I tend to think of myself as living by the rules of the clock.

Those rules are as follows. One must always ensure that his clock is accurate to the second, as seconds count in our modern world of magically-transferred mail and high-speed chariot delivery. One must ensure that his clock is properly wound, never too fast, never too slow, for a misperceived minute is a minute of time lost forever that one will never get back. And one must ensure that his clock’s design is uncomplicated, able to be repaired and adjusted at a moments notice.

I tend to think of myself as living by these rules, if only going by the testimonial by my lovely and wonderful fiancee. She says that I’m punctual to every meeting to the second, mostly due to my very finely tuned wristwatch. I never miss a beat, in conversations, in games, not a one. She tells me I’m the outgoing one of our little family, which I suppose reflects value numero dos. And I’d like to think of myself as enjoying the simple pleasures, thus uncomplicated, simplistic. These are, of course, things I tend to think of myself as, but I don’t want one to think I make a point of it.

I know how the days go. A typical weekday is as follows.

I awaken at precisely six-thirty. At precisely six-fourty-five I’m out of the shower and either making breakfast or sitting at the breakfast table reading the day’s paper. At seven, I take Dinky Doo to school– She transferred to the Mi Amore Cadenza Honorary Magic Preperatory School about the same week my fiance and I announced our engagement, and she is a very fine student there and couldn’t make me any more proud. I return from this adventure at about eight-twenty-five, and lock myself in the machine shop and begin my commissions, not releasing myself until three-fourty-five, when Dinky Doo comes home, and I take care of her for the rest of the evening until her bedtime at nine-fifteen. My fiance and I take our own rest in between ten-thirty and one o’clock, depending on how long we stay up talking and… Other things.

The machine shop is almost always quiet, a place of peace and serenity in a chaotic world, a place I couldn’t love more for it’s simplistic touch upon the passing of life. Every single finished clock in that room plays at the exact same tick, tock, tick, tock, ticking away seconds as I work on the next of it’s brethren, all of whom go on sale on the weekend. It is so quiet in there I can hear my own breathing, everything amplified by the deafening quiet. The feel of screwdriver in my hoof, the smell of wood and bronze, soft metal bending under hoof. The only moments where the quiet is regrettably destroyed is when I have to cut a new piece of wood for a commissioned clock, or reshape metal, but these instances of extreme noise do not destroy my lovely, valuable quiet.

I suppose all of this description of mundanity will eventually lead one to demand to know of a time where such mundanity was not so. There have been a few, and I believe their frequency has increased to the point that I will have to incorporate it into my current schedule, but I believe the most interesting one I can recall would be the one that occurred on a particularly boring Tuesday.

I was in the machine shop at three-fourty-four, working on a commission for one Berry Punch to craft a clock from the now-drained bottle of a particularly rare and exotic Zebra brew. She had rather liked the design, and had always wanted an interesting talking piece as well as a more accurate clock than the plastic abomination she owned, so she had, naturally, commissioned me. As I wasn’t a glassworker, I had to shop around town for somepony willing to cut a hole for a clock face into a very rare and exotic bottle, and the search took several days. I commissioned an glassworker in Manehattan who was a very fine friend of mine to do the work, and had waited several weeks for the box to be shipped, then the work to be done, then the box to return, and it had arrived thankfully unbroken. Thoughtfully, my friend had left the plug of glass that he had removed in case I wished to use it as a clock face, sanded down and with a proper hole in the middle.

It was while I was fitting in the bracers for the mechanics of the clock that I noticed that it was now four-ten and Dinky Doo had not yet come home. Normally, this would have induced panic.

That particular Tuesday, I was prepared and even anticipating a schedule change. The thought of why made me smirk.

It was quiet in the shop, and I decided to not make time an issue. The bracing had been hot-glued into the bottle, the back of the thing had been sawn off and hinged to allow easy access to the mechanics in case something happened, a keyhole in the back panel for winding. I sat in the stool in the machine shop and listened to the clocks, closing my eyes, time no longer an issue. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. My head wafted back and forth in time with the ticks of the clocks, in time with the mental rhythm my mind was falling into. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Thoughts of Dinky filling my head.

