The Rescue Service

Chapters

2. Happy Birthday
3. Repair of Farm Equipment
4. Animal Welfare
5. With This Ring
7. Duct Tape
8. A Real Mare
9. Guilt
10. Tartaric Gallop
11. Hugs and Rainbows and Friendship
12. Royal Favor
13. Clemency
14. Not a Monster
15. Ever After
6. Therapist
16. Epilogue
1. Prologue

2. Happy Birthday

So this is what it feels like?

If you ask me, I’d say I have at most a purely professional interest in bondage. I get paid to get ponies out of it when something has gone wrong for them, and to be on call during shifts when nothing goes wrong – which happily is most of them. But I’ve never had any desire to get anypony into bondage, or to be tied up myself.

That’s part of the reason why I have the job in the first place. Our boss, Hissy Fit, tries to avoid candidates who would be too excited by the nature of the work.

Of course, as a scientist (or, well, at least a scientist-in-training) I must confess to a certain curiosity about what makes our clients voluntarily subject themselves to this. What do they get out of the experience? What is it they experience? Hissy Fit sometimes says there would be an informational bondage session in the training program for new employees, except she likes to be able to keep misbehaving workers in line by the threat of giving them that first taste. Nopony ever really knows if she’s joking. On one hoof she’s the kindest, calmest, most balanced pony you could ever imagine, despite her name. On another, it is said she was a professional dominatrix for years before she started the Service. She can certainly make good on the threat.

Thus, in the name of science and the advancement of equine understanding, how does it feel to be tied up and left in a room by myself, not knowing how long this is going to last and what will happen?

So far: just about as boring as one would expect. And so far, less physically uncomfortable than one would expect. I’m on my back, but I can fold my wings in and out with some difficulty, if I squirm a bit and take them one at a time. And I probably have enough squirming range to avoid pressure ulcers. We do learn about those in orientation.

It’s a peculiar form of boredom, though. For one thing, I seem to have this persistent erection that only becomes harder when I think of how inconvenient and embarrassing it would be if I still have it when she comes back. Drops of fluid drip down from it to my belly from time to time, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

Right, strictly professional interest. That, and science.

It had been easy enough to find the address of the highly irregular solo rescue Bellchaser had talked me into, the top floor of a two-storey villa on Camebury’s back slope. Nopony answered when I knocked, so I let myself in. The front door wasn’t even locked. Our customers do that sometimes – supposedly it adds to their excitement that anypony can walk right in.

I don’t think I’d dare leaving the door unlocked to an apartment as nice as the one I found inside. It was artfully furnished, definitely not a love nest or a bachelor pad. There was still no response when I called out, so I began searching the rooms one by one. One of them held only a grand piano and a giant oversized violin thingey, but still managed to be cozy and stylish all the same. I wondered which kind of pony lived here.

I found the client in a bedroom at the end of a hallway, lying across a bed such that I got a full view of her ass when I entered. Very nice ass too, grey and well-shaped, beneath a dark grey tail that went straight up into the air, held up by a pair of pink party balloons tied to its end. Something was written on them. ‘Welcome to Canterlot’ and ‘Happy birthday!’

She turned her head around to look at me with deep lavender eyes and an unreadable expression. Or perhaps it’s just that I’m bad at reading expressions when the pony’s mouth is filled with a big pink ball gag. That’s when I noticed how she was bound, hind hooves on the floor tied to a spreader bar, forelegs hoofcuffed and stretched across the bed in front of her, tied down with a chain that went down on the other side of the bed.

I will admit I stared. You would too, I think. Most of our customers seem to go for extreme tack, straps and rubber all over to the extent that it tends to obscure the pony underneath. As I’ve said, that doesn’t do much for me. Even if it is less extreme, as with Mr. Warmblood earlier in the morning, I’d look at him and see only a diaper and that dog collar. I couldn’t even tell you what color he was. But this, this looked like it was designed to call attention to the actual mare before me. It helped that she was a very pretty mare. No, that’s not the right word. She was a beautiful mare. Beautiful and sexy.

I’m not sure how long I spent taking in that sight. I hope it was seconds rather than minutes. Eventually I was aware of her raising a jet black eyebrow at me. That snapped me out of it. Right, I had a job to do.

“Good morning, ma’am, I’m with The Rescue Service. Looks like you need a hoof here?” I went over to her head end and reached around her to unfasten the gag. The rule is to establish communication with the client as soon as possible.

She took some time working her jaw back and forth before actually speaking. “Hmm, I could use a drink, I do believe.” She smiled in a way that would have been charming if not for the drool still hanging around the edges of her mouth. Well, bugger it, this mare was charming either way.

“Right, ma’am, just as soon as we get you free here. Do you have the keys to those cuffs around somewhere?” I hoped this wouldn’t be another one who didn’t have the keys. Bellchaser had taken the angle grinder with her when she ran off, and it would be difficult to get purchase on these shackles with the hacksaw without hurting the client’s pasterns.

The client didn’t answer immediately, but instead got a thoughtful look. “Say, aren’t there supposed to be two of you?”

Of course the day we bent the rules a bit had to be the day we got a client who’d actually read them. “Yes, ma’am, usually. But my colleague had to, um, run an errand.” I scraped at the carpet with my foreleg as I tried to find a good way to explain. “I assure you I’m fully qualified to –”

“You are?” she said teasingly. “I wonder if I would hear the same story if I called your head office now.”

“Um, please don’t do that. I’m sure I can get you rescued to your full satisfaction.”

“Hmm. . . it just feels like I’m not getting my money’s worth here, with only half a team being sent out.”

I wasn’t really sure I followed her. Was this some kind of rich-pony joke? “Is there anything specific you were expecting, ma’am?”

“Well, all of this” – she tossed her head to indicate her bound state – “was meant to be a birthday surprise for somepony special who would arrive on the morning train. But the train must have had trouble; somehow they always seem to be late or canceled when my friend is supposed to be on them.” She sounded a bit bitter. “And now I seem to be getting no action at all. But you’re either a five-legged mutant or really happy to be here, so perhaps you could rescue me from boredom as well as from these bonds, hmm?”

I was aware that Finey Jr. had dropped down and was quietly swelling between my legs. That happens to stallions sometimes, of course. It’s considered polite to pretend not to notice.

I wasn’t sure I ought to like where this was going, but I needed to get the job done before I started protesting too much. “Right, ma’am. Let’s just get you free, and then you can –”

“No!” she stopped me. “You’re the one making up for your substandard service, so you come to me. Stand here, forelegs on the bed, then crawl forward. You will know when I can reach. Or should I just file a complaint instead?”

I know, I know, I shouldn’t have. But apparently she was offering to suck me and not rat me out to Hissy Fit for coming alone, which frankly seemed like a win-win to me at the time. I’d been single for longer than I cared to, and have I mentioned what a beautiful, sexy mare this was? It was a bit weird to do it while she was still tied up, but as I said I don’t really understand what ponies get themselves tied up for anyway.

So I did as she told me, planting my forehooves on each side of her head, and inching in above her until I felt the wet tip of her tongue touch the flat head of my dick. The touch made my whole body freeze up, and I realised just how sensitive my shaft had become to a mare’s touch. Maybe I should have listened to Bellchaser when she said I should spend a little more time on, um, personal care – even if that conversation had gotten a bit awkward.

Ooh, but how good that tongue felt. It was hard to keep myself still as her long tongue worked its way back across and then down my shaft. A spurt of pre soon showed her exactly how good of a job she was doing, and I let out a long moan, then a sudden surprised grunt when she actually tugged on it using nothing but her tongue wrapped around the shaft.

I nearly fell over on top of her, and would certainly have crushed her if I hadn’t had wings to flap. I regained my footing while letting out a long ragged breath. “Tha-ahat’s quite the tongue you have there. Mmmph!” I grunted. The tip of her tongue brushed against my balls and I could feel I was about to come right there.

No! It couldn’t be over already! Quick, think of something different and non-sexy. The characteristic polynomial of an anticyclic algebra – she drew her tongue back across my sheath and up along the shaft – generates the canonical homomorphism – her lips closed around the head and she began moving them down while massaging the head with her warm wet tongue – between the polynomial ring which feels so good – she began emitting an almost musical hum that went right through the shaft up to my spine – and the soft, wonderful algebra – her head moved back with a soft slurping sound while she tickled my balls with the cold chain between the hoofcuffs – correction, it generates the nuts, I mean, the kernel of the homomorphism – her tongue wrapped around the head again, and she pulled free with a wet smack, and leaving my cock exposed to the cold air of the room – taking the unknown to the, the ass and tail bobbing up and down in front of me –

It was no use. Something began pumping inside me and I was powerless to stop it. “Fffuck!” I shouted as I felt the first of it leaving me. Somehow she had me in her mouth again, and I felt her pushing me further into it while I spent myself, massaging my balls with her forehooves, encouraging me to give her every last drop I could.

What a mare.

And that, more or less, is why I ended up here, spread-eagled on a bed with all my hooves tied down while I wait to find out what my fate, or punishment, or whatever, is going to be. It’s nopony’s damn fault but my own.

Somehow I’m not as afraid as I probably ought to be. I can’t quite decide whether it’s because I’m admirably rational and not letting myself panic about what is plainly outside my control by now, or because I’m actually scared shitless and my faculty for being terrified has shut down from overload. Probably a little of both.

Or perhaps it’s just because I got laid and there still seems to be some hope that it will stay that way. Finey Jr. here certainly seems to think so.

There’s music floating into the room from somewhere nearby – a deep keening tune that suddenly accelerates into a jumble of tones, and then starts over, again and again. Very soothing, when you get used to the jolt where it stops and starts over from the beginning. I could probably keep time by counting the repetitions, but what for? I don’t know how long I have to wait anyway.

“Why is it that you’re supposed to be two ponies for rescuing someone?”

She asked it in a conversational tone, after I’d climbed down from the bed and was standing next to it, trying to catch my breath. She had swallowed, I think. At least there were no splotches of jizz anywhere I could see.

I gave her the usual spiel. “Well, in our line of work we often come across clients in positions where they would be easy to take advantage of. When there’s two of us we can keep an eye on each other, as a guarantee that won’t happen.”

“Hmm, positions . . . like me?”

I looked over at her, still bound on the bed. That ass sure looked inviting still. “Yeah, now that you mention it, that would be a prime example.” I wondered what her cutie mark meant, a purple doodle that looked vaguely like the co-par operator from affine logic.

“And what did you do just now?” There was a sudden edge in her tone, one that I didn’t like at all.

“Well, that, that was different. You asked for it, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” She sounded bemused. “I do distinctly remember you putting your thing into my mouth and pumping it full of semen, with me being all tied up and not in a position to resist. As for me asking you to do that . . . I dunno, it sounds like the kind of thing it might be very difficult to convince anypony of.”

Shit. “You . . . you wouldn’t! . . . would you?” If she did, I would almost certainly lose my job. Possibly even end up in jail. Oh princesses, what had I done?

“I might.” She paused for just long enough for me to imagine my whole life falling apart. Fired, expelled from the Institute, scorned by my family and thrown into a dark, dank cell somewhere, to be beaten and kicked like I’ve always thought rapists deserve to be. The room spun, and it seemed to be getting darker, and I thought I was about to throw up.

“Or . . . hmm, it is just barely possible that I could remember asking you.” Her voice brought me back to reality, and I saw her smile warmly before her eyes narrowed. “If you do exactly what I tell you to.”

I was vaguely aware of how pathetic I was being, pouncing at the first sliver of hope she offered me. But I didn’t really have any choice, did I? “Yes . . . yes!” I begged. “Anything you want. Please.”

“Who am I?” she asked.

Huh? I remembered what the work slip had said. “I’m assuming you’re O. Melody.”

“Oh?” She frowned. “That’s not good enough. You will call me mistress.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, yes, mistress.” The word felt funny in my mouth.

“Good.” She smiled again. “So you have had your fun; now it’s my turn. You’re going to make me come.”

“Certainly, ma’am, mistress. Any particular way mistress would prefer?” I tried my best to sound professional and experienced, though I didn’t feel it at all. The marefriends I’ve had were not very adventurous – just a lot of hugging and kissing, nuzzling, nibbling and pecking, ending with the good old eight-legged pony if she was in a good mood. Truth to be told, that’s about my speed too. One of them wanted to try a blowjob, just out of curiosity, but she didn’t seem to like it and broke up with me not long after. I’ve read about other things in magazines, of course, but it is hard to know how much of that is for real, and how much is just made up to get the readers off.

“Haha. Just get back there and start licking.”

I could do that, I supposed. I went around the bed and put my face up to her ass (oh, that ass!), sticking out my tongue and running it carefully up along her marehood. Then I licked a few times more, making certain to cover the entire thing. I’m not quite sure what I had expected to taste – but it was neither as bad as I could have feared given the proximity to her anus, nor as heavenly as some of The Literature had promised me. Mostly like old sweat, in fact, salty and a bit sour. Well, I would probably be –

“You’re pretty new at this, aren’t you?” she said.

I stopped licking. “Yes,” I mumbled, admitting defeat. “Um, mistress, I mean. I’m sorry.” Did I fail already? There must be something I could do to earn her forgiveness, or mercy or whatever I was earning.

She sighed. “Okay, we’re going to do this a bit differently. First you’ll have to free my legs. Keys are on the nightstand.”

So they were. I could have avoided all this if I’d just kept my eyes about me. I unlocked the hoofcuffs, and she had me untie her hind legs too, even though we usually free the client only just enough that they can help themselves the rest of the way. It lets them recover some dignity and helps ensure repeat business, says Fizzy.

This client didn’t have any dignity missing, though. She rolled onto her back, stretched, and then lay pouncing at the air with all her legs, like a foal on the first day of spring. It looked so darn cute I almost forgot I was in trouble and desperately needed to get on her good side somehow. Almost.

“Now back to licking!” She swung a leg around in the air, sweeping her tail and the still attached balloons out of the way so I could get at her marehood again, now upside down. I moved in cautiously, not sure how to do better this time.

“Here.” She reached down with a foreleg and rudely pulled my head a few inches forwards. “Tongue goes in, as far as you can before your muzzle is in the way, and then you have at it like the fate of Equestria depends on you until I tell you to stop.”

“Mmmph!” I did my best to do as she said. It, it appeared, was a growth of flesh right in front of my tongue, which I concluded – once I mentally got my knowledge of female anatomy rotated through 180° – must be her clit. I massaged it as best I could.

This seemed to work better, because for some time all she said was “Yes, like that” and “More” and “Faster”. I felt her hind legs close around the back of my neck, pinning my head against her crotch, and I decided I could well get used to this. Eventually her breathing grew erratic and she started squirming a bit beneath me. And then she relaxed and let out a long, contented sigh.

That didn’t get me off the hook yet, though she had me leave her marehood alone for a bit and instead nuzzle around in her belly fur, nibbling gently at her teats. Then she pulled me closer towards the front end of her belly, and I had to scramble getting my forelegs past and around her hind ones so I could reach.

I wasn’t even aware that I had a boner again until the front of it hit something and I gave a bit of a yelp. She felt it too. “Not that hole, please,” she said. “Move up about a hoofwidth”.

I hesitated, not sure I was really prepared to do anal. Then I realized that since she was lying on her back, legs towards the ceiling, the topmost hole would be the right one. I managed to lift myself up enough to hit it and slid into her. She was warm and soft and welcoming, better even than being sucked off, and I began thrusting back and forth, lost in the feeling. How long had it been since last time? Far too long.

Then it got through to my mind that I was actually fucking an upside-down mare, which I always thought only happened in porn. I looked about me, and found I could see her face, eyes shut, mouth opening and closing in a soundless chant. Usually you never get to see your partner’s face during the act. It was mesmerizing.

