Rhythm and Blues
Blues Noteworthy watched Octavia from the back row of the empty Canter U Concert Hall, awestruck by her music, and by the supple figure beneath her luxuriant backless dress. She was a vision of beauty clad in black, her body swaying this way and that to the melody of her own music—her own doubtless perfection.
She was a most enchanting creature, the sort big-game hunters longed to capture rather than kill, and though Blues was no hunter, he set his mind to snaring her the only way he knew how. He withdrew a small notepad from his blazer pocket, then placed the pencil he carried behind his ear in his mouth and began drawing.
He had been a musician himself before meeting—no—before discovering Octavia (as he hadn’t officially met her yet), but her own mastery of the musical arts had long since scared him from the pursuit. He could see no point in continuing. He would never come close to reaching the Octavia’s level, and thought it better to quit now and spare himself the grief falling short in the future.
But this was fine with Blues; he was a stallion of many talents and many, many passions. He put his pencil to paper and began expressing his newest passion, beginning with Octavia’s handsome face. Yes, handsome, was the right word for it—not round and petite like the face of most beautiful mares, but sharp and androgynous, with sprinklings of masculinity hidden in her strong jaw.
Next came her neck—graceful, even swan-like—but there was a look of latent power to it, a strength laying dormant just below the grey fur.
Blues took extra care while reproducing her shoulders, his pencil strokes slowing to an infant’s crawl. He drew the muscles that rose there in humble swells, like miniature knolls of grey grass, before venturing down and out across her hardy chest and forelegs.
When the picture was nearly finished, the two-dimensional musician captured on the pad was standing upright, her eyes shut in concentration as she strummed her cello. But her bottom half was missing. Blues still needed to draw the lower half of her dress, her cutie mark, those exquisitely toned thighs…
“Goodness, is that supposed to be me?”
Blues nearly jumped out of his seat, and his skin, when he heard Octavia’s voice ring out from over his shoulder. He’d been so focused on his drawing that he hadn’t realized Octavia had finished her rehearsal.
“Oh no, it’s—uh—it’s just a doodle,” he stammered. Blues tried to put away his sketch pad, only to find that it was no longer in his hooves.
“It’s a very good doodle,” she replied, holding the pad up to her face.
But when did she take…?
Beautiful and fast—Blues had completely missed the moment she snatched away his pad.
“I didn’t know you were a musician and a sketch artist. Count me impressed. Envious, really.”
“Well… I’m not a musician any more…”
“Oh?” Octavia lowered the pad and looked Blues in the face, curious. “But you love music.”
“And since when are you an expert on what I love. You hardly even know me,” he snapped, though he hadn’t meant to.
“Maybe not,” she said gently, “but I’ve overhead you practicing with the jazz band. You play saxophone, right? And I’ve heard you sing too. You have a wonderfully soulful sound—and so spontaneous! Classical music is so technical and methodical; I wish I could improvise the way you and your friends in the jazz band do.”
Blues looked down at his lap, a dollop of blush sneaking in under his cheeks. “I don’t know… I mean, I’m good but I’m not great. Not like you…”
“So you just quit?” Octavia stepped closer, her expression suddenly stern, and little bit sad. “You shouldn’t give up on something just because somepony does it better—which I absolutely do not, by the way.”
“Yeah… I guess you’re right.”
“You guess?” Octavia stepped closer to Blues, her agile hooves hardly making a sound against the tiled floor. “Well I know. In fact, I know you’re a stallion of many, many talents,” she said, her eyes tracing the contour of his well-muscled forelegs.
“Oh yeah?” said Blues, giving her a knowing look. “You know, I always suspected you were into—”
“No, no, no,” she said, shushing him quickly. “Don’t say it aloud. Not here.”
“Okay,” laughed Blues. “Don’t get so worked up; you’re secret is safe with me.” He reached for his notepad, but Octavia suddenly sprang backwards, moving far out of his reach.
“Oh no, you won’t be getting this back until you prove you’re not a quitter,” she said, flashing a mischievous grin.
“Come on, Octavia. Quit fooling around.” Blues rose from his seat and started toward her, but she stayed him with a raised hoof.
“If you want this back, you’ll have to take it from me. Quick, give me your pencil.”
