The Fertility God

by 0011010000110010

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Human, Anthro, Original Character, Sex, Twilight Sparkle
Length: 4649

With the gender ratio in Equestria growing more imbalanced by the day, Princess Twilight instigates a radical plan to stop her species from going under. As time passes and complications arise, she begins to wonder if she made the right choice.

With the population of males dying out in Equestria, the future becomes bleaker by the day. With the tipping point fast approaching, Twilight feels that she has to do something, anything. It is her duty as a Princess to protect the common pony, and with Celestia and Luna unresponsive or otherwise tied up in bureaucracy, she must take drastic measures.

Once the deed is done however, doubt begins creeping up on her. All signs point to the success of the program, but Twilight can't help but think that she might have done the wrong thing.

Fetish Alert:
Transformation, spooge everywhere (eventually) and the blatant wish fulfillment that is HiE, etc.
Anthro tag for good measure, but the only anthro is the human.

Published 2013-12-19 03:40:05 UTC
Last updated 2013-12-19 03:40:05 UTC

00 - Acquisition

It’s night in the city. Shadows abound, obfuscating the concrete monoliths. Those still up rove around in search of something to keep them up. Some are looking for fights. Some are looking for drugs.

One isn’t. He’s walking quickly, almost jogging, keeping to the cold shadows. His head is constantly moving, looking for something, anything. Every sound catches his attention, leaving him a twitchy mess. He’d never been in this district so late. All he had done was lose track of the time, and now here he was, making one of the most ridiculous mistakes of his life. Hopefully, it wouldn’t turn out to be a fatal one.

He made a right at the next intersection of alleyways, looking back over his shoulder. A noise in front of him catches his attention for the upteempth time. However, this time there are several men standing in front of him, waiting. There’s a moment of pure silence, the panicked hesitation of a cornered animal. Without a single thought, the man turns and starts running all in one adrenaline-fueled movement.

But there is no chase, no extended flight of fear and panic. Something hard and cold hits the running man at the base of his skull and he crumples to the ground like a marionette that had its strings cut. The ambushers burst into soft disagreement, all trying to talk over one another without drawing unwanted attention.

After a few tense minutes of quarreling and their victim beginning to come back to reality, they reach an agreement. Two of the men walk over to the moaning sack of flesh, shrugging off ropes hidden underneath heavy coats. With some careful re-arranging, they tie up the man on the ground, making sure that none of the ropes will chafe or bruise. Another man brings over materials to create a makeshift stretcher. Again showing remarkable care for men who just assaulted an innocent civilian, they transfer the borderline-unconscious man to the stretcher. A coat is placed over his mostly-still body.

One of the assaulters barks something at the rest of the men. The way the other men react suggest that he holds some sort of position over the rest. Most of the others look sheepish. The one who threw the iron pipe looks afraid. The leader stares at him for a second, then turns to the stretcher-bearers. He motions with his head, and they start moving.

∭

Out of the inky shadows appear flashing pin-pricks of light. The struck man becomes vaguely aware of noises and the slight swaying sensation of movement. The back of his skull throbs where the pipe made contact, but it felt more like it had been embedded into his brain. This was worse than that hangover after his twenty-first birthday.

The sensation of movement stopped. He tried to sit up, only to be stopped by disorientation and the ropes tied around his limbs. This confused the man. Muggings were common enough and he had since grown used to the many reports, but kidnapping? That only happened to the rich as far as he knew, and he, being a grad student from the US, was not.

This is probably your last day on earth, the dark corner of his mind whispered. Pray that it is, the darker corner of his mind said, supplying the man with “interesting” forms of torture. A metallic click echoed nearby and the man struggled against the rope briefly before he realized that it was the sound of a lock turning.

The soft swaying motion started up again, but was cut short by a gut wrenching drop and the painful crack of his head on a concrete floor.

“_______, careful!” A man hissed in Russian. One of the stretcher bearers mumbled an apology.

“We can’t damage him any more than he already is, or that thing will have our souls,” the first man spat. With that, the abductors carried on in silence, leaving their charge to wonder just exactly what was going to happen.

Ideas, hypotheses, memories all whirled around the abducted man’s mind, turning it into a chaotic miss-mash of firing neurons. Seemingly by chance, he thought of his younger brother. They had drifted apart when he left for college, especially when he went off to study abroad. As of right now, that opportunity didn’t seem so bright anymore. Especially as he was currently being carried off to god knows where.

