Mare meets stallion. Stallion nails mare. Oh, and they have sex too.
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Mare meets stallion. Stallion nails mare. Oh, and they have sex too.
And here she was.
She shifted her weight from hoof to hoof, trying to find a comfortable position to stand in for the coming hours. This was easier than she had feared; she had enough movement left to lock her equine joints and stay upright without any active effort. She could even take a nap in this position if she wanted to – but that wouldn’t do, of course; it would be rather pointless if she just dozed off now. So she had made a point of being well rested, and of consuming four large cups of strong coffee before they started.
Nevertheless, reasonably satisfied with her situation so far, she decided to relax a bit – there wasn’t much else to do, anyway – and let her head drop towards the floor.
Dear sweet Celestia, what had she gotten herself into?
It had all begun several days earlier, at a cozy little restaurant they had discovered. Well, strictly speaking it had begun weeks before that, when she met him and they began exploring the town together. Both relative newcomers, they liked to do it in somepony’s company, and each found the other easy to talk to. He was intelligent, courteous and funny, a gentlecolt without being stuck up, and she, she must have something that appealed to him too. Not that she often thought about herself in that way, but he evidently liked her. Being liked was nice.
But still, where all of this began had been at that restaurant – lit candles on the table, the remains of an elaborate gastronomical composition in string beans and alfalfa on their plates, wine in their bellies. He had been lamenting the public image of his profession – –
“. . . no, most ponies don’t have anything against us, or at least don’t show it. But to about one in five, the farrier is just the guy who will hammer bloody nails into their hooves and expect them to be grateful for it to boot. And then you can see the fear in their eyes when you say what you do for a living.”
She had just nodded, understanding. Heck, as a filly she herself had been the one who always got the pony pox on the day of a reshoeing appointment, like clockwork. Fancy that she would grow up to befriend one, and was now starting to consider whether it might lead to more-than-friendship somewhere down the road.
“Consider, for example, the Crimson Mayor of Colton,” he had continued. “If you go see a movie with him in it, nine times out of ten he will explicitly be introduced as a farrier. But in actual history, the real Crimson Mayor was a miller’s assistant before he entered politics. Then why is he always a farrier in the public imagination?”
“Because . . . farriers are evil? And so was he?”
“Exactly!” He had looked pleased at a point well made, but a moment later his sense of honesty and nuance must have gotten the better of him. “Okay, it’s not just completely random. In fact I think it’s all Dumares’ fault. Have you ever read The Duchess of Withershill?”
“I think so . . . but long ago, as a kid.”
“That book was what transformed the Crimson Mayor from a historical run-of-the-mill crooked politician to a literary figure of pure evil. But if you read it as a kid, it must have been one of the foal-friendly versions that start at chapter 1 with the Mayor banishing the heroine from Colton, setting off the plot.”
“Something like that, I think. Where else would it start?”
“Well, the original edition contains a prologue set a year earlier, in which the mayor sentences her to the plank on trumped-up charges, as a pretext for raping her. So once we get to chapter 1 and he has her run out of town for foaling out of wedlock . . .”
“. . . he himself was the sire? Charming guy. Okay, I can see why that’s not in the ‘All-Equestrian Fillies and Colts Library of Adventure’ edition. Hmm, he sentences her to what?”
“The plank – an old earth-pony variant of the pillory, very simple. You stand the convict on a wooden platform in front of the courthouse, and fix each of his (or her) legs to the floor with nails though the hoof walls, like putting on horseshoes in reverse. Then you leave him out for public ridicule for an hour, or a day, or a night, whatever the sentence is. Since he cannot rear or buck, he’s an easy victim for any number of low pranks –”
“– or if he’s a she, a few things that are not, strictly speaking, pranks,” she’d finished the thought for him. She had then sat uncomfortably for a bit, looking at her own forehooves and the little nails that kept her horseshoes fastened to them.
“Yeah. Anyway, Dumares didn’t say in her novel that the Mayor is a farrier, but I’m sure that’s where it comes from. Nails through hooves. That’s what we do.”
Her jaw became tired before her limbs did. She wasn’t used to wearing a bridle (but who was, these days?), and the gag mouthpiece this one was fitted with was clearly not designed with long-term comfort in mind. She wondered where he had it from – was it standard farriery equipment? She had trouble imagining what use it could have, except possibly as a sex toy, but surely . . .
