The Toymaker's Marefriend
Oh by the sun and the moon, how I hate foals sometimes.
No, that is not accurate or fair. They can’t help being what they are, and individually they’re sweet kids – most of them, most of the time. It’s just that it can be so very exhausting to be responsible for a whole roomful of them, day in and day out, always smiling, always watching out for whichever stupid and dangerous thing they’ve thought up today, even trying to teach them something in the middle of all that . . .
So when I come home on Friday afternoon, I tend to just flop down on a couch doing nothing. I’ll be alright come Monday, fit for fight again – but I thank whoever invented weekends. Brilliant idea, that pony.
I lie on the couch for who knows how long, staring at the ceiling, not smiling, not scanning the room for signs of trouble. It is wonderful. Eventually I can’t get away with such laziness any longer, and I force myself upright and start unpacking my bags.
There’s a note on the kitchen table.
‘I will come by sometime between 5 PM and midnight. Have yourself planked by then. –M.’
My heart jumps as I read the message and signature. He’s coming here after all! I thought he wouldn’t have time today. I catch myself squealing like a filly and look at the clock on the wall. It’s already half past four. I’ll need to hurry.
The plank is stored in the shed when we’re not using it. It is difficult for me to maneuver it into the house. Master is a unicorn; he could just pick it up and float it in, but my earth pony strength is not much help when there’s no good way to grab it.
After minutes of struggle I get it inside. The plank is a thick wooden board, about as long as a pony and a bit wider, with metal latches set into the surface near each corner. I place it in the middle of the living room floor, head end pointing towards the door. It’s a gift from Master on my last birthday. He decides when I’m going to use it, of course.
It is still only twenty minutes to five on the kitchen clock, so I have time to make a quick round through the house and check that everything is neat. Master doesn’t like messes. Then to the bathroom to use the toilet and run a brush through my tail so I’ll look nice for Master when he arrives.
Master does have a real name, and I have to use that when we’re out among others. Then he calls me Cheerilee, and other ponies do that too. But when we’re alone he’s just Master and I am his toy, to do what he wants with. Toys don’t have names.
Today Master wants me to stand on the plank and wait until he arrives. I step onto it with my hind legs first, planting my hooves straight and firm on the corner latches, so the little spring-loaded hooks grip the underside of my horseshoes, holding them tightly in place. Then one forehoof and then –
Oops! I almost forgot the bucket! Master wants there to be a bucket full of water at the head end of the plank when I get on it by myself. If I had trapped myself without putting it there, he would certainly spank me. Luckily I remembered while I still have one leg free, and I can just barely reach the release lever halfway down the side of the plank even with three hooves stuck. I push it all the way down and with a loud CLACK I’m free again.
I fetch the bucket from the bathroom, and a pitcher of water to top it off from. Master wants it to be exactly full to the brim so he can see I haven’t been drinking from it. I don’t really get what it’s for then, but he’s the master. I don’t need to understand, just to do what he tells me to.
Putting the pitcher back to the kitchen I notice there are only a few minutes left. But I’m going to make it. I hurry back to the plank – final check, did I remember everything now? Yes. Click, click, click, click, and then all my hooves are stuck to the plank and I can’t move until someone else comes and pushes the lever.
Now there’s only waiting.
* * *
The plank doesn’t work for just anypony. You need to wear special horseshoes with notches that the fittings in the plank can grip. I got my ones the same day Master gave me the plank. I had unwrapped it in the morning without knowing what it was for, but he told me to follow him, and we went on a train and I didn’t know where we were going until we got off at Baltimare and he took me to a specialist farrier there that he had an appointment with.
I didn’t like that farrier much. She wouldn’t speak to me at all, but only to Master like I was deaf or stupid, and she put me into one of those old-fashioned farrier’s chairs where there are braces locking on to each of your hooves so you can’t move anything, while she removed all of my horseshoes and put the new special ones on. But it was alright because Master was there and held me the whole time, even though the farrier said he was spoiling me, and then Master got angry and said he would treat his property however he damn pleased, and she shrugged and didn’t speak much to him either. It was weird hearing Master call me that, even though he was right. Toys are property.
