare in her own right, but the photographer had found after a few sessions that she wasn’t particularly photogenic. He cracked a smirk at a memory of a few particular mishaps, all the result of both his quiet nature and her pathological need to be in creative control, which worked for dressmaking but in no way was beneficial to photography.
There was a moment of awkward silence, which the photographer was rather used to, again due to his quiet, easygoing nature. Somewhat odd, really, how a vast majority of stallions have such a nature. Perhaps Equestria simply attracts the socially retarded.
“Well,” Rarity said, breaking said silence. “The girls are right upstairs. You’ll be seeing the darker-colored ones. If the pink one asks if she can help... Tell her you appreciate the offer, but for the sake of your own sanity, do not take her up on it. It’s hard enough getting a decent photographer without my close and trusted friends driving them out of sanity and into ‘creepy town’.”
She then smiled, a little smile of a professional breaking character to speak jocularily with another professional. “I do hope you enjoy these new designs. Much time was spent getting them on, and while they are... Simplistic, I find that that’s a part of the appeal, as these models shall show you.”
The smile widened as the photographer, no longer interested in tangential conversation, made his way towards the stairs in order to begin the work of his profession. “Good luck!” the Madame called after him, but he was long gone, already going up the stairs into the room above.
Upon arrival, the photographer immediately noticed three things. One, his equipment, which he had requested a night or so before that he leave over at the Boutique in order to avoid the headache of bringing several hundred pounds of lights, backdrops, cameras and lenses over at six in the morning, was being rapidly ransacked by a blur of magenta and hot pink, that singed our photographer’s poor, nearsighted eyes. Two, there were two other mares in the room, one of dark, ashen hues that was flustered by the behavior of her compatriot, and a younger mare of cornflower blue with a light gray mane, who, as soon as he arrived, hopped into the air and gave a loud shout, causing the rose-colored one to immediately start putting everything back. The photographer’s eye twitched as he heard the crashing of objects colliding, and prayed to the heavens that nothing was broken. However, he soon forgot about the prospect of losing expensive photography equipment as soon as he saw what the bashful one and the younger one were wearing.
For the ease of organization, let’s mention the clothing items in order of appearance from the top down. Firstly, both of the mares wore a collar, the cornflower one wearing a loop of brushed metal, while the grey-shaded mare wore something slightly frillier. Both mares were equipped with corsets that hugged their nubile frames, making them seem even more sleek, the sides featuring fishnet adjusters, and below that were the most tantalizing articles- small, form-fitting, tight, frilly little panties, hugging the rears of both mares, making their simply luscious cheeks stand out significantly. It was almost enough to make the photographer forget about the stockings- the younger one wore fishnets that were strapped to the panties, while the bashful one wore sultry, silky ones with frills. In fact, the photographer had mostly forgotten much of everything, including the prospect of losing a few hundred bits of lighting fixtures, his brain instead focusing on the prospect of ogling this pair of mares for several hours.
However, this prospect soon dissipated in the face of what can be most easily described as Pinkie Pie, who immediately shot to his side and said everything.
“Oh hey there Mister Photographer stallion pony guy how ya doin’? Sorry I was messin’ with your stuff but it was all so really really shiny and so cool looking and I wondered what it all did and I was suuuuuuper careful but I’m still really, really sorry, can you ever forgive me?! Oh, I know you can because nothing was broken and I had a whole entire box of super-duper sugary donuts this morning and I feel just bouncy! What did you have for breakfast this morning?! Oh, don’t tell me because I haven’t even said hi to you and I say hi to eeeevverypony in town when they come to town unless I’ve met them before like my sisters oh I should tell you our names I should tell you our names! I’m Pinkie Pie and we’re gonna be super-awesome friends now because you’re gonna babysit my twin and my baby-schmaybe but really barely-legal sister for like six hours and take pictures of them in Rarity’s super special awesome outfits so that they’ll attract the eye of colts for miiiiilles and they’ll get married to one of them and I’ll throw the biggest wedding reception of allllllll tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime!”
Truly, a greeting for the ages. The photographer was left speechless, as speech wasn’t his forte, it was the encapturement of moments on celluloid. Pinkie Pie, looking behind him and noticing the clock, gave an exaggerated gasp.
