Author's Note
I am legally obligated to remind you, once again, that all characters depicted are of appropriate age and no suggestions to the contrary exist. Anywhere. Ever.
If the reader wishes to imagine the characters differently, I can't control his or her mind.
However, officially, that's not what I wrote, and I will not take responsibility for such a depiction.
Make-out Point
You hum quietly to yourself in the heat of the school parking lot, your hands in your pockets as you lean patiently against the door of your dented, second-hand clunker. Your homework for the week is already finished and you breezed through that calc test in second period, so aside from the sunburn you'll probably get from standing outside for so long, it's been a perfect day. A hint of movement from the school gymnasium catches your eye, and you take a step away from your car.
What better way to end a perfect day than a drive home with your perfect gal?
A smile rises to your face as Sweetie Belle emerges from the door of the gym and comes bouncing in your direction. She hasn't changed out of her cheerleader's uniform, and you can still see just a hint of dampness around her neck and down her sides where her sweat has soaked into the cloth. She greets you with a cheerful grin as she slips her backpack from her shoulder.
“Hi!”
“Hey, Sweetie,” you reply as you take her bag. “How'd it go today?”
You open a door and toss her things into the back seat. “Ugh! It was just awful,” she says with an exaggerated, squeaky moan. “We had to practice on the field today, but it's so hot!”
That's the truth; it's downright sweltering outside. And the heat that washes over your face as the two of you climb into your car is even worse.
“Eep!” Sweetie releases a little squeal as the back of her bare midriff touches your blistering leather seat.
“Uh, sorry about that,” you mumble. “I tried to cool it off in here, but I think my air conditioner got messed up over the weekend or something.”
“Ooh, this heat is making my hair all frizzy. Dumb August,” she grumbles as she twists her finger around her pale purple curls.
“Um, um, sorry,” you repeat, and you adjust the glasses slipping down your sweating nose as you start the engine.
The two of you roll down your windows, hoping to cool off as much as possible as you head away from the parking lot and into the city streets. With luck, the traffic will be light on the way to Sweetie's house in the suburbs.
You do your best to keep your eyes on the road while Sweetie Belle sits at your side, her collar in her fingertips, pulled low to let the rushing air blow down the blouse of her uniform. She stares contentedly out the window, indifferent to the fact that every breeze and her every motion exposes the thin, white straps of her bra and the pale skin of her flat, teen chest. Her sweat still glistens in tiny droplets on the bump of her collarbone.
She suddenly perks up as though she'd just remembered something important. “Oh yeah!” she says, “Do you think you'll be able to drive me and my friends to the mall this weekend? Apple Bloom says she needs to buy some pet stuff. I told you about Winona's puppies, right? Oh, they're just so adorable!” She squeezes her hands to her chest in delight. “You won't be busy or anything, right?”
You silently cringe and slump a bit lower in your seat. “Um, I guess that'd be okay.”
“Is something wrong? You … don't have to if you don't want to.” Her big, green eyes strike you with a look of disappointment.
“No, it's fine! I just … don't really think your friends like me too much, is all.”
“Oh, that! Pffft!” She flops back in her seat and waves away your concern. “They're just jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Over you, of course!” She giggles. “Scootaloo especially. She still can't believe I got a boyfriend before she did. One who's so cool, and smart, and nice, and … cute ….”
Jeez. Even after all this time, you can still feel the blush rising to your face when she says stuff like that.
“Hey, um ….”
She sits with her hands in her lap, her eyes down and her fingers nervously clutched together.
“You don't have to take me straight home, do you?”
With just a bit of hesitation, you reply. “Well, I probably should. Your parents are expecting you back soon, right?” You push your glasses up once again and look to your side as you wait at the traffic light.
“I was just kinda, sorta thinking we could stop somewhere and um … kiss? Maybe?”
Now you're both blushing, the fresh redness adding to the pink flush on her cheeks from the summer heat. You quietly stutter as you anxiously reach for the turn signal. “Um, yeah, I-I … sure, just uh … yeah.” Your mind all abuzz, the car suddenly fills with blaring music and loud, rough screeching as your hand accidentally flips on your windshield wipers and smacks into the radio.
“Sorry!”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Only a few turns off the normal path to Sweetie's home leads you to the deserted lot overlooking the river on the edge of town – also known as “make-out point” … on Friday night, that is. Now, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, it's just an empty, ugly hilltop. But it'll do.
You and Sweetie Belle sit together in the back seat of your car, still sweating even with all four doors thrown wide open. Her hands are in yours, your thumbs anxiously stroking her skin as she stares at you across the long, leather seat. Quietly, you begin to speak. “Well, I –”
You're shocked at her eagerness as she quickly darts forward and catches your lips in a firm, simple smooch. It's not the first time you've kissed or anything, but the sugary sweet feeling still sends your insides tingling.
Suddenly, her mouth begins to shift, parting ever so slightly and then pressing against yours once more, sending you swooning at the soft, happy sound she makes and the touch of her wonderfully soft, pink lips – an open-mouthed kiss!
Her arms rise and sit about your shoulders. She begins to lean in as her kiss continues, her lips enclosing each of yours – the pressure delicate, plush, and slightly damp upon your mouth as her short, eager breaths drift over your tongue – gently slipping away as she lifts her head, then once more crashing hotly upon you.
Finally, she pulls away, leaving the sound of a quiet “smack” as the kiss abruptly ends, and she sits with rosy cheeks and a nervous expression as she watches for your reaction.
“W-was that okay?” she shyly asks.
“Um, what? Yeah, I mean, it was – that was pretty great.”
She smiles, and her muscles relax as she falls against you with a sigh. At some point, you realize, your hands had risen to her sides. Her slender tummy sits cool and slick between your palms.
All at once, she scrambles back. “Oh no!”
“What!? What is it!?” You spin about in a panic.
“I'm still all sweaty!” she says. “I probably stink! Oh, gosh!”
Quickly settling your pounding heart, you smile and catch her hand. “No, it's fine. I mean, you smell nice.”
You anxiously shuffle in your seat as you force your eyes away, your thoughts turning to the forbidden cache of desire hidden at the back of your mind, unlocked by the touch of her lips and the excitement of this illicit summer rendezvous. “In fact, if you wouldn't mind – that is, if-if it's okay with you –” you stammer, “I'd actually kind of like to … smell you some more? Um, but only if it's not too weird or anything!”