In any case, however uncomfortable the gag was, she had no real choice but to bear it. Oh, in case of a true emergency she could probably make loud enough grunts or moans to attract his attention; all it really prevented was intelligible speech, and the door into the forge stood slightly ajar. She could hear him talking to his patients from time to time:
“So how long has it been swollen like that? –”
“This may tickle a bit –”
“You need to hold the hoof still while I work on it. It’s easier if you rest it here –”
She couldn’t begin to imagine the embarrassment of explaining to one of those strangers why he had a grunting-and-moaning mare standing around in the back room, though. So instead she suffered in silence. Perhaps she could figure out some kind of jaw muscle exercise that would help? Chew down, left, right, relax . . . chew down, right, left, relax . . .
They had been halfway through the dessert when she brought it up again.
“I remember now, this plank thing of yours, I’ve heard of it before.”
“Hmh, yes?”
“My older brother is into historical reenactments. Once – ten or fifteen years ago, I think I was thirteen – he took me to a fair. They wanted me to be the thief-on-the-plank, but I chickened out because of the nail business.”
“Just because of the nails?”
“Yeah. Why, my brother was there; he’d have made sure nothing bad happened to me. But I wasn’t about to let anypony hammer things into my hooves when it wasn’t because my mum had dragged me to the farrier’s for a checkup. So he had to do it himself instead, and of course I couldn’t protect him against his own pals who were all three or four years older than me. But his mane and tail did grow out again eventually.” She giggled. “Father was livid when he came home bald and we told him how it happened, he was grounded for a moon straight.”
“Perhaps your father didn’t have the same faith in your brother’s ability to protect you that you yourself had?”
“Ah, but even if so, my mane would have – oh.” She felt the blood drain from her face as she suddenly understood what he was getting at. “Sweet radiant Celestia, you’re right! And he never told me!” She broke down laughing; it was either that or start shaking and sobbing decades after there’d be any point to it.
Some time later – it might have been the wine, or possibly just the strange feeling of having met somepony she actually trusted to do things to her hooves – she suddenly heard herself say:
“You know, I’ve always kind of wondered how it would feel . . .”
And so here she was, nailed to the floor in the back room of the farrier’s clinic while he tended to the morning’s appointments. The gag had been his idea, though, one he hadn’t told her about beforehand. “You talk too much,” he had said, and before she knew she was wearing a bridle, with a spade-like attachment to the bit that pinned her tongue to the floor of her mouth. Okay, perhaps she had been a little too enthusiastic with the running commentary of how she felt as he fastened her hooves to the boarding with little pins. When the surprise wore off she’d first been enraged at the gagging, but then reached a more philosophical outlook. After all, she told herself, the entire point of the exercise was to get to experience a certain loss of control. And the gag was relatively non-invasive, compared to other things she could imagine. She still wished she knew where he’d got it, though.
The floorboards underneath her head were stained with drops of her drool. She’d never thought about how integral freedom of tongue movement was to proper saliva management before.
The door opened and he came in. “Lunch time,” he announced. She turned her head to look at him. Already? There was no clock in the room.
He put a wing out and ruffled her mane with it. It was a patronizing gesture, but his touch felt nice anyway. “How are you holding up?”
She might have smiled bravely if her lips were free. Instead she managed something halfway between a shrug and a curtsey.
“Hungry?”
She nodded. She hadn’t been aware of it, but yes, yes she was.
“Hmm, I don’t think you’ll be able to eat wearing this.” He grabbed the bridle and forced her head up and down a few times. “If I take it off you, do you promise not to try to say anything?”
She nodded again, a bit confused. Sure, she could stay silent, but why was that important to him? Did he have a fetish for quiet mares or what? And if so, how in Equestria had he suffered her company until now?
“Good. Just so we’re on the same page, though –” he turned away from her to fetch something in a cabinet, and returned with an electric coat trimmer and a pair of scissors “– if you say even a single word, your mane comes off. And the tail too.” He reached into her mane and cut off a lock of hair, which he dangled in front of her eyes before letting it drop into the puddle of drool below. “Is that clear?”
She swallowed, and nodded once more. The bastard, he knew she’d be meeting with the apple farmers on Wednesday to close the big deal and couldn’t possibly turn up . . . The threat was clear enough, but she’s already promised not to speak and a promise is a promise anyway, so why not? She gave up on trying to figure out the whys of it.
And then he undid a buckle and suddenly the dreaded bit was out, and for a minute or two all that existed for her was the luxury of opening her mouth wide, closing it, letting her tongue play over her teeth, taking possession of it all again.
He placed lunch in front of her: a bowl of oats and a bucket of water. Nothing fancy, but it would fill her up. She smiled thanks at him, careful not to put it in words, and started feeding, mutely.
When her oats were gone he took the bowl away. “Now that’s a good girl, eating up without blabbering like you promised,” he said warmly. “Well done. That deserves a reward.”