I have mentioned Dinky Doo more than once, and I suppose it’s only fair to mention simply how much we had grown to care for each other in me and my fiancee’s four months of engagement. She didn’t see me as a surrogate father, disappointingly, but she saw me as a very good adult friend. Somepony she could trust, somepony she could know to rely upon if she ever had a problem. Clocks weren’t the only things I could fix. Her dear mother had come into the machine shop asking me if I could repair Dinky Doo’s spectacles. And when I fitted those onto Dinky again for the first time, and I saw her sparkling golden eyes watching me as her vision returned, making me the first thing she saw…

It was, and often is, difficult to love somepony as something they don’t love you back as.

But I wasn’t in the mood for sentimentalist thought. Especially as my precious rhythm was broken by the sound of the bell on the door, and the call of a lovely, cherubic little voice.

“Mister T-Turner?”

She sounded strained. Not stressed, but clearly under some sort of discomfort. If I didn’t know the source of said discomfort, I wouldn’t have been smirking.

“I’m in the shop, Dinky. Come in!”

My eyes were still closed, my head still swaying to that intoxicating rhythm, Dinky Doo’s little hoofsteps falling in place in between the ticks and tocks. Tick, clipclop, tock, tick, clipclop, tock, tick, clipclop, tock. The erratic steps, the little squeaks and grunts of discomfort, even an occasional moan. If it was any other Tuesday I would have been rushing to her side, but as I knew the source of all of this, I let my smirk grow into a smile, soft and genuine. Tick, clipclop, tock, here she came, little Dinky Doo, the hoofsteps outside of the door now, but I was still in the rhythm. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

“Mister Turner!”

I shook my head, snapping out of it reluctantly, and trotted to the door, opening it and being greeted by a most lovely sight.

Dinky Doo was an immeasurable beauty, as much as her mother, if not augmented by youth. A little face, unfettered and soft with laughter and happy smiles. A small, blunt horn, occasionally fizzling in a small magic fit when she got excited. A firm, lovely little body, plump in all of the right places.

Ah, I get ahead of myself! The memory is still striking to me, her school uniform clinging to her body, the first few buttons of the off-white pinkish shirt unbuttoned, the little blue skirt barely able to contain that plump, squishy, lovely, jiggly, unbelievable, otherwise indescribable rear end. It was the rear to end all rears, framed by the black stockings of the uniform and the aforementioned shirt, a blond tail swishing over it, back and forth, tempting one to take a look. Only today, this tail was firmly held down over the greatest part of a filly upskirt, as if hiding something. Oh, it was hiding something indeed, but I’m not about to spoil the surprise quite yet.

That angelic face shot me a strained smile. “M-May I come in, Mister Turner?”

I smiled back, though mine was far more in control. “Of course you can, Dinky.”

She brushed past me, her soft tail lingering about my forelegs before unhooking from static, but to an observer this would almost seem an invitation. Even I earned a bolster of confidence from it, turning around and gently kicking the door shut, locking it back up. Dinky sat upon the other stool at the workbench with a small squeak, and I knew what exactly had created it. it was the same thing making the pervasive buzzing noise through the air. Tickzzzztockzzzztickzzzztockzzzztickzzzztock, the little buzzing complementing the rhythm of the legion of timekeepers with absolute perfection.

“M-Mister–”

“How was your day at school, sweetie?” I mumble, trotting to the other stool and sitting in it with a nonchalant smile playing about my lips. She was wearing her glasses today, and I could see the laughter in my own eyes sparkle, reflecting off of the lenses and the desperation in her own irises. I knew what was making that desperation, and I assume one would be able to read the context clues previously left to assess what exactly this object of such discomfort was.

She grimaced and forced a smile. Perfect.

“I-It was lovely, Mister Turner, now–”

“What did you learn today?”

I had to hold in a chuckle as Dinky barely held back a frustrated groan.

“We, uhm, I… We had a p-project I think, speaking o–”

“What sort of project?” I said.

“A magic project, what else?” she groaned. “Anywa–”

“What did you have to do?”

“A force fiiiiieeeeld!” she cried, her eyes screwing shut, the buzzing growing louder. I heard the stool rattle as her entire generous lower half shuddered, again complimenting that wonderful rhythm. TickzzBAMBAMzztocktickzzBAMBAMzztock. It was the sort of noise that made a stallion lick his lips in anticipation for what was to come, but I was hardly about to do what one would expect to do to help a filly in need, particularly given the time. It was four-twenty-eight. She still had two minutes to go.

“Why, pray tell, did you have to create a force field?” I asked.

“B-Because, oh, because, well, we, uhm, huuuuhm, oooooh…”

“Because?”

