Soft grunts and muffled whimpers of delight left my partner’s quivering muzzle as I steadily screwed her into the bed. She was warm, and smelled faintly of wheat, dirt, and sweat. Powerful limbs clenched around me in eager squeezes and caresses while much more intimate, but just as firm muscles clenched and suckled around my aching member.
I was buried in her to the hilt already, my hips grinding against her own in rhythmic, circular motions. Glancing down between us, I could see the muscles of her smooth, toned stomach rippling wildly as she quivered underneath me.
My name is Libertine, and I’m the best in Equestria at what I do. My special talent just so happens to be the seduction of the fairer sex.
From my perfect mane—sleek and shiny, with just the right length, the perfect amount of bounce, and the perfect balance between tidiness and tousled—to my pristine white coat, bare of any scars, scrapes, bruises or stains—to the perfect male body, a mix between the toned muscles of an earth pony and the sleek aerodynamic curves of a pegasus. Even my cutie mark is a brazen display of what I am: a heart with an arrow through it.
Manehattan, Fillydelphia, Baltimare, Trottingham. You name it, I’ve been there. I’ve seduced ponies from all walks of life. From the high-class mares of Canterlot to the rough-and-tumble vixens of Appleloosa. One time, I even took a roll in the hay with a griffin.
The stallions of Equestria hate me. And I can never dwell too long in one place without attracting undue attention. A lover spurned because his mare went elsewhere for the intimacy that he couldn’t provide. A father discovering that his daughter was ‘defiled’. Or even the mare herself regretting her actions, even though I know I rocked her world.
Mares are mysterious creatures, but it’s my lot in life to satiate the baser urges, and it’s not without its recompense…
This little filly, for example. A strawberry farmer from Appleloosa come to the big city for a weekend away. She was even easier to read than the mares of Manehatten, who’s thin veneer of snobbishness just barely covered the raging libido of decades of sexual repression.
Some stallions call what I can do ‘manipulation’, but I feel that the word is too harsh. I don’t take advantage of a mare when I take her into my bedroom (or even when they take me into their own), that is a viewpoint predicated in the belief that sex is a reward, or a goal, or the ultimate outcome of any relationship.
Several times—not many!—but several times over my illustrious career of seducing mares, I’ve taken them to my bedroom, wined and dined them, and then just held them and stared at the stars. Why am I to be blamed if the best way to make a mare feel loved, if even for one night, is an orgasm?
I could feel the filly underneath me tensing and arching, clenching around me even harder and more intently, her slick lubrication easing my way into her body. She was a little smaller than I was used to, and a lot tighter. She was just blossoming into full womanhood, and she was certainly younger than the twenty-two years she had boastfully claimed over dinner.
And most definitely a virgin. She was far too nervous and far too eager to be anything but. But the nervousness had quickly disappeared when I got her to the bed. Even her timid hesitation had faded when I stuffed my hoof between her thighs. She had been hungry for it, eager and wanton but not quite sure of exactly what her body needed.
I was, of course, more than happy enough to show her.
I slipped one of my hooves down her form slowly, gently touching at her stomach, feeling the muscles underneath tense and relax in rhythm as I ground my hips into her own. I knew just how to move, just where to touch. It was automatic, like a blacksmith knowing where to strike with his hammer, or a weaver knowing just how to fold the threads to make a perfect seam. Everypony had their place in life, and mine was the bedroom.
Young, old, attractive, or unattractive, I’m drawn to them like a moth to a flame. In any room, a party, a bar, a fancy dress ball, no matter what it is, I can find the loneliest mare in the room with but a glance. Once our eyes meet, the magical contract is sealed. Without fail, they end up in my bed.
Even if they’re a princess.
That was a horrifyingly mesmerizing experience. Our eyes met on a crowded dancefloor, and I knew where the evening would end, even if she was only entertaining the most fleeting of ideas at the time. From the ballroom, to the hallways outside, waylaying the princess before she could become surrounded by her guards. I ordered her to have a drink with me. Just one. Out on the balcony overlooking Ponyville. The single most frightening moment of my life.
Her eyes wore the most peculiar expression all through that drink. A certain aloof stare perfected over centuries, mixed with the superiority of being a race of pony I couldn’t even grasp the mind of, mingled with a burning, aching desire to be allowed to be normal.
A terrifying, memorable night. Sneaking into her bedchambers when she was asleep, waking her with a kiss, stroking a hoof through her strange, ethereal mane. And then somehow pinning her larger form under mine and rutting her into the bed, trying my very, very best to please her absolutely while not letting the guards outside the door hear her moans or my own frenzied heartbeat so loud it sounded like the Royal Equestrian Marching Band had scheduled a show between my ears.
And then fleeing the castle in the early hours of the morning before anypony was awake. Fracturing my hoof leaping from one of the battlements and then limping all the way to Ponyville in the pale light of the morning with dewdrops, beetles, and dirt clinging to everything.
And now, a pony from Appleloosa. A young filly looking to become a mare and finding the perfect stallion for the job. The ache in her eyes for intimacy was so very apparent to me. Growing up on a farm, away from suitable partners, with no relief from the pangs of her body pining for companionship, it was no wonder she was so eager.
Even now I could feel her quivering and clenching around me in orgasm, silky depths squeezing at me with a powerful intensity. I gave an eager growl, leaning in to push my soft nose into the crook of her neck, biting and lipping at her throat heatedly, giving several powerful jerks of my hips into her to prolong her pleasure.