Without fuss, Blues passed Octavia his pencil. She scribbled down an address on the notepad, then tore out the page and tossed it at him. “Meet me at that address tomorrow night at nine. You are going to show me one of your many talents, and if I like what I see, then maybe I’ll give back your notepad.”
And with that she strutted out of the empty Concert Hall, leaving Blues reflect on what just happened.
An elated little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know for certain, but he was fairly sure he’d just scored a date with Octavia.
Blues slid the ancient door aside, subjecting himself to the glum vision of auburn paint peeling from aged walls. The gym was old and abandoned, a hollow shell of its former self. Rusted benches, cobwebs and empty plastic water bottles decorated the floor around a boxing ring.
“Punctuality, a musician’s most important priority.”
Blues had to compose himself when he noticed Octavia leaning against one of the turnbuckles. Her lower half--that tantalizing waist, those striking thighs--were barely hidden by a layer of black nylon shorts. They more like a conservative pair of panties than training attire. On her hind hooves was a pair polished black boots, long enough to reach the stifles, leaving her quads well exposed.
Matching black boxing gloves covered her forehooves, and she set them against the ropes after striding over to grin at his blush. He would have spent more time staring than anything else if he let his gaze linger on her naked torso any longer.
“That over there,” she said in a honey sweet tone, pointing to a metronome sitting on the table next to a pair of cobalt gloves and boots, “is what we’ll use to keep track of time...” Octavia grinned at him. “...while you show me one of your many talents.”
Blues could have jumped out of his sheath right there--he almost did, actually--and the task of walking was suddenly much more difficult by the bulge straining against his own shorts.
Blues could feel Octavia’s amused eyes groping him as he donned the gloves and boots. In an opposite corner at last, he noticed the thin outline of her mound, barely visible but definitely there through her own fabric.
The metronome was silent.
Octavia and Blues approached one another before rising to their hinds. He caught her roaming eyes again and it was his turn to smirk. The color in her cheeks signaled her own excitement as well.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, extending a gloved hoof.
Blues remembered her deft hooves from the hall and returned the gesture, touching his own forehoof against Octavia’s.
“Let’s go.”
The two ponies separated, circling one another. His instincts kicked in, and Blues became hyper-aware of his surroundings. The canvas was even. Hard. And though his gloves were soft, the hooves within were backed with enough strength to bench two to three hundred pounds each.
As he circled with Octavia, he heard the ticking. It must have began when he was contemplating her lilac eyes.
She stepped in a uniform fashion, unable to hide her natural grace when she moved.
The ticking had been a distraction.
Black gloves filled his vision in a flash, striking him once, twice, three times. Octavia winked at him, through her love taps. A greeting from a young lover. A playful gesture.
Blues blinked, unsure if it had even happened. The rug of certainty he was standing on moments ago had been tugged one way, but far from pulled out from under him.
Octavia bounced in place, her gloves level with her face. She was leaving her curved stomach open. He took the bait and moved in, determined to enter that way.
Hooves tapped the canvas in far fewer sounds necessary to illustrate the chase Blues gave, heading in the mare’s direction with haste. In four ticks, two jabs were blocked, and Octavia took two more steps out of his way. She kept herself just out of his range, smirking. And he kept playing her game.
A second exchange led Blues in another direction, and a new flurry tapped his face like a polite rapping against a door. He followed her again, like a stubborn dog chasing her heat. Octavia danced aside again, getting in low, and he cursed himself for being drawn into her same half-protective guard. A hard slug--a really hard one, that he hadn’t seen coming--shot into his gut, eating away the air in his lungs.
Instead of capitalizing on her opportunity, Octavia made a show of her hoof-work, pulling out of Blue’s way to give him space.
No, to tease him. Taunt him.
She began circling again, and on instinct, he moved with her. Blues knew another trap was waiting for him. But soon enough, he’d be smooching her right back with his own gloves.
Octavia feinted, and Blues bought another false opportunity, this time earning a lengthier combination of punches for his trouble. His uppercut was countered by a right cross, turning his cheek to one side, just in time to be greeted by another cross in the same spot. She advanced on him, weaving through his returns.
She gave him a kiss on his cheeks, a light peck at his chin. Curious pokes in his belly. A rapid tattoo against his chest to match the one his heart beat on from the inside when she’d close in and duck a missed attack of his.
She backed away for a rest, winking at him. Blues shook his head of the cacophony plaguing his own movements. Where Octavia wasn’t, he always was. Where she wanted to be, she always went.