“Oh dear! Sorry, can’t talk, my shift starts in like half an hour so I’m just gonna leave Inkie and Blinkie with you, okay?! Be good, girls! Buh biiiiiiiiiiiii...”
Her farewell trailed down the stairs, Blinkie Pie rushing past him to wave Pinkie away, shouting after her.
“Bye, Pinkie! Have fun at woooork!”
“I wiiiill!” cried Pinkie Pie from over the horizon. The photographer tilted his head, as he realized that Sugarcube Corner was just a block away, and therefore Miss Pinkie Pie had no reason to go over the horizon, but this filtered back into the back of his head at the prospect of observing maiden mare butt for the next few hours. The first order of business, of course, was meeting his models.
Now, the younger one made it rather clear to him that she was the more flamboyant of the pair. She immediately sidled up to him, heaving an exaggerated sigh.
“Whee-yoo! Sometimes, Big Sister can be a bit of a pain in the rear, can she? I hope none of your stuff got broken. My name is Blinkie Pie, but my friends call me Blinkie, so you can call me that because we’re going to be pretty friendly, right?”
The photographer could only offer a shrug as a response, as fraternity wasn’t a completely intentional effect of his job. If anything, ponies found constantly holding a position and staying in place for hours at a time completely insufferable. This, plus the photographer’s penchant for not speaking a word, did not make him any friends. However, the photographer, like many of us, was simply too polite to mention this in the face of such an attractively squeezable rump. Erstwhile, the coal-shaded sister trotted carefully towards our protagonist.
“Bl-Blinkie, don’t scare him, please. Erm, my name is I-I-Inkie Pie, and I-I would love to m-model for the Madame...”
Her every word was punctuated with facial twitches and blinks, as she seemed to have trouble processing words, and the photographer couldn’t see much reason why not, for after all, she was an attractive mare in a titillating ensemble that accentuated her behind in ways that he was certain would make it on tape. The shyness was definitely cute, but the photographer, ever the model of chivalry, kept any potential commentary on the matter to himself.
“Don’t mind her stuttering, Mr. Photographer, Inkie just gets nervous around strangers.”
“D-Do not!”
The photographer had decided that he had enough with fraternization. He knew their names, that was all he really needed for when he filed the pictures for later. For now, he needed to set up.
A few minutes later, a white sheet had been set up along the wall and a bit of the floor, and the rest of the room seemed dark in the early-morning light due to the copiously bright lighting of the photographer’s fixtures. Inkie and Blinkie, to their credit, had been mostly quiet while the photographer booted up his camera and picked out the best lens for the situation, adjusting a few minor settings. In fact, throughout the entire setup, they had only whispered between themselves, giggling and possibly saying unflattering things about him, but the photographer wasn’t vain enough to enquire. After all, that wasn’t his job here. His job here was in celluloid, not in chit-chat. He glanced over at the two mares, and found himself immediately entranced again, a state of mind not lost at all upon Blinkie Pie.
“Stallion of few words, aren’t you?” Blinkie said, her voice low and vixenlike, forcing the photographer to remind himself to stay as professional as possible.
It was difficult- the way the corsets hugged the pair of them, those soft, pillowy plots just begging to be prodded and pushed and played with, the stockings only serving to draw the eye back to the exposed flesh of either mare. The photographer finally noticed that the pair wore the bare minimum of makeup, just enough to ensure that vital features weren’t lost to the camera’s sometimes imperceptive eye, but something told our protagonist that their faces wouldn’t end up being the focus of the frame. He looked between them, trying to pick one mare or the other for the first set of pictures, but Inkie stepped forward and spoke for the two of them.
“Err, w-we were wondering if y-you could d-do us both at the... At the s-same time.”
We’ll assume the double entendre was unintentional. The photographer certainly did, although he secretly hoped it wasn’t. He shrugged, flicking a few different settings on his camera, before swinging his forehoof and pointing towards the sheet, directing the pair of goddesslike figures towards the blindingly white surface of the sheet. They sauntered over, perhaps fully aware of their rather attractive nature, Blinkie even winking at him. Oh well. None of that would be going on, for after all, he was behind the camera. But we could all agree, most of us would be better off not participating in the photoshoot.
“So we just act sexy, then?” Blinkie blurted, giving the photographer a smoldering look, and making Inkie put on a rather embarrassed expression. Again, and still wishing for minimal involvement and maximum involvement at the same time, the photographer simply shut his eyes and nodded.