Step by step, the man was carried further and further into the unknown. He knew he probably should be panicking by now, but he couldn’t dredge up enough strength to. Another click, and the rusty grating of a second door rang out in what sounded like an enclosed space. Probably an empty hallway, the man thought. The stretcher bearers took a couple more steps and stopped again.

“Alright. We’re here!” The leader spoke, almost shouting the second sentence. “We got what you wanted!”

For a brief second, the abducted man thought he had been captured by crazy criminals and cursed his luck for the nth time. Just as he was getting through the fifth word, a palpable sensation of energy washed over him, and he shivered involuntarily.

“Oh, I hate that feeling,” one of his captors whispered. Someone shushed him.

{Is he unharmed?}

If not for the gag, the man would have gasped. He tried to, anyway, and was met with the taste of greasy cloth. Some ethereal voice had spoken in his mind. Granted, it was hard to hear, echoed, and was confusingly distorted, but that made it all the worse.

“A-as little as possible,” the leader stuttered out after a second. He sounded afraid, like a man at gunpoint.

For the first time, the man felt pure, unadulterated fear. All exhaustion forgotten, he struggled against the ropes binding him like a fish out of water. Suddenly, the electrical tingle of energy intensified. It felt as if someone was examining him, noting his every movement. He froze, mind blank except for the overwhelming need to run, escape, flee to a safe place where voices didn’t speak in his mind and terrify Russian criminals.

{Acceptable. Your payment will be delivered individually to your domiciles. Do not speak of me. Do not commit any more crimes. I will be watching.}

Some of the men released their breath in long, relieved sighs. The stretcher was lowered to the floor and they left, eyes glued to the floor, trying to look as if they weren’t hurrying to leave.

The man lay there and stewed for a second, before renewing the futile struggle against his bindings. A door swung shut with a metallic clank. The feeling of energy intensified again and he could imagine his hair standing on end.

{I’m sorry. This is the only way.} The voice said, strangely apologetic.

The man thought it had sounded female at the end, but it was still too distorted to tell. The energy continued to intensify, becoming audible as a high-pitched hum that buzzed in his ears. The man braced himself, preparing for the worst, whatever that could be. He became aware of the rattling of rocks, and the sensation of the floor vibrating. It felt like the entire building was coming down.

And then something brushed his face. It was the soft caress of a hand, or perhaps a cool pillow moving across his cheek. With that, his head collapsed into nothing, every sensation flipping inside out and wrong side up until all was black.

A point of light appeared in a nondescript location, giving some sense of direction. He centered it in his vision, or whatever he was using currently. Then there were ten, and after that, thousands, millions. They started moving, becoming trails of light streaking past his point of view.

He tried to turn to follow them, but was unable to see anymore. With a jolt, he realized that he was laying on the ground again. It was much warmer here, wherever he was now. He tried the ropes again, but no luck. They had made the journey with him.

{Please don’t struggle.}

The voice came out of nowhere and without any presence of energy. It was much clearer, and easily identifiable as female. Something removed his gag. It was warm and left the skin it had come into contact with numb.

“Who are you!” the man shouted, fear garbling his words almost beyond comprehension.

{I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. This is only a one-way spell. But I’m sure we’ll get to know each other soon.}

The man whimpered. Without notice, a needle was stuck into his forearm. A slight chill emanated from the entry point, and the man could imagine all kinds of horrible toxins that had just been shot into his bloodstream. The sensation of laying on the floor began to slip away, fading into the distance. His thoughts slowed.

Then there was nothing.

01 - Purple Angel

The purple angel visited me today. It looked at my arms. It adjusted something—a catheter, I think. Was I sick? It certainly felt like it. Everything blurred together; one giant mass of light and sound and pain.

Nothing was concrete, only the purple angel. I knew she was an angel because she had wings. She had flared them wide, once. The image of those magnificent wings were seared into my mess of a memory, flashing bright whenever I closed my eyes.

I do not know where I am. I want to still be home. But there are no purple angels at home. This is a strange place, dark and damp smelling. It makes me think of dirt and wood. A thought drifts across my mind, confused at why there would be a hospital in a place such as this one. I try to grasp it—to flesh it out, to ponder why—but it escapes, leaving me to stare at the ceiling.

My stomach feels empty. It always does. But I’m never hungry. I assume I am not well enough to eat food. Sometimes memories of food visit me and make my stomach angry. Once it wasn’t a memory, but a smell. It drifted down and wrapped itself around my nose, letting go after a short, tantalizing moment.