“You want to smell me?” Sweetie seems uncertain but not upset with your strange proposal. She kneads her hands together between her milky-white thighs. “Well, I guess that'd be okay.”
“You're sure? Oh, um, wow. Okay then … here I go.”
Your shaking hands slip around her body. A bead of sweat rolls down the small of her back and over your fingertips, and you fight down the nervous, nauseous feeling in your stomach as you lean your head to her neck and breath deeply the scent of her body.
“D-do I really smell okay? Really?”
“Yeah! Really!” you reply.
The breath of your nose tickles her skin as you drift along her neck and down her shoulder. A small slip of her chest is visible just past the edge of her uniform at the fold where her arm meets her body. The clean smell of her fresh sweat mixes with the heat of the summer air. You sit there, the tip of your nose hovering, nearly touching the pit of her arm, and your cheek lingers by her breast, separated just slightly from the softness of her modest chest.
“It's not gross?” she asks, her voice nearly a whisper.
You don't reply, but instead you bring your hand to her elbow and gently lift, exposing the skin beneath her arm. A single drop of sweat drips down, trickling in a long trail down her body. Her armpit bears just a tiny hint of soft, violet stubble.
The smell of her perspiration seems to flood your senses, and you slowly sniff as your nose draws ever closer to her body. Her sweat is clean, cool, and salty, like a subtle ocean breeze passing over her skin. Yet behind it there still lingers the barest hint of her body's odor – a tiny, bitter suggestion of the dirty, unwashed allure of her hidden places.
A breathy giggle escapes her lips. “It tickles.”
You can almost hear the pounding of her heart when she pulls you close, her uplifted arms wrapping about your head and burying your face into the pit of her arm. Her firm body is slick and wet under your lips. You catch a bit of her salty flavor on your tongue, and you inhale a long, heavy breath, your fingers clutching at her back, squeezing her to your chest and tracing long paths over her soft, dripping flesh as they slide slowly up and into the short blouse of her outfit.
Her fingers curl in your hair, your own sweat adding to the slickness of her arm that sits upon your face, and she crushes you even more tightly against herself. Your lips part just a bit, eager to catch the rolling trickle of the sweat that pours down in drops from her pale, white underarm, and she continues her quiet giggles and long, breathy sighs as you press your nose and lips into the dripping skin.
At your side, you feel her leg rising upward, and her foot starts to softly stroke your thigh. Without realizing it, you'd begun leaning over her, nearly forcing her to her back as you hold her in your hands. For the moment, the feel and scent of her body is everything to you – that wet, salty flavor, that pungent perfume of a hot, active girl filling your mind, caressing your cheek with it's steamy touch as your nose presses and slides over the soft, bare flesh of her armpit. She laughs at the tiny kisses you leave, each one an impression in her sweat, and you feel every drop and every inch of her skin that surrounds your face as you nuzzle the space beneath her arm.
You don't even notice when the tip of your finger seems to catch on something until suddenly a strange snapping sound pops from inside Sweetie's shirt and she lets out a startled gasp. Her arms quickly wrap about her chest and she pulls away.
You stare at each other, your breath heaving and your faces blazing red.
“Um, what did – did I just –”
“Y-you kinda … unhooked my bra.”
“I – that – it was an accident!”
“Um, y-yeah … yeah, I know.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The two of you are unusually quiet on the way back to Sweetie's house. You hope you can get her home on time – a glance at the clock on your dashboard suggests that you should make it back early enough – but most of all, you hope you haven't screwed everything up with your stupid nose and busy fingers.
Sweetie Belle remains unmoving, her cheeks still blushing and her head down.
“Um, I don't ....” She hesitates. “I don't think we should do that anymore.”
You force down an unhappy groan as a burning feeling of regret begins to creep up your spine. “I'm really, really sorry, Sweetie. I d-didn't mean for any of that to happen,” you say. “It was all my fault and I shouldn't have asked you to do something like that.”
“Oh, no! That's not it! Actually ....” She pauses for a moment, and she nervously brushes away the windblown curl that sticks to her forehead. “It's just that I think we both might have liked that a little bit … too much.”
“Y-yeah. Maybe.”
Her lip clutched in her teeth, her blush grows even stronger as she considers what she'll say next. “So, was that like … second base?”
You cough and release a quiet, uncertain laugh. “Well, I'm not entirely sure that's even in the stadium, exactly.”
She nods and for a moment seems deep in thought. “Baseball is complicated.”
“Yeah. Wait, what?”
Your cousin Scootaloo stares at you with a combative smirk. A bead of sweat drips off the tip of her nose. Your body is tense and your ears are filled with the bouncing tump, tump, tump of the basketball on the concrete.
You break left. The ball is in your hands as you lift your shoulders for the pump fake.
You twist right.
With a quick step forward, you break past her defense and go for the layup –
“Rejected!”
The ping of the ball rings through the back yard as her smack sends it flying into the grass.
She stands under the net with a grin, looking down on you with her hands on her hips as she prepares to gloat – as always. “What's the score again, short-stuff? Twenty to twelve? I've been in the lead for so long I think I stopped counting.”
Yeah, she's feeling pretty full of herself, just because she's won a couple of games of one-on-one. Now, already on your fourth game of the day, you're running on pure stubbornness. The late afternoon sun is at your back, low in the sky but still blazing on Scootaloo's long concrete driveway while any shade cast by the squat form of her house falls on the unmowed lawn of her backyard.
“Feh!” You grumble under your breath, both at the score and at her insult. “Yeah, 'counting.' I figured you'd have trouble with that part.” Where does she get off calling you short, anyway? She's only … slightly taller than you. Very slightly. Probably less than an inch even.
She laughs. “Ooh, that was a good one! I think you talk trash about as well as you shoot.”
Scoots likes to pretend the game's been a cakewalk, but both of you are clearly exhausted and drenched in sweat from the summer heat. Her breath is still heaving as she stands there in her cutoff shorts and baggy tee shirt, the orange color fading rapidly into wet patches under her arms and all down her chest – darker orange from her collar to the billowy cloth sitting loosely on her breasts, her nipples standing out in perky little peaks of fabric. Scootaloo refuses to wear a bra, and she'd simply left her unbound chest to bounce with her steps and jiggle just slightly whenever she took a shot.