For the next half an hour, things went swimmingly. The photographer got in several very good shots. Inkie and Blinkie knew how to look just scandalous enough to be sensual ,and yet just classy enough to fit the bill of Madame Rarity’s vision. Very good material was made, and the photographer had minimal input, and none of it verbal. Inkie laying beside Blinkie, Inkie giving Blinkie a little nuzzling, Blinky sticking her plot in the air one way and Inkie mirroring the gesture, the girls sticking their tongues out at the camera while coiled into a going-to-pounce-you position. The best part was the contrast- younger Blinkie was quick to get ideas and try them out, her face and movements filled with energy and enthusiasm, while Inkie was simply doing what her little sister recommended, an air of adorable uncertainty around her.
As one could imagine, with a pair of very attractive young mares in lingerie in the same room, the photographer was in an incredible state of mental anguish, a special purgatory for the simultaneous creator-and-purveyor. It was a good thing that the bright lights of his photography stands prevented the ladies from seeing his raging stallionhood throbbing against his belly. They were incredible. They were sensual. If the photographer had the presence of mind to say anything, he would call them one of the better pairs of models that he ever had to work with.
Which was why he was surprised when Blinkie addressed him again.
“Do you think we should get sexier, Mister Photographer?”
He bit his lip hearing that. You probably didn’t. If you weren’t an unintelligible masterbatory mess, you likely groaned at such a corny line. But in that moment, again, the photographer was left speechless, and merely nodded his head.
The next few shots were definitely more risque. Blinkie started things off by rolling Inkie onto her back and lying on top of her, eliciting an alarmed eep from the other party as the tips of their noses touched, Blinkie wearing a massive grin and Inkie with a more nervous smile on her face. Things went nigh-pornographic as Blinkie turned Inkie towards the camera, her legs spread open and the panties on full display, as Blinkie stuck her tongue out, resting her head on Inkie’s thigh. They then sat up, Inkie and Blinkie, placing their chests against each other and looking towards the camera like a pair of lovers about to kiss. This seemed to be too much for the coal-colored mare, who pushed her younger sister away.
“Bl-Blinkie...”
“Oh, come off it,” Blinkie snipped, “you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”
“N-no, I’m... Not really. Uhm, Mister Photographer, are y-you gonna use all of th-the shots?”
The photographer was lost in the land many refer to as lurid fantasy, and was unreachable. He absently shook his head, wanting to dismiss the questions and get back to looking over his recent work. Good Goddess, that was good stuff. Even better, he could notice the little wet patch on Inkie’s panties in that particular shot-
And he looked over, and they had started frenching like a pair of Los Pegasus prostitutes.
Now, a true professional would have two options. Option one, stop everything. Dope slap the mares, put away all your equipment, demand payment as compensation, and leave in the face of such scandalizing sights. Option two, keep going, take pictures whenever possible. Now, our photographer is a decent pony. He knew it would be advantageous of him to document such passionate imagery. It would also be fun. Save it for later.
Which was why Inkie’s shock at the sudden gesture, her falling backwards, and her eventual returning of the intense kissing was captured on celluloid. Good Goddess, the photographer couldn’t believe his immense luck, a pair of mares who didn’t care as he stared, and took pictures as well! He could only imagine what was going through Inkie’s head. At first, it just seemed like a stunt for the shoot, but then, as the kiss went on, as the passions ran high, Inkie seemed to realize that there was something more behind this. As such, the first question out of her mouth was quite simple.
“Bl-Blinkie, why...”
“Because you’re such a sexy big sister,” Blinkie responded brazenly, sticking her tongue out and lecherously licking Inkie’s neck, eliciting a gasp from the elder sister.
“B-but, we... We’re... It’s... It’s aaah!”
This particular gasp was because Blinkie had chosen that moment to nibble the tender flesh between Inkie’s neck and her shoulder, which just so happened to be a sweet spot of hers. She looked up, a grin on her face, an eyebrow raised, and the photographer chose this as a most certainly good moment to take a few pictures.
“Incest?”
There wasn’t a hesitant bone in Blinkie’s body to say the word, despite the wince it induced in both the photographer and Inkie Pie.