It was a sweet smell. Sugary. Some sort of confection. I had thought to myself: perhaps the purple angel is baking me a cake. How kind of her, I thought. But it was not to be. She had come down to examine me as always, empty handed and no cake in sight. Or any other confection, for that matter.

Oh! Here comes the purple angel. She leans over me, as usual. I look into her face, trying to turn my head. She has such strange beauty. Purples and violets and such large eyes. I have never seen such a face as hers—if only I could see it in all of its glory. Everything is a mess, as if some idiot rubbed Vaseline over the camera lens. She mutters something, and the scratching of a pen on paper reaches my ears.

A flash passes me by. I’m writing something on a screen. The words are blurry. I should know what they mean, but they aren’t there. It’s important, though. I can feel the determination to make a deadline faintly, that slightly panicked feeling mixed with stress. It doesn’t feel good. I blink, and I’m greeted again with the face of the purple angel.

There is something important that needs to be done.

I close my eyes.

∭

I stare at the ceiling. I don’t have anything else to do except feel hungry and sleep. I want the purple angel to come back. It’s nice to have company. She’s always in a rush, floating things around, taking copious amounts of notes on everything. The slowly growing fur on my limbs, for example. I don’t know why it’s so interesting that she feels she has to write a novel everytime she comes down to examine me, but it’s better than staring at the ceiling.

Well, I suppose I didn’t have fur before. Or ever, so it probably is important or something. Maybe I’m just hallucinating. I have been feeling rather feverish lately. I groan and raise a hand to rub my face. Some time ago, the ropes had disappeared, but I still wasn’t going anywhere. Putting my hand on my face was work enough; I’d just crumple to the ground if I got out of bed.

Raising my hand, I stare at it, flexing my fingers. They don’t look any different. I drop my arm back down to my side, it already feeling sore in protest of being held up for too long. I wonder if there was ever a time when I wasn’t catastrophically tired. There must have been, according to the memories that would occasionally flit by and leave behind interesting tidbits of knowledge.

The sound of two empty halves of coconuts fill my ears. They twitch slightly. It feels odd, but natural, somehow. The sound grows louder, and I look over to see the purple angel. She is staring fixedly at the top of my head. Her face glows, and a loud snap fills my left ear, causing it to rotate away. Her wings shuffle, reseating themselves. I idly wonder what they feel like, wishing I could see them clearer.

She leans over my torso to check the catheter. Purple feathers fill my vision, rippling as she moves. Grabbing my chance I raise my left arm, fighting against the fatigue, and quickly dump my hand on her wing. Both her wings pop open, forcing my hand off. It falls off the bed, twisting my arm at an unnatural angle. Her head jerks around, and we make eye contact. Her face has an interesting shade of red to it now, and I wonder why.

The purple and red look nice together. Maybe I should start touching her wings more.

We stare at each other for some time. This is the first time I can remember actually having eye contact with her. I blink, and suddenly she’s shuffling papers together, pointedly not looking at me. A dull throb in my shoulder reminds me to pull my arm back up onto the bed. She gathers some other materials, and starts heading back upstairs.

I want to say something, to tell her not to go, that I’m sorry, but nothing comes out. I exhale, and close my eyes. Maybe when I open them again, she’ll be back. She has lovely purple eyes.

∭

I’m beginning to feel stronger. Moving my arms around no longer pains me, and I might even be able to sit up and get off this bed. If my legs weren’t in constant agony, I would have done so long ago. They burn and ache constantly, preventing any sort of rest. My feet, especially. They cramp up at least once an hour, if my sense of time is correct. Which it probably isn’t, due to the pain-induced sleep deprivation.

The pit of my stomach is feeling as empty as ever. It’s almost to the point where it’s painful, but the writhing mess that is my legs holds a higher position in my mind. I’m fairly certain that there are not many diseases or illnesses that have symptoms like these. It’s certainly nothing I’ve ever heard of before. Not that that list is very long, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

The muscles in my right leg give a particularly nasty spasm that make me arch my back in pain. A blacksmith trying to forge a sword using my leg as material would probably hurt less. Time trickles by, second by excruciating second. Eventually, the cramp recedes, and I’m left with just the aching, burning pain of overstressed muscles. This place definitely isn’t a hospital if they won’t even give me painkillers. In fact, the only person I’ve seen here is the purple angel.

