The violent exhales of a disgruntled sleeping partner coxed him back into consciousness. Weary that any bold movements may awaken the pony next to him and unleash a wrath his tender little anus couldn’t bear to handle again, his used the blanket of the night to shroud his desperate antics. If he was to have any hope of speaking out tonight, the restraints had to go. Fortunately there was an outstanding assortment of varying flavours of lubricant scattered around the place that would ease him of his bedside shackles easily enough, surely the malicious mare only a few mere inches away from him won’t notice?
Freshly freed from his bout with bondage, the scaled intruder took his chances cautiously, making sure not to make too much noise as he shifted across the room, ensuring his timid movements wouldn’t gain the attention of their nocturnal house guest, Owlowiscious. Knowing all too well that their feathered fellow fornicator was recording their last intimate session not too long ago, it was a safe bet that the camera was still on, and if he was caught on it that it would be the only evidence necessary for another plot pounding. It took far longer than expected, but with the risk being so high, he didn’t mind having less time to act. As he reached the study desk, the purple plotter knew exactly what to do next...
Welcome to Flankbank
You are now logged in as Gemstoner83:
Well spank my flanks and call me Daring Do, what in all of Molestria am I doing on this motherbucking website? At least it’s not some Clopaholic circle jerk fantasy thread I suppose.
First off, let’s lay down some ground rules before I plunge my pitiful existence and what’s left of my dignity deep down the frequently visited remains of sweet Incestia’s puckered cunt; nude pics are welcome. Unless you’re some sick stallion with an urge to bury their muzzle deep into the scaly ass of a baby dragon, then it’s off to the glue factory for your sorry schlong.
Number two; bitching and whining that I’ve hurt your precious feelings won’t get you a sack of shrivelled dicks. Still, if you feel the need to speak your mind and since I know a lot of you REALLY need to share all that horse cum you’ve got sloshing around in your gullet, I’d highly recommend closing this tab and return to skulking on message boards to call ponies out on being “FAGS” on Foalchan. Over here, the saddle gets strapped on tight and if anypony has a problem with that, feel free to nurse your stiffy with a little magic, hammer, crotch combo. Trust me, once you start whackin’ it like it’s a parasprite, it’s guaranteed to get the blood flowing down there again; or up there, if you’re a unicorn. Because we all know those fleshy head shafts of yours can bring a little magic to a tight situation (and don’t get coy unicorns, unless you’re some backdoor meat hoarder, you’ve all done it.)
Now that we’ve got all that out of the way; hold on to your trotter knockers all you dirty mares out there glossing the ol’ meaty muffin lips with a moist hoof whilst reading this, because your world (and your crotch) is about to be spread wide open!
And that last section was a complete waste of time; wasn’t it? Considering that everypony on this site are twelve year old colts who spend their days tuggin’ it to Manecraft and picking their ring thinking about Kinkess Cadance. So anyhoof; stop fishing for chocolate logs, go clean the offending hoof(ves) and learn how a REAL stallion (so to speak) trots his plot around town. Trust me, pay attention long enough and you’ll be drowning in more pony pussy than you can munch on!
So, since you’re all probably wondering who exactly is this all too suave, edgy maverick that is Gemstoner83; allow me to introduce myself: In the real world, where vaginas are more than just an old mare’s tale, everypony calls me Spike. I’d shake your hooves but I’m pretty sure you forum feeders aren’t really the kind to clean up after they’ve jacked off to hardcore zoosadism, are you? Now, before I end up flaring up somepony’s allergy to being butthurt, I’d rather get something out of the way. And I’ll say it now; no I’m not trolling you! Do I sound like the kind of guy who wants to spread the legs of some billy goats and ride them rough underneath my bridge of pettiness and low self esteem? Buck no!
Anyway, enough of the lengthy tangents, Miss Cheerilee would paddle my scaly rump black and blue if she could see me now. Now that’s some “Physical Education” I could get behind, I’ve been a baaad baby drag... uh, I mean before we delve any deeper into this glory hole of buggery we’ve got going on, there’s something you should know. I’m not just a dragon, I’m a dragon plushie.
Hay, sit the buck down those of you who think I’m socially depraved enough to be horsing around. It’s true. This loveable rogue you’ve come to adore is nothing more than scale-textured fabric stuffed with more white stuff than a cock craving colt on hearts and hooves day. Not to mention some interesting ‘accessories’ sewn into my loins that my owner deemed necessary for her erotic studies. You see, originally I was just another stuffed monstrosity being popped out of the assembly lines for the company Hemp-ho. To be precise, I was modelled on the toy line My Brittle Person. You know, that show for little colts that’s disturbingly popular with older mares because their clits flicker at the thought of using and abusing a human sex slave? And then they released that spin-off movie Homosapia Guys that turned everypony’s clop material into actual ponies and tits were twisted about it being a cliché Wonderbolts Academy cash-in? Of course you do since you’re all social outcasts who find pleasure in fantasising about bucking the brains out of frail, defenceless humans but let’s back on track, shall we? I was part of THAT toyline and nopony wanted some bastardised dragon version of their favourite dog, so naturally the company scrapped the line and we all ended up being thrown in the trash. It was tragic, a very traumatising time of my life. If only I had somepony with big, strong forelegs to cradle me in and nip my dragon tits with their teeth or something. Well, not just anypony. Her.