“Y-yes,” Inkie stammered, “a-and if Ma or Pa kn-knew that... You... Me... I...”
The photographer felt the overall joy in the room plummet astronomically as Blinkie Pie gave her elder sister a frown.
“You don’t like me?” she murmured, intense, standing over her elder sibling, making it clear who was in command in this instance, and Inkie Pie’s already flustered face grew beet red.
“N-no, I... I love you. Like, m-more than I should, and... I just, is now, erm, the b-best time? Th-the photographer... He’s st-staring.”
He had been had. By extension, we had been had, considering the ambiguous nature of the photographer and his possible nature as a voiceless, insertable protagonist, but to hell with it, he had still lowered the camera and pawed at the ground, a massive blush rising in his own cheeks.
“Well, why don’t we let him join in?”
And both faces of Inkie Pie and the photographer suddenly went blank, and dropped in utter shock.
No way.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
Of course, the photographer decided to thank Celestia if this contrived coincidence became fully realized as a contrived coincidence should be. If Inkie Pie’s embarrassed squeak was any indication, however, such wasn’t going to be immediately possible.
“A-are you really sure? I... I mean, he’s...”
Blinkie Pie looked back and gave the photographer a challenging look. “Oh, Mr. Photographer, I think we need a break from all this modeling. Perhaps you can show us some of your equipment and how it works?”
“That... That sounded r-really forced, sis,” Inkie Pie muttered.
“Oh, shush you,” Blinkie chided back.
And so, the photographer wordlessly stepped into the light.
Inkie and Blinkie both let out a gasp, and the photographer wondered if they had ever seen a penis before. Not that he wasn’t well hung, but he wasn’t gasp-worthy levels of well-hung. Sometimes, in his most lurid of fantasies, he imagined he was a zebra. Well, alright, in his really most lurid fantasies, he imagined himself to have a length that was long enough to enter through the anal passage, zip through the digestive tract, pop out of the mouth and slither back down to penetrate the pussy of the unfortunate mare he had encaptured in his other penis-tentacles. As stated before, he wasn’t much more of a completely disgusting, self-degrading figure than we are.
Regardless, the pair got up and flanked him on either side, Blinkie nudging his side. “Mr. Photographer,” she inquired, “please roll over.”
And so he did, getting on his back, splaying out his lanky rear legs and allowing his cock to rest upon his stomach. Inkie Pie, being closer to it, laid down on her side, her head brushing along the inside of his left thigh, ogling it up and down. Once again, the photographer began to wonder if she had ever encountered the male anatomy before.
“Muh... Mister Photographer?”
He accosted her with half-lidded eyes, his breathing rising, the excitement in the air palpable.
“May I... May I l-lick it, Mister Photographer?”
If he had nodded any faster, his head would have gone flying off of his head. Satisfied with his consent, Inkie Pie put her tongue out, and slowly gave it a long, luscious lick from base to tip, her eyes closed gently, a soft aaah passing between her lips. The photographer would have been wondering where Blinkie was and why she wasn’t getting involved, if not for the blissful shivers that shot through his entire nervous system. Besides, the question would be answered soon enough, as Blinkie’s legs came into view, and straddled his face.
“No fair, Inkie!”
Suddenly, a warmth enveloped the very head of his length, and Blinkie, in having rolled down and taken the very tip of his erection in her mouth, had rolled up her hips to show a very wet, very puffy, very, very, very attractive marehood within easy licking distance, the panties pulled to one side. The photographer, moaning as he was and shivering in excitement, not believing his good fortune, was still a gentlecolt, and a lady who showed such a dripping cunt was simply begging for at least a lick.
He provided such with gusto, his tongue trailing from the very edge of her clit, down through the slit, Blinkie giving a little squeak and grunt of pleasure, rolling her hips around and sucklign gently on the head of his length, humming and groaning over it. Inkie, to her credit, was certainly not a non-participant, licking around the base of his shaft, little oohs and aahs escaping her open mouth as she drooled freely over the photographer’s pride.
As much as he was enjoying it all, as much as all of the passion and lust pouring over his pride was infectious, the photographer realized that he wasn’t the only one who deserved to be pleasured here, and thus started to get more adventurous with his tonguework. His slipped it between the lips of her soaked pussy, licking up freely flowing juices with great gusto, occasionally getting a bit dangerous and biting down on her outer lips, nibbling softly, eliciting an electrifying squeak from Blinkie on top of him, which in turn traveled through his length, conducting through him, sending a powerful zap of libido through his already lust-addled brain.