It probably shouldn’t feel so good to be praised like a preschool filly. She was a grown-up mare, running a business, taking care of herself. But it did, and a wave of pride rolled through her as she wondered what her reward would be. Perhaps he wouldn’t put the gag back on her?
“In fact,” he continued, “I think I’m going to mount you.”
Her head jerked upwards. What!?
“Come on, don’t look at me like that. You wouldn’t be in this position if that wasn’t what you’re hoping for.”
She looked down at her immobilized hooves. His handiwork. Which she’d let him do – had asked him to – and cracked little jokes while he did it.
“Tell you what, if you don’t want it, just say the word and I won’t. Of course, saying a word will still have consequences.” He had the coat trimmer out and clicked it on for a second with a soft Wrrrr. . .
So, her mane or her virtue? It seemed like it ought to be an easy choice. One of those would grow out again. The deal on Wednesday might fall through, but there would be other deals, other towns. Still, he made a surprisingly good point. Where had she been going with this? She couldn’t remember.
It wasn’t supposed to happen in this way. She had been taking it slowly, saving herself for, for – well, not necessarily exactly for marriage, she wasn’t stuck in the past, but for some special occasion at least. And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
Though, if nothing else this situation certainly qualified as ‘special’. Despite herself, she broke a small smirk at the irony.
He seemed to take that as a license to proceed. “Now, since this will be your first time, you may find it difficult not to cry out during the act, and you know we can’t have that. Would you like to be gagged first, just in case?”
No. Yes. No. She didn’t know. She needed time, time to figure out what she wanted. But asking for time would mean speaking up, and so she’d already have chosen. She looked around herself desperately in search of answers. Part of her wanted just to lose herself in the helplessness of her predicament, to let him do what he was going to, not to have a say. Or else she wanted him to take her there and now. To get it over with? No, that wasn’t what it felt like.
There was a horizontal bar in front of her, a strut that separated two racks of storage shelves. He was wrapping a piece of cloth around it, several times. “That gag mouthpiece isn’t very comfy at length, is it? Try biting down on this instead.”
Before she had time to regret it, she stuck out her head and bit down.
The cloth-covered bar fit snugly into the space between her front and cheek teeth. He reached in and tightened some straps on the bridle, winding firmly around her muzzle so she couldn’t let go of the bar, much less speak.
“Whoops, look at the time. Duty calls,” he said, and exited towards the forge, patting her flank on the way. “I’ll be back.”
She couldn’t move her head now. She couldn’t move her hooves. She could sort of flex her hind legs up and down a bit, wiggling her butt. Forelegs not so much.
Pretty soon he came back with a pair of blinkers which he mounted on her bridle without a word. Now all she could see was a strip of blank wall and a row of file binders.
The afternoon appeared to be a busy one. Several times he came into the back room, did something she couldn’t see what, and left again. He kept the door closed when he went out now.
So much for getting it over with.
Instead she had plenty of time to second-guess her decisions earlier. She should have spoken up, should have asked him to stop. Her mane might have gone, but . . . what if she had stood her ground, complained firmly, told him this wasn’t funny, wasn’t a game, quit it right now? She didn’t think he’d be callous enough to go through with the shearing anyway.
And why had she bitten down on that bar, effectively gagging herself? Surely not just because he told her to. She wasn’t usually that meek. Was she?
Perhaps all this had been a great ploy she played on herself, maneuvering herself into a situation where she would be taken without being responsible for it? She felt dirty even contemplating that explanation. Weak. Unable to stick to her own principles.
Once when he came in, she almost convinced herself she could hear more than one set of hoofsteps. Was he showing her off to somepony? She couldn’t see anything. She would have curled into a little ball of shame if she hadn’t been nailed down. She did it inwardly instead.
Later she heard him talking to the unicorn mare he was employing as a receptionist. They were laughing at some shared joke. About her? She told herself she was getting paranoid. But what was there to do?
Just as she had begun hoping that he had forgotten about it or might call it off, she felt him brush her tail aside and start wiping her mare parts with a damp, cool tissue. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and stung a little around the upper hole. Of course he would care about hygiene, he worked in health care after all – but still it was the most demeaning she had felt all day, as if she were an instrument to be sterilized.
In some way she couldn’t define, that was also strangely exciting.
It took only a few moments, though. Then he began washing – no, licking! – the backside of her left hock. Instinctively she tried to kick back, but she couldn’t; her hoof was nailed down. He took the tip of the joint between his front teeth and bit down gently, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver radiating up the leg and through her entire body, sloshing back and forth until it settled somewhere in her hind end.