That thought makes me snort softly. This isn’t heaven, either. My snort turns into a pained grunt, as my left leg seizes its chance to cramp up. It’s agony. All I can think about is the twisting, shrieking pain in my leg. I grab at my bedsheets, trying to distract myself. It doesn’t work. Through my spasms, I can see a smear of purple in the corner of my vision.

The cramp abruptly stops, and I’m left gasping for breath, sweating profusely into the sheets. Weakly, I try to slow my breathing. I’m tired as hell, and frustrated to the same level. If I had enough energy, I’d like to get up and put a few holes in the wall. I don’t know why I’m so mad, but I just want everything to end. No more pain, no more hazy mind.

Something more than sweat rolls down my face. I close my eyes, grit my teeth. I stay this way for an eternity, until I feel something touch me. I don’t want to look, but I do so anyway. It’s the purple angel. Her eyes look sad. I don’t know what to do, so I close my eyes again.

{I’m sorry.} She says in her weird thought-speak.

I look at her, confused. She had never spoken to me after I came here. Probably. I’d like to think that I’d remember such a time considering the utter lack of contact with other beings. I can feel my anger begin to fade away. It's not worth it; I'm too tired. I don’t even know why I was so angry. She must be doing the best she can.

{I’m so sorry, but it’s for a better cause. Hopefully you can forgive me.}

I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t think she’s doing anything to me, is she? No, she can’t be. She’s too nice.

I want to tell her this, but she won’t understand me. So instead I raise an arm, trying to pull her into a hug. But she's pulled away and my arm isn’t long enough, and it just flails weakly in the air. Sure, my legs feel like they fell off and my mind is constantly clouded, but I’m not dead yet.

In the end, all I can do is smile at her. I hope it’s enough.

∭

As each day passes, I become more alert and focused. I think it’s been several weeks since I first arrived, but it’s hard to tell. The purple angel has been visiting me less and less. I can only dream what’s been keeping her from the daily examinations.

My vision, too, has been improving. I can see that my legs are now the wrong shape. Dense brown hair now covers the entirety of my body. It’s almost like fur, but the hairs are not really long enough. At least, in my opinion. It probably is fur.

The worst of whatever I have seems to be over. My legs are no longer hurting, but my feet are numb. I hope they don’t have to be amputated.

I sit up, the motion making me almost feel alive again. I slip out from under the sheets and put my numb feet on the floor. With a much smaller effort than it seemingly should be, I stand up, swaying slightly. That was too easy, I think to myself. I’ve been laying down for god knows how many weeks and I can just stand up with barely any troubles?

I tentatively take a step, praying that the miraculous recovery didn’t stop at standing. It didn’t, and I find myself walking around the room. Completing a lap, I head for the door with a bounce in my step. Just as I reach it and extend an arm to try the doorknob, the door is thrown open, knocking me off balance but luckily not to the floor.

Something titters in a strange, warbling language. I catch my balance and turn to see the purple angel. She’s a lot smaller than I thought she was. Oh, and she’s also a horse.

I goggle at the small purple horse in front of me that also has a horn and wings. Some tiny movement releases me from the spell and I stumble back, shouting incoherently. This was very, very wrong. There are no purple horses on Earth. I fall on my ass and scoot my way back into a corner of the room and curl up.

This can’t actually be happening, I tell myself. I wish myself away, back home, the university, someplace familiar. It doesn’t work. I sit there and try not to cry.

I cry anyway. Arms wrapped over my head, face buried in my curled up legs, I wait for everything to return to normal. What I get instead is a warm wing draped over me like a living blanket.

I throw my arms around the purple angel-horse and draw her tight. I revel in the warmth of her body and start ever so little to calm down. Rubbing my face into her chest, I notice that my face has extended outwards into a muzzle of sorts. Just like the one she has, my mind notes.

I can’t seriously be turning into a horse, though, can I? I don’t answer the question, instead shoving it back into the dark depths of my brain. I have no idea how much more I can take.

I stay there awhile, intertwined with a purple horse. As crazy as all this is, it makes me feel better.

∭

It’s been some time since that mental breakdown. My vision has been completely restored, walking around is as easy as breathing, and I’m eating real food. I almost feel normal again. Almost.

I haven’t changed any further, to the best of my knowledge. But I’m left with wonky legs and a pair of hooves, a pelt, moving ears, a small muzzle, and a tail. Which I found out hurts quite a bit if you sit on it awkwardly for too long.