This was the life. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. However, Blinkie had other ideas, popping her mouth off of his tip, taking in a small breath before addressing Inkie.
“Sis?”
“Nya?” Inkie opened her eyes, looking up at her sister, her tongue frozen in place upon the photographer’s base, giving little pulses, saliva dripping down over his full, load-bearing balls. Blinkie smiled. Her big sister certainly seemed to know what she was doing.
“Let’s switch,” Blinkie said breathlessly. “You... You need to try his tongue...”
The photographer gave an appreciative hum, pleased by such a complimentary comment, though really, who wouldn’t be? Inkie let out a nervous giggle, hesitantly pulling away from the photographer’s poner, rubbing shoulders with Blinkie as she slipped down, Inkie imitating Blinkie’s previous setup. However, Inkie had neglected to move her panties out of the way, and the photographer’s face was filled with mare juice soaked undergarments. Not that he minded at all- it gave him an opportunity to tease the gentler ponette, biting the panties right in the middle of the wet spot and pulling away.
“Aah!”
It was the encouragement he wanted. The teasing had ended, and the pussy-devouring could continue in absolute earnest. The photographer dug into Inkie as if she was the last mare on earth, savoring salacious slit emissions while trying to push her as far as he possibly could. Inkie was reduced to a babbling mess on top of his face, while Blinkie had completely overtaken blowjob duties, bobbing over his length in her mouth while fondling his furry orbs with her hooves. Every single professional thought had been ousted from the photographer’s head at that point. All that mattered was the mare demanding his attention.
Really, how many of us could agree that at that point, professional integrity simply would turn out to be unimportant? How many would want to have powerful waves of immense, intense bliss pumping through our veins, not one, but two mares drooling over us, sucking on us, letting us lick up their delicious drizzlings, and then, let’s imagine we’re the photographer here, as this is what he did, bite down on their cute little love nub? Bite down hard?
He had bitten down hard enough that poor Inkie Pie couldn’t take it.
She exploded, a ball of reserved feelings popping in a screaming, writhing orgasm, covering the photographer’s muzzle in mare juice, her eyes screwed shut as her slip opened and shut, opened and shut, fluttering, liquid squirting past his head and onto the sheet, and it seemed to go on for absolutely forever. The photographer, needless to say, was pleased with himself at that moment, and it certainly didn’t help that Blinkie had pulled away from his length in lieu of giving him a rough hoofjob. If the muffled grunts and squeaks and squeals above him were any indication, the girls were making out, and the photographer decided to file Blinkie’s cancelled blowjob as a good decision.
Inkie Pie finally came down, with a final splutter of girlcum, covering the lips of our photographer as he gave her nethers a final peck, as if they were the lips of her mouth instead. She stammered, words trying to leave her mouth, but nothing came out except air and half-finished words. She was shushed by another kiss from Blinkie, a rough one that forced her over onto her back, and off of the photographer, who, despite a sore tongue, was still riding the ego train all the way to Seto Kaibaville.
Turning over, he was greeted by the greatest opportunity of the night.
Two mares, completely absorbed in each other, passionately kissing and caressing each other, their exposed slits rubbing against each other, Inkie’s still quivering visibly, Blinkie’s winking at him. Both soaking wet, both begging to be pumped with long, slick, powerful stallion cock, both screaming to be drained of secretions, both crying out to be filled with creamy white jizz. It was the only right thing to do, after all. The photographer got up on all fours, crawling towards the pair of mares, looming over the both of them, his tongue lolling out of his mouth slightly. Blinkie pulled away from Inkie for a moment, looking over her shoulder at the conflicted stallion above them.
“I haven’t cum yet, Mister Photographer,” Blinkie murmured with a mock pout. “I would really appreciate it if you fucked me silly on top of my big sister.”
And with that, the floodgates had opened.