And so I managed to surprise myself again when I came, still inside her, and I collapsed down on her chest, and she wrapped her forelegs around me and hugged tightly, and for a long timeless moment we were one pony, more so than I’ve been with anypony before.

That was where I should have made my exit. This last time had at least been unambiguously consensual, so there’d be no foul and the client was well and truly rescued by now. I should have climbed down, thank you ma’am that was wonderful but I need to get going, give me a call sometime, alright? – and then be off.

But no, genius me just had to roll over beside her on the bed to enjoy a moment of quiet postcoital bliss first. Just a minute or two, idiot Finey, you. But she was quicker in recovery than me, or just more determined, because suddenly she was breathing into my right ear and gently stroking my wing. And I let her, because who tells a mare like that to stop grooming his feathers?

“You’re not really allowed to buck with customers like that, are you?” she whispered sweetly.

“Not really.” I smiled lazily and folded out the wing towards her so she could reach better. She’d given me a good scare before, but all was well now. She had opened herself up to me, and we had been one flesh. I felt pretty sure I loved her. Ergo she loved me too, right? Deductive fact.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen if somepony found out?”

I tried to imagine that. I’d be out of work, most likely. But next to having gained an awesome marefriend, that didn’t matter much. Of course things would get pretty bad if she went back to not remembering it had been her idea all the time. But she wouldn’t do that. Right?

Right?

“Mmmm.” She nibbled softly at my ear. “You’d better keep calling me mistress, don’t you think?”

So that’s the game she wanted to play. “Yes, mistress.”

She climbed up on top of me and lay lazily across my back for some time, burying her muzzle in my mane. I could feel her heartbeat against my withers and felt at ease with the world. More or less.

“Thing is,” she said eventually, “you’ve been an extraordinarily bad pony, and I don’t think I can let that go unpunished. Of course, it sounds like I can get somepony else to do the punishing just by making a few phone calls.” Suddenly she tugged hard at my mane, pulling my head up and backwards. “Wouldn’t that be easy?”

“No. Please.”

She wrapped her forelegs around my neck from behind. “But surely you see my problem. What is it you want me to do here?”

I had figured out where this was going, but I had to swallow a few times before I could actually say it. “I want you to punish me, mistress.”

She bit down on my left ear – not just a nibble, this actually hurt – and pulled on it, twisting my neck. “What’s the magic word?”

By then, if she had told me to divide by zero, I would just have to invent a way. “Please punish me, mistress!”

She made me wear the hoofcuffs and gag she had been bound with when I arrived, and tied my legs down to the corners of the bed. Then she left the room, saying I needed time to think about what I had done.

So I have. Mostly because I don’t dare to dwell on what might come next. And I’ve examined my proof that she loves me for flaws, and found that it consists of nothing but.

F- for logic, Finey. You bloody idiot.

How much time has passed? Minutes? Hours? The music must have stopped some time ago; I didn’t even notice.

She comes into the room again. “Enjoyed your break?” she asks brightly. I can’t answer her, bound and gagged as I am. She doesn’t seem to expect me to either.

“Looks like you’re eager to get on with your punishment, huh?” She reaches out with a flap of material at the end of a thin stick and runs it gently up the underside of my dick. My erection had been on the wane, but immediately it’s back at strength, pointing tall and proud towards the ceiling.

She waves the flap-on-a-stick around. “Ever been spanked with one of these before?” I know what it is: a riding crop. I can only stare at it and shake my head desperately.

“Oh, it’s your lucky day then. Lots of new experiences to have.” She starts humming to herself as she puts the crop down on the windowsill together with several other objects she was carrying. Some of them are long and thin, others short and bulby. I don’t like the look of it at all. Are all of those things going to be used on me?

Suddenly she gasps, looking out the window. “Shit!” She goes pale for a moment, and then rushes to the side of my bed, almost falling over herself before undoing the strap on the ball gag and yanking it out of my mouth. She plants a quick kiss on me. “You need to go now. My friend’s here,” she whispers. There’s panic in her voice.

“Your, um, special somepony?” I had forgotten about him.

“Yes! Must be on the stairs already. You must hide!”

I rattle my chains urgently. “I can’t move!” I thought I was afraid of her ‘punishment’ gear, but if her coltfriend finds me here . . . Looks like my faculty for being terrified was actually fully prepped and operational, just waiting for the right cue.

“I know!” she hisses. “I’ll get you free. Fuck, where did I put the hoofcuff keys?” She looks around the bedroom wild-eyed, then jumps to the dresser and starts pulling out drawers.

“Hurry!” I have no idea what happened to the keys. She took them after I freed her, didn’t she?

Suddenly she stops searching. “Hey, you’re a pegasus. You don’t need to hide, you can just fly off from the balcony.” She’s almost laughing with relief.

“Not while I’m chained to your bed I can’t. Find those keys!” Ye princesses, how did she suddenly turn from a shrewd schemer into an utter moron? Of course – her coltfriend is going to beat her up too. He’s the type to make her tie herself up for him, after all.

I hear the front door open. Fuckfuckfuck, here he comes –

“Tavi? Are you here? Shit, Tavi, I’m so so sorry for being late again. I swear, they should give a Yearling Award to the pony who writes the train timetables.” It’s a mare’s voice coming from the hallway. Ah, no wonder she wanted cock so h– urgh, somepony please slap me. I’ve got more important things to worry about.

The bedroom door opens and there’s a white and blue unicorn mare there, trying to take in what we’re doing. What does one say here – it’s not what it looks like? But that’s exactly what it is. I don’t get much time to ponder that before my client calmly reaches over and stuffs the gag back into my mouth.

“Oh, hi Vinyl,” she says, beaming. “Look what I found!”

The newcomer pushes up her shades and glares at me. Then she breaks into a wicked grin.

“Cool! Can I play too?”

“Darling, he’s all yours. I did warm him up a bit, but there’s plenty of fun left in him yet. Happy birthday!”

. . . this is gonna be a long, long day.

Author's Note

This chapter was co-written with Avorin.

3. Repair of Farm Equipment

Late the same day, a kitchen timer rang in an apartment in one of the humbler, yet still basically respectable, parts of Canterlot. A middle-aged unicorn mare stood up from the couch where she’d been reading a magazine and walked to the desk, shutting it off.

She looked at the clock: a few minutes past five. The bin marked 17:00 in the elaborate filing rack on the wall behind the desk held a single work slip. She pulled it down, but she already knew what it said; she had read it before setting the timer. Sitting down and picking up the phone, she dialed a number.

“Finey? This is your favorite boss speaking. How soon can you be in Ponyville?”

“Really? Are you sure about that? You’re the only pegasus I have available right now –”

“Oh, alright. Sorry to hear that – anything serious?”

“Well, have a speedy recovery then, and let me know when you get better. Need me to find somepony to cover for you tomorrow?”

“Okay. I’ll manage. Bye.”

The mare hung up and double-checked her lists and schedules once again. But no luck. She counted to ten, then counted to ten once more and called the Ponyville agent.

“Hi there, this is Hissy Fit from the Rescue Service calling –”

“Congratulations! You’ve just got yourself your first solo job. I’d have sent Affine Scheme, but he called in sick and there’s nopony else –”

“No, nothing serious, and of course I trust you. Now you have until eight to be there, but they’ll undoubtedly be grateful if you’re quicker. It’s somewhere called Sweet Apple Acres –”

“Ah, excellent. It says you should go to the small barn in the back next to the henhouse. It’s supposed to be unlocked already –”

“Apple.”

“That’s all it says in the name field, Apple. But if you already know the place, you don’t really need the client’s name, do you?”

“That’s about it. Now remember your training, good luck, and be sure to call me back when you’re done.”

“Bye.”

* * *

Big Macintosh was eleven when he discovered the stack of magazines deep in the back of one of the toolsheds. They must have belonged to either his father or to Gramps Smith – he never found out which – and were full of pictures of mares, wearing things that he knew meant the mares were pretty. The pictures were nice to look at, but he also sensed they were somehow wrong, so he quietly moved the magazines to a safer place and told nopony about them.

He liked all of them, but the best ones were the dozen or so that contained pictures of bound mares. Some of them had stallions with them that did things to them, but most were alone in the pictures, looking very sad and scared. Over the years he spent lots of time imagining who had tied those mares up, and how horrid it must be for them, and how all they needed was a big brave colt to come and rescue them. A colt like Big Macintosh. The thought gave him funny feelings between his hind legs.

Later on he learned what those funny feelings were for, and later yet he got to try them out in practice when he dated Cheerilee in senior year. He found himself thinking of the bound mares from the magazines while he did the things he’d learned about with her, and sometimes he imagined Cheerilee was tied up and sad and scared when he mounted her. But he never dared to talk to her about anything like that. When spring came, they decided they were not very good at being special someponies, at least not to each other, and broke up.

He found a specialty bookshop three towns over that sold this kind of magazines. A few times a year he managed to make a detour there from his pie delivery route without getting suspiciously late, and the tattered old issues from the toolshed began to get fresher companions. The new ones were all of the kind with bound mares in them.

Then one time he bought a different kind of magazine by mistake. It looked like the usual ones on the outside, but instead of pictures of scared mares in basements and dungeons, it contained step-by-step instructions for how ponies could tie each other up safely, without excessive pain and lasting damage. There were pictures too, but they were better lit and had little arrows and numbers in them.

In the back there was an article about how a pony could tie up himself and not be able to get free until a certain amount of time had passed.

The thought knocked Big Macintosh speechless. Instead of having to imagine how it would be for those mares to be bound and helpless – and, frankly, he was beginning to doubt the realism of his fantasies – he could get to experience it firsthand, and know how it was! It was an intriguing idea at first; then planning it became a guilty pleasure, and eventually an obsession.

It took a long time to assemble all of the materials. But finally all that remained was a point the article insisted was extremely important: a safety net, somepony to rescue him if something unexpected went wrong. Big Macintosh didn’t know anyone he could tell what he was up to – certainly not Granny or his sisters! – but the article contained a phone number in Canterlot that he could call and pay for rescuers to turn up at a certain time if he didn’t call later to cancel.

Still, it was difficult to bring himself to call, and he almost dropped the entire plan. One weekend the perfect occasion was coming up, though. Apple Bloom would be away on a school trip, and Applejack and Granny were going to a pastry conference presenting Granny’s zap apple plaits. He would have the farm to himself for more than a day and a half, so it was now or never, and he called the number. The mare who answered was friendly and soothing, talked him through everything, and even agreed to write his bill as if it was for repair of farm equipment so he could pay it at the post office without anypony knowing.

Saturday morning he set everything up in the barn and double-checked that it worked as it should. Just after noon he wedged himself in between the barn’s rear centerpost and a column of hay bales, upside down like the mare in one of his favorite pictures, lying on his back with his hind legs running straight up the post. He lashed them securely to it with many turns of rope round his cannonbones. Then he tied each branch of a master rope around one of his forehooves, took a deep breath, and yanked the pull cord.

On the loft above him, the cord swept a sandbag down from the shelf it rested on, and the rope tied to the sandbag started running through a pulley-and-ratchet arrangement. As the bag hung in mid-air, it pulled the ropes attached to his forehooves taut – but not hard; he didn’t have to raise his hooves. Yet every inch he did raise them was another click of the ratchet, preventing him from lowering them again. Even if he tried to back out now, just wiggling his hooves would be enough to pull them out of reach faster than he could untie the knots.

Another deep breath, and he thrust his hooves upwards and backwards, on either side of the stack of hay bales. The ratchet rattled. The sandbag hit the floor. And then Big Macintosh was helplessly trapped. It should be about three hours before the ice weld between two sections of the master rope would melt, freeing him to lower his hooves again.

The hay bales behind his head kept it pinned between his forelegs, so he lay looking at his dick, which had come out during the preparations and was now stiff and throbbing. He wanted to rub it, to give himself some well-deserved relief after a perfectly executed plan. But his hooves were tied back, and he had nothing else to rub against. That was a problem he hadn’t anticipated. Trying to will himself into coming, he thought about all the mares in his magazine pictures and all the things somepony could be doing to them – and finally, in desperation, even about Cheerilee – but to no avail.

How long time has passed yet? He had brought his bedside clock down to the barn so he could keep track of time, but now he found he had forgotten to put it where he could actually see it before he tied himself up. He could hear it ticking somewhere behind his head. Well, since that was the only thing that had gone wrong, he couldn’t really complain.

The afternoon went by slowly. A wasp floated in through the half-open door and buzzed around the barn for some time before settling somewhere in the rafters. Eventually his penis lost some of its stiffness and came to rest on top of his belly, itching quietly. A few times it rose up again when something sounded like hoofsteps in the courtyard and he thought somepony was about to walk in on him and discover him in this position. He didn’t understand why it would do that – being found out would be embarrassing and awkward, not something to look forward to.

He must have been dozing off when none other than Pinkie Pie did walk in on him.

She stood by the door at the other end of the barn, blinking against the darkness inside. Big Macintosh tried desperately to melt into the floor so she wouldn’t see him. Perhaps she –

“HI, BIG MACINTOSH!” She bounced happily over towards him.

“Nope!” was the first thing he could think of saying. “Ah mean, AJ’s not here.”

“I know! She’s gone to Whinnyapolis with Mr. Cake. I helped him carry his stuff to the train because he said Mrs. Cake had been up late and deserved to sleep in, and there was Applejack, going to Whinnyapolis too. Isn’t that crazy?”

She didn’t appear to take note of Big Macintosh’s situation – or even of his erection, inexplicably at full mast again and bobbing about only a muzzle length or so in front of his face – and he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Sometimes Pinkie’s flightiness could work in one’s favor.

“Hey, you look a bit tied up there. Need any help with that?”

“Nope.”

She regarded him skeptically. “Really? How d’you plan on getting free of all that, then?”

“Uh. What’s the time now?” he asked, stalling for time while trying to think of a Pinkie-proof way to explain away everything. It couldn’t be long until the three hours were up.

“Going on six, I think,” said Pinkie. “That’s not bad, is it?”

Bad? It meant something had gone horribly wrong and he had been here for twice as long as planned. He groaned in dismay, even while quietly praising himself for having made the safety-net arrangement with those ponies in Canterlot.

“Um, ah’ve got some ponies comin’ to help me out. Should be here by eight, maybe earlier. Would be best if yer not here by then.”

“By eight?” She looked like this had some profound significance. “Oh, I better run then. Places to go, ponies to do. Byye!”

She skipped out of the barn, slamming the door shut behind her, and Big Macintosh lay left behind, wondering how it could it be so late. That ice weld should have melted long ago; the magazine article had praised it as one of the few completely reliable timed-release mechanisms. It had worked perfectly when he timed it a few weeks ago, too. Today was a bit cooler than then, but that shouldn’t make the ice take twice as long to melt, should it? He had even wrapped today’s ice block in warm blankets to help make up for the temperature difference.

He didn’t have time to solve that mystery before the barn door opened again, and Pinkie Pie came marching towards him with rather more dignity than her usual happy bounce.

“Good evening, sir!” she declaimed. “I’m from the Rescue Service. Looks like you need a hoof here?”

“Um. Ya . . . you’re the Rescue Service?” Big Macintosh wondered if ‘discreet’ meant something different in the Canterlot dialect. It wasn’t a quality Pinkie was famous for around Ponyville.

“Right in one!” said Pinkie. “Usually I go together with Mr. Cake, but he’s away, and the pegasus they’d have sent from headquarters fell ill, so you get only me. That’s okay, right? Of course if you really want me to wait until eight, I can do that too. Except then Mrs. Cake has to go take Pound to his pre-flight playgroup, so I can’t leave the shop. So it really has to be now.”

“Eeyup.”