Ten ticks ended her rest, and she moved back in to play a piece for him. Octavia began playing looser and faster with the hypnotized stallion. She’d dart in, closing with him to the point where they could touch muzzles, before sinking another hoof into his belly, and a combination to his face before dancing away.
Dizzy hooves were countered, and aroused hooves paid them for their transgressions. Octavia knocked Blues from one end of the ring to the other. Though she elected to move in with mere jabs and feints, there was significant strength in her lithe frame. It was enough to blur his vision, the longer he continued to take her punches.
Uncertain hinds swayed, barely able to stay upright. Blues fell into a clinch, which Octavia treated as an embrace. Their chests melded perfectly, his barrel-thick upper body pressed into hers, her back to the ropes. The ringing in Blues’ ears was easily cut into by his date’s whispers, carrying requests for him to stay up just a little longer. That she wants to play a little longer, and he shouldn’t quit out on her. Let her have her fun, and she’ll make it fun for him.
Outmatched by a smaller, swifter prey. It was an act so convincing that genuine shock could be found in the mare’s eyes along with pleasure and pain when Blues’ buried his hoof in her stomach. She let out a soft gasp and nearly hunched over herself. Blues had enough stamina to take her beating long enough to get himself into this position. The same could not be said of her though. Octavia’s strengths were in more technical fighting and speed especially.
She would’ve hit the canvas like a cinderblock if not for those deft hinds, cat-like in their agility, their balance. A quick sidestep ensured that Blues’ follow up liver shot struck empty air. He backed off, impressed, but couldn’t resist the knowing smile when she caught his eye. He’d play a piece for her now.
Blues came in from her left side, and her boots stomped right after his. A hail of hammer blows pummeled her body, preventing any further escape. Blues watched the air escape her when he plucked her heartstrings with his hooves with a similar cadence to which she tested his own earlier.
Octavia threw a desperate hook meant to halt him, but caught another c-sharp in her belly instead. She couldn’t breathe enough to make a sound beyond attempting to suck in air. An attempt denied by a crescendo of lefts and rights that blunted her face. Her muzzle snapped left then right, left then right, left then right--the sound of Blues’ gloves slapping her flesh repeatedly punctuated by the tick of time Octavia had to watch his approach helplessly.
Where they’d been mostly silent before, the grunts and panting between one another increased with the frequency of lovers progressing into more daring activity. Blues gave Octavia another rest of ten ticks, each one longer than the last as she gazed back at him with hungry eyes. He noted the smell permeating the air between the two of them. An intoxicating mix of sweat and unleaded arousal. The fresh kind of air between prey and a predator.
Octavia shot forward to interrupt Blues, whose vision had lingered on her moist mound a moment too long. Her hook was short and sweet and turned away just in time to sneak his glove under hers and pop the underside of her jaw with an uppercut.
Octavia’s head snapped back, leaving her tender stomach open for a second uppercut that brought her down to the canvas, hard.
Blues took it in; Octavia on her back, sweating profusely and wetter than water under her shorts. If she was in pain, she was also in heaven from the way her eyes glazed over. He had a distinct feeling that if she could move her hooves right now, they’d be jammed cannon-deep within her dripping snatch.
Their eyes met again and he shared another gaze of wordless promise. It was a short moment that lasted until her own eyes dipped low, lingering on the visible swell in his shorts.
Blues held his stance while the metronome ticked, each swing of the pendulum another fresh breath in Octavia’s lungs. Soon enough, she was staggering up to her hinds again. Her hungry eyes sank into his flesh like fangs, laser-focused.
Black gloves rose. Polished boots shifted.
Blues stepped forward first, matched by Octavia a split-second after. When he threw his one-two, she blocked the first punch and slipped the second before returning with a counter one-two of her own. Each strike found it’s mark, and Blues reeled back, only for Octavia to press her advance. Before she could follow with a another blow, he planted his shoes and let a wild right fly, catching her on the side and momentarily stopping her advance.
When she hit back with an uppercut that had Blues’ neck barely holding his head aloft, both stopped the waltzing around.
Their skillful boxing devolved into a flurry of pounding hooves, a symphony of pained cries and aroused gasps, a hot, sweaty mess, drowning in the smell of sex and leather and hurt.
Lower jaws were nearly unhinged with swift uppercuts. Muzzles bashed in with wide swings.