Not that you've been looking or anything, because she's your cousin and that would be messed up. And plus, she's a complete ass.
You tell her as much as she lifts the bottom of her shirt to wipe her forehead, carelessly exposing the bronze skin of her flat, athletic tummy shimmering with sweat that trickles down and pools in her shallow belly button. “Just get the ball, ass.”
“Hey now! Little kids shouldn't be using that kinda language,” she says, moving to the edge of the drive where the ball sits in a tuft of high grass just under the fence that separates Scootaloo's yard from the neighbor's. “It's not nice to call people names. You wouldn't want me calling you a retarded little wiener-baby who totally sucks at basketball or something, right?”
See, now she's just asking for it.
You're determined to figure out a perfect way to get her back for that one, and you watch, deeply in thought, as she bends to retrieve the ball. As her hands reach down, her loose shirt rises off her hips to expose the bare skin of her back and the elastic waistband of her panties.
Sometimes the problems of life have a way of working themselves out.
Your hand darts forward, the backs of your knuckles softly grazing the slick cheeks of her rear end, your middle finger sitting for just a moment in the sweaty valley of her crack before you clutch her panties in your fist. Scootaloo jerks upright, but with the ball in her hands, there's nothing she can do to defend herself.
“Wah!”
She gives a startled yelp as you give her sweat dampened panties a hard tug, nearly lifting her off the ground as you leave them wedged painfully between her clenched cheeks.
Not exactly the mature thing to do, but it sure is effective.
You quickly back away into the grass, your laughter filling the yard as you watch her hobble about, stiff legged and pigeon toed, angrily picking at the back of her shorts.
“Agh! You stupid little dork!” She gives her hips a quick wiggle and a shallow squat as she finally manages to work the underwear out of her crevices. “What do you think you're doing, anyway? You can't just do that kinda thing to a girl!”
You're still doubled over as she stomps in your direction. “Yeah, sure. What? Did I hurt your balls there, Dude-aloo?” Oh yeah, she's pretty mad now, but what's she gonna do about it?
Your laughter cuts off abruptly.
Her arm suddenly wraps about your throat in a rough chokehold, and you quickly bring up your hands to pull at her wrists. “Hey! Let go!”
It's no use; she must be stronger than you'd thought because her arm is not budging. The moist cloth of her shirt is soaked in her cold summer sweat and pressed hard against your neck. And as you stand there, stuck under her arm, the harsh and slightly spicy smell of her body alerts you to just how sweaty she is. “Holy … Do you ever take a shower!?”
“Not on weekends I don't.” You could actually hear her grin when she said that.
“You want me to seriously die or something, skank? It stinks under here!”
“Tough noogies, dorkus,” she says. “Hey, speaking of which ….”
You cry out as her knuckles begin to grind harshly into your scalp. As her fist twists painfully in your hair, your manly brawling instincts begin to take over. With a sudden burst of force, you wrap your arms around her knees and lift her into the air.
The awkward move pulls you off balance and sends you both falling into the shady grass of the yard. Her grip on your neck loosens for just a moment as you turn about, but she recovers quickly, and she catches your head in a two-armed clutch, crushing your face against her body. What's more, she's managed to clasp her legs around your back too. For all your effort, you're in an even worse situation than before.
“Ha! Nice try,” she says, “but you'll have to do better than that!”
Her hips press into your belly, held against you by her long, athletic legs, and your hands push against the ground on either side of her body as you try to support the weight of the two of you at once. Scootaloo's sleeve lies against your eyes in a damp bunch, leaving you all but blind as she squeezes your face into the pit of her arm. Her upper arm on one side of your cheek and the cold wetness of her shirt on the other, you can feel the skin of her underarm pressed hard against your nose and the slick feel of her sweat as it drizzles down her body. The light wisps of her armpit hair tickle your face – soft, unshaven, violet hairs, wet with tiny, salty droplets. They sit on your lips and paint wet, tickling touches on your cheek, at times even brushing against your tongue as you gasp for air.
The two of you are still breathing heavily from the struggle. With every breath she takes, you feel her chest rising and falling against the side of your face. And with every breath that you take, you inhale the hot, humid smell of her sweat. There's a slight but unmistakable bitter bite in the scent. She'd said she hadn't showered, and you definitely can tell. Her body is thick with the heavy odor of her perspiration, left to sit unwashed from her active teenage body, mixing with the sharp perfume of week-old deodorant.
You're in a tight spot for sure. No matter how much you struggle, you can't seem to break free of her hold. You merely manage to grind your face even more deeply into the hot crevice of her pit, your nose and lips and cheeks sliding against her dripping skin as you fruitlessly wiggle about, your exertions forcing you to breathe even more of her moist, musty scent. You need to break free, and you know you can't just punch her in the stomach or something. What you need is another cunning solution.
Scootaloo giggles above you. “Hey, stop wriggling! Just give it up already.”
Suddenly, the answer dawns on you in a flash of inspiration.
You lift a hand from the ground and bring it to the edge of her belly beneath the folds of her shirt. Acting quickly, you slide your fingers up along her skin, over her belly up her ribs, and with a final push, you jam your fingertips into the ticklish underside of her armpit.
Immediately, she switches to defense and releases you from her grip as she twists with peals of laughter. Her arm clamps down on your hand in her panic. She tries to roll away and push against you, but her strength is stolen by your wiggling fingers. Now that you're free, you could probably just let her go and back off ….
Or you could get some revenge.
Darting forward as she turns and tries to crawl free, you swiftly throw your other arm about her middle and pull her against you, her back against your chest and your arms wrapped about her front, one on her bare belly and the other still furiously tickling under her arm.
Her abs flex under your hands as she shakes with her laughter and struggles in your arms, constantly trying to pull away, still kicking out and hoping to push you off, all to no avail.
“Haha! Stah – aha – stop it!” she laughs into your ear as you lean over her shoulder.
You hold her tightly – tightly enough to keep her held in place and feel every breath that leaks from her spasming chest. Both of your hands sit inside your cousin's shirt, beneath the cottony cloth and against the naked skin of her body, still hot from your fighting and playing. The pit of her arm continues to grip your fingers as they poke and slide against the sweltering, hairy, feminine flesh that carries the heavy scent of her summer activity, and every so often you feel the bottom of her breast, slick with her sweat and soft against your wrist as she twists and struggles.