She looked over him from end to end. “Hey, do you want a quick lick first? You look like you’re bursting.” She poked his erect penis with a hoof. It began throbbing worse than before, and a small drop of sticky fluid detached from its head and landed on his belly.

It took Big Macintosh a few seconds to figure out what she meant by that. “Nope!”

“Aw, are you sure? Come on, it’ll be fun!”

“Nope. Ah mean, eeyup. Ah’m sure.”

“Aw, why not? Don’t all stallions like that? Once I had one who said –”

He wouldn’t be able to take much more. “If ah let you do it, will you Pinkie promise never to tell anypony about . . . all this?”

“Sure,” Pinkie responded happily. “Are you ready?”

He sighed and nodded, and then he had to shut his eyes to avoid getting them full of pink curly mane when Pinkie stuck her head in front of his dick. He couldn’t decide what was hardest to believe: that there was a mare taking his penis into her mouth (what if she bit down?), or that she was doing it while he was tied up and couldn’t even move (what if she bit down?), or that the mare in question was Pinkie Pie (what if she BIT DOWN?).

His whole body tensed up when her lips closed around the sensitive outer end of his penis and she began running her warm, wet, alive tongue around and across it, painting saliva all over it. He was vaguely aware of her mane brushing across his face when she changed her angle, smelling of cotton candy, and of her hooves massaging his shaft, but for the most part his consciousness had shrunk to a small point at his tip. He was inside Pinkie’s mouth, being poked and hugged and tickled by her tongue.

Then she did bite down – but gently, just squeezing ever so slightly – and he shivered all over and felt his loins contract and start pumping, going on and on for quite some time. Oh wow, this was a big one; he’d have to clean up jizz from all over the barn once he got free and managed to lose Pinkie.

But when he opened his eyes and looked, there were no gooey streamers everywhere, just Pinkie Pie licking her lips contentedly.

“Did ya . . . eat it?” he asked, incredulously. He’d read about mares doing that.

“Sure did. Say, you’ve been eating a lot of apples lately, have you?” She winked at him.

“Ah, eeyup.” He didn’t see what that had to do with anything. But this was Pinkie Pie after all. “Now promise.”

“Promise what?”

“You said you would promise not to tell anybody if ah let you, um, lick.”

“Oh, right. I already promised that when I took the job. Not allowed to tell anypony who the clients are. My lips are sealed.” She did an elaborate little pantomime that he didn’t feel like questioning. “Really, you won’t believe who’s using our service and for what!”

“. . . Nope?”

“Because I’m not allowed to tell you. That’s why you won’t believe it. You can’t believe what you don’t know, see?”

By the standards of Pinkie logic, this was relatively straightforward. “Ah see.”

She began untying the rope he had lashed his hind legs to the post with. “Gee, Big Mac, whoever tied you up like this and then just up and left?”

“. . . Ah don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Huh.” She looked at him. “You didn’t do it yourself, did you?”

He didn’t answer, which was a kind of answer too.

“I have to say you’ve been thorough. Went horribly right, didn’t it?” She rose up on her hind legs so she could reach his forehooves, planting one hoof by each of his shoulders so her crotch rested against his face.

He grunted in response and folded his hind legs down to his body. Rewarded by a sudden prickling sensation in his hooves, he kicked at the air to get it to go away.

“You know,” said Pinkie while she untied the rope around his right hoof, “you could get into a lot more interesting positions if you had somepony to help you. I could set you up with a list of mares who would love having a big stallion like you at their mercy.”

“Um . . .”

His right foreleg was free and dropped to the floor. It felt numb and heavy. Pinkie shifted over towards his other side, dragging her tail across his belly.

“Oh, silly me, of course I can’t do that ’cause it’s supposed to be a secret who they were. Then how about I tell them you’re looking for someone to tie you up?”

“NOPE!” he shouted into her crotch.

Once his last hoof was free, he laboriously got himself back on all fours. She stood by watching him while he did an unsteady trot in place to bring circulation back into his limbs.

She bent down on her forelegs, looking up at him from below. “Oh wow, you’re ready to go again already!”

He did have an erection again, which didn’t become any smaller by being pointed out like it was a particularly impressive school project brought for show-and-tell. Hello Equestria, meet Pinkie Pie, master of tact and discretion.

“If you don’t have any other plans for that, I could give you a thing to do with it.”

“A thing?”

“You know, the naughty stuff. Do the double-decker. Humpy-humpy.” She turned her hind end to him and swished her tail provocatively to the side, so he got a view of her marehood. Her glistening and swelling marehood . . .

“Ah don’t know, Pinkie –”

“Oh, come on! It can’t be as if there’s another mare if you have to do your tying-up yourself. And I did lick you, right? Can’t I have some fun too?”

It wasn’t every day mares practically shoved their behinds into his face, and it felt as if she was making a pretty good case. He gave up on resisting – who stood up to Pinkie Pie when she’d gotten something into her head, anyway? – and put his forehooves up on her rump, taking aim.

“Hey, now. Ever heard about foreplay?”

“Ah, eeyup.” He got back on the ground, a bit sheepishly, and began softly nuzzling her cutie mark while he tried to remember how this went. There’d been something Cheerilee liked in particular, wasn’t there? Ah yes. He left the cutie mark behind, planting a series of kisses on Pinkie’s side and up her neck, until he ended up licking the inside of her ear while scratching her breast with a forehoof.

“Uh, that tickles . . . no, keep doing it!”

That sounded good. He licked until he had to pause for breath.

“Try nibbling at the back of my neck – yes, there . . . Mmmm . . .”

He followed the hint, sticking his muzzle into her mane and tugging gently on the little hairs at its root as close to the skin as he could get. They really did taste like cotton candy. He wrapped a hoof around her back and stroked her other side while he kept nuzzling.

“Now mount me, big wonderful stallion you!”

He didn’t even have to raise himself up to hit her opening. She gave a sudden yawp as he entered her, and the sound segued into something that sounded like guffaws. He hoped that meant things were going well, what with her being the element of laughter and all. If it didn’t, it was too late to care. He thrust into her again and again, until he came, hard, and she kept giggling while he pumped and pumped.

He reached down and gave a small farewell tug on the part of her mane he had been nibbling at previously before he backed out of her and took some time to find his footing again.

Pinkie was still chuckling quietly to herself.

“Um, ya alright?”

She looked up at him, smiling. “Yes, silly colt, it was perfect. But I think I need to be getting back to the store now.” She started walking towards the door.

“Pinkie?” he called after her. She stopped and looked towards him. “Does this mean we’re, um, special someponies now?”

Her expression became concerned and a little sad. She walked back to him and hugged him.

“It means we’ve had some fun together, you and me. And I do think it was fun, honest.” She smiled briefly and gave a short wiggle of her butt that probably meant something. “Perhaps we can do it another time, if the occasion pops up. One where you won’t have to pay three hundred bits for a call-out rescue.

“But, you know, I’m really not much for tying up stallions.” The way she said it sounded like it might have been different if he was a mare. But you never really knew with Pinkie. “You deserve somepony who can make you happy, too. She’s out there somewhere; I’m sure of it. Okay?”

He didn’t even know which answer he had been hoping for.

“Eeyup,” he finally said.

He stood in the doorway of the barn and watched Pinkie bounce away toward Ponyville, happy and carefree as ever. He stayed there some time after she disappeared out of sight, trying to decide whether to be sad or relieved that he didn’t have to be special somepony to her. Eventually he settled for relieved. It wasn’t as if it mattered anyway.

Shaking his head with a wistful smile, he went into the barn to pack away the self-bondage gear for now.

Author's Note

Big thanks to Taialin for copyediting help and useful comments on this chapter.

4. Animal Welfare

Affine Scheme is one of the most punctual ponies I know. He’ll bitch and moan about it, yes – especially if it’s before noon – but once he’s committed to be somewhere, any hour of the day, he’ll be there, no exceptions. That’s a pretty good quality to have as a Service member.

That’s why I began to get worried after waiting even fifteen minutes for him, at the head end of a quiet little alley in the Old Mews. Ponies behind two of the windows above had been throwing me suspicious looks for at least ten minutes; apparently the locals were not fond of loiterers. Sensible ponies.

I hadn’t seen Finey since I had to desert him last Saturday, when there were two jobs that same morning my niece Sweetpepper came visiting. I wondered a bit if his being late was to get back at me for that, but that wouldn’t be like him. Old Fizzy said he had been sick, and when there was a rescue to do on Wednesday night, I’d been teamed up with Blunt Thorn instead.

Blunt and I had rescued a unicorn couple who were playing a kinky card game and had gotten into this weird stand-off where each of them knew the combination to the hoof stocks the other one was in, but absolutely refused to be the first to reveal it. Makes you wonder how they stay together at all if they’d rather pay hundreds of bits for a rescue team than concede to the other in a silly game. The mare even made not-so-veiled offers of sexual favors to Blunt if we’d only free her and leave the hubby for her to deal with. Blunt said afterwards we ought to have charged them double just for that.

They say it takes all kinds, but I worry for the future of ponykind sometimes.

“Hey, Bellchaser.”

It was Finey, finally arriving. I’d been scanning the skies for him, but he came walking quietly. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days, and his wings seemed to be sagging – I don’t know the right pegasus word for it. Even his tail just dragged along the cobblestones.

“Weeping windigos, Finey, you look half dead. Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine. Been a little busy is all.” He didn’t sound very convincing, but the basic message of I don’t want to talk about it was unmistakable. “I’ve got our work slip and the key. Shall we go?”

He led the way up a stairwell and knocked on the door that matched the name on the work slip. There was no answer, so we stood around and waited for three minutes, as per doctrine. I passed the time by trying to predict which kind of pony and home we would find. It’s a little game I have with myself; sometimes I get it right.

Some places in the Old Mews are pretty decrepit, but this house seemed to be of the nicer kind. The paint in the stairwell didn’t flake; the stairs themselves were worn but clean. There were even well-kept potted plants in the windowsill on each landing. The apartment behind the door would be smallish and quirky, ridiculously expensive, and actually lived in. Nopony pays for an address like this just for a love nest. I guessed at a thirtyish unicorn mare: single, ambitious, and successful. Someone very much like what I plan to become in a few years once my novel is finished and sweeps the ground away under the literary establishment. (A girl can dream, can’t she?)

We let ourselves in after Finey knocked a second time. It was dark inside – the sun had been set while I waited for Finey – and not a sound to hear either.

We found our client in the kitchen, a young earth mare with a messy purplish mane and cream coat. She was shackled to the floor with a chain that barely allowed her to stand up straight where it was bolted down. She stood there motionlessly when Finey turned on the light, staring at us with wide eyes.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said Finey, perfectly following the employee manual. “We’re from the Rescue Service. Do you need a hoof here?”

“You’re what?” Her voice was breathy and uncertain, sounding as young as she looked.

“We’ll explain that later, sweetie,” I said. Leave it to Finey to go all ‘ma’am’ on her; if this poor thing had just been walked in on in an embarrassing situation by two strangers she didn’t even know would be coming, the first order of the day would be to get her out of the embarrassing situation. “Do you have the keys to that chain around anywhere?”

She backed a step away from us, the short chain forcing her to lower her head slightly.

“Look, I know this looks weird, but – and it probably is, too – but, you see, it’s just this game me and my coltfriend have where we pretend I’m –”

She froze in mid-sentence when we heard the front door open again behind us. Literally froze, with one hoof off the ground and her mouth half open.

The pony who entered was almost exactly what I had imagined the occupant to be, except a stallion. He was steel blue, with a smartly permed ice blue mane and a confident bearing, and wasted no time taking in the scene before he went over to the chained mare and hugged her lightly. “Easy now, Cressie, it’s all right.”

She put her hoof down and breathed again.

The newcomer turned to us. “You must be the rescuers, I take it?” He held a hoof out towards Finey, who came forward to shake it. With his other hoof he gently pushed the mare’s head towards Finey’s hoof. She sniffed at it cautiously.

“See? They’re friends!” He scratched the back of her head, and I could see her relax a bit.

Finey drew back his hoof and quickly stepped a few paces back.

Deciding I might as well play along, I held out a hoof and had it sniffed too. The mare sat down on the floor and smiled shyly to me and Finey.

“Good girl. Who’s a good bitch? You are! Yes you are!” The stallion ruffled her neck with both forehooves, and she in turn licked his face sloppily.

“And this is Cressie, short for Lavender Crescent,” he said to us, finishing the introductions. He levitated a key down from atop one of the cupboards, and unlocked the padlock that fixed the chain to the client’s collar. She reared up and licked his face again.

“Can’t just let her roam the flat when she’s alone,” he said apologetically. “She made a royal mess of everything when I tried once.”

“How old is she?” I asked, keeping it casual. This stallion seemed to be my age or a bit older, whereas the filly might barely be legal, as far as I could see.

“Hmm, I’ve only had her for a year and a half, but her papers say she’s twenty-one.”

Cressie had wandered off and was now trying to sniff Finey’s butt, tail wagging quietly. Finey backed slowly towards the hallway, looking not at all happy with the attention. Then her tail glowed blue with her master’s magical field, and he pulled her gently away from Finey.

“Come here, Cressie! Don’t bother the stallion.”

She emitted a few unhappy yips, but then came around towards me and the owner and started sniffing at my chest. Instinctively I put up a hoof and scratched her behind the ear, which was rewarded by a blissful smile as she rubbed her head against my hoof and wagged her tail again.

“She’s a treasure, isn’t she?” said her master. “I’m Pokey”.

With an easy smile, he held out his hoof towards me, and I shook it, smiling back. “Bellchaser.”

Finey didn’t say anything.

“Terribly sorry you guys had to come out here for nothing. Had a bit of a crunch at work and didn’t even get time to call and reschedule.” He pulled out a wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh no, we don’t handle money, sir,” said Finey hurriedly. “The head office’s going to bill you. We don’t even know which plan you’re on.”

“I see. Can I at least offer you a drink, then?” He smiled that smile again. “You too, of course,” he added towards Finey.

“Oh no,” said Finey. “We can’t – I mean, it could be perceived as improper to see the customers socially. Sorry.”

I wondered what had gotten into him. There is a paragraph in the manual about not trying to befriend the customers, because many of them prefer the anonymity of being rescued by somepony they don’t know. But this customer was explicitly inviting us, and I was a bit curious too – usually we only see the clients when something has gone wrong for their relationship. Here we were being invited to observe one that seemed to work. I wasn’t about to let that chance slip away.

“Sounds like my colleague has to go,” I said, “but I think I can stay for a drink.”

I walked with Finey to the door. “You really shouldn’t do this,” he half-whispered to me. “The rules –”

“– are really not as strict as that, Finey. Say hi to Fizzy from me.”

He looked for a moment like I’d slapped him, and bolted down the stairs as if the headless horse was after him. Strange.

I sat down at the kitchen table while Pokey pulled forth two glasses and a bottle.

“So what do you do when you’re not rescuing lost pets?”

“I’m a writer,” I said. Actually I mostly wait tables, but you don’t need to reveal everything on a first date. (And this wasn’t even a date; so much the worse).

“Oh, interesting! What do you write?” He put down two glasses on the table and poured an inch of deep red liquid into each. Cressie came walking in from the corridor leading to the other rooms, and watched him for a moment before she left again.

“Mostly historical fiction, but also some contemporary. I’m trying to work out a way to make the old ‘technical realism’ mood work for a modern setting.”

He sat down, listening politely, but I could see I was losing him with technicalities. “I had a novella in The Canterlote last year.”

“Oh, that’s pretty good, I hear. Afraid I’m not a subscriber.”

“Me neither, with those prices.” I took a sip of my drink. It tasted strong and sweet, with a hint of legumes. “What is this?”

“Something new out of the Crystal Empire, called ‘icebrand’. I’ve been searching for the right occasion to drink it.”