He moved to the other hock and did the same there. Then he pushed his head between her legs and started running his tongue in circles and figure-eights around her teats, until suddenly moving in on one of them with a small bite that made a new quake of shivers echo through her body.
He continued on to her belly, never lingering long in one place, but licking, nibbling, and tickling everywhere – elbows, shoulder, crest, ears – until it felt like every part of her was connected by a warm trail of spent shivers to the glowing, pulsating knot of anticipation that had collected between her haunches. She tried not to think of what would happen with it.
When he reached her throat, some ancestral memory of predators made her try to rear so hard that she thought she would bring the shelves her head was tied to down on the both of them, until she managed to control herself. He backed off for a moment and then took to massaging her croup with his forehooves –
– and suddenly he was on top of her, and inside her, and her world exploded in a symphony of pain and delight and regret and his forelegs around her sides, and her heart racing, and his breath against her withers, and blood rushing in her ears and him pulling her mane, and trying to shout his name but failing and wanting to jump with joy and his weight on her loin and his wings beating against her flanks and him, him, him . . .
. . .
Had she passed out? She didn’t think so, but now he was off her and somewhere out to the side, breathing heavily. He came up to her, kissed her forehead. “One last patient,” he said. “Wait here.”
No! He was supposed to let her go after he had his way with her, wasn’t he? But instead he was gone, and here she was, still nailed to the floor, still unable to move, dripping with sweat and who knew what else while she waited for him to return.
He was back, and the first thing he did was untie her head and remove the bridle she’d been wearing. “You ought to be able to do without this for the next round,” he said.
She drew breath to say something in response, but he put a feather to her lips. “Shhh. No talky.”
She kept quiet because he wanted her to. She turned her head this way and that, up and down and around, rejoicing in the freedom. Her hooves still stuck to the floor, but it didn’t matter. She hardly remembered ever moving them anyway.
This time he started out with her marehood, working it over with tongue and lips. She caught herself feeling a bit disappointed – she was no stranger to pleasuring herself, and thought she knew her way around that part of herself. But having somepony else do it was something different. Each time she thought she had his rhythm figured out he changed to a new place, a new direction, a new tempo. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating.
He moved his wingtips in and gently pried her labia apart so he could get at her clitoris. She barely managed to contain a yelp. She didn’t worry about her mane anymore, it was a just game they played between the two of them. He would try to make her cry out and if she gave in and did, he would stop trying. She didn’t want him to stop.
Then he started using teeth, and it took all of her strength to keep from shouting. She clenched her teeth and thrashed her head about wildly, the only part of her she was free to thrash – oh, apart from her tail, but that was flailing to and fro too, on its own account. She felt her bladder give way and a warm gush escaped her –
Oops. She froze in mid-thrash, cold fear gripping her. Oh shit, it must have hit him right in the face! He had stopped licking her – now he would withdraw in disgust, throw her out of his house, never speak to her again.
He did withdraw slightly, but only to snort softly and move in again to suck dry the small rivulets of pee that were trickling down the inside of her legs. Then he staggered backwards a few steps, and even from right ahead she could see his erection had not suffered from the mishap.
Then he came at her. She lowered her rump to accept him, to welcome him in and up. He landed upon her, penetrating her with perfect aim, and she gave up on understanding anything and just marveled at how her body seemed to know how to do everything by itself – tail moving aside, hocks and stifles flexing back and forth in step with his thrusts, muscles she didn’t even know she had gripping his shaft, caressing it, squeezing out his seed . . .
Yes, it was like pleasuring herself, the same way a thunderstorm is like a bucket of water thrown at your face.
Eventually he stopped thrusting and just lay on top of her. She felt his heartbeat against her back, pounding rapidly while his breathing slowed. She could stand that way forever.
But he pulled out and climbed down and came up and pecked her gently on the neck. “You may speak now,” he whispered.
Speak? Whatever would she say? It felt like years since she had spoken last, and it took her a long time to assemble a sentence.
“Will you please release me now?”
“Of course.” He fetched his tools and pliers and set to work.
She was free. She could walk anywhere she wanted. She lifted a hoof experimentally, intrigued by the sensation of it coming off the ground, dangling in the air.
She tried to take a step, but instead collapsed in a heap on the floor, fetlocks numb and limp from standing in the same position for hours.
He was by her side, helping her up. “Come, let’s get some horseshoes on you.”
She leaned on him as she walked out towards the forge, one step at a time. As soon as she felt steady enough she reached out a foreleg, drew his head to her, and kissed him on the mouth. Their first kiss. It wasn’t a very long one; she was still short of breath. But it was long enough.
“We have to do that again sometime,” she said.