The wavy locks of her hair flip droplets of wetness on your forehead. She laughs and shouts your name, and her elbows flail short, pitiful blows against you. “Let go jerk!”
Suddenly a voice calls out from the window of the house.
“Are you two roughhousing out there?”
The two of you immediately shove each other away and plop down to sit calmly in the grass.
“No, mom!” Scootaloo answers.
And technically, she isn't lying.
You wait silently for a response. When none comes, Scootaloo relaxes with a sigh and then kicks you in the leg.
“Butthole.”
Finally worn out from the heat and wrestling, you don't even bother with a reprisal.
The shade feels almost cold compared to the summer sunshine. You and Scoots sit there together on the cool grass and catch your breath as your sweat slowly dries and your damp clothes begin to feel icy and uncomfortable on your skin.
After a moment, she stands and dusts the grass from her shorts. “Let's just finish that game tomorrow or something. I'm going inside for a Coke.”
“Hey, make sure you save one for me,” you call out as she walks to the door.
“Oh, I totally will,” she says in the most sarcastic voice she can manage and just grins at you as she steps inside, leaving you alone and probably Coke-less.
You scoff and lean your elbows on your uplifted knees, too tired to think anymore and too content in the feeling of the shade and the summer breeze to care. Before you realize it, your fingertips are rubbing together. You absently bring your hand to your nose and softly breathe the strange, familiar scent of Scootaloo's sweaty underarm still lingering on your fingers.
It really sucks that a girl like that is your cousin.
“Skank.”
Apple Bloom's bare feet send quiet patting sounds through the silent house as she travels down the staircase to the ground floor. Granny Smith has been in bed since sundown. And since her big brother Mac has fallen asleep on the couch with the muted football game playing on the television and Applejack is out dealing with some sort of committee thing for school, there's no one left to take the blame if Apple Bloom's sleepover gets too loud – unfortunately.
She tiptoes out of habit from the living room into the kitchen. As she opens the refrigerator, a cool rush of air sweeps over her bare legs, and she takes three bottles of soda, clutching two in the crook of her arm against the loose fabric of her oversized T-shirt. The third she takes in her hand and presses against the sweat-drizzled skin of her neck. Giving a sigh at the icy touch of the glass, she swings her hips around and taps the door closed with her butt before lazily heading back upstairs.
“Dang it's hot tonight.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Meanwhile, Sweetie Belle lies on her belly atop Apple Bloom's checkerboard bedspread. The legs of her lavender, lamb-print pajamas sag around her bended knees as her feet idly wave back and forth in the air.
“You think I should try a new haircut?” she asks over the music from the television, her eyes never leaving the magazine laid out in front of her.
“Huh? I don't know,” Scootaloo answers disinterestedly, game controller in her hands, her focused expression looking a bit out of place with the lazy way she slouches in Apple Bloom's desk chair. The squeak of the opening door finally pulls her attention from the TV.
“Here you go, y'all.”
Scootaloo darts forward with a quick “Thanks,” and snatches a bottle from her hands.
“Hey, Apple Bloom, how do you think I'd look if I fixed my hair like this?” Sweetie rolls over and presents the open magazine to Apple Bloom, who gives the page a quick glance.
“I think your hair's fine the way it is,” she replies as she hands a bottle to Sweetie Belle. Then, grasping her own bottle in the edge of her shirt, she opens the top with a twist.
Scootaloo plops back into her chair and pauses her game. She guzzles her drink while the slowly turning electric fan blows over her dewy skin. The night is so humid that even her loose, gray tanktop feels smothering. “You know what,” she says. “You need a refrigerator up here.”
“Why? Because you're too dang lazy to walk downstairs?”
“No, so we can all crawl inside and cool off.”
Sweetie Belle chimes in. “Wouldn't we suffocate and die?”
“Well, obviously we'd be taking turns, dummy.”
Apple Bloom grins and snorts while Sweetie simply rolls her eyes.
Scootaloo pauses her game and extends her feet, giving her toes a little wiggle and flex when she sets her heels on the surface of the little wooden TV table. Without socks, at least she can be satisfied that her feet won't be sweating like crazy. Not any more than the rest of her anyway. The cold drink in her hand is just what the doctor ordered. It's one of those hot summer nights when the whole world turns into a jungle, and a single open window and a little reciprocating fan just aren't enough to keep the room comfortable. She was only partially joking about the refrigerator thing.
She takes a big swig and sets the bottle aside on Apple Bloom's cluttered vanity table. A drop of sweat rolls down the small of her back as she rises just a bit from the leather seat, and with a quiet yawn, she stretches her arms over her head.
“Eww!”
Scoots turns her head to the unexpected voice. “Huh?”
Sweetie Belle looks on with a raised eyebrow. “Scootaloo, you don't shave your underarms?”
Her hands still over her head, Scootaloo gives her an incredulous look of her own. She purses her lips, and her eyes go to the wide opening in her tanktop where her upraised arm exposes the sweaty surface of her unshaven pit. The breeze of the fan rolls under her arms in a sudden flash of cold and sends waves along the magenta patch of hair. “Huh, would you look at that? I guess I don't.”
Sweetie cringes in disgust. Apple Bloom, on the other hand, nods thoughtfully. “I know I wouldn't shave mine either if I didn't have to. Itchy as all get-out. In the winter time, I just let it grow.”
“That's just gross. How can you two stand being all hairy like that?”
“Aw, who cares?” Scootaloo roughly rubs the tips of her fingers over her hairy skin with an audible scritch-scritch before lowering her arm. “It's not like anyone will ever be looking at my armpits anyway.”
“Well, they might.”
“Oh, really? Who?” Scootaloo scoffs and quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I can just see all the guys at school going crazy about it. 'Hey, Chad, check out the pits on this one, bro!'”
Sweetie Belle begins to grow pink in the cheeks and stiffly stares straight ahead while her friends look on with growing interest.
“Sweetie Belle?”
“I, uh … need to go freshen up, I think.”
She quickly stands and rushes awkwardly out the door. Scootaloo calls out as she leaves. “Have a good pee!”
The door shuts behind her, and Apple Bloom and Scootaloo wait for just a moment before turning to one another.