I tried another sip. “I like it.”

“Finding the right pony to drink it with helps too.” Cressie had wandered in again and put her head up to his flank; he petted her absent-mindedly while he held up his glass towards me. “Cheers!”

It was clear enough that he was flirting with me, even right in front of his marefriend. Perhaps I ought to have let that be a hint, said my thanks and left. But still I was curious about how their relationship worked if he could do that. If I could find out what made them tick, I might be able to use it in my book –

Ah, buck it, who was I kidding? This guy was a hunk, and I wanted him, alright – even if my role would probably just be an extra, brought in to realize somepony’s infidelity fantasy.

I raised my glass too. “To finding the right pony.”

“To the right pony.” He drank up.

Cressie left again and could be heard knocking on the inside of the front door. Perhaps ‘pawing at it’ would be more accurate, what with her doggie act and all. It made Pokey actually turn his attention to her.

“Um, I’m really sorry, but it seems I have to take Cressie on her evening walk,” he said. “You know how it is – can’t get out of that just because of charming company. So, unless you’d like to join us . . .?”

“I’d love to,” I said.

“I’m surprised you’re not using a leash.” We were down in the street, strolling leisurely up towards Reinwick Square while Cressie meandered ahead of us, sniffing flower pots and lightpoles.

“Oh, you know, these days if you keep a pet on a leash in public, there’ll be all sorts of animal welfare groups showing up to make a ruckus. She’s mostly well-behaved enough not to need one either – though I do take one with me in case she starts acting up.”

My writer self had to admire how smoothly he was blending the dog fantasy with pony reality, crafting an explanation that was meaningful on either level. Ponies would stare if I went about everyday life parading a fellow pony around on a leash, he was saying, and that wouldn’t be fun for either of us. But when the occasion is right we still do it.

Cressie was waiting for us when we rounded the corner at Reinwick Square. Pokey nodded quickly to her, and she made a beeline for a small shack at the other end of the plaza. A public outhouse.

It dawned upon me what the purpose of the trip was. “Don’t you have a toilet in your apartment?”

“Only a pony one,” Pokey answered.

I gained new respect for Cressie. Here was a filly who took her doggie impersonation freakishly seriously. And who was quite good at it too. If she hadn’t been twice the size of any self-respecting dog, I might have forgotten already she wasn’t really one. Though I had to wonder what someone who didn’t already know would see – perhaps just a young pony acting a bit silly, wearing a necklace? It wouldn’t be apparent that it was really a collar and the heart-shaped pendant dangling from it a padlock, unless you stared more closely at her than would be polite.

We circled the square while waiting for Cressie to finish her business. Pokey told me about his job, managing the timetabling office at the Equestrian Railways. (Or perhaps he embellished that a little). I repaid him with some slightly sanitized anecdotes of pony rescuing.

That made me think of something. “When we arrived here, it looked as if Cressie didn’t know we might be coming.”

“Well, right. It’s my job to make sure she’s safe, but you can’t expect a bitch like her to care how I do that.”

I couldn’t help wincing a bit. “I don’t know. It seems like she understands a lot more than most dogs.” How’s that for works-on-both-levels, smart guy?

“Of course she does; she’s a smart cookie. Aren’t you a smart cookie? That’s what you are!” The last was to Cressie, who had just come back from the outhouse. She wagged her tail while he ruffled her mane affectionately.

We began walking back towards his apartment. He continued, “But the thing is not really if she understands, but whether she should need to care. If she did, what would be the point?”

Cressie looked at him quizzically, clearly aware that there was a context to this conversation she had missed. Then she whirred her head and trotted down ahead of us again, tail held high and relaxed.

I walked beside Pokey, thinking it over. He had a point – whatever was in their arrangement for her, being free of responsibility had to be a large part. And what did he get out of it? All I’d seen of him was easy-going and courteous, not the type who’d enjoy having power over a mare for its own sake.

I felt him swish his tail against mine, trying to twist them around each other. Okay, if I was going through with this, I had to know whether I or Cressie was the third wheel here. She’d called him her coltfriend, hadn’t she?

“So, um, Cressie said that you –”

“She said?” He sounded amused. “Oh ho, there’s a naughty girl. She ought to know bitches don’t talk.”

There it was again. “In her defense, there were two strange ponies standing around talking to her at the time.”

“Hrm. Perhaps I’ll let it slide this one time.” He continued in a lower voice, as if letting me in on a secret. “It’s her rules too, you know.”

“Does she have a safeword?” You don’t work in the kink business without picking up a few terms. I hoped this one was not inappropriate to ask about.

“Look like she needs one? But if you must know, it’s ‘banana pie’.”

Cressie herself had disappeared out of view, but as soon as Pokey gave a sharp whistle and called her name she came galloping around a corner and fell into step beside him. At least it didn’t seem she was being held against her will.

Back in his apartment we settled in the living room couch, and he served kibble and water in bowls for Cressie, beer and hay chips for himself and me. I still wasn’t exactly sure where I stood, but was content for the moment to be the one who had Pokey’s foreleg around my loin. Eventually he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Cressie lay by the fireplace, gnawing quietly at a treat Pokey had given her.

I walked over to her. “Cressie?” She looked up. “Banana pie.”

Her eyes went wide, and for a split second she looked lost and uncertain. Then she lifted up her head a fraction of a hoof straighter than she usually held it. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to be sure you’re okay with, um, all this.”

By ‘all this’ I mostly meant my own presence. And the fact that I was about to seduce her coltfriend, or possibly the other way around, but in any case right in front of her.

“I am if he is,” she answered quietly. A small smile flickered across her muzzle and was gone again. “But thanks for asking.”

Seconds passed. “Is that all?” she finally said, throwing a quick glance in the direction Pokey had left in.

I had a thousand questions. Was she chained up in that kitchen every day? How could she be okay with all this? But this wasn’t the right time to ask. She wasn’t supposed to speak, I knew – and whatever it was she wanted out of this, being interviewed by nosy strangers wouldn’t be it.

So I just nodded, and without a word she went back to munching on her doggy treat.

Pokey started being a lot more cuddly after he came back. He petted my mane and nibbled at my ears, and I was more relaxed after talking to Cressie, so I put my hooves around him and my head against his chest and made little satisfied hums to encourage him to continue.

Suddenly there was something licking at one of my hooves. I started upright, and Cressie danced a few steps backward, staring at me innocently.

Pokey chuckled. “Aw, she wants a part of the fun too. That’s what happens when one lives with a pet. I can put her out in the kitchen if it bothers you?”

Do you want me to send my marefriend away while we make out so she has to imagine what happens, or are you okay with her watching?

I looked at Cressie, who shrugged almost imperceptibly. You’re on your own here.

I didn’t want to be responsible for her being chained again. Well, in for a bit, in for a gemstone. “Oh, she can stay, of course,” I said as nonchalantly as I could, and threw my hooves around Pokey again.

He smiled and started nuzzling though my mane. I nibbled quietly at his chest fur. After some time a fifth member of his came growing up between his legs.

So, moment of truth. Could I actually go through with this? Only one way to find out.

“Ooh, is that thing for me?” I asked, bimboing it up ever so slightly.

He grinned and didn’t even glance towards Cressie. “Who else could it be for?”

“But it is so large!” Careful now, don’t overdo it.

He just smiled smugly. (Ah, stallions!) I shifted around on the couch so I could reach, moving my muzzle down the length of his cock while exhaling slowly on it. Once past the end I settled down to suckle on one of his balls, using my horn to poke at the base of his cock from time to time to remind him there’d be more coming.

He leaned back and wrapped his hind legs around me, scratching my crest. That was a nice touch, not just letting me do all of the work.

Then I felt Cressie push my tail aside and start licking at my private parts! I almost bailed out then and there, because I really don’t like mares that way. But . . . she was pretty good at it. I could almost imagine that it was another stallion and we were having a threesome. And I didn’t want to go back on my word either, though I hadn’t been aware this was what I okayed.

To hay with it. I let her continue, and moved up to give a good tongue massage to the first part of Pokey’s shaft, between the sheath and the ridge going around it halfway up. He was breathing heavily now and making troubled little noises. But he’d just have to keep it in until I reached the end in my time, or there’d be a mess to clean up.

I took perhaps a little bit longer to move past the ridge than than I usually would, somewhat distracted by Cressie’s ministrations. Pokey began using his legs to urge me forward, and when his gasps turned to panicked swears, I took pity on him and cut to the chase, reaching forwards so I could close my lips around the tip of his cock.

It had sounded like it was at the last moment, but he proved to have better self-control than that. I had time to take him in almost down to the ridge and then pull back slowly, sucking gently while I played my tongue around the shape of the tip. Only once, though; when I moved down again he did come, squirting warm goop into my mouth. Quite a lot of it too – if I hadn’t managed to swallow some of it while he was still going on I might have overflowed.

When he was done I sat up, pushing Cressie out of the way, so I could get at my beer and wash the rest of the cum down. I admire mares who can pretend they like the taste, but that’s not me. Still worth it, though – most stallions get a lot more receptive to your ideas once you’ve blown them.

Cressie looked so contrite after I’d pushed her away that I had to reach out a hoof and pet her on the head to show I wasn’t angry. She’d just wanted to be nice, and it wasn’t as if I had come or anything.

Pokey had collapsed on the couch. He smiled weakly to me and raised his eyebrows in a way he probably thought was suave and charming. It looked so goofy that I giggled a bit and grinned back. Well, perhaps it did work.

“So, do you want to stay the night too?” he asked.

I’ve never been one to play hard to get. “Buck yes,” I said.

We finished the beer and chips before retiring to his bedroom, walking side by side through the hallway with Cressie trailing behind us.

He turned to me and kissed my cheek. “You on the pill?” he asked.

“IUD. Less maintenance that way.”

He didn’t even bat an eye, but just nodded approvingly, before his horn lit up and he opened the bedroom door.

Inside was a princess-sized bed and a huge wicker basket by the door, lined with a blanket. Cressie quietly slid into the room and lay down in it, just before Pokey closed the door.

I settled down on the bed and let him run the show for some time – nibbling and nuzzling and petting and tickling and pecking me everywhere. Soon I was drunk with his caresses and full of happy little shivers. He pushed me gently with his muzzle, rolling me over on my back. Then he was down on the floor, suckling at my teats which his head stuck in between my hind legs.

“Um, are you gonna mount this way?”

He paused. “That a problem?”

“I’d prefer right way up, if it’s all the same to you.”

He thought for the tiniest moment. “Okay,” he said. “Just roll over when you’re ready. But stay on the bed.”

Feeling pretty close already, I rolled onto my belly again and inched backwards until I could put my hind legs down on the floor. I usually prefer standing up for sex, but I also like being with a stallion who knows what he wants. Sometimes you have to compromise.

I was even readier than I had thought, because I could hear the wet swop when he rose up and the front of his cock slipped into my rear. In one long, slow, smooth movement he slid it all the way into me and came to rest with his sheath against my ass. My fur stood on ends with anticipation.

Then I made the mistake of glancing over at Cressie. She lay in the dog basket with her head raised, watching us solemnly. I stared at her, and she returned my gaze.

What was she thinking right now? Had she set Pokey up to do this, or was she indulging him in his lust for outside nookie? Were we hurting her? Her expression was unreadable.

The briefest of small smiles graced her, just like when we talked earlier, and she looked away.

What did that smile mean? Was it, okay, you win! or on the other hoof, enjoy him while you can because I’m the one he loves and tomorrow he’ll be mine alone?

Pokey had seen where I was looking. “Ignore her,” he whispered, and he used his magic to cover my eyes with a lock of my own mane, like a blindfold. I could have resisted, of course, but he was right. I let my head drop down on the bed, and he began fucking me in earnest.

At first he shuttled back and forth slowly and methodically, but then his pace and force increased, becoming proper thrusts. Without forelegs on the ground to push back with, there wasn’t much I could do to contribute, but there’s something to be said for simply being taken without having to work for it, once in a while. I forgot about Cressie and knew only Pokey, hot and firm as he plowed into me again and again, driving me to moan loudly –

And he stopped. Suddenly. With his cock pulled halfway back. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “If you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to –”

What the hay? “No no, just go on,” I said. Dammit, I was so close. He had stopped with his ridge just outside my clit. I tried to push myself back onto it, but managed only to make the bedsprings bounce a bit. “Please.”

“Please what? I’m a bit confused here.” The concern in his voice didn’t hide the teasing tone.

That was what he wanted? “Fuck me!” I pled, through clenched teeth.

He responded by pulling back and suddenly ramming all the way in, almost knocking the air out of me. “Is that what you want?” he whispered sweetly. “Is this how you like it?”

“Yes!” Don’t you stop again now. “Rut me!”

He granted me another ramming.

“Hump me!” Ram. “Ride me!” Ram. “More!” Ram. I was running out of synonyms, as well as clarity of mind. “Yes! Do! Ah –” Finally I came, shaking and shivering, whinnying incoherently.

It turned out that Pokey was a rester.

Some stallions like to stay on top of their mares for some time after they’ve come. And there are mares who like it that way too and find it wonderfully romantic and intimate. I’ve never seen the allure, though. Just the feeling of his cock shriveling and crawling back inside you while you wait for him to bucking get on with it . . . ew!

It’s bad enough when that happens standing up. But like this, with me sandwiched in between the bed and him, that felt positively oppressive. I felt I had a bit of trouble breathing and started squirming a little under him. Thankfully he got the hint and pulled out, with no grumbling at all, but a friendly little pat on my flank as he climbed down. Gentlecolt to the last.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cressie lower her head and curl up in the basket, her muzzle full of smile. Pokey stepped over to her and ruffled her mane tenderly, before going back to the bed and holding up the blankets for me so I could get properly into it.

He lay down too and wrapped his forehooves around me. I kissed one of his fetlocks and bit down on it softly, just enough to stake a claim. I may only have your stallion on loan, little filly, but I do have him.

After that I must have fallen asleep.

* * *

I’ve always been an early riser. As soon as sunlight began shining through the blinds I slipped out of the bed and sought out Pokey’s bathroom to freshen up a bit before I left. There was a single toothbrush in the glass by the sink.

The sound of running water must have woken him. When I came out in the hallway again and carefully opened the front door, he emerged from the kitchen.

“You’re leaving.” His ears fell. “I hoped you’d stay for breakfast.”

“I have an early shift,” I lied. “But I did have a wonderful night.”

He nodded and floated a piece of paper towards me. “Call me sometime,” he said. “I think Cressie likes you. Usually it’s as though she scares the mares that I, um . . .” He shrugged.

No shit. I took his paper and we nuzzled goodbye. “I’ll think about it. Tell her I like her too.”

Then I went.

He didn’t really need to give me his number, because it’s on the work slip which I still have. But it was a nice gesture, and it does make it more official, less abuse-of-my-position.

I have it in front of me here. I could call him right now, set up a second time. But I doubt I will. They’re both nice ponies, but it would just be too weird in the long run. Being number two isn’t really my style, and that’s what I would be.

Also, I’m pretty sure I’m straight.

Author's Note

Thanks to Taialin and Avorin for prereading and helpful comments.
Kinda-sorta inspired by Flur's a Good Dog by Kaidan.

5. With This Ring

Bellchaser was probably right when she said I didn’t look well. I couldn’t tell her why, of course.

Physically I was fine, after a day or two of rest. But it was like my brain had seized up. Or gotten stuck in a loop. It’s hard to describe when you only have the same mind that doesn’t work right in the first place to figure it out with – like trying to untangle the meaning of ‘this sentence is a lie’.

I’d go to the Institute, open a book, and stare blankly at it until I gave up and went home. And then I’d curl up in bed under the blankets, hoping the world would go away if I ignored it for long enough. It never did.