Now Master takes me to Baltimare each time my hooves needs a checkup. Before that, I always went to Dr. Hoofhammer here in Ponyville. He’s much nicer, but I wouldn’t want to explain to him that I’m wearing special horseshoes for a plank and why.
When we got home, Master showed me how the plank works. He explained that the horseshoes mean I’m his toy all the time because I’m always wearing them, even when he’s away or when I’m out being Cheerilee. I knew that already, but I suppose it’s nice to have something concrete that shows it. If I’m in class and I feel lost I only need to look at my hooves to know I have a Master who takes care of me. Nopony else can see that – all that looks unusual about them is that the nails are clinched in a special way so I can’t pull my hooves off the plank no matter how hard I try.
Master says he likes the plank because he can reach all parts of me easier than when I’m tied up. And we’ve hardly ever used my cage since I got the plank – except for fall break week where we pretended I was a pet and he locked me in the cage when he went to work.
Being a pet was fun, most of the time. I wasn’t allowed to speak – pets don’t talk – but Master would give me treats and belly rubs, and I got to pretend to misunderstand his commands some of the time because pets don’t really understand Ponish.
Feeding time was not so fun. The first two days Master gave me food out of a can there had been dog food in. I kept thinking about how dog food is made from pieces of dead animals, so I almost couldn’t eat it, even though it was really oatmeal and Master had washed the can first. I think Master understood that the can made it hard for me to eat, because the rest of the week he made sure I saw him pour the oatmeal from the saucepan into my feeding bowl. That made it better, but it also made me sad because I had eaten the food from the can without saying gramophone, even though I nearly gagged. It’s not supposed to matter what I like or not, as long as I don’t say gramophone. That’s why he is my Master and I am his toy.
I tried to be an extra obedient pet so Master would remember how it is. But I’m not sure he got it.
* * *
It doesn’t take long before Master arrives.
Usually I can stand alone on the plank for hours. I like having that time to myself. If I just lie on the couch there are so many things I should be doing instead, grading homework or planning lessons or whatever. Eventually I would feel bad and start doing them. But on the plank there’s nothing I can do except relax.
But on some days Master will show up very shortly after the time he ordered me to be planked, so he can check if I cheat. Today must be one of those days, it can’t have been more than twenty minutes. I don’t know for sure how much, because there’s no clock I can see from the plank.
“Ah, here you are, my toy.” Master has let himself in and appears in the hallway. “Did you get my message?”
“I did, Master. That’s why I’m here.” He can ask silly things sometimes.
“Of course it is. Let’s check that everything is in order here, shall we?” Master walks around me, judging. I keep my head up, with the poise I know he likes. “Hmm. . . is that hoof there quite aligned? Lift it for me, toy!” He moves his head down and jabs at my right hind cannon with his horn.
“Ow!” The plank’s grip on my horseshoe is all that stops me from kicking back. “I can’t, Master.”
“Good,” Master says and kisses my leg where he poked it. “And you have a water bucket too. It’s a bit far away, though. Can you reach it?”
I show that I can.
“Uh-huh, no touching the water. I accept the bucket. If I go into the kitchen, will I find it squeaky clean?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And the beds?”
“Made, Master.”
“And the bathroom?”
“Slightly used, Master.” I lower my head in contrition. “I was a bit tardy in finding your message.”
“Hrm. We will see later if it’s bad enough that you need to be punished.” Master winks at me.
“Yes, Master,” I say, blushing. It’s embarrassing when Master suggests that I like it when he punishes me. It wouldn’t really be punishment if I did, so I try not to. But it is hard. Sometimes I come just from him spanking me.
“Very well. And – hmmm, what would happen if I hadn’t come?”
“Then I would wait for you.”
“I mean, suppose I never show up at all. The night passes and now it’s morning and you’re still there. Then what?”
It’s a trick question. “You wouldn’t. The note said you would be here before midnight, and you always keep your promises.”
Master frowns and takes some time before he replies, slowly and carefully. “Are you telling me that you haven’t arranged with somepony that they would come and release you if I don’t arrive?”