“What the heck was that about?”
Apple Bloom seems a bit worried. “You don't think she has diarrhea, do you?”
“No! I mean the armpit thing. Why did she get so weird all of a sudden?”
“Huh. Yeah, now that you mention it, it seemed like she was embarrassed or something. And whatever it was, it don't look like she's gonna let us in on the secret, neither.”
Scootaloo frowns for just a moment before a smirk slowly rises to her lips. “Well then, I guess we'll just have to convince her to spill the beans.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Sweetie hesitates when she returns and peeks anxiously inside. She's pleasantly surprised when she finds Apple Bloom and Scoots absorbed in a two-player round on their game. With a quiet sigh of relief, she retrieves her magazine and returns to her place on the bed.
Embarrassing secrets notwithstanding, Apple Bloom's sleepover has been loads of fun, even if it is a little hot and stuffy without the air conditioning that she's used to. Her lamby jammies are pretty thin, but they're just not suited for nights like these. She picks at the buttons of her shirt, plucking the fabric from her chest in hopes of relieving the sticky feeling on her skin.
Eventually, the comfortable quiet that had taken over the room through the long, peaceful minutes is suddenly broken by a frustrated groan.
“Darn it, Scootaloo, I don't know why I even bother playin' these things with you!”
“It's not my fault you never practice.”
“Shucks, I just don't like these dang games. You know that,” she says with a huff. Apple Bloom gives the controller a little toss onto the bed and then falls back against it herself. “Ain't there anything else to do?”
After a moment's thought, Scootaloo replies with a cunning grin, “Hey, yeah! I've got the perfect thing.”
She takes a final guzzle from her soda and quickly settles down into the floor, her legs crossed in front of her, then places the bottle on its side and sends it spinning with a flick of her finger.
Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle remain motionless, confused and somewhat uncomfortable. “Uh, Scoots, I ain't so sure that 'spin the bottle' is exactly –”
“I have a boyfriend, you know.”
“What? No, not 'spin the bottle,' you perverts, 'truth or dare.'”
“Oooh!” Apple Bloom begins to smile, happy to have avoided a very awkward situation, but then her thoughts catch up with her. “Wait a minute,” she says, “Why? Doesn't seem like much point to it with only the three of us.”
“You know,” Scootaloo replies, her voice dark with frustration and conniving plots, “It's about that thing we were talking about earlier. Remember?”
Apple Bloom catches her covert wink. “Oooh!” she says a second time. “Yeah, that is a good idea.”
Sweetie Belle shuffles along the sheets and off the bed. She takes her place beside Apple Bloom on the floor. “What exactly are you two talking about?” she asks with a hint of suspicion.
“Nothing,” Scootaloo replies smoothly, “just thinking about some awesome ideas I had earlier. You weren't there. Okay! I'll go first.”
She gives the bottle a spin. Around it goes, swiftly passing each of the girls until finally it comes to rest, pointing, unfortunately, at Apple Bloom.
Scootaloo is disappointed for just a moment. But actually, she realizes, choosing Apple Bloom first will only make the whole plan that much more effective. “Okay, truth or dare?”
“Um, how about … truth.”
Now comes the hard part: coming up with something just embarrassing enough to be convincing, but not so embarrassing that Sweetie would try to choose “dare” when it comes to be her turn. Her eyes narrow as she thinks. “Apple Bloom … have you ever, uh …. Oh! Have you ever peed in the shower?”
“What?” Apple Bloom frowns, and Scootaloo begins to snicker at her blushing cheeks while Sweetie slouches low and tries to hide her grin behind her upraised knees.
“Well,” she continues, “I don't make a habit of it or anything but, I mean on occasion I guess I kinda … yeah.”
“Ha! I knew it!” Scootaloo laughs and thrusts an accusing finger in Apple Bloom's direction. Sweetie joins in with a giggle when a pillow from the bed pops Scoots in the face with a quiet, fluffy poof.
“Oh, shut up. It ain't that funny.”
Scootaloo lifts herself off the floor and sits down comfortably on her new pillow. “Aw, settle down, Apple Bloom. It's not like it's a big deal or anything,” she replies in her simple and tomboyish way. “I do it myself all the time. Just let the water run over you, take a little bend at the knees, and let 'er go. You don't even have to stop washing, really. Pretty darn convenient if you ask me.”
“Gross!” Sweetie squeaks with a mocking grin. “Am I the only one in the room who isn't a super weirdo?”
“Well, you're the only one who's super prissy.”
“Alright, alright,” Apple Bloom cuts in, “that's enough of that stuff. No one wants to hear a bunch of pee stories. It's my turn next.”
She spins the bottle and it comes to rest on Sweetie Belle.
“Okay, Sweetie, truth or dare?”
After only a moment of consideration and thoughts on the sorts of humiliating dares that her friends were sure to come up with, she quickly answers “Truth.”
Immediately, Apple Bloom and Scootaloo share a meaningful glance. The sentiment is clear:
Gotcha.
“What got you so flustered a while back when you and Scootaloo were talking about underarm hair?”
Sweetie Belle sits frozen there on the floor. A flash of heat rises to her face, and she can feel a wash of fresh sweat sitting on her forehead. The hum of the fan and the constant chirps of the crickets just outside the window are the only sounds in the room as everyone waits for her response.
“W-well, okay. I guess I can tell you.” She begins to twist the fabric of her pajamas between her fingers, rarely looking her friends in the eye as she tells her story. “It was last week. My boyfriend was driving me home after cheer practice and we … kinda ended up at make-out point.”
Scootaloo gasps. “Oh my gosh! Did you two do it?”
“Of course not! Are you crazy?”
“Then what?”
“Well, we kissed and stuff and then he … um, I let him ….”
“What?” Scootaloo and Apple Bloom rise from the floor and begin to lean forward with wide, captivated eyes. This is an even bigger deal than they'd thought.
Sweetie wraps her arms tightly around her legs and cringes as she mumbles into her knees. “He wanted to … smell my underarms.”
Her friends fall back, their faces locked in dumbfounded expressions. Sweetie continues to sweat in the long, empty silence before matching bouts of shocked and incredulous laughter suddenly echo through the little room.
“What?”
“Oh my gosh! Smell your underarms?”
“You can't be serious! What, did he start kissing them too?”