Each time I heard somepony in the corridor outside my room I jumped, imagining it would be the Royal Guard coming to arrest me for raping ‘O. Melody’ that day. Some of the time I managed to convince myself this was completely unrealistic; the rest I was just as convinced it was only a matter of time before that other horseshoe dropped.

Tavi had said, when she and Vinyl eventually let me go, that I had atoned for my screw-ups and we were quits. I supposed she wouldn’t tell the Guard on me then. But she says so much. It doesn’t always keep.

And if the Guard did come, what would I say? Of course I could lie, saying I did not have sexual relations with that mare, and then it would be my word against hers. Would that work? Supposedly I’m innocent until proved guilty, but that didn’t feel like a strong defense. After all, a rapist has every incentive to lie, but why would a victim suddenly up and accuse a guy who didn’t do it? Wouldn’t her word count as good proof? I might have thought so if I were the judge.

Telling the truth, however, wouldn’t be much better. Yes, I did force her to fellate me, and yes, she was tied up at the time, but it was her idea, she asked for it. Yeech, that was practically a confession. The bit about being her idea was a transparently pathetic attempt to evade responsibility; it didn’t even sound convincing to myself.

She had asked for it, hadn’t she? I wasn’t even sure anymore. Perhaps I really had done it, in a moment of insanity, and then repressed the memory and made up the story I remember as a way to reconcile it with my self-respect? It wasn’t something I think I could do, if I’m the pony I think I am, but how do you know such things?

And so it all went, round and round. I thought about how I’d appeal my case all the way to the Princesses themselves, and then I slapped myself for imagining that might be cool and dramatic when in reality it’s just desperately miserable and hopeless.

But of course life must go on. Nothing else for it to do. I go to the Institute and stare at books; I go and rescue ponies with Bellchaser. I bury myself in blankets and hope that suddenly, by some miracle, everything will be all right. Yet every morning when I decide I’m not going to get any sleep anyway and stagger out of bed, the world is still there.

* * *

The second rescue after I returned to work took us to one of those neighborhoods in Canterlot where ponies live if they want to appear richer than they are. At street level the mansions look positively regal, surrounded by leafy gardens, but really they’re just fronts. There are no back gardens – there aren’t even back sides of the houses; instead they become the front side of a house on the next street over. From the air you can see how absurdly close the streets are, but Canterlot is a unicorn city. They don’t care much about flying.

The appointment slip said we were supposed to go to a side door instead of the big center entrance. Nothing happened for a few moments after I knocked; then we heard running hoofsteps inside, and a mare’s voice called out.

“Is anypony there? Help! Break the door in if you must, or get somepony who can!”

“Not to worry, ma’am, we’ve got a key,” Bellchaser shouted back, and opened the door.

Inside was a yellowish unicorn mare, looking rather disheveled. I mean, I know I shouldn’t talk right now, but at least I had showered and combed myself – she looked more like she had dressed up for a court function and then been left to fend for herself for a week in the wilderness. Her face was a mess of runny mascara and blue eyeshadow, and her two toned-mane a horrible jumble.

“Oh, thank Celestia somepony finally came around! I thought I was going to perish in here when the food ran out.”

She backed away from the door when Bellchaser opened it, letting us into a kitchen where, apparently, a small bomb had gone off. Most of the cupboards stood wide open, and the floor was strewn with cereal in small piles, some shattered china, and various packaged foodstuffs, some of which seemed to have been trampled and bitten.

The mare noticed me looking around. “Yes, gawp all you want, but I’d like to see you get one of those things open with only your feet and muzzle to help!”

I tried to find a response that didn’t involve stating too pointedly that thousands of earth ponies regularly manage to feed themselves using only hoof and mouth. Most pegasi, too – at least those of us who were raised not to eat with our wings.

Bellchaser relieved me of answering. “We’re from the Rescue Service, ma’am. Do you have –”

“You’re the who what now? Never mind that; what you need to do now is find somepony who can get this thing off of me!” The mare gestured towards her horn with a hoof, and I saw she was wearing a magic suppressor ring. Did that mean she was our client? She didn’t look very tied up – no collar or shackles or even ornamental tack.

“Um, like this?” said Bellchaser. Her horn lit up and she lifted the ring off the client and set it down on the countertop.

“Yes! Oh, thank you, you have no idea how awful that was!” Freed of the ring, she activated her horn and slammed a few of the cabinets shut, as if to make sure she could.

Bellchaser rolled her eyes while the client wasn’t watching. “So, er, how did you come to be wearing that?”

“Why, my lousy husband put it on me yesterday morning – or perhaps the day before that, it’s all just a blur. Is today Tuesday? Then he said to wait while he fetched something from his office, and then he never came back! Can you believe that? I could have starved to death!”

“Well, if you didn’t make the appointment with us, he must have,” said Bellchaser, and launched into a quick explanation of how the Rescue Service works.

“So you’re saying he planned not to come back?” the client asked. “Why, that dirty, rotten –”

“Not necessarily, ma’am,” I said. “Most likely he was just making sure you’d be safe if he had an accident or something unexpected came up. Did he lock you in here too?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Of course he locked the doors when he left. Apparently it didn’t occur to him that I couldn’t unlock them wearing that pesky thing.”

I refrained, again, from mentioning the thousands of earth ponies who also lock and unlock their houses without any magical assistance. “It’s just that according to our work order we’re supposed to find a key in the back of the K volume of an encyclopedia.”

“What? That makes no sense. Nopony ever reads that encyclopedia; it’s just for show.” She stalked out of the kitchen, and we followed her into a sitting room where she pointed a hoof accusingly at a row of identical volumes in a bookcase.

I picked out the K volume and opened it. There was a letter taped to the inside back cover.

Dear Crusty – if The Rescue Service leads you to this letter, I’ve gone to Buckhorn Island with Golden Harvest. I’m afraid that even being an earth pony, and even being from Ponyville, she’s still more interesting company than you are. Eventually she talked me into arranging this little test, predicting you’ll be dim enough to let that silly ring keep you from calling me at work to nag like you always do when I’m the least bit late. I don’t really want to believe her, but I’ll wait all day before I leave, and since you’re reading this she must have been right. I’m disappointed with you, but thanks for making the choice easy for me. There will be some papers for you in the mail one of these days; you may need to get somepony to read them to you. – With regards, Jet Set.

“WHAT? With that frumpy little dirt-pony tart? Oh, that two-timing good-for-nothing pitiful little excuse for a turd! Despicable cur! The rat, the louse, the –”

I and Bellchaser shared an uncomfortable glance. She waited until the client paused for breath.

“Um, it looks like we have done all we came for here, ma’am. Is there anything else . . .?”

“No! Get out! Except, could you please take that thing with you? I won’t even touch it.”

“The ring? You know, those are not exactly cheap . . .”

“I don’t care! I want it out of my house, now. Oh, I’ll kill him! I’ll buck his teeth in. I’ll saw off his horn and roast it –”

We made our exit the way we came, before we became accomplices to something.

Bellchaser stomped down the street, seething with rage once we got out of the client’s sight.

“I don’t believe it! That was what it was all about?”

“I know,” I agreed cautiously. “We’re not really supposed to be used for serving divorces.”

“Oh, that’s not half of it, Finey. Look, I think I saw a cafe up by that corner there; I’ll need to drown this in something strong. Will you join me? I’ll buy.”

“Um, okay.” I had my own troubles to drown, of course – although so far I had managed to avoid descending into drinking alone. But this wouldn’t be alone, and it’d be rude to reject the invitation anyway.

“Great!” She marched onwards, still grumbling. “To think, for this I missed a Pepperhorse concert!”

The place did call itself a cafe and looked suburban chic from the outside. Inside it was just a bar, like every other in Canterlot. Perhaps the faux rich prefer not to host such a crude establishment too openly. Not for me to judge them.

I sat down at a table while Bellchaser went up to the bar. She came back with two glasses of something red. “This is ‘icebrand’,” she said. “From the Crystal Empire. Be sure to enjoy it; I wouldn’t have ordered if I knew what it cost.”

I tried it. Pretty good. I nodded to Bellchaser, who had calmed down a bit and was savoring the drink too. Eventually I felt I had to say something.

“Is it just me, or wasn’t our client back there unusually helpless without her magic?”

“It’s not just you.” She sighed and pulled out the suppressor ring the client had insisted we took with us. “How much do you know about these things?”

“Well, they make unicorns unable to do magic. Popular with ponies who’re into bondage because magic makes it too easy to untie all sorts of knots and buckles. That’s about it.”

“Right. Do you know about the safety features?”

I shrugged. Never wondered much about that; it’s a unicorn matter as far as I’m concerned.

“They’re – well, let me show you. Take the ring and slide it onto my horn.”

I hesitated. It was just a horn ring, but this ring was also a sex toy, and it didn’t feel appropriate to use that sort of thing on a colleague that, I think I’ve mentioned, is not really my type. And in a public place too.

“Come on now, it’s not gonna zap you!”

She suddenly reminded me of Tavi, who had also urged me to do questionable things to her for her own amusement, not caring they’d leave me being the bad guy afterwards. But of course I couldn’t start explaining that, or even object, without looking silly. Just like with Tavi, I had no bucking choice. I picked up the ring with my forehooves and placed it gently on her horn.

“Atta boy.” She grinned. “How do I look?”

“Like the most indifferent sub ever.” Of course that was only because I knew what it was. Somepony not in the know would just see a not very stylish fashion accessory.

“Truly you know how to flatter a mare. Now, the way it is with this ring, if I try to lift up something –” her horn glowed, and one of the beer floats on our table rose up and began tumbling over and over in the air “– it doesn’t do anything!”

“Is it defective?”

“No, it’s in perfect order. That’s safety feature number one: The rings it’s legal to own must be activated by the wearer before they do anything. Like this.” She let the beer float drop to the table, and her horn began to glow again, but immediately the glow turned inward on itself and seemed to seep into the ring. “There, now it’s on. They can be made so they start blocking as soon as you put them on, but if you’re found with one of those and you’re not the Guard, then it’s an assault weapon and you’re in deep trouble. I mean, serious-jail-time trouble.”

“I see.” I tried to keep my expression neutral even as my stomach twisted into a knot at the mention of jail time.

“So now if I attempt to pick up som– YOW!” The ring gave a sizzling sound and discharged a small shower of sparks into Bellchaser’s face. She jerked back and then curled up in her chair, hooves clutching her temples. “Fuckfuckfuck . . .”

“What happened? Are you alright?” Stupid question, Finey.

She cautiously unfolded herself. “Shit . . . yes, I think I am, just a splitting headache . . . must be one of the high-end ones that punish you for even trying . . .”

She grabbed her icebrand with her forehooves and downed what was left, making a face. “Ugh. I need something softer than this. Be right back.” She stood up and went off towards the bar.

I looked after her and tried to remember what the rescue handbook says about removing suppressor rings. Nothing came to mind – I’ve rescued plenty of unicorns wearing the things, but they always seemed happy enough to deal with it themselves once their limbs were free. With the exception of Mrs. Get-it-off-me earlier today, that is.

Still, I had gotten the thing onto Bellchaser, and I’d be responsible for getting it off her again. But how? Should we go to a hospital? Or to the Guard, or possibly to Hissy Fit? Neither option felt appealing. Or could we just ask one of the other unicorns in the bar to magick it loose? Would they even know what it was?

Why did this kind of thing always happen to me? I finished my drink, hoping against hope there’d be calm at the bottom of it. There wasn’t.

Bellchaser came back, carrying two mugs of beer with her foreleg. She set them down on the table, the light one for herself, a darker kind for me.

“Now watch this,” she said, sitting down. She raised both forehooves to her horn, and lifted the ring clean off, just like that! She set it down on the table and levitated her beer up towards me. “Cheers!”

“Um, cheers.” I clinked my mug against hers and drank. Not bad, if a little stronger than I’d have ordered myself. “How did you do that?”

“There’s nothing to it – it comes right off. That’s why it has these little slits near the base, for strapping it to a bridle.”

“Our client back there wore it loose, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Some of the anger from before returned to Bellchaser’s eyes. “Her only problem was that she’s too stupid, or too proud, to use her bucking hooves. And that’s not even all. The second safety feature – by law it’s not allowed for the ring to keep working more than 12 hours after you power it up.”

“So it wasn’t even on when we arrived?” I began to understand her exasperation.

“Can’t possibly have been,” she agreed. “So I don’t know about you, but I’m wishing her husband all the luck in the world with his frumpy little tart.”

Bellchaser finished her second beer and banged her mug down on the table determinedly.

“And now, Affine Scheme, you’re going to tell me what the buck is wrong with you.”

“Wrong?” I put on my best grin. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Like hell there isn’t. You’re being jumpy and officious and sigh and moan and act like you’re afraid of the clients half of the time. That’s not you. And it’s not just recovering from the flu either. There’s something weighing you down, and you need to talk to somepony about it, and I’m appointing myself to be that somepony. So spit it out!”

She was beginning to get on my nerves. “Look, there’s nothing wrong with me! Never felt better! Just keep your muzzle to yourself, alright?”

That came out louder than I had intended it to. A few ponies at the neighboring tables turned to look at us. I glared right back at them, and they went back to minding their own business. Bellchaser had shied a bit back from me and started saying something, but she caught herself and sat there with her eyes closed, breathing deeply.

It occurred to me that I ought to feel bad about lashing out at her. But it was her own fault for being nosy, wasn’t it? And she had probably figured most of it out by herself anyway. The other day, when she’d stayed behind to fraternize with a customer after a rescue, it had been clear she knew something. ‘Say hi to Fizzy from me,’ she had hissed, implying that if I tattled on her, she had some dirt on me to retaliate with. I hadn’t meant to tattle, just to warn her about how wrong those things can go. It wasn’t fair; it was herself who tricked me into going to the rescue alone so she could use it against me later –

Suddenly I found myself blurting out: “It’s all your fault!”

That surprised her. “It’s all my fault? What’s all my fault?”

“That time last week when you had to foalsit someone and made me do a rescue alone –”

“Oh dear, was that so taxing? You should have said something.”

“– the client was angry that there was only one of me and she wanted to complain, –”

Bellchaser frowned slightly. “I don’t think I’ve heard anything from Fizzy about a complaint . . .”

“– but she said she wouldn’t, if only I, um, did something to her first.” I looked away from her, fiddling with my hooves while I tried frantically to think of a way to backpedal from here. It was finally getting through to me that I was telling what I couldn’t tell anypony – but how to stop telling it once I had started?

“So, when you say you ‘did something’ with the client, was that of an, hmm, intimate nature?”

“. . . Yes.”

“And she was so hideous that the experience has haunted you ever since?”

“No, she was hot! I mean, really. You wouldn’t understand. But she was also, uhm, kinda still tied up at the time . . .”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really, Finey, I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing. I mean, you wouldn’t be the first to have a bit of a romp with a client, even though we’re not supposed to” – she paused for a moment, lost in some internal thought – “but couldn’t you at least have finished the rescue first? You know, it can backfire –”

“She wouldn’t tell me where the keys were until I did it!” I half-shouted, blinking back tears. “And then she said she couldn’t remember it was her who asked me to and I was in trouble, and she made me do even more and then that was wrong too, and I did everything she said but it was never enough, and – and –”

Now blinking back was not enough; I actually bawled like a foal. In a random bar-cafe somewhere, in front of Bellchaser, but it was just too much. I hid my face in my hooves, trying to collect myself.

I felt a hoof around my withers. It was Bellchaser, who had stood up and was hugging me awkwardly. “Oh, Finey, Finey,” she said. “That’s some serious shit you’ve gotten into.”

“I . . . I don’t know what to do.” There was a knot in my throat still.

She took a deep breath. “Right now we’re getting out of here. You live fairly close by, don’t you? I’ll walk you.”