Now I remember that when Master first had me lock myself up – that was long ago, when it was the cage and a padlock – he told me I had to find some friend or neighbor and do that. He said it was so I would feel safer trapping myself, knowing there was a plan B that was my own.
“I – I forgot, Master.”
“You forgot? How can you forget something like that?”
“It was difficult, Master.” I did do it at first, I really did. But even Lily thinks Master is just my coltfriend and doesn’t know I’m his toy, and she’s both my best friend and my neighbor. I had to keep coming up with reasons why she would have to come over here in the morning. “And I don’t really need it to feel safe. I trust you, Master.”
Master blinks. Then he turns away and collapses onto the couch. “And what if I can’t make it? What if I have an accident? What if I’m away and suddenly the trains don’t run and I can’t get home? My sweet little toy, your first and most important duty is always to keep yourself safe so you can keep being my toy. You should know that. If I wanted a corpse for a toy I would go to a dollmaker.”
“I’m sorry, Master.” It was wrong of me to decide for myself that Master’s orders had become irrelevant.
“How many times has this happened?”
“Since . . . about a year, perhaps?” I feel dizzy, realizing how often I’ve been disobedient. I want to go and hide somewhere, but I can’t. Master hasn’t released me from the plank yet.
Master just stares at me. I can hear the kitchen clock ticking.
I hang my head. “I’ve been a bad toy.”
“Yes, you have.” Master sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I’ve been a bad toy, Master,” I repeat. “You’re going to punish me.”
Master is silent again. I feel even worse because I’ve made him sad. Then he sighs once more and stands up. “Yes,” he says. “I am.”
Master goes into the hallway and I can hear him rummage about in his special cabinet that I’m not allowed to open. He shouts for me to close my eyes and open my mouth, and I do so.
I hear Master coming back. There’s a strange sickly smell following him. He places something in the back of my mouth, a heavy, sticky, chunky mass that tastes salty and strange. I think it’s what smells bad too. He puts another portion of it into my mouth.
“You may look now. And close you mouth; that looks disgusting,” Master says. “Don’t swallow until I tell you to.”
I open my eyes and see Master holding an open can in front of me. The can has a colorful label with a drawing of a puppy licking its lips, and it is half full of something brown and lumpy. Master sets it down on the floor. I struggle with the realization of just what it is my mouth is full of. It feels almost alive, crawling and squirming atop my tongue. Don’t swallow?! The taste is tangy and rotten, like nothing else I’ve tasted before.
Master moves in his head and starts licking the streams of sweat rolling down my chest. I desperately try to think about something else than the vile thing in my mouth. He starts nibbling at my neck, like he does before we have sex. Don’t swallow until . . .? I shudder. Master snorts and keeps nibbling.
I . . . I can’t do this.
I have to spit it out and say the safeword.
Yet I hesitate. If I say the safeword, the rest of the night will be full of words and boundary negotiations and mutual protestations of love and respect and perhaps eventually hugs and – if we’re lucky – some careful, gentle, egalitarian, and very boring sex. He takes the safeword very seriously. And that’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong, but it will take weeks of encouraging before he dares to be properly in charge again. I know.
Just thinking about all that is enough to make me think a mouthful of diced cadaver is possibly the better deal after all. He’s going away on business tomorrow, and I have midterms to grade over the weekend, and then there’s a celestial mechanics module and the Standardized Pre-Magic Preparedness Assessment for the unicorns next week, so I fucking need him to come through for me now.
I’m aware I have slipped out of character, but it’s not as if I have any lines to say right now. Perhaps that’s all I need to pull through here, a few minutes of being myself? Assuming this is myself, of course – some days I can doubt if Cheerilee or that vapid little Toy persona is the real me. Toy has been peeping out in the strangest contexts ever since I got those special horseshoes, even in class.
That may be for the better, though. She’s happier than I am most of the time. Certainly has the better sex life – case in point, right now this ‘being myself’ business has left me bone dry. He’s taking his own sweet time with the foreplay too, nicking and licking me all over, as if I were made of candy. Perhaps he has trouble getting it hard? Sorry bub, could have told you meat isn’t an aphrodisiac.