I can remember it as if it was only five years, eight months, two weeks and thirteen days ago. It was like any other typical morning in Molestria; the wind was blowing, the trees swaying in response, the birds chirping away to express their joyous bliss, and there I was, a lifeless stuffed dragon in the middle of nowhere being skullbucked by an Ursa Minor.
Since I wasn’t really alive back then, there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him setting his Everfree cock rocket loose into my soft little eye socket. That and it’s hard to say “that’s some nice eye candy,” when you’ve got a sack of boulders in your mouth. Don’t judge me, with a dong that long the balls have gotta’ hang out somewhere, right? So there I am with my stitching coming loose, the fabric of my face all torn up and there’s plenty of stuffing (so to speak) getting sloshed around in my sensitive little hole. A helpless dragon plushie turned improvised fleshlight for a sexually frustrated Ursa Minor, doesn’t the thought just tickle that shrivelled pickle of yours?
After an eternity of acting as the local cock warmer, the savage humping and rhythmic pounding I was subjected to was cut short by the sudden squeak of a young filly. Since this Ursa Minor had some kind of phobia of waving around his genitals in front of young, helpless mares; he tucked his junk between his legs and scampered off cheeks blushing and balls swinging to the melody of the wind. Hesitant and weary at first, the little pony slowly but surely gathered the courage to emerge from her hiding place when she spotted me. She took her time, but she approached me nonetheless. I was a mess. With a huge gaping hole flapping around shamelessly, and both stuffing and Ursa splooge-r leaking out of it, I must have been the most repulsive stuffed animal you could find. But she didn’t care, for some strange reason, she adored me. Her rich violet eyes glimmering with warmth and affection, her soft coat of a distinctly light shade of purple brushing against me as she slipped me into her saddlebag, and that striped flowing mane of moderate sapphire offered a gentle and comforting place to rest my disfigured head. Each an outstanding physical attribute of that adorable little unicorn that took me home with her to Cunterlot that fateful day.
She was ever so innocent back then. She galloped for miles without pause, a distance even the sturdiest of stallions lacked the stamina to attempt only half the journey couldn’t stop her little legs from making a hasty retreat without giving in to physical strain. Even as we reached the Cunterlot gates the young mare refused to slow down, in fact I think she even quickened the pace, even as a young filly she was determined, except now it’s for all the wrong reasons.
But she didn’t stop there. The first thing she did when we finally reached her house wasn’t taking a rest from all that galloping (Which in all fairness, she had every right to) no, she focused every second on patching me up. Sure, it took a few days searching high and low at the town market for her to find the right material to match my face, and she wasn’t the most talented and graceful of sewers, but every stitch was a labour of love and for such a young unicorn to do all that stitching by hoof, she did a damned good job. It was then, as soon as she threaded off the final stitch and held me tight between her hooves, huddling me deep into her soft, lavender coat as her little horn began to glow, for the first time I could feel it. Life. Since that very day we were inseparable, two best friends kicking the harsh torments of the slums of Cunterlot right in its namesake. Our friendship was something that would be treasured forever, or so I thought.
When her Booty Mark first showed up slap bang on each of her soft and curvaceous flanks, she just changed all of a sudden. Instead of a cute little bundle of joy that was so sweet and understanding, she became somewhat of a sly and manipulative creature fuelled by paranoia and a lust for dominance. Practically overnight she vilified all that brought her joy, neglected everypony that cared for her and buried all her abandoned dreams and frustrations into studying. Eventually, it got worse. She began to nurture other ponies’ pain and misery. Oh what the hay, if she saw that you were huddled at the corner of the road pleading for help, instead of offering a helping hoof, she’s more likely to squat down over you and make it rain a fresh serving of homemade “apple cider” (Hey, at least you’re not the one cleaning up her spilled thick, strawberry “punch” with your tongue every month.)
She might look the same, but that vile bitch of a pony I’ve been living with for too long now isn’t MY Twilight Sparkle Climax Gargle.
Author's Note
Sorry if this chapter seems a little too uneventful for you folks, you need some character exposition before you can get down to the "hanky panky, it's fun when you spank me," stuff that'll be occurring later on. Trust me, it'll be worth it!