I managed to stand up. “Yes, just downslope from here, by Fairweather Road.” It made me a bit calmer to concentrate on here-and-now details. “Sorry for making a scene.”

“Don’t be; you’re allowed to. Come on, let’s get you home.”

On the way down to Fairweather, Bellchaser pried the story out of me in a more orderly fashion. Most of it, anyway – I didn’t go into much detail about after Vinyl arrived. The cool air helped me straighten up, and it did feel kind of good to be telling somepony, now that the damage was done.

“The way I see it,” she eventually said, “you have to go to Hissy Fit and tell her all this.”

“What? No, she’d flay me!”

“Come on, I have it on good authority that she doesn’t actually flay anypony. Look, I know she sometimes has to send just a single pony on a rescue when the rosters don’t work out. She’ll have to know what to do if the client starts making that kind of accusations.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted. Actually I’d convinced myself of exactly that several times already. Two or three times I had even been on my way to her office, only to chicken out on the way up the stairs. Because she might also not be understanding. I didn’t even care about being fired anymore, but she might take Tavi’s side. She might turn me in to the Guard herself. And so all I managed was to declare myself to be recovered and get back to work.

Bellchaser didn’t reply as we turned left along Fairweather. “But it isn’t just an accusation, is it?” I pressed on. “I mean, I actually did – or I let her –”

“Finey, no matter what this client pressured you into, if it was her who wanted to, she can’t just turn around afterwards and say it was you abusing her. That’s not how it works!”

“Difficult to prove, though.”

“It’s not that bad. If you really did assault her, you could just as well deny everything; no need to come up with a silly story about doing it because she told you to. So the fact that you are telling that story points to it being true.”

We reached the entrance to my apartment block. I stopped outside, shaking my head. “That doesn’t make sense. If telling a silly story were proof I’m innocent, what’s to stop guilty ponies from doing the same?”

She sighed. “Your problem, Finey, is you expect everypony to be as logical as you are. That’s why you need to go to Fizzy; she doesn’t let that kind of thing stop her.”

“Easy for you to say.” I turned away from her and pushed open the door. “You’re not the one who screwed up.”

She followed me inside. “Neither did you. Okay, how about I go with you and start by admitting it was me who made you do the job alone in the first place?”

“You’d do that . . . for me?”

She shrugged. “As you said, it is all my fault, at least in some way. And, Finey, I can’t let you go on like this. When did you last sleep an entire night?”

“I – I don’t remember.” I looked up the stairwell, trying to figure out how I’d ever get up to the third floor. I recalled dimly I used to do that without even thinking – but –

“I thought that. Now come on, it’s not far.” She nudged me towards the stairs, and I began climbing them.

She refrained from commenting on the state my room was in, and if she rolled her eyes at it, it was when I wasn’t looking. She did tell me to lie down on the bed, though, when I stood in the middle of the room and wondered what we both were doing there. I did so, and she tucked the blanket around me with her magic.

“Now, suppose I stay with you for the night, and in the morning we go up and talk to Hissy Fit together, does that sound good?”

It sounded uncomfortably like how I got into trouble in the first place. “Um, Belch, it’s nothing personal, but –”

“Not your type, I know. But still your friend, hopefully. I’m gonna commandeer your couch, and if anypony bucks the door in while you sleep, they’ll have to go through me before they can get to you.”

“That’s . . . awful nice of you . . .”

She may have answered that, but I didn’t hear it.

Author's Note

What? Nobody said all the chapters would have clop in them, and we need to move the story forward a bit . . .
Edited by Taialin.

7. Duct Tape

Vinyl Scratch has a standing invitation to crash at Octavia’s place whenever she’s in Canterlot, provided she doesn’t wake her up when she inevitably comes home late, and doesn’t make a fuss if there’s a stallion in Octavia’s bed. The latter tends not to happen often if Vinyl announces her arrival in advance – stallions are fun, but Vinyl is the real deal. There’s never been any talk of having other mares over.

Today, therefore, Octavia wakes up alone and is not surprised to find Vinyl snoring on the sofa in her living room. She does her best not to wake her up until late mid-morning, when she slams a breakfast tray down on the coffee table in front of Vinyl.

Vinyl wakes up with a start and immediately begins pawing around for her shades, eyes shut in the bright morning light. Octavia puts them into her hooves, and she sits up, finally turning her attention to the table.

“Breakfast in bed? Cool! Aw, did you miss me that much?” It has been more than a week since Vinyl was in Canterlot last.

“All the better to surprise you when the whip comes out, my dear,” says Octavia with a toothy grin and pours herself a glass of orange juice. “How was your gig?”

“Ugh. Four hundred bratty kids in a gymnasium, and each and every one of them came up and wants to hear the Swan Gallop. I fucking refuse to play that trash.”

“Oh, poor you.” Octavia has only the haziest idea what the Swan Gallop is, which, given that even Vinyl won’t play it, she suspects she should be thankful for.

Vinyl picks out a toasted hay cake and starts spreading a generous layer of sweetpepper relish across it. “In the end I had to play the Beethoofen recording – you know, that one you’re on – and then go on mic and say I get one more request for the wretched thing and it’ll be string quartets for the rest of the party. Then they shut up.”

“So now I’m punishment?”

“Damn straight you are, Tavi. The best.” Vinyl munches on the hay toast for a while. “So, um, any plans for today?”

“Nothing in particular,” Octavia replies, not entirely truthfully. “Perhaps you’d like me to show you just how much punishment I can be?”

Vinyl brightens up. “You know it!”

“Do I? I thought perhaps after last week you’d found your true place on the other side.”

“Nah. I mean, it was cool and all to try it out – thanks, by the way – but, y’know, half the time I was like, why’s he get to have all the real fun? I know which end of a whip’s the fun one.”

Octavia smiles, losing a tension she wasn’t aware of before. “I think I can come up with something. You’ll want to use the bathroom first, though.”

“Sure!” Vinyl wolfs down the rest of her breakfast and disappears into the bathroom while Octavia gathers together a few necessary toys. When Vinyl comes out she’s already wearing her bridle, with a suppressor ring strapped into it.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

Vinyl concentrates for a moment and the ring activates, absorbing her magic. That’s how the session starts.

The first thing Octavia does is to rip off Vinyl’s shades and slap her – not hard, but enough to show who’s boss. “What is this? Precious should know she’s not allowed to keep herself hidden from me.”

“I’m sorry, mistress. I forgot,” says Vinyl, blatantly lying on both counts since she’s also grinning from ear to ear. Keeping the shades on when she turns the ring on is a common gambit for her, a way to tell Octavia not to hold back.

“I don’t believe you.” Octavia tosses the shades unceremoniously across the room. “I think we’re going to have to plug that lying little mouth of yours.”

“What? No, mistress, I’m sorry! Please, not the gag. I’ll mh hmmmmhmm, mhmm mhm –” It’s a high-quality gag bit, not just a ball but an actual plug sculpted after Vinyl’s oral cavity. Octavia got it for her for last Hearth’s Warming.

Octavia waits for Vinyl to nod microscopically before she orders her to lie across the end of the sofa, with her head on the floor and her rump in the air. She sits down next to her and begins to apply a tail bandage, wrapping an elastic strip of fabric tightly round and round Vinyl’s tail starting from the dock. It is slow, soothing work, giving plenty of opportunity to pat Vinyl’s flanks and observe how her marehood is already moistening up in anticipation. Every so often she wipes it dry with the bandage material.

When there’s only a tuft of blue hair free at the end of the rod of pony tail and fabric Octavia has created, she ties off the bandage and stands up to admire the result.

“That’s my pretty precious. You can rise now – actually, get up and stand on the coffee table for me.”

“Hm mmh mhmmh?”

“Yes, just climb it, like this. Upsie! Don’t step in the relish, or kick he teapot. That’s right. Now just relax. Heeere comes a Wonderbolt!” Octavia stuffs a small vibrator, not switched on yet, into Vinyl’s pussy, and secures it with straps between her hind legs and around her barrel.

Then she brings out the roll of duct tape.

At first Vinyl stares at it in alarm, but she calms down a bit after Octavia pulls a cloth cap over her head, protecting her mane. She sets about wrapping Vinyl systematically with the tape.

There’s an art to wrapping a pony in duct tape, which is not to do it tightly. If you pull the tape taut while you wrap, it will stick to every little hair of the wrapped pony’s fur, and it’s going to hurt like tartarus to pull the tape off afterwards. What you want to create is a kind of loose tube around the limbs, lightly touching the fur in just enough places to stay put but otherwise hovering a fraction of an inch above it, ready with its sticky caress. It will keep the pony inside immobilized just fine, because she knows that the more she struggles, the more is her fur going to stick to the tape, and the worse will it be at the end of the day.

Vinyl is going to struggle. Oh, of course she is. Octavia is a firm believer in letting a pet work for their agony, but she’s not above actively provoking some struggle if it becomes necessary. And Vinyl has earned herself an extra helping of discomfort for today because of the irresponsibly rough way she treated the nice birthday present Octavia got for her. Octavia doesn’t approve of such crudity – something could have happened – –

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to seduce the pony from the Rescue Service. Octavia wasn’t really sure what she had expected – serious-faced ponies in suits or white coats, perhaps – but it certainly wasn’t the gawping twentysomething pegasus who showed up, sporting a hopeful little erection. He needed a bit of persuasion, but not much, and performed more with coltish enthusiasm than actual skill. Still charming enough in his own way, though.

They were just about to move on to the more interesting parts of Octavia’s repertoire when Vinyl arrived after all and Octavia quickly repurposed the stallion from consolation prize to birthday present. Vinyl had been dropping little hints for moons that she would like to have a go at topping, just once or twice, and Octavia couldn’t say no to her. In fact her original plan would have had Octavia on the bottom, herself the birthday present.

As soon as she saw how Vinyl went about dominating the stallion, however, she had to count herself lucky that this plan had fallen apart and she wasn’t the pony tied to the bed when Vinyl entered. Vinyl’s style was more crude bully or monster clown than the loving-but-firm mistress Octavia thought she had taught her to be, by example. Fortunately the stallion turned out to be a natural, staying stiff and erect through abuse that Octavia was sure would have led her to lose any appetite for carnal pleasures. When Vinyl finally decided she was bored and sent the stallion on his way, Octavia considered tipping him, but there must be limits to charity. At least no lasting harm had been done.

Several times during the ordeal, Octavia had to struggle to keep herself from saying something to rein Vinyl in. But a promise is a promise – if Vinyl was going to top, it wouldn’t do for Octavia to keep telling her what she could or couldn’t do. And in any case it would be unthinkable to take a stranger’s side against her marefriend in front of both of them. Loyalty is the glue that keeps a relationship together; you support your mate against the world and hash out your misgivings later.

Today is later. And Octavia has had a week to get her thoughts in order. So once Vinyl is properly mummified, there will be Words. Octavia is going so say all of them, and they are going to be about responsibility and respect and why that vibrator beneath the duct tape will not be turned on today after all. And then Vinyl will have a few hours to herself to think about them while Octavia attends a short non-rehearsal meeting at the Fillyharmonic, to learn the next season’s touring schedule and who the new concertmaster is going to be.

Octavia has a special treat ready for Vinyl for while she’s out: a set of magical noise-canceling headphones that the unicorn who sold them personally supercharged for her. She has tested them herself; they really do take away every sound. That should be educational for Vinyl. Octavia has long thought she has entirely too little appreciation for silence, the medium music lives in.

Afterwards, perhaps she will treat herself to a horn job, before she moves on to seeing how well the glue sticks today. Or not. There has to be some room for improvisation left.

The two strangers enter the living room just as Octavia steps back to look over her finished Vinyl, balancing on the coffee table.

“Good morning,” says the elder of them, a matronly unicorn whose bearing suggests she has years and years of experience with walking in unannounced on ponies who’re busy wrapping each other in duct tape. “Are you O. Melody?”

Octavia manages not to look visibly startled. Keeping your calm in all situations is half of getting what you want from ponies. She allows herself a raised eyebrow. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Hissy Fit, with The Rescue Service, and this is my associate Bellchaser.”

The associate who entered behind her is a younger unicorn, not quite as casually confident as her superior. She nods politely to Octavia but stays in the background.

The intruder holds out a hoof towards Octavia. “We have your key on file,” she explains, even though Octavia made a point of not asking how they got in.

“Octavia Melody,” she says pleasantly, shaking the hoof. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding, though. The rescue I booked shouldn’t be for several hours yet.”

“Yes, we’ll get back to that. For now, though, I understand you have a complaint to make about one of our employees?”

“A complaint? I do believe you’re mistaken.”

“Really?” The mare receives a clipboard from her assistant, and quickly scans the paper attached to it. “Hmm, yes. The incident we’re investigating is to have taken place during a rescue on this address, in the morning of the Saturday before last. Were you the pony being rescued on that occasion?”

That was Vinyl’s birthday. “Yes, as a matter of fact I was.”

Off to the side, Vinyl risks moving her neck to look quizzically at the other ponies. A short displeased stare from Octavia is enough to make her turn away again.

“The agent conducting that rescue,” continues Hissy Fit, “came back with the clear impression that you were dissatisfied with the level of service he provided and wanted to lodge a complaint. Am I to conclude that must have been a misunderstanding?”

Octavia wonders how he got that idea. On the contrary, she explicitly promised him when he left that she wouldn’t complain about him. Time to keep that promise. “Oh yes, definitely. In fact the, um, agent performed impeccably and to our full satisfaction.”

The other pony smiles broadly. “Very glad to hear that. I think that settles it, and our apologies for interrupting. Say, could I get you to fill out a customer statement repeating that, just for our files? The owner takes claims of abuse extremely seriously, so we have to keep precise documentation from each inquiry.” She floats the clipboard and a pen towards Octavia and rolls her eyes amiably. “Paperwork, huh?”

Octavia shrugs and takes the clipboard, spending a few minutes to run through all of the inane questions on the form. At the end she signs the line at the bottom and passes it back without a word. Just a suggestion of an impatiently raised eyebrow.

The mare mumbles to herself as she goes over Octavia’s answers. “Hmm. . . I see you have answered ‘no’ to At any time during the rescue, did the agent(s) touch you other than as plainly necessary for removing restraints or other devices you were wearing when they arrived?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“You also answered ‘no’ to Did the agent(s) demand, suggest, solicit, or initiate any sexual contact with you during the visit, whether or not it was related to the contracted rescue?”

“That one, too.”

“Indeed. Can I ask you if there were any questions on the form you found unclear or difficult to understand?”

Octavia is a bit irked now. “Do I look like an illiterate simpleton?”

“Not at all, not at all. We have to ask, though. Be a dear and initial this for me.” The last is to the assistant, who takes the form back and scrawls a few letters on it.

“Hrm. Was that all?”

“Not by far.” Suddenly the professional smile has disappeared into the assistant’s saddlebag together with the questionnaire Octavia filled out. “You see, the story my employee told was that you pressured him into having oral sex with you, and later threatened to falsely accuse him of assault unless he agreed to full intercourse.”

“Why, that’s a fascinatingly preposterous set of allegations. Do continue.”

“Long story short, it ends with him tied to a bed, and being molested by yourself and an accomplice. And there’s –”

“Hm mmh mhmmhmm hmhhm mmh mmhmmhhm mhh mhm mhm mm mhmmmmhm?” Vinyl interjects, fighting in vain to get words past the gag. “Mhm mmhm hmm mh!”

“Quiet, precious!” Of course Vinyl wants to defend herself, now that her treatment of that stallion has suddenly caught up with her. But Octavia knows her; she would just turn it into a shouting match and end up blurting out something she’ll regret. It’s a good thing she’s gagged, so Octavia can defuse the situation quietly instead.