Eventually he does mount me. I’m still as dry as Saddle Arabia, so it hurts quite a bit as he enters, and I try to stagger forward, but I can’t move my hooves. That helps me get into the mood somewhat. After all he’s right, I screwed up, so it’s supposed to hurt. Negative reinforcement and all that.
Negative reinforcement? Shit, if I keep using that kind of words I might as well say gramophone and get it over with. I shake my head and try to concentrate on the pain and the disgusting thing in my mouth and how I’m a bad toy for making it so hard for Master to punish me.
I try my best to make it good for Master, moving back and forth with his thrusts and squeezing with my thighs on the way back. That’s what a good toy does, even if she doesn’t feel like it, even if her mouth is full of horror. Toys don’t have opinions. They do what Master wants them to.
But then Master stops thrusting and climbs off of me. I don’t think he finished. It makes me sad I couldn’t make him come.
“Now swallow,” Master says.
Somehow I manage to gulp down the foul mass. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. I think my stomach is turning inside out, and I puke a little, but I make it look like it’s just the last bit of the thing I’m swallowing. Master doesn’t like it when I vomit without asking permission first.
I’m just relieved it’s over now.
“Did you enjoy that, my toy?”
Some Masters train their toys to say they like everything they do to them, but mine doesn’t ask unless he wants the truth.
“No, Master. I didn’t like it.” My breath must stink of corpse when I speak.
“That’s good. It’s meant to be a punishment after all. Now, open wide for the second serving.”
Master scoops the rest of the dog food into my mouth. I feel silly for thinking that would be all. Does he know I cheated? Maybe if I hadn’t cheated I would have come, and he would have come too.
I know I cheated, so I deserve whatever Master is going to do.
Master puts a halter on me and ties it down to a hook in the plank so I cannot raise my head more than a hoof’s width from the floor. The halter has blinkers on it, so all I can see is a bit of the floor. My mouth points down, so I have to clench my lips tight to keep the stuff in. He doesn’t need to tell me I’m not allowed to let it spill out.
I hear the whoosh of the whip a split second before it tears into my flank. SLAP! That’s warning enough that I manage keep my mouth shut and emit a sort of high-pitched squeal through the nose instead of a scream.
I know that whip, even if I can’t see it. It’s the cat-of-six-tails, and Master only uses it when I’ve been really bad. Not for the random little rules and tasks that are just there so I can fail at them and be punished. It makes welts in a single hit and sometimes draws blood.
SLAP! It hits my other flank. I squeal even more because the first one hasn’t stopped hurting yet. They will last for hours.
“Tail up!” barks Master. I raise my tail and cringe, trying to prepare myself for the next blow across my buttocks. But it doesn’t come at first, and when it comes – SLAP! – it hits my loins instead.
Perhaps it’s over now? Four strikes with the cat is the most Master has ever given me, once after I lost myself and clopped him one when he was disciplining me. This can’t be as bad as that, can it?
SLAP! It could. Shoulder.
SLAP! Stifle.
Was that five or six? I have lost count. There’s a sound like a squeaky wheel that goes on and on. I realize it is myself whimpering.
SLAP! Withers.
I can stop this. All I need to do is say gramophone. I almost forgot about the stuff in my mouth. I can spit it out first. But I will not cheat again. I’ve been bad. He’s the Master. I deserve it. And I’ve come this far. It may even be over n–
SLAP! Other shoulder.
The plank with me on it is turning round and round. I will not cheat again. Not unless there’s another –
But the whip doesn’t come again. I wait and wait, but it doesn’t. Then Master undoes the cord that tied my head down so I can raise it again. I’m shaking. The whip is on the floor in front of me. Master looks disappointed. “Swallow,” he commands.
Oh, that.
I thought it would be easier than the first time, but it isn’t. My throat and stomach protest wildly for each little bit-of-dead-animal I force down. Master stands by, watching me impassively. I am his toy, I do whatever he tells me to, so I keep forcing down the pieces one by one. I’m sweating all over, and the sweat seeps into the marks left by the whip and makes them hurt even more, but the pain is good: it takes my mind off what it is I’m eating.