“Well, kinda, but –”
Her protests are quickly drowned under a flurry of questions and shouts of amazement. Her already pink cheeks begin to grow red, and her mouth begins to harden into an irritated frown.
Eventually, Scootaloo stops to wipe a tear from her eye. “That's the funniest thing I've heard all day. Wow, I knew that guy was a nerd, but I didn't know he was such a perv.”
“He's not a perv! It was really nice and romantic!”
Apple Bloom responds with a subdued and apologetic smile. “Hey, now, we didn't mean nothing by it, Sweetie Belle. It was just unexpected is all.”
“You can say that again,” Scoots adds with a grin.
Sweetie Belle huffs, and she brings her legs down, sitting on her knees as she gives the bottle a spin.
“Alright,” she says as the bottle slowly spins to a stop. “Apple Bloom, truth or dare?”
Apple Bloom hesitates. Only now does she realize the dangerous flaw in their plan. “Uh … dare?”
Sweetie Belle's smirk is disturbingly sinister. “Okay. Since you two seem to think underarms are so funny, how about this one: I dare you to stick your nose in Scootaloo's armpit. And you have to stay there for a whole minute.”
With a barely perceptible grimace, Apple Bloom turns to Scootaloo, who clearly finds the situation incredibly entertaining. She curls her arm behind her head and gives her moist underarm a slap. “You heard the lady,” she says.
“Sweetie Belle, you better keep an eye on that clock. I'm only doing this for one minute, remember.” Apple Bloom crawls across the open floor to Scootaloo's side.
For all her complaining, it is a relatively easy dare. But that doesn't make it any less embarrassing as she sits on her hands and knees, staring at the damp skin under Scoots' upraised arm.
Scootaloo's oversized tanktop drapes low and loose over her chest, ragged and clearly chosen for comfort more than looks – or modesty for that matter; more than once throughout the night her friends had caught a glimpse of sweaty, orange boob carelessly exposed behind the sagging straps. Apple Bloom watches as a bead of sweat rolls from the base of her arm, along the bare skin of her ribs and down the side of her belly.
She steels her resolve and then, with a deep breath, she presses her nose against Scootaloo's armpit.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, only to begin spitting out the tips magenta hair that had stuck to her open lips.
“Hey, cut it out! That tickles!”
Apple Bloom can practically feel their eyes on her back. Her gaze nervously drifts one way then another, finding nothing but the all-too-close sight of her friend's skin – her long, athletic legs below, bare beneath a pair of shiny basketball shorts, or the modest peak of her chest.
And so she closes her eyes, and she finds herself lost in the feeling of her heart pounding, the ticklish brush of thin, feathery hairs on her lips when she breathes, and of course, the scent. Her lungs are filled with the odor of Scootaloo's sweat – not just the fresh sweat of a summer night, but also the lingering, day-old scent of her body held for hour after hour in the wet, salty fold of her hairy armpit, a smell that's a little harsh and just a tiny bit bitter.
But what she finds most striking is the tension – the odd, intimate feeling of the warmth rising from her skin and the cool wetness that presses against the tip of her nose. She can feel her own breath fluttering against those long, untrimmed girl-hairs and washing back over her face, carrying that heavy scent and the warmth of Scootaloo's body over her lips, along the surface of her neck, and down to the sweat-glistening skin of her chest.
“Okay, time's up.”
With a final puff of breath that draws a startled hoot from Scootaloo, Apple Bloom draws away and quickly returns to her place on the floor.
Sweetie Belle looks entirely too satisfied with herself, and Scootaloo smirks as she clutches her hand beneath her arm and rubs away the ticklish feeling of Apple Bloom's nose. She snickers. “Now remember, Apple Bloom, this was just a one time deal. We're not going steady or anything like that.”
To her surprise, Apple Bloom meets her grin with a glare, and gives the bottle yet another spin. “Wait,” Scoots says, “you want to keep playing?”
The bottle twirls silently about the floor under the intense stares of the three girls. As it stops, Scootaloo's expression grows from a smirk to a look of cunning defiance.
“Alright, give me your best shot,” she says. “Dare.”
Apple Bloom gives her response without missing a beat. “Scootaloo, I dare you to kiss Sweetie Belle.”
She pauses for just a moment to savor their horrified reactions as they both gasp and try to stammer out a suitable reply.
“But I –”
“– Under the arms.”
With the surprising demand complete, Scootaloo practically melts into relaxed laughter while Sweetie, on the other hand, grows even more frazzled. She quickly wraps herself in her arms, clutching her armpits as her eyes dart between the two of her friends.
“Come on, you guys, let's just call it a draw or something, okay?”
“Oh no,” Scoots replies. “You think you can dare us and not face the consequences? We're seeing this through to the end.” She stands with an evil grin and hooks her thumb into the air. “Let's go, Sweetie. I'm sure your boyfriend won't mind. I won't even use tongue.”
She wavers just a moment longer, then drops her arms with a sigh. “Fine.”
She pulls at the long sleeve of her pajamas, drawing it up past her elbow where it sits in a wrinkled bunch of cloth. Hooking her fingers through, she lifts her arm and tries to pull the wad of cloth down to expose the pit of her arm.
“Huh. Looks like you're gonna have to take off your shirt.”
“Um –”
“Come on, we all know you've got nothing to see under there anyway. Chop chop!”
Sweetie Belle grumbles under her breath as her hands go to the front of her shirt. “I'll chop you in a minute.” The folds of her billowy blouse begin to spread as one by one the buttons come undone under her fingers.
After the last button is unfastened, she stands to her feet. Her shirt falls open as she rises from the floor, and with a bashful glance at her two friends, she shrugs it off, letting it drop lightly from her back and onto the bed nearby.
Her skin is a pale, soft white and misted with sweat over her shoulders and her neck, along the surface of her collarbone, and down past the strapless bra that covers her flat chest and wraps around her back in a wide band of snowy lace. The air from the fan is cold on her bare skin, and it's all she can do to keep her arms from immediately wrapping about her body and hiding from the stares of the other girls.
Apple Bloom's bed smooshes delicately under her bottom as she sits and clutches her hands between her knees, shyly attempting to cover her breasts behind her upper arms.
“Okay, n-now what?”
Scootaloo smiles and hops up to the bed at her side. “It's just a game, Sweetie. Lighten up a little.”