The metronome, the leather pounding against flesh, the boots trampling the canvas--they all gave way to the ringing in one another’s ears. There was nothing but each other.
His cross struck air, and hers didn’t. Blues wheezed, throwing another punch, countered by Octavia again. His hinds moved back to gain some distance.
In moments, Octavia was in front of him once more and borrowing the grin they seemed to share tonight.
With a painful bone-crunching noise, her hoof landed a clean Blues’ jaw from a wide swing. He crumpled instantly.
He dimly registered the rustling of fabric and boots flung away before the lilac eyes were looking down into his again.
In moments, teeth bit into nylon, ripping and snarling with fierce urgency, until what Octavia was searching for finally revealed itself, huge and veiny and already spewing trickles of precum. She wasted no time filling her mouth with him, and Blues’ whole world came back into sharp focus as he felt her agile tongue wrapping around his cock. The look she gave him from half-way down his member set him off.
Thighs seized around her soft neck, and his hooves kept her head steady while he bucked her face hard and rough, hitting the back of her throat and bucking harder each time. Once or twice he heard a muffled noise from over his waist. He didn’t take the hint immediately, wanting to feel her throat contract around his shaft a moment longer. Finally, a tapping against his outer thigh told him it was time to let her up.
Octavia mounted him, cum and saliva trailing from strings slurped away from his dick. Blues’ hooves shot around Octavia’s neck, and he jerked his hips up and to the side, rolling the two over and straddling the cellist’s waist. He pinned one of her hooves above her head with his own while the other reached down, stroking her chest down to her belly.
Her gasp was loud when Blues’ pulled back the hoof and punched her in the gut. The gasp turned into a silent scream when he entered her with a hard thrust. Any resistance she could have put up as he took her how he wanted to died in the moan he forced out of her. Blues bucked like he punched, slower and harder than Octavia.
After being worked up so much, having beaten and been beaten against, it didn’t take long to coax an orgasm from the cellist. Octavia’s lips parted, and that was when Blues’ briefly wondered why she never became a vocalist.
It was when Octavia was panting, barely moving and positively soaked below the waist, that Blues realized that the orgasm already came and went. He had rode her hard, and was so focused on the mare under him that he almost forgot what he was doing.
It also took him a few moments more to realize that there was a hoof in his chest, shoving him up into a sitting position. He spent himself, powering into Octavia, and was barely aware of his surroundings when the bone-jarring straight left blunted his cheek.
Blues could see her soundless hooves moving across the canvas and disappearing from sight. A tender hoof turned his face up to see two twinkling lilac eyes, and he could feel exquisitely toned thighs moving up his body, from his stomach, to his chest, to the neck at last.
The stallion’s face was mashed between them by eager hooves, intent on receiving the same pleasure delivered before. Blues obliged because this was another one of his many talents. His tongue didn’t lap at her, she buried his face inside of her and his tongue better damn well be shoved as far within her as possible and scraping at her juicy inner walls.
For a moment, Octavia’s thighs vice-gripped at Blues’ face, and he couldn’t breathe much else but the smell, touch and taste of her gushing mound. The mare threw her head back, whinnying at the orbs of pleasure bursting from within like little firecrackers. Her fluids didn’t drown him, but did leave Blues under her with a very sticky muzzle.
The last note had been played. It was time for the curtain call.
Whether it was minutes or hours since she had finished Blues had trouble distinguishing the two. The ticking of the metronome was long gone, and he was left staring up at the lights above the ring.
There was a rustle of paper, and he realized he had gotten the feeling back in his limbs when he grabbed at what landed on his chest. It was his notepad.
“That was exhilarating.” Octavia’s voice had returned to it’s prim softness. “I told you I would give that back if you could take it from me, but I think you earned it all the same.”
She kneeled to plant a kiss on his lips, quick and conversational, as if they hadn’t spent the last hour beating the hell out of each other and fucking.
“Don’t let me catch you quitting again.” she said with a smile.
Her soundless hooves moved away from him, and out of the ring. Shorts and gloves remained deposited on the table outside, and as Blues came to, the curtain finally fell, and the performance was over.
When Blues looked back, after leaving his own tattered shorts and sweaty gloves behind, he took one last look and thought of a new song. He’d go home, dig the discarded saxophone out of his closet, and play it just for her.