“Because another filly h-had to make a fireball for our proj-juh-juh-ject!”

Four-twenty-nine. She had only to hold out for sixty more seconds.

“Should I even ask?”

“You already...Hnnnh, you already d-did, now–”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“Muffinnnnssss,” Dinky whispered, her eyes lidding, biting her lip.

“Muffinnnsssss?”

“And a… A chocolate milk, hnh… L-Lot’s of carbs…”

Thirty seconds.

“Well I hope you balanced it out with a salad like me and your mother try to tell you to.”

“I… I forgot, I h-had a lot on my mind! Don’t judge me…”

Tickzzzztocktickzzzztocktickzzzztocktickzzzztock.

“Oh? For instance?”

Tickzzzztocktickzzzztocktickzzzztocktickzzzztock.

“I… I had a… I…”

Ten seconds. I put my hooves on Dinky’s sizable hips, relishing the little squeak she made as I gently pushed into her sizable rear, closing my eyes, letting the warmth of that lovely backside warm my hooves through the material of her skirt. It was almost time. She was almost done. Five seconds. Subtly, gently, I pushed away some gears and screws and doo-dads on the workbench, making room for what was about to happen.

“You had?”

Four.

“I…”

Three.

“I had a… A…”

Two.

“Ihadavibratorinmypussythewholeday!”

And that was what I had been waiting for. Every clock in the room letting out the single, sordid dong of four-thirty across the machine shop, a small bit of soundtrack for me, for grabbing Dinky by her hips and plopping her down on the workbench, pushing her onto her back, and gently pushing against her belly, making her cry out in anguished delight as slowly, surely, with a slurp, the oft-aforementioned and foreshadowed device of her discomfort, the buzzing daemon that I had planted within little Dinky that morning as we walked to school, slipped out of her tight little filly hole with the most glorious schlick, right in between ticks of the clocks.

I held her there for a few seconds, a little bit self-assured. The rhythm was intact. The drenched vibrator buzzed against the floor, in time with Dinky’s labored breathing, in time with the hypnotic winking of her clit and the cute little quivers of her cunny, vacant for a mere moment and already wanting to be filled again, and all of this within the wondrous rhythm of those perfect timesmiths, the clocks lining the walls like soldiers in the barracks, awaiting the battles of market day day after day, willing to lay down their lives for the sale and for our sake, our little family’s sake.

I held her there, and let her catch her breath, smiling at her gently, my own cock growing at the sight of such natural beauty before me. A clock was lovely, no doubt, but nature’s timekeeper, the heart, had a peculiar way of being informants, too, into the hearts and minds of us ponies. Blood pumped to puffy pussy lips and fat little love buttons on impossibly cute little fillies often betrayed the way that they felt at that moment, held down by their stepfather on his workbench.

“Now,” I murmured. “Tell me what you really learned.”

Dinky Doo mumbled incoherently. I hiked up her skirt and slapped her naked flank, grunting as I saw shockwaves of the impact travel through that entire lovely pillow of flesh, the wonderfully adorable squeak that rose from her making me bite my lip, my length rising to the occasion with rapid speed.

“Hnnh, I… I learned…”

“Tell me,” I said, my tone calm, giving her rear another slap and relishing another giggle.

“Gya! That… That Mister Turner–”

I spanked again.

“Hyan! That Daddy! Daddy’s always… In control…”

I took a few seconds to admire my work. Now here she was, looking down at me, her eyes filled with lust and need despite those needs being tended to just moments ago. Her she was with her mane in disarray and her mouth open, her tongue out ever so slightly, desperately grabbing onto small puffs of air and letting them out, her chest rising and falling hypnotically. She crossed her front hooves in front of them, not out of modesty but unconsciously, a subconscious desire to look as demure as she was, taut, plushy legs spread and giving me the perfect view of a perfect filly pussy, clit winking, slit sopping, juices dribbling onto the bench.

“Good,” I murmured. “Now, because you learned your lesson, Daddy’s going to help you now.”

“Oh gosh, please,” Dinky Doo murmured. “Oh gosh, please oh please, put it in me, Mister Turner…”

I chuckled. “Who?”

“D-Daddy… Now put it in, please, please…”

She was coated in sweat, and she smelled so heavily of it, of sweat and lust and need and desire, and it was driving me mad, as mad as sitting in a machine shop five hours a day and listening to nothing but endless, glorious ticking will get you, as mad as sending your stepdaughter to school with a simulated cock of your own design and then mounting her as soon as she got in the door was, as any part of this day was, but this unusual day was going just as we had planned it.