Blinkie squeaked as powerful-yet-lanky hooves grabbed her hips, slamming them back and impaling her slick, begging tunnel full of exactly what it had desired this entire time, making her scream in surprise and satisfaction. Her walls immediately compressed the cock that had so violently penetrated her, sending little shockwaves of incredible, undeniable, debilitating pleasure to the center of her brain, to the point that she wasn’t supporting herself anymore. She just let herself get fucked over Inkie, her clitoris rubbing against her elder siblings, her body violently rocking back and forth. It was too much all at once, but she couldn’t speak. Slaps filled the room, rapid, like machine gun fire, wet and slick and too much all at once, and it had to be Inky who spoke up for her sister.
“S-slow down, Muh-Mister Photographer, you’re... You’re being too rough...”
The photographer, as pleased as he was with the tight, squeezing cunt he was destroying, regained his self-control and obeyed. Screams and squeaks slowed to moans and incoherent mutters, loud slaps became a quiet, patting noise, as the photographer stopped rushing, and started to appreciate the cunny he was plowing. Pinkie certainly wasn’t kidding when she said her little sister was barely-legal. It was so tight, it squeezed his length in such a desperate way, in such a needy way, it had gotten to him, he had acted rash. It wasn’t a big deal, could have happened to anypony.
The best part of the experience was how it affected the sisters beneath him. Every thrust brushed their clits together, generating a soft moan from the elder, and magnifying Blinkie’s pleasure several fold. They snuck in kisses, some quick, some passionate, needy, tongues and everything melding together, everything to the soft, warm rhythm of the patting of male haunches against Blinkie’s younger ones.
It was a few minutes of this blissful treatment that the photographer finally heard the words he wanted to hear.
“Ff.. Faster, please, Mister Photographer...”
And so, things returned. The patting became slapping, the soft, sweet and sensual mewls became animalistic, barbaric, and savage grunts, little moans became screams and cries of pure ecstasy. The photographer’s cock was drenched in filly fluid, pumping powerfully into Blinkie’s abused little snatch, stretching her insides to fit the mold of his length as it rapidly drilled her. It clenched every time the photographer entered, it brought him closer to the precipice every single second...
“Mister... Aaahn! Photographerrrr...”
The photographer hadn’t had a very long or illustrious sexual career, but he was most certain that this was the highlight of it. The pair of perfect pussies he was pounding, devastating dripping females with his dong, ripples, no, waves, no, tidal waves of pure carnality electrifying his entire frame, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading throughout his entire body. He was close, Blinkie was close, Inkie was close, he knew it, he felt it, it was all so good, so...
“Mister! Muh... Pull... Put it in... Inkie... C-cum into Inkie! Aaah!”
Photographers weren’t particularly notorious for requests, but just that once, this particular one felt the need to comply. Wordlessly, he slipped from Blinkie and, with no ceremony, plunged into Inkie with as much force as he could muster.
The pair came simultaneously, the buzz too powerful, the stimulation too much, Inkie gasping before letting out a torrent of filly juice all over the photographer’s length, mixing with Blinkie’s explosion of fuck fluid, drenching the photographer’s entire crotch. It proved too much for him as well, and with just a few, well-lubricated thrusts, he too reached his peak.
It was the best orgasm he had ever had. It was enough to blur his vision, every allele in his body turning off in that one moment to let the warm, fuzzy feeling from his fuckpole fill up and fire out, emptying an admirable load into the pink pussy lips of the coal-colored mare. While he fired the first two pulses into Inkie, he gained some premonition and slipped out of her, quickly sliding the tip into Blinkie and blessing her with the next two pulses. With that, he pulled up, one last throb of his slowly-softening length drizzling a pearlescent glob down his cock, and he gained enough of his brainpower back to watch the mewling sisters as their demolished cunts drizzled jizzle.
Our photographer fell backwards, closing his eyes, and the girls sidled up to either side of him. Nopony knew really what to say. There really wasn’t much to say. Good sex was good sex, after all, and the photographer, especially, knew that saying nothing was often the best option. He glanced down at the nubile girls on either side of him, nuzzling into his chest, falling asleep, and he suppressed a yawn himself.
Well, it wasn’t like they were going to go anywhere.
Meanwhile, in the corner, Pinkie Pie hit the record button of her camera, finishing her posterity records. She grinned, her wild, massive grin, and, for once in her life, said something quietly.
“I’m gonna need to throw a hell of a party to beat that.”
So ends our tale, at least for now.
Author's Note
what the fuck is my life