The way to deal with rudeness is to give the rude pony plenty of rope to hang herself. “Now, whatever your name was, since it is obvious at this point you’re not going to listen when I deny your little fairy tale, why don’t we cut to the chase where you yell at me for a while and then discover you have nothing in the way of proof for it?”

Hissy Fit opens and closes her mouth and takes a deep breath. “As you wish.

“How dare you treat one of my ponies like that? Do our ads look like we’re fucking escort agency? Well, do they? I can assure you, if we were, we’d be a good lot more expensive. And our staff would be ponies who knew what they’re going into, and were okay with that. My lad, he does a simple job for a few spending bits, one of my best workers. Then he goes out here and comes home a complete wreck. Can’t sleep, can’t smile, afraid even to shake hooves with a client. Not much better after a week, studies shot to hell. And for what? Just so you –”

“Mhmh, mmhm mmh mhmmhmm mhmm mhm mhh mhmh mh mh?” Vinyl is now so agitated that she loses her balance on the coffee table and tips down onto the sofa, ending up with her tape-encased legs pointed towards the ceiling.

“Oh bloody hell.” Octavia rushes to her side. “You alright? Anything broken? Go on, ma’am, I’m still listening.”

Hissy Fit waits for Vinyl to wiggle her limbs and shake her head before she continues.

“– Just so you could have a few hours of cheap fun? It’s not as if you needed to – this place isn’t a slum; just a week’s worth of rent could have bought you a hirecolt who’d gladly agree to whatever you negotiate for. Or are you so sick and twisted that actually scarring an innocent pony for life gets you off?

“You, lady, are scum. You’re a monster, a misfit, and a festering disgrace to all ponykind. And I would love nothing better than to see your pitiable little self broken and thrown into the deepest darkest dungeon the realm possesses, to rot slowly in your own filth while you try desperately to remember what light and air and clean water was like. Unfortunately, as you pointed out, the law will not afford me that pleasure. But I will tell you –”

Vinyl makes another attempt at a tantrum, but Octavia puts a hoof to her muzzle. “Hush, precious. Let mistress handle it.” She feels good about being able to take the brunt of the verbal barrage instead of Vinyl, but even so, the strength of it has shaken her a little. She stands up to confront the other pony. “I don’t have to listen to this –”

“Had enough already? Very well. You’re hereby fired as my customer. We leave your key here, but I keep the deposit, pursuant to section 9 of our terms of service. Do not attempt to open another account. You won’t be able to get one with Leasewhip or Your Ice Only either; they’re upstart competitors but we do tell each other things, to protect ourselves from the likes of you.

“One other thing, though. That guy you raped? From this moment onwards you stay the fuck away from him. You don’t try to contact him, you don’t try to find him, and if you happen to meet him in the street you turn around and gallop the other way like the changelings are invading again. Or I will destroy you. I’ve worked the sex trade for thirty years; it’s amazing how many favors from highly placed ponies a patient mare can end up being owed. Think you can match them? Think again.”

Octavia stands there trying to work out a repartee. Hissy Fit does not wait for one and instead walks over to Vinyl.

“Miss, I’m not quite comfortable leaving you here with the monster. Would you like to be rescued before we go? It’s on the house.”

Vinyl blinks for a few seconds, then slowly shakes her head.

“So be it. Bellchaser, we’re done here.”

The assistant has not said a word during the visit. She follows her boss out, a look of pure awe on her face.

Octavia looks after the departing ponies for some time, while she attempts to work out what just happened. Then she remembers she still has Vinyl to take care of. She sits down in the sofa next to her.

“Now, precious, that was really naughty of you, making that kind of ruckus while I’m entertaining guests, you know that?” She strokes Vinyl’s cheek with one hoof while unbuckling her gag with the other. “I’m going to remove this, and then you get one chance to tell mistress what all that was about.”

“Stuff it, Tavi,” gasps Vinyl as soon as the gag is out. “Diminuendo! Ritardando! What was it? Safeword, dammit!”

Octavia is mildly surprised Vinyl even remembers there is one. She can’t recall her ever using it. “Fermata,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, whatever. Get all of this off of me. We need to talk. Like, right now.”

* * *

Hissy Fit almost knocks on the front door before she enters the apartment, in case the ponies inside need some time to get decent. But that would be ridiculous – it’s her own home, after all. She settles for making a lot of conspicuous noise with the keys and taking a generous time to set down her purse after she gets in.

She comes into the living room right as two ponies emerge from the bedroom. “I’m back,” she says, redundantly. “Everything’s well here?”

“Oh yes,” says Finey. One wouldn’t think it’s the same pony she left here in the morning; he’s practically glowing.

“Hello Hif,” says the mare, holding out a hoof. “I’m Cinna.”

“Right. Cinna.” That’s not how Hissy has known her for years, but of course she’d use a stage name in front of Finey. Hissy shakes her hoof. It’s funny how being on the job changes her demeanor – usually they hug when they meet.

She turns to Finey and gives him a scroll of paper. “I went out to that customer and got her to sign this. It’s not quite a confession, but it should give you some peace of mind. That’s your copy, by the way, and I’ll keep the original on file.”

Finey sits down to read the document, and Hissy motions for Cinna to join her at the business end of the room.

“I’m impressed,” she half-whispers. “I knew you were good, but –”

“I am.”

“By the way . . . if I just give you the bits now, would you still need to pay that pimping house?”

Cinna sighs and rolls her eyes. “For cock’s sake, Hif, it’s a member-owned booking cooperative, not a ‘pimping house’. And the rules say we pay dues on all engagements; otherwise we’d just have to raise the fees and everything goes south. Besides, I need the insurance cover.”

“Insurance? Good gracious, what did he do?”

Cinna puts a hoof to her face. “Hif, two things. One: I’m not gonna tell you and you know that. Two: Even if all he wanted was a smile and a hoofshake, I’m still using the insurance the moment I promise him he can have everything.”

“Look, Hop-, I mean, Cinna –” Hissy sits down at the desk “– pimps are pimps. Even if they claim they’re working for you and not the other way around –”

“Well, in that case I’m the pimp; I’m on the bucking board.”

“What, you?” Hissy is surprised; she didn’t think her friend would fall for the collectivist nonsense the ‘booking cooperative’ bosses spout.

“Yes, ever since last –” Cinna catches herself. “Sorry, Hif, can’t talk now. I’m with a client.”

Behind her, Finey has stood up. “This is wonderful!” he says, waving his scroll about. “Thanks!”

“It’s the least I could do.” Octavia’s declaration probably wouldn’t be worth much in a court, even with the affidavits from Hissy and Bellchaser it has attached; it is there mostly to make Finey feel safe from her threats. So Hissy made it as impressive as she can, even went to a notary and paid for a fancy seal certifying the copy. “Now, if you ever hear as much as a peep from her again, come to me immediately, okay?”

“Right.”

“Good. As of right now, then, you’re suspended until tomorrow, with pay. Go get some rest – or, well, whatever you’ll be getting.”

Finey grins towards Cinna, and she grins back.

“We’ll think of something.”

8. A Real Mare

Old Fizzy was merciful and let me off with a two-week suspension without pay. It was clear she expected me to be thankful still to have a job afterwards, and I suppose I ought to be – perhaps I have been taking things a bit too much for granted. I did my best to show appropriate contrition after getting her verdict – not that I’ve ever known Hissy Fit to go back on her word after she’s given it, but there’s no point in coming across as ungrateful.

Of course that won’t bring food to the table, so I went straight from Fizzy to my manager at Cafe Neighberry to beg for some extra shifts to tide me over, just for those few weeks. He wasn’t much for it, but I used the beggy pout and managed to get a few afternoon shifts scheduled.

That was then. Today, halfway through the first of those shifts, he came by and told me Azure Beech had returned from vacation earlier than expected, so I had to clock out at five. Strictly speaking I don’t know that the Beech lifts tail for boss stallion – but it sure would explain a whole lot.

I couldn’t really be as bitter about that as I probably should be, though. I attempted to, mostly out of respect for future me, who’s going to have a bit of a tight spot at the end of the month. But all in all, the cafe only pays slightly better than being on call for The Rescue Service and doesn’t leave you any time to write. Oh well, at least I tried. That’s all future me can reasonably demand.

“Bellchaser?”

Somepony came trotting up to me from behind right as I left the cafe. I turned around and saw it was Cressie, the dog-pony Finey and I had rescued last week, down in the Old Mews. She had been eating at one of Dripping Tip’s tables about an hour ago, I remembered. Of course I had dutifully refrained from recognizing her; client privacy is one of the axioms of the Service. Besides, I had basically cheated with her coltfriend in front of her, so I didn’t imagine striking up a conversation would be pleasant.

Yet here she was, impossible to ignore, and still waiting for me to reply.

“It is you, isn’t it? I heard the stallion tell you when you’d get off and I thought . . . Don’t you remember me?” She looked even more lost and uncertain than when we found her chained to the floor in her master’s kitchen.

“You’re Cressie, right?”

Somehow she managed to brighten up and blush all at the same time. “I’m Lavender when I’m a pony,” she said apologetically. “But, um, you can call me Cressie if you want to. I don’t mind.”

I nodded, looking around. Pokey didn’t seem to be nearby. “Er, I’m surprised to see you like this – out and about, I mean.”

“It’s Pokey’s idea. He says I have to keep my pony act practiced because I may need it if something happens to him. I’ve got a job and everything.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“Oh, just office work at the castle. I keep the court calendar posted, issue visitor passes, type out audience summonses, that kind of things.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“It’s not that bad. There are other ponies making all the decisions, so I just have to do what they say.”

We began walking. I didn’t think she had lain in wait for me just to exchange a bit of small talk about her job, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get to the point. Eventually the silence got too awkward for me.

“So, um, what brings you here? Do you –”

“You never came back!” she blurted, sounding almost hurt. “Pokey said he had asked you to, but you didn’t come back.”

That wasn’t what I had expected to hear. “Sorry, I’m confused . . . did you want me to come back?”

“Is it strange? Perhaps it is. But when Pokey brings a mare with him home, sometimes she’ll think she’s supposed to be mean to me. And sometimes she’s afraid even to look at me. And some of them act like it’s some kind of competition they have to win at.”

I looked away, acutely aware how I myself fit into the third category.

“But you’re the only one who asked me how I felt. That meant a lot. Even if you’re not supposed to.”

My heart melted slightly. Damn, this filly needed a hug – but it wouldn’t be from me; I wasn’t sure how she’d take it, and I don’t really like mares, not that way. Better not give her any ideas.

“I never really got an answer, though,” I said. “How can you be okay with him doing that? I’d be – oh, hopping mad, I think.”

“Well, it’s sort of my idea,” she said, blushing again. “You see – or maybe you don’t – I don’t really do sex.”

I stared at her, remembering how she’d been pretty forward about inviting herself when I started getting intimate with Pokey that night.

“Oh, there’s all kinds of oral, that’s okay. But the real thing, with sticking something into my you-know-what, I can’t have that. Just can’t.” She shuddered. “Pokey’s the only stallion I’ve met who respects that and still wants to be together. He’s very good to me. I think he deserves to have a real mare once in a while. He likes that, you know.”

That made a certain amount of sense. “I see. I think I see.”

“Of course we’ve tried a lot of things to find a way I could do it myself. Everything from training with dildos, to him being really really slow and careful, or even getting tied up so I didn’t have a choice. All that did was I broke a perfectly good gag and then couldn’t breathe for hours.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” I wondered where the line between being supportive and prying was. It was her own business, to be sure, but –

She must have read my expression. “Don’t you begin too. Everypony who hears about it thinks I must have been abused as a foal or whatever, but I swear to everything that’s not it. I’m just wired that way. Please, it’s not a big deal. We make it work.”

“With some help from a ‘real mare’ now and then.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I hadn’t thought of how it must be from your side. I’m sorry if you feel used or something . . .”

I must have sounded angrier than I felt. “Not your fault. I knew what I was going into, more or less. Look, I’ll think about coming back, okay?”

She let her head drop. “Thanks . . .” she mumbled, not looking at me.

I had expected more enthusiasm. “Okay, what did I do wrong now?”

“It’s just me being stupid.” She kept looking at the ground in front of her. “I was so excited to find you, and I thought if I just told you how it was, you’d want to . . . and you’ve come all this way . . .”

All this way? I looked around and realized we were about to cross Reinwick Square – not anywhere near where I had any plans to be tonight, but right on the way to Pokey’s apartment. I’d just been following her without looking.

Come to think of it, I didn’t really have any plans for the night. Not the worst idea to find a nice stallion to spend it with. And if the package came with Cressie on the side, then what the heck?

I reached a hoof around her shoulders. “Actually I do have tonight free. So if you think I’d be welcome . . .?”

* * *

Cressie had warned me that she would turn back into a doggie as soon as Pokey opened the door, but it was no less spectacular to witness for that. One moment an articulate if soft-spoken young mare was leading me up the stairs, the next she was making little yips and jumping up against him (how did she do that? He wasn’t that much taller), licking his face, tail wagging wildly so I had to step back not to be hit by it.

“There you are! I was almost getting worried. You know I worry about you, don’t you? Yes I do! Now easy there.” He lifted her collar down from a hook by the door with his magic, and clasped it around her neck while he half-hugged, half-ruffled her with his hooves.

Then he noticed me behind her. “Bellchaser!” His face lit up with surprise. “What are you – I mean, that’s wonderful!”

“Um, I followed her home. Can she keep me? I mean, will you –”

“I’m sure we can work something out.” Quickly recovering his suave balance, he sent Cressie off towards the inside with a pat on the croup. “Come in, come in! Have you eaten? I’ve got a pot of beet stroganoff cooking, nothing much, but –”

“That’d be lovely.” We touched muzzles, like old friends. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all. Please, make yourself at home.”

While Pokey finished his cooking, I sat down in the couch next to Cressie, brushing her mane with a hoof. She seemed completely at ease with the pet role, none of the undercurrent of awkward there had been on the way home. Strange girl.

Pokey served the stroganoff with a heap of fresh parsley and a nice compact red wine. He had actual candles on the table and a cello concerto playing on the stereo. Cressie got just water in a bowl, and I realized with some alarm that some of the main dish would have been for her – but she nudged me towards the table with an expression that somehow quite clearly said, don’t worry about it. So I didn’t, as best I could.

Swapping stories over dinner, I told of rescuing that mare with the suppressor ring from her own ignorance and stupidity a few days ago. “– And then when we left she insisted we take the ring with us. She refused to have it in her house!”

“Must have been traumatic,” agreed Pokey.

I remembered I still had the ring and fetched it out of my bag to show him. He held it up to the light and eyed it critically.

“Well well, this is a fancy one indeed. Looks like the lining here is silk. Mind if I try it on?”

Before I could react, he floated the ring onto his own horn and activated it, causing the line of indicator gems along the upper edge to glow faintly. He tossed his head from side to side, testing how tightly the ring clung to his horn.

“Careful, it’s not –”

Bzzzt! Of course he had to try using magic with the ring on. The punishment function kicked in and flooded his face with a cascade of small sputtering stars. Immediately he brought both forehooves up to the ring and pushed off, launching it across the room. I managed to catch it in my own field and set it down on the coffee table.

“Ba wow,” muttered Pokey breathlessly, “that’s heavy stuff.” He was rubbing his head with his forehooves, and Cressie had rushed to his side and was clutching him tightly.

“Sorry. I tried to warn you.”

“Yes yes, own damn fault . . . ouch . . . nothing you could have done.” He turned to Cressie and hugged her back. “Sssh, I’m all right, just reckless.” He looked back at me. “And you just carry it around when you go out?”