The shrill whimpers and quivers died down slowly, and she settled into the euphoria of afterglow, panting hard and staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.
I couldn’t help but chuckle softly against her throat.
“Wh-what’s so funny?” she asked, seemingly having trouble finding her tongue.
“Nothing,” I soothed, lipping at her chin firmly, and then beginning to kiss a heated trail down her form, nipping and licking at various spots over her toned form. The soft quivers of her body told me I was on the right track.
My throbbing length slipped out of her, spreading her a little further before tugging free of the tightly-squeezing mare, and I gave the softest of whines, masking it by growling eagerly to her and laving a soft lick against her inner thigh. I was almost desperate to just sink back inside her and rut her to my own orgasm, but perfection demanded that I swallow down my lustful urges. It was a dance, a play, a script I was reading. It was she who penned the sentences and it was my duty to obey, even if she was unaware of the fact that she was tormenting me with her unconscious decisions.
I dragged my tongue a little closer to her, lipping heatedly at her inner thighs, so close to the drooling core I had recently vacated.
“S-stop teasing me…” the mare groaned, curling to stare down at me with hungry eyes.
I chuckled up at her, giving another soft lick to the crease of her inner thigh, letting the velvet fur of my muzzle graze against her just lightly. Her mouth asked me to stop teasing her, but the invisible script of perfection and the eager expression in her eyes demanded that I continue.
And so I continued to tease her, delicately swapping to the other side of that eager, drooling entrance, dragging my tongue lightly against her other thigh.
I am nothing if not a perfectionist.
The mare’s breathing had evened out several minutes previously, and I was certain she was now asleep. I was still hard, the aching length of my erection sandwiched uncomfortably between our forms.
She had offered to ‘take care’ of me, even brazenly licking her lips in invitation, but the script of perfection demanded that I decline. It demanded that I decline her invitation, assure her that I was fine, and that I just wanted to cuddle with her. And so I held her until she fell asleep, gently stroking my hooves over her chest and stomach, and playing with her mane. For just one night, she felt loved. For just one night, she was fulfilled.
I like to think that that is my special talent. I can make the loneliest mare in all of Equestria feel loved and special, even if only for a night. The script of perfection is a harsh master, but when I can gaze on a sleeping, content mare in my hooves, it somehow makes the world feel a little brighter.
I waited a few more minutes to ensure I wouldn’t wake her, and then gently disentangled myself from her body. She stirred, but didn’t wake, giving a hazy, happy groan. I smiled, and then slipped out of the room.
My work here was done.
It was nearing sunrise when I stepped into the yard.
The look of tired elation on the young mare’s face flashed through my mind, and it finally sunk in what I had done. Again.
The grass was cold and wet in the early morning air, and it felt unpleasant, but I still just sat on the front lawn of the cottage and stared at the front door.
I don’t know how much time passed before I heard the rustle of movement from behind the door.
The door clicked, and then opened, and my beloved stood there, with a grim expression on her beautiful face. She looked hurt, angry, but most hurtful of all: disappointed.
“You did it again, didn’t you?” she accused, eyes flashing angrily.
I hung my head and averted my eyes to avoid her wrathful gaze. This wasn’t the first time she had awoken to find me waiting for her on the lawn like a dog that knew it was in trouble.
“You promised,” she hissed between clenched teeth, her anger trying to mask the raw hurt in her voice. “You promised this would never happen again.”
“I know…” I said, pawing at the grass in shame.
Her script of perfection was completely silent.
“Forgive me?” I asked hopefully.
The silence was heart-stopping.
“No.”
The wedding band I had given her was thrown at my hooves, and the door was slammed in my face, locking with a resolute click.
And the script was still completely silent.
I nodded to myself and reached down to pick up the wedding band, holding it between my teeth as I started on the road out of town. I hadn’t expected to leave so soon. I had even entertained the idea, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I might be able to stay forever. But the script of perfection was a harsh master, and I was nothing more than a puppet in whatever production it was playing.
It was midmorning before an early traveler found me on the side of the road, weeping bitter tears as I stared at the wedding ring I had been re-gifted. Even the faint traces of warmth from my beloved were gone. It was just a cold band of metal now, an apt comparison to our relationship.
The traveling mare didn’t even know me, but she comforted me all the same, gathering me up against her chest and holding me close, letting me sob brokenly into her embrace. The script was mercifully silent, letting me catch my breath and try to get my bearings.
A pair of ponies glanced at us on the side of the road, brother and sister, I presumed. The mare’s eyes met mine, and I felt a tingle.
I wiped off my eyes, blew my nose on a kerchief and then gently kissed the cheek of my comforter in gratitude, before making my excuses and continuing on my way. I managed to secrete the wedding band into the mare’s bag as I brushed past, and I hoped that she could pawn it for a good price.
But I was already heading back down the path, playing the part of a new script. The mare helping her brother carry the goods to market and aching for the touch of a stallion required my particular ‘services’. I had an integral part to play in the new script, as always.
I couldn’t help but feel bitter as I twisted off my own wedding band and threw it into the dirt at the side of the road. No pony can help their nature, no matter how hard they try. Even if they try as hard as I did to deny their true calling.
No matter how hard he tries, a blacksmith will always be a blacksmith. A potter will always make pots. A weaver will always weave new things.
And I will forever be a slave to a new script of perfection, regardless of how much I want to pen my own.