“Why should I?” I murmured, gently placing a hoof over Dinky’s pussy, rubbing up and down and feeling her shudder as I passed over her clit. “You’ve had a cock in there all day, technically! What makes me so different?”

“Oh goooosh,” Dinky moaned. “Oh, you’re, you’re, ohhhh goooosh, you’re… B-Bigger…”

“Go on,’ I grunted, pushing against it, Dinky’s scream of pleasure filling the whole shop and making the clocks shake on their hooks.

“Aaaahghnnnh! Aagh! S-So much thicker! And n-nicer and… And the only thing that s-s-satisfies m-me is…”

Her head fell to the side, and my other hoof lifted up her chin, making her look at me, though I was certain she was blind now, her glasses askew and her eyes so clouded with desire I could barely see where the whites met the irises.

“My cum?”

She moaned.

“Ooooh, Daddy,” she groaned. “Oh fuck, Daddy, ohhh…”

I smiled, picking Dinky up and putting her on the floor, hooves pressing onto her back as I mounted her too-small form. I could feel her legs threaten to give out as my stiff-as-a-board cock slipped in between her buns, and I grabbed her rear in my forehooves and lifted it up. It was almost like a peculiar wheelbarrow, her rear hooves off of the floor and her front hooves barely holding me up as I hotdogged in between her cheeks, feeling my balls grow damp with her arousal, my hardness throbbing with my own need. I suppressed my own moaning in order to more greatly enjoy hers, closing my eyes and letting touch guide me.

“You stupid little slut,” I murmured.

“Ohhh,” Dinky whimpered, “Pleaaaase…”

“You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes! Yes, please, do it, Mister Turner, please!”

I press down harder, pushing her face into the floor, making her cry out in blissful agony. “That’s not who I am, Dinky…”

“Daddy! Fuuuuck! I’m sorry! Daddy, please, I need it!”

I glanced at one of the clocks. Four-thirty-three. Derpy usually got home around four-fourty-five. I had time to play around, but Dinky was having none of it. The joy of knowing how much time you have is the joy of flexibility, the joy of adaptability, the joy of the third rule. I was most certainly hard enough to feel the joy of the second, and the first… Well, Dinky was in such a state, it was hard not to cave in and enjoy the first.

I leaned my hips back,pulled Dinky up a bit, and slammed forward. I missed, however, my cock sliding underneath Dinky’s body and pushing against her stomach, making her give a low coo of agitation. Take a hoof away from her glorious hips, I adjusted myself, aiming, pulling back and up, until my head pushed against wonderful, tight wetness, gaping open a bit from her school-day experience, awaiting the perfect mate to make her feel perfectly fine.

I was that mate.

I didn’t have to be her Daddy, but we were both content with being mates. Besides, what could be more perfect? A moaning, desperate filly pushing back on one’s cockhead, desperately drooling and dying for a drilling, and one can feel her pussy clench against just the very tip, and one knows it’s tight, so tight, the only sound the slowly softening schlick of hardened cock pushing into wet flesh, the panting of both parties, the ticking. Tickhmmhtocktickhyaatockticknnghtocktick–

Dinky screamed and came almost immediately as I finally penetrated.

I elected not to move as she did so, not only because I couldn’t, but also because I wanted to enjoy the rush of her filly cum coating my cock, coating it with nature’s most wonderful natural asset as I plunge forward with debilitating pace, purging her depths of need and desire inch by inch, by the way of the ticking, of the clocks surrounding me, the tempo for this most perfect union set so long ago, and now it had come to fruition in more ways than one. it made my dick throb, the way she twisted back to look at me with those horny eyes, satisfied but needy, wanting, desiring the thick thing pushing into her perfectly.

I finally let out a grunt as I bottomed out, and started pulling out again, but with every pull out, Dinky would pull me back in with a clench of her powerful pussy muscles. Tickslurptocktickslurptock, in and out, a gentle, pre-rut tapping into her again and again, feeling the back of her womb rest against my flare, both of our eyes fluttering, all of this in harmony, in rhythm, perfection personified. I bit my lip, and gave a savage pull. Ticksluuuurptock, only the head at that heated entrance now. I slammed back in, ticksquicktock, Dinky’s cry of ecstacy and tunnel tightening around me bringing out a bestial side in me.