Sweetie Belle yelps with laughter as Scootaloo pokes a finger up and under her arm. The bed beneath them squeaks as she jerks away in a fit of giggles, and Scootaloo swiftly catches her elbow and pulls it up and over her head. She bends low and presses her lips to Sweetie's armpit in a quick, ticklish smooch.
“See? That wasn't so hard now was it?”
She replies with a flustered smile and an exasperated roll of her eyes as Scoots circles about to the other end of the bed.
With a touch on Sweetie's upper arm, she gently nudges the shorter girl to lean to the side. Her cheeks still somewhat flushed with embarrassment, Sweetie Belle complies patiently, tilting her body and stretching her arm high over her head. The bedsheets shuffle softly under her hips, tugging against the bottoms of her pajamas as she moves and ever so slightly exposing the lacy waistband of her panties.
Scoots leans down. Her hands sink into the soft surface of the bed on either side of Sweetie's petite body as she contemplates just the right way to make her squirm.
With a devious look in her eye, she slowly brings her face to the pit of Sweetie's arm. The skin of her underarm is moist, glazed with just a hint of sweat. But she smells clean – flowery and freshly washed. The perfume of her soap and the lingering scent of her recently laundered pajamas rises with the warmth of her body. Sweetie shivers discreetly, disguising the quiver with a toss of her hair as Scootaloo blows a sneaky breath upon the bare, wet flesh of her underarm. Her lips touch, delicately, and sit on the cool dampness of her pit as her nose presses into the soft flesh of her arm above. Then, forcing away a smirk, she slowly slides her lips to the side.
“H-hey, what –”
Without warning, Scootaloo gives her skin a tiny nip just at the edge of her chest. She laughs as Sweetie squeaks and falls upon the bed, clutching her hands under her arms.
From her place on the floor, Apple Bloom had been watching the entire spectacle with a strange intensity and a constant grin of amusement. Scoots flashes her a suggestive smile, then looks to the floor where the bottle sits, still ready for yet another spin. With at tap of her toe, she sends it in a short arc right back toward Apple Bloom.
“You probably think you're pretty smart, huh Apple Bloom? I bet you think no one can top your dare.”
“So, what, you think you can do better? Ain't likely from where I'm sitting.”
“Oh yeah?”
Scootaloo reaches to her side and catches the hand of the still-recovering Sweetie Belle.
“Hey!”
Hand-in-hand with Sweetie, she lifts their arms high in the air and pulls her body close. She hooks her fingers into the arm-hole of her tanktop and yanks it wide to hold her slick skin against the side of Sweetie's damp, lace covered chest. Their armpits sit flush, pressed one against the other.
“Give 'em a lick,” she demands. “Both of them.”
“N-now hold on a second, Apple Bloom, I'm not – I don't think –” Sweetie Belle's squeaking, stammering protests die on her lips as Apple Bloom rises from the floor.
Her large, billowing T-shirt catches the breeze from the fan as she practically falls upon them. Her arms spread wide, catching them both about the stomach and forcing them off balance as she leans upon her bed for support. Sweetie anxiously bites her lip and Scootaloo begins to chuckle, her shirt still drawn open, long, red hair falling in tickling cascades over her sweating chest as Apple Bloom lowers her lips into the damp, slippery space beneath their arms.
She hovers nose deep in the soft trench between their bodies, one side light and smooth and sweetly scented, the other dark, tufted with soft, sweat-flecked hair and washed with the dirty stink of perspiration. Pressed together, the depressions of their underarms form a shallow bowl, dripping with their body heat and slowly trickling, salty moisture. Her tongue slips from her mouth and into the center of the smooth crevice. Their skin squeezes ever so slightly against it as it slides up the long, slick divide, and the scent of two sweaty armpits – two sweaty bodies forced together – fills her nose and seems to lay a suggestive hint of flavor in her mouth. She feels Sweetie tremble, and Scootaloo's untamed hair tickles her cheek as the tip of her tongue slowly drifts upward from their chests and along the sensitive skin of their pits.
She turns her head just a little. Her cheek is smeared with wetness as it slides roughly along Scootaloo's coarse, hair covered armpit. Her fingers grasp at the bedsheets and Sweetie clutches at her arm, a soft mutter of protest squeaking from her throat as Apple Bloom lays the flat of her tongue upon her pale, naked underarm and covers it with a sloppy lick. She turns her head again, Scootaloo's heavy scent flooding her senses completely as she laps at her friend's unwashed pit, thrilling at the dirty feeling of her wild hair piling under her tongue and growing ever more slick with her saliva.
Finally, Apple Bloom lifts her mouth and softly speaks. “See? Ain't nothin' to it.”
She feels a hand at her side, stroking the edge of her belly through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Not bad,” Scootaloo replies. “So are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna give us a dare already?”
Sweetie's eyes are wide and uncertain, her face a blazing red and her curly hair matted in stringy strands against her sweaty cheeks. Scootaloo simply stares up with a smirk.
Apple Bloom watches them both as she rises. Her hands go to the bottom of her baggy T-shirt. She lifts it up and over her head and throws it carelessly to the floor, leaving her with just her bra about her meager chest and her panties, white, simple, and snug upon her hips. She takes her friends by the hands and sits upon her bed, and she beckons them up to her sides as she shuffles back to lean against the pillows stacked in a soft pile at her headboard.
Giving the long, red locks of her hair a flick, she stretches her arms overhead. Her hands brush gently against the wall, and her bare legs stretch and flex against the fabric of the bedsheets that sit soft and cool under her thighs, cold to the touch through the thin, silky cloth covering her backside.
She brings her nose down and breathes deeply her body's own sweaty fragrance. Her armpits are no less wet than the others', but her scent lies somewhere between the salty perfume of Sweetie Belle and the heavy aroma of Scootaloo. She carries just a touch of harsh odor, the hearty, clinging mist of hard work and summer chores. But beneath that is something else, something delicate and inviting, like the skin of an apple that's just been plucked from the tree.
“Wha!?”
A jolt sparks through her body at a sudden wet touch under her arm. Scootaloo surprises her. Too eager to wait on her demand, she glares up with mischievous eyes as she drags a long, cool lick up Apple Bloom's armpit.