All that’s left is the matter of the sentient horse that’s taking care of me. Every time I think I’ve gotten used to it, she looks at me with those eyes and I can’t think straight for the rest of the day. Her eyes are as big as my fist, and twice as expressive. It’s as if I fell into uncanny valley and hit every bump on the way down.

I wish that was everything, though. Lately, my… crotch has been tingling. Everything down there’s turned black, which nearly gave me a heart attack the first time I inspected myself. Also, I have no way of telling, but I swear that my balls are growing. I can barely touch them, they’re so tender. Sitting down might become an issue in the future.

Other than the black skin and flared head, it didn’t really look all that different. How fair is that, to be turned into some kind of horse hybrid and your dick stays the same size, I asked. Not that being turned into a mutant was a good thing to begin with, I had reminded myself.

I’m always at half mast, too. It scares me, even more than all of the other changes so far. I have no intention of turning into some sex-crazed slave, but it might not end up being my choice. I’ve been fighting the urge to touch myself for the past couple of days now. It gets harder and harder not to, as I don’t have anything else to make myself busy.

It gets especially difficult when I think of the purple horse and her rear end. It’s a relief that she hasn’t entered the room for the past couple of days. Only bad things could happen if she came into the room with me feeling like this.

I know there’s something wrong with my head if I’m finding a horse’s bottom attractive, but then I think about tenderly caressing said bottom and everything else flees from my conscience.

Oh god, now I’m thinking of it again. What was once a half mast now towers above the landscape of my resting body, quivering in the warm air. I wipe my face with both of my hands, trying to calm myself down. It doesn’t help.

I think of nothing more than lightly running a hand up one of those succulent purple cheeks, of running a thumb over the outer lips. I look at her and she looks back with half-lidded eyes. I lean over to—

I slap myself, hard. The stinging of my cheek finally gets me to calm down, just in time for lunch to slide into the room from underneath the door. Sighing, I get up, my slowly deflating boner flopping around, a small bead of precum forming at the tip.

To my surprise, there’s a small piece of red meat on the plate, the first I’ve seen here. There’s also a graduated beaker next to the usual cup of water. Thanking my luck, I go to grab the treat, but her thought-speak stops me.

{If you wouldn’t mind, could you… ejaculate into the beaker?} She sounds embarrassed, spitting the second part out so fast I can barely catch it. {Please? I’ll try to get you more meat.} She adds. Even if I could respond, I don’t think I could say no. Especially if she was making the same face she was making in my mind’s eye.

{Just… slide it out when you’re finished.}

I could hear her walking away. At least she wasn’t going to stick around. First things first, I’m famished. Kneeling down and grabbing the food, the slice of meat disappeared much quicker than I wanted it to, along with the rest of the food and water. Wiping my mouth and staring at the now empty plate, I contemplated what exactly I was about to do. Glancing at the beaker made my penis twitch in anticipation.

Let’s just get this over with, I thought to myself. I reach over and grab the beaker, wrapping my other hand around my shaft. Feeling it grow, the constriction of my hand nearly sent me over the edge.

I grunt and begin stroking, making sure to keep the beaker in the line of sight. The steady drip of precum increased, flowing over my hand. No matter, I just want to get this over as quickly as possible. The ever-present tingling sensation in my crotch ignited, turning into a blazing inferno.

Several more strokes, I thought, and that’s it. Teetering on the edge, a vision of the purple horse’s ass flashed before my mind, and I fell off. With a jolt, my body tensed up, firing the first shots into the beaker. Only they weren’t the shots I was expecting from previous quickies, they were more like ropes of semen spraying from my dick, coating the inside of the beaker.

After an indeterminable amount of time, I realized that I was still stroking my softening shaft. Stopping, I gaze weakly at the beaker, double-taking at the amount of cum slowly congealing at the bottom. I couldn’t read the script on the side, but it was a damned good sight more than the average 2-10 mL. Definitely more than a cup. Not caring about post-orgasm dribbles, I flop onto my back, utterly spent.

Some time later, I roll over and push the beaker back underneath the door.

∭

The purple horse visited me on several occasions since that unmentionable time. Surprisingly, the feelings of lust disappeared, leaving only a need for contact. One that I tried to fill by hugging her and refusing to let go. It didn’t work, unfortunately. This period was almost worse than the change. At least I hadn’t truly been lucid during that time.

I want to get out of here. There’s nothing for me to do other than eat, sleep, and jerk off. It’s mind-numbingly dull.