I shrugged. I had intended to give the ring to Hissy Fit, after Finey told her his story, but that ended up much more dramatic than I’d expected, and then the right moment never came before I found myself suspended and Hissy gone. And I didn’t want to leave it at home; that would feel too much like stealing. It hadn’t escaped my imagination that my money woes would be solved if I could just be enough of a crook to keep it for myself and find a way to liquidate it. But that would be wrong.

“Looking for somepony to use it on you?” Pokey continued.

In fact, when I did have the ring out yesterday evening, I put it on and posed in front of the mirror, trying to imagine how it would be if someone put it on me and prevented me from taking it off. How would it feel to try to use your horn and then it just didn’t work and there was nothing you could do? Too bad this ring wouldn’t let me find out, what with its punishment fireworks. There was that monster attack the other year where all the unicorn magic in Canterlot had been drained for hours until the princesses got things sorted out, but that just left everypony in a daze, and I couldn’t remember much of it.

Perhaps the pony I imagined forcing the ring on me had been a steel blue stallion with a smartly permed mane. Just perhaps – –

“Yes? No? Are you there?” Pokey and Cressie were both staring at me, looking concerned.

“Yes I’m here. I mean no, never crossed my mind. That’s not even, I mean, nothing could be further. Making sure it’s safe is all.”

He grinned. “Just messing with you anyway.” And then he went out to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of icebrand to finish off with.

* * *

All in all it has been a nice evening.

After dinner we moved to the couch for random snuggles, and also eventually beer and rosemary sticks. The beer is gone now, and I’m lying on my back with my left hind wedged in between Pokey and the couch back, contemplating whether it will be worth the trouble to try to extract it while there’s still some circulation left.

Cressie lies on his other side; I’ve tried to be a bit more inclusive of her than last time. She was the one who invited, after all.

The suppressor ring still sits there on the coffee table. I pick it up with my magic and let it float in front of me. “I have to admit, it is kind of a fascinating item.”

Pokey chuckles. “One would think so, the way you’ve been stealing glances towards it all night.”

“What? I haven’t.”

“Did too.”

“Did not!” I look to Cressie for support, but she just grins and nods. Whatever became of mare solidarity?

Pokey sits up straighter, and I grab the opportunity to pull back my trapped leg.

“There’s nothing wrong with being curious,” he says. “Ever gone further with it than curiosity?”

“Not really,” I admit. “Actually not at all.” I’ve got an inkling this is not a matter to feign experience with.

He takes the ring from me and puts it down on the table. “You oughta try it sometime. Find somepony you really, really trust with it, and then just take it slow.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

He stays serious. “I’m not saying you should. Look, I’d love to give a hot mare such as yourself a taste of the old yoke, as it were, but it’s not something you should go into lightly. You’d be completely in my power, and there won’t be a lot of opportunities to back out if it’s not what you expected.”

I look away from him, trying to imagine that. I probably shouldn’t be making this decision after drinking, but hey, what can go wrong? And where would I find a guy who does that sort of thing whom I have reason to trust more than him? I’d keep wondering forever.

“It’s only for tonight, right?”

“Of course,” he says warmly. “Remember, you’re also welcome just to stay the night the old-fashioned way, and I won’t think less of you for that.”

I look down at Cressie, lazing on the couch with her head in Pokey’s lap, listening to us. She raises an eyebrow at me, a content little smile playing on her muzzle.

“I’ll take my chances,” I say.

“Here, put this on.” Pokey comes back into the living room and tosses something to me, a bundle of interconnected straps and buckles that I can’t really make up and down of until he comes over to help me. It turns out to be a bridle with special ambitions, right out of somepony’s Nightmare Night fantasy. Soon I have straps and girdles everywhere: across my forehead, behind the ears, between them, around my muzzle, and down and around my neck where they terminate in a snug collar with a metal ring dangling from the front.

“This is a head harness,” Pokey explains while he adjusts the various buckles and latches. “It’s supposed to restrict, not to hurt. If it chafes anywhere, let me know.”

I’ve worn a bridle once before, back at my junior prom when a bunch of us rented fancy gowns that came with matching tack. I remember being impressed with how something that looked so constricting in the mirror could be so lightweight and comfortable to actually wear. This thing has no such pretenses – as Pokey promised, there’s nothing that chafes or chokes, but it’s certainly not going to let me forget it’s there.

Pokey disappears out of view, and I have to turn around to see him picking up the ring again; the blinkers on the harness block all of my vision to the sides, and I can’t turn my head much. He slides it down onto my horn.

“Don’t turn it on just yet,” he says. “I may need you to lift something later.”

“Okay.” The harness lets me use my mouth almost normally, short of yawning.

He starts threading the ring into the web of straps around my head. “There are some rules that come with wearing this,” he says. “You will not speak unless I tell you to, and when you do, you will address me as, hmm . . .”

“Master?” I guess.

He scrunches up his face. “No. Not unless you truly mean it – and you don’t know me, or yourself, well enough to do that yet.” He sighs. “Just call me ‘sir’, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, trying the word out to get into character with it. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He chuckles. “‘Kind sir’? I like that; stick to it – but only when I tell you to speak.”

I almost speak up again to confirm that, but catch myself and nod instead, as far as the harness allows.

He reaches out and scratches my ear approvingly. “Right. You’re a smart little hopeful – quick learner. I think we’ll get along just fine. Now hold out your foreleg.”

He ties long cords around each of my forelegs, around the pastern and knee. They trail after me when he leads me towards the bedroom, and I have to be careful not to trip on them. What did he have to do that for? Or is it part of the game?

Pokey tells me to lie down on his bed with my hind legs still on the floor. He grabs the foreleg cords with his magic as I lie down, somehow arranging them such that it takes him only a few pulls afterwards to bind the legs to my sides so I can’t move them.

Now he’s down on the floor, pushing my hind hooves apart. There’s a sound of something heavy scraping across the floor, and I feel stocks close around my fetlocks, pinning them down. Then he ties rope around my gaskins and pulls them out towards the sides, and now I literally can’t wiggle a limb. Unless the tail counts – no, he’s grabbing hold of that too, forcing it up and along my back, and he ties it down with the same cords my forelegs are bound with.

For a moment nothing more happens. I realize I’ve let him do all this without having agreed on what happens next. Was that really smart? For yak’s sake, this is someone who keeps stocks ready under his bed just in case! What the donkey’s dock am I doing here?

Okay, don’t panic. Pokey isn’t a complete stranger. You know him, just a bit, but enough to be reasonably sure he’s not a psycho. Cressie wouldn’t act the way she does if he were. Really, the worst thing that can happen is that he rapes me, right? Wouldn’t even really be rape; I’ve had sex with him before, and the plan all along was to let him fuck me again tonight anyway. See? Consent.

I wish he would get to it.

Suddenly there’s a sharp searing pain in my right flank, just in front of the cutie mark. “Ow!” I shout.

“No talking, my hopeful,” says Pokey calmly. The pain comes again with a slap, a bit further up my back.

“Hey!”

Pokey sighs and sits down on the bed next to me. I can’t see him very well because of the blinkers. He scratches my withers with some kind of instrument.

“This is a crop,” he says. “The first strike was just to introduce you to it. The second was because you spoke without permission. And now you’ve gone and done that again.”

Slap. It smarts again, this time above my left shoulder. I manage not to cry out immediately.

“But –”

Slap. “Seriously?”

This time I really do stay quiet. It’s not like it actually hurts that much, more the surprise of it.

“Good. You’re learning,” says Pokey. “I knew you were a smart one. Here comes midterms, then.”

Slap, right thigh. I keep my mouth shut again. Somehow it’s beginning to feel like an achievement. I’m actually feeling proud of being whipped without complaining. What gives?

“Congratulations, you pass. So, the next module of your education is about the paddle. It goes like this.”

Something hits my ass, making it erupt in throbbing pain, and it knocks the air out of me so I can’t help letting an “oof!” escape.

“Yes, that takes a bit more practice. Let’s try it again, shall we?”

I grit my teeth and force myself not to make a sound when he hits me with the paddle again. He gives me a few minutes to catch my breath, while he nuzzles tenderly at my side.

“At this point I suppose you’re wondering why I don’t just gag you instead,” he says eventually. “The thing is, a gag is a tool. It is there to make it easier for you to do something you want to do, namely not speaking without permission. But you shouldn’t depend on a tool all the time. And if you use it right from the beginning, you won’t really appreciate what it does for you. So it’s something you need to earn first, understand?”

I’m not sure I do, but I’m not really in a position to discuss bondage philosophy, so I nod anyway. Nodding while tied to a bed and wearing a head harness consists of trying to lift my head a few times and making the bedsprings bounce.

“So now that you know which kind of punishment is in store if you’re bad, do you still want to proceed?”

It takes me a few moments to understand that he’s offering me a way out. Do I want to take it? It would be easy: If only I say the word, he will untie me, so I can use my legs again and get rid of the harness, and . . . then what? All I feel when I imagine that is disappointment.

As crazy as it sounds, I suppose I do want this to continue. I make another attempt at nodding.

“Speak up and answer me,” he says, not unkindly.

“Um, I’m good.”

Slap. “I’m good, what?”

Oh, right. There are still rules. “I’m good, kind sir. Please go on, kind sir.”

“Better. If you’re sure of that, activate your ring now. But then it will be the last decision you make until it runs out.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on pouring magic into the ring. You don’t need to learn a spell, just make like you’re trying to pull the ring apart, and it takes care of the rest. A sheet of dull numbness envelops my horn, and then it’s done. Point of no return.

Is it rape time yet? My hind end is pulsing with readiness and pain from the paddling. A stray little breeze in the room grazes it with a cool reminder of how bare and unprotected I am with my tail tied back. Oh please, let rape time be now.

But instead Pokey pats the bedding in front of me loudly. “Come on, Cressie, up here!”

She must have been watching it all from that basket of hers. In seconds she’s up on the bed and lies down before me, with her rump so close I have to pull back my head slightly.

“Now, my little hopeful, you’ve been depriving Cressie here of a lot of the attention she would otherwise get from me,” he says. “It’s only fair that your first task should be to show her a good time in return, don’t you agree?” Slap – he’s still using that crop, just with a lighter touch now. “So get licking.”

Cressie’s filly bits are right in front of my muzzle. I’ve never done this with a mare before, and never thought I would – but pretty clearly what I want is of no particular importance now. Of course it isn’t. Still, I don’t know quite what to do here; she said she doesn’t like anything going into that hole, didn’t she? I stick out my tongue and begin carefully wetting her outer labia, like a green colt with his first marefriend.

She settles that by pushing backwards onto me, almost wrapping herself around my muzzle. Okay, then. It does makes sense – I know well enough how a tongue in the antechamber is something entirely different from a cock all the way in. (Oh, to have a cock all the way in! Dare I hope Pokey will get on with it and take me while I service her? No, he’s up at her other end, hugging or kissing her. Darn.)

At first I keep up the awkward-colt act, just waving my tongue around in between the folds. It doesn’t taste as sour as giving a stallion a sheathjob; not bad. And I won’t suddenly get my mouth shot full of cum either. Seems the lithe side does have its advantages.

Enough fooling around now; I have a job to do. Her clit must be down this way – ah, there it is, I think. It is larger than I thought it would be, and warmer. But it must be right because her tail, draped across my face and horn, starts twitching as soon as I reach it. I can feel every hair of it against my horn, even if it’s numbed by the ring.

I settle into a rhythm, teasing and squeezing and tugging at her knob. There’s only me, bound up tight like an overstuffed pancake roll, and Cressie’s marehood, and I’m here to get her off. Her tail jitters erratically, as if she’s trying to hold back, and if she can hold back I’m not doing good enough. What do stallions do that works for me? There was this guy – wosshisname, he was an art student and had a – I think he used his lip for my clit so his tongue was free. Worth a try . . .

Hey, I think that made her moan! She’s squirting a bit too, a warm fluid with a soapy taste. So this is marecum. I swirl it around in my mouth before I swallow it, trying to decide if it’s worse than a stallion’s. She squirts again, and I suck it up, and now the squirts merge together in a steady gush –

Wait a minute. That’s not cum, it’s pee! She’s pissing. In my mouth. Why am I drinking it? Why do I keep drinking it? Because I can’t move my head is why; it would just get into my face instead, my nostrils, my eyes. And it would soak the bed, and then I think Pokey would punish me, or at least he’d know I backed down. No choice.

I remember my training; bladder accidents are common enough among the clients we rescue that we need to have a bit of background knowledge. A healthy pony’s urine is effectively sterile. So this shouldn’t make me sick. Hooray?

After an eternity the revolting stream lets up. Should I get back to licking? No, she’s getting up now, and down on the floor. Before she moves out of sight she glances back at me with a small smile, but then for a split second she looks shocked and afraid and quickly looks away.

Pokey sits down in front of me where Cressie lay. “She missed her evening walk too,” he says, “but I see you’ve taken care of that.” He runs a hoof down my cheek, lifting my chin. “So, my hopeful, I promised I would have you completely in my power. Was I right?”

I nod.

“Tell me how you’re in my power,” he says. “In words.”

I swallow. “You can – thank you, kind sir – you can make your marefriend piss on me.” It’s like the full force of the degradation only hits once I say it aloud.

“That I can,” he agrees. “What more can I do?”

“You can . . . you can hit me and spank me.”

“Very good!” His horn lights up for a second, and I feel the slap of the crop across my back, by way of example. “When can I do this?”

“Wh-whenever you want to, kind sir?”

He lowers his head right down next to mine. “And how does that make you feel?” he asks, voice silky smooth.

“Horny. It makes me feel . . . very horny, kind sir.” And the worst thing is that even after everything, that’s true. I need a cock inside me like I’ve ever needed anything.

He chuckles. “It won’t be long now. But first you’ve earned a privilege.”

The gag is a big intruding lump in my mouth, with straps around my muzzle to keep my jaws locked around it. They’re keeping my lips apart too, and I’m already drooling uncontrollably on the bedsheets.

Apparently I’ve also earned an upgrade from blinkers to a blindfold, so all in all I’m pretty completely wrapped up.

“Now that you can’t simply cry out,” he whispers into my ear, and I try to keep it still so he won’t decide my ears also need to be restrained somehow, “here’s a signal for you: If you’re completely dying and need to stop everything, make the ring do the fireworks two times in a row, okay? Once is just a mistake, twice for the real thing.”

There’s a lot of bouncing around on the bedsprings, and then somepony – I can’t see who, but my imagination settles on Cressie – begins licking my horn. She’s running her tongue sloppily along the groove and there’s a shiver tickling down and all the way through me when she pauses and starts over in a different place. Once I was with a guy who was into this, and that felt kind of meh, but – now she takes the entire horn into her mouth and sucks on it like a lollipop – damn that’s intense, wonder if it’s the ring that does it – if only I could kick my legs or something; I’m going to explode if I don’t –

And now there are hooves on my rump and a cock sliding into me YES never has being filled out felt this good I needed that, wait no he’s pulling out again but only to thrust back in and my horn is warm and wet and amazing, he’s still thrusting it’s all I ever wanted and I ought to hold back and stretch the moment but it’s no good trying and

celestia that’s good please let it go on and on and on and

Um. I think I lost myself a bit there. Pokey is still thrusting, he comes inside me, and then he’s spent and flumps down on my back. Cressie lets go of my horn and begins kissing him again, I think, somewhere behind my neck. He just keeps lying there, and he ought to know I hate that, but somehow it feels appropriate anyway. Hay, I can’t even move and Pokey and Cressie are lying on top of me making out, and I feel used and discarded and yet, for some reason, strangely happy about all of it.

It can’t last forever, of course. Without moving he pulls out of me with a flaccid little plop. He sighs and goes down to the floor to open the stocks and free my hind legs, and he unties my fores too and lets me stand up, mobile again.

I still can’t see, but he’s pulling me somewhere with