She draws back just a little and smacks her lips. “Hm. Pretty good,” she says. “But it doesn't really taste like apples.” With two fingers, she slowly strokes a pair of slick trails above the chest strap of Apple Bloom's bra. Her fingertips spread wide, sliding in short arcs and pressing softly into the smooth skin of her armpit, slippery with spit and cool, shimmering sweat.
Sweetie Belle crawls across the bed on her opposite side on hands and knees, timidly moving one pale arm in front of the other. She draws close, stops, then demurely places both hands together and carefully brings her parted lips to Apple Bloom's underarm.
Gently and uncertainly, she prods with her tongue, barely touching Apple Bloom's body, and begins to lick short, thin tracks with just the tip. Her little licks slowly begin to grow longer as her eyes shut and she begins to grow more accustomed to the feel and flavor of her friend's supple skin. Tiny drops of sweat roll over the end of her tongue as it paints Apple Bloom's armpit with light, tickling strokes.
“Mmmm~” Apple Bloom quietly moans, her hair tousled by her upraised arms. Her toes curl and clutch at the coverlet of her bed, and her knees spread wide, her body exposed in a lewd, lazy sprawl as she luxuriates in the alternating humid heat of the air and cool of the fan blowing over her bare skin. Her ears fill with the sound of heavy breath passing through open lips, quiet sighs, and the wet slaps of eager tongues on the drool-soaked pits of her arms.
On one side, Scootaloo slurps and laps at her pit with the flat of her tongue, her thumb constantly caressing the edge of her dewy armpit, her fingers by her mouth as she alternates hard licks and gentle strokes of her fingertips.
On the other, the tip of Sweetie's pink tongue covers her underarm with tantalizing, torturous little flicks. She can feel the tingling licks all over her skin, from the deepest valley of her armpit to the edge of her chest, just shy of the soft flesh pressed beneath the lacy fabric of her bra.
What Apple Bloom didn't notice, on the other hand, was the sound of the doorknob turning at the entryway of her room. Only a movement caught from the corner of her eye is able to finally draw her attention, and she's immediately frozen as she suddenly comes to recognize the face of her sister.
“W-w-what? Applejack?”
The girls abruptly stop their motions, and every eye turns toward the foot of the bed. Applejack stands with a smirk and a quirked eyebrow, a pie perched on her hand. “Well,” she says, “Looks like you girls are having a gay old time up here, huh?”
She turns away and takes a few short steps toward Apple Bloom's vanity table. “I brought y'all a pie. Don't seem like anyone'd be interested in that, though, on account of y'all got your mouths full already.”
“No, it-it ain't what it looks like! See, we were just –”
Her words falter as Applejack all but ignores her, placing the pie carefully upon the tabletop. Apple Bloom can only watch in confusion as she pulls her hair free of her ponytail and begins to unbutton her shirt.
“Maybe I can help y'all out.”
Applejack's shirt flutters to the ground, and she gives her long, blonde hair a shake. It cascades in a flourish over her freckled shoulders and falls over the pale skin of her bare breasts, the soft, golden tone of her chest darkening abruptly into a dark summer tan over the skin of her arms.
She falls heavily into Apple Bloom's desk chair and fixes the girls with a smoldering, lidded gaze as she reaches aside and scoops out a heaping handful of apple pie. With an audible “squish,” she squeezes it between her palms and slaps it under her arms, first one, and then the other, leaving her armpits dripping with heavy globs of amber sludge and bits of fruity crust.
“Come and get it, girls.”
Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo scramble from the bed and kneel on either side of her sister's seat. They tilt their heads back and immediately begin to enthusiastically slurp and lick at the sloppy apple mess beneath her farmer-tanned arms, Sweetie clutching at the chair and washing her underarm with her eager tongue while Scootaloo sucks loud, wet mouthfuls of sugary sludge from her skin, her fingertips prodding at Applejack's bellybutton and sliding delicately along her firm tummy.
“Wha ….”
Apple Bloom watches in astonishment as Applejack feeds her friends pie from her underarms. Their mouths wide open and their necks craned back, she can't help but imagine them as a pair of baby birds chirping for their mother.
There's a knock at her windowsill. She turns, only to find Pinkie Pie smiling back at her with a bundle of balloons tied around her middle. “Hey, can I join the party?” she asks as she floats there.
“Wha ….”
She looks back to her room. In the doorway, Granny Smith and Macintosh stand with approving grins. Mac even gives her a silent thumbs-up as everyone watches Sweetie and Scootaloo go to town on her bare-chested sister's armpits.
“What in the world is going on here?!”
Applejack sends her a smile. A lock of her blonde hair has fallen over her eye. “Don't worry, sugarcube,” she says. “There's still room for one more.”
With her arms locked together behind her head, she slowly draws her foot up with a long, slow stroke along her leg and sets it on the edge of the chair, shuffling her skirt open and spreading her thighs to reveal her –
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
“Gaaaah!”
Apple Bloom's breath comes in rapid gasps, and her heart throbs in her chest as the nightmare vision fades from her eyes, replaced by the comforting darkness of her room.
She shifts her body a bit and suddenly notices a sharp pain in her fingers. “Ow! Dang it!”
Quickly pulling her hands from where they'd sat pressed for hours under the pits of her arms, she thrusts her aching fingertips into her mouth.
Eventually, the pain subsides and the beating of her heart slows, and with a huff, she throws her arms and legs wide upon the wrinkled bedsheets.
The sheets are strewn wildly about her bed, and her long nightshirt sits bunched about her chest, leaving her sweat-drenched skin open to the cool wind of the fan whose soft hum and intermittent breeze seemed to haunt her dream.
And what a dream it was. As her mind begins replaying the memories of her armpit nightmare, she begins to grow more and more irritated with the odd, disgusting visions she'd seen. She's fairly certain the blame lies with Sweetie Belle and her creepy boyfriend for planting those weird thoughts in her head. Oddly enough, the more she thinks about it, the more she begins to feel slightly ripped-off as well. It hadn't even seemed like a dream at all until right at the end. What was up with that?
She tosses about with a sigh, silently hoping that she won't have too much trouble getting back to sleep. It's a school day, after all.
But soon enough, she's safely drifting off again to a restful sleep. And as she does, her fingertips slip once more back to her mouth, wetting her lips with the strange, salty flavor of her sweat.