Almost done now. I suppose I should be glad Master didn’t make me chew it. NO NO NO, that was not the right thing to think now. Just the idea makes me gag, and then it all comes up and suddenly my mouth is full of dog food again, only now it’s swimming in stomach juice, and there’s no way I can swallow that back, and what am I going to do because Master didn’t allow me to –
There’s a loud banging and crashing and suddenly Master is levitating a laundry tub in front of me. “Here,” he says softly.
I let go of it all. It lands in the tub with a splat. Master winces when he’s hit by a few bouncing drops, but he doesn’t budge and I don’t have time to care before more of it comes up. The sight and smell of it is so awful that just the thought this has been inside me makes me retch even more. I barely have time to stammer “thank you” between heaves.
Some time after I have nothing more to vomit, I manage to stop trying. Master floats the tub out of the room, leaving me stuck on the plank. “Use the water bucket to rinse,” he shouts behind him.
I shake so much that I spill a lot of water, but I manage to get some of it into my mouth and swoosh it around to remove the taste of stomach acid. There’s nowhere to spit it out, so I swallow it. Then I drink some more.
I can hear Master in the bathroom, flushing and then rinsing the tub and flushing again. He doesn’t come back here. Some time later I hear him in the kitchen. He’s slamming cabinet doors shut noisily, and banging pans and chopping boards down on the countertops.
I’m scared because I’ve made Master so angry. Will he ever like me again? If I can’t be his toy anymore, what will I do?
* * *
Master comes back from the kitchen. He doesn’t look angry. He grabs the halter and pulls my head close to his face.
“Do we agree that you will never ever make me have to do that again?”
“Yes, Master. I will be good, I’m sorry. I . . .” I start sobbing.
Master kisses the tears away from my cheeks. “Who are you?” he asks.
“I am your toy, Master. I exist only to do what you tell me to.”
“Keep existing,” Master says. There may be tears in his eyes. “Please.”
Master doesn’t say please; he gives orders. I suddenly realize he has come close to saying gramophone. (Does he even know he can? It never came up). For the first time I understand just how bad I’ve been.
“Please, Master, I’ll be good,” I say desperately. “I know I have to stay safe. I’ll do anything . . .” I will even tell Lily what I am, if I need to. But I don’t say that.
Master kisses my forehead. “It’s all right.” He is silent for some time. Then he closes his eyes and tosses his head. When he looks back at me it’s almost as if nothing has happened. “What does my toy wish to do now?”
More than anything I want to make Master happy again. But he wants me to say how.
“W-would you allow your toy to suck your cock, Master? Please?”
Master nods graciously and stands in front of me such that I can put my head in between his legs and under his belly, like a suckling foal. His penis has come out already, but it is still small and soft enough that I can fit all of it in my mouth. I like it when I can do that. For seconds I just stand there and let this soft warm living thing lie along my tongue, the part of Master that he enjoys things with, which he lets me tend to for a moment.
Then, before Master begins stomping his hooves impatiently, I start sucking, caressing the whole thing with my lips, gently prying my tongue in between the folds at the tip. At once it starts throbbing and swelling, growing out of my mouth like a magic beanstalk while I keep exploring the tip. That always makes me feel bizarrely proud – look! I made this!
Master is making little happy sounds that he doesn’t think I can hear. His cock is almost at full length now, so I let go of the tip, reluctantly, so I can reach down and give the shaft itself its due. But he grabs my tail with his magic and pulls on it to stop me. “Not that today,” he says. “Just the head.”
I backtrack up to the tip and kiss it from the front. It is already dripping with precum, mixed with my saliva. I wrap my lips around it and continue sucking. Master moans loudly and begins twisting my tail round and round. I close my front teeth carefully down on the shaft behind the tip and tug gently on it. It makes little starts and twitches that tell me it’s almost there.