I needed to rut her now. I dropped all pretense and listened to the clocks. I pounded and pushed into her with tremendous force. Tickslapslaptocktickslapslaptocktickslapslap. Her face was squished against the floor, bright red, her single open eye wide and rolled up, her tongue slathering spit against the dusty boards. Her flank bounced in time with it all, flesh flapping as I slammed into her womb again and again, feeling every bit of soft flesh she had to offer.

I leaned down and bit her neck, pulling out and pulling back. With a grunt, and a squeal from my little lover, I landed on my back, grabbing her across her chest, biting down harder and making her squirm. I used a hoof to aim again, only this time for her tailhole, and she let out a grunt of disapproval.

“No, Daddy, no, please, I want your cum in my–”

“I’ll get it there!” I growl. She had provided me with all the lube I needed, and my cock jammed into her with little difficulty, although the scream she let out of pained pleasure was enough to let me know that it was slightly uncomfortable. But how could I have cared? Her pussy was tight, but her ass was even tighter, untouched by the widening touch of vibrators, and with the aid of her cunny juice I was sliding in without a care in the world, nibbling and biting her neck as the rhythm began again.

TicknoootocktickwrongholetocktickhyahtocktickohfuckyesfuckmeDaddyfuckmeintheasssssssssticktockticktockticktockticktock.

Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. Pleasure pulsed through my body like tsunami after wonderful tsunami, washing away rationality of ponies and replacing it with rationality of clocks. Rhythm, they said. Power. Speed. Grace. Constant thrusts into a little filly with a jiggling flank, her wetness coating the dusty floor in leiu of a cock to hold within them, contracting as she came yet again, violently, but I gave it no heed, continuing to thrust. Ticktockticktockticktock. I had lost track of the time itself, but I still had the tempo, every thrust bringing me closer, length twitching and throbbing in her rear, preparing.

“Nyooooo! Hnnnnh! Daddy, c-cum in m-m-m-m–”

“Say it! I growl, pulling savagely from her ass, the both of us panting, that the only sound besides the clocks and–

Tickzzzztocktickpanttocktickzzzz.

Of course.

“Say it,” I murmured, reaching for the gone-but-not-forgotten vibrator. It had fallen under the workbench, and I had to reach behind myself to grab it, almost paralyzed by my own desperate need to cum. Only a few thrusts. That was all I had. A few ticks of the clock.

“Cum in me,” she whispered.

I pushed the vibrator against her ass and my cock against her pussy.

“One last time.”

“Cum in–”

The last sentence was forever lost to the rhythm of the clock as I slammed both phalluses into both holes, and it was all over.

The roar that ripped through my throat was positively primal, my pupils dilating as my length violently shot rope after rope of cum into Dinky, who was immobile, back arched, eyes wide, mouth wide, everything wide, her asshole visibly contracting and pulling at the vibrator as she came with me, her stomach growing with seed, everything white noise, only the gentle pulses of the clocks in time with my cock and her squirts. I held her close, held her tight, held her the way she needed to be held, the way she wanted to be held, and before I knew it, it was over.

I fell on my side, my cock leaving Dinky wit a loud slurp, my cum pooling onto the floor, the both of us totally satisfied, leaving the rest to the clocks. We merely panted, sweating, dust clouds rising around us in celebration of our powerful rut, holding each other more tenderly now, needily now. She smelled like a sex-crazed dog and her stomach was so distended by the sheer amount of cum I was certain she looked several months down the road, but the look on her face filled me with a pride and a joy I only felt around my clocks multiplied to several sextillion powers. I wanted the clocks to play us out, for one final song to be played.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick…

One word broke the stoic piece.

“Hi.”

Blearily, I looked up, and saw the absolutely astounded face of my fiance, Miss Derpy Hooves, her crossed eyes having straightened from shock, the mailmare’s hat hanging from her head, her wings absently flapping. I must have forgotten to lock the door, what a fool I was. But as I prepared for the worst ribbing of my life, I looked more closely at her face. At the rising blush on her cheeks, at the desperation and need she seemed filled with herself. It was an expression that took away my apprehension and filled me with anticipation, and I felt my flaccid length twitch to life again.

“There room for one more?” she said. “You’ve always got a lot and… And it’s a bit for one filly…”

Such was a particularly boring Tuesday, and such is every Tuesday since, with the addition of Miss Derpy Hooves. But that is a story for another rhythm, one that clocks cannot provide.

Author's Note

I suck