Then it goes off, and all I need to do is to hold on. Master shoves his cock a little further into my mouth each time he squirts, and pulls my tail forward across my back at the same time. I’m strangely aware of how my hind end is all bare and unprotected, with not even Master to enjoy it. I think I’m squirting a bit myself back there, as if his juice is just passing through me. That’s silly, of course. I’m keeping it all safe in my mouth.
Master stops pumping and pulls back. I let go of him with a soft swop, doing my best to lick him clean on the way out. He steps away and does that little dance he does after he has come. It is longer than it usually is. Maybe I am a good toy after all.
My mouth is full of warm salty goop. That is the taste of Master being happy. I like that taste. Much better than the taste of him being angry.
Master turns around and comes at me, and before I know what goes on he is kissing me. His tongue pries my lips apart, and he gets a taste of his own happiness. He pulls back, surprised. I am afraid I have been bad somehow, but he shakes his head and smiles. “Silly little toy,” he says. “Just swallow it.”
I do that. Most of the time Master doesn’t want me to swallow until he tells me to, but I don’t talk back. He didn’t say I was wrong anyway. I run my tongue around all my teeth and up behind my lips, carefully getting all the cum down. Master has taught me he doesn’t mind the aftertaste, but he doesn’t like the goopy feel. I think that is the best part, but he is the Master.
Master kisses me again, for real this time. He hugs me while we kiss. I would hug him too, but my forehooves are stuck to the plank. It doesn’t matter.
“Are you a good little toy?”
“I try, Master.”
“Mmmmh.” Master is nibbling on my ear. It is nice. “Do you deserve a reward?”
“. . . No.” I haven’t forgotten how I fucked up.
“You’re getting one anyway.” Master can do what he wants with me, even give me rewards I don’t deserve. He lets go of my ear and walks around to my hind end. “Tail up!”
I lift my tail, but Master just stands there behind me. I can feel him breathing on my mare parts. Is he hyperventilating? Oh dear princesses, he can’t possibly mean to –?
But he does. He draws a particularly deep breath and then, with a hoarse scream, jams it right in. “Yaagh!”
. . . !
There’s nothing, nothing in this world that compares to a lit-up unicorn horn up your cooter. It’s not the size or the shape, it’s the magic that’s . . . well, magic. It pulses and sizzles and is everywhere at once and hot and cold and feels like sandpaper made of silk except firmer and sleeker, and it does something to you that’s . . . very, very good.
Most unicorns who try this end up mauled, simply because you end up kicking and convulsing uncontrollably, there’s no helping it. But with a plank it can be done. My leg muscles already ache from fighting the plank, and I’m still hurting all over from the whipping, but I feel fucking fantastic. I could take on the bloody princesses, all of them! I thrash my head about and whinny senselessly like a cavehorse while bliss consumes me from within.
I know it’s none too pleasant for the unicorn – something about trying to magick in a confined space being painful and it all discharging into his face because there’s no other way out – but somehow Master keeps his horn inside me for what must be tens of seconds. I’ve lost bladder control long ago, and he must be drenched in urine, but he keeps at it, until eventually he shouts, “dammit!” and lets my spasms shake him out.
He doesn’t waste time before rearing up and mounting me, his rock-hard cock sliding into me effortlessly amid a shower of magical sparks. He screams in surprise or delight and immediately starts pumping me full of his seed. It mixes with the leftover magic inside me, and I think if we’re making a foal here she will be a mage to amaze the ages.
The room seems to be spinning gently as I slowly regain coherent thought. I have no idea how I could possibly have deserved this. Master is off me, doing his dance unsteadily.
Then Master is back by my side, with a hoof on the release lever. “Ready to come off?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Thank – aahh – you – heeh – Master . . .”
Eventually the room stops spinning, more or less. “Okay,” I nod.
CLACK. The plank releases its grip on me, and I stagger off it, managing to stay upright.
“That’s a good toy,” Master says approvingly. “Now go and cook us some dinner. You will find an, um, failed attempt on the stove. Clean that up first.”
“Yes, Master.”
I walk slowly towards the kitchen, aching everywhere and inordinately happy that I have a Master who takes such good care of me. How I’m worthy of him I’ll never understand.
I am so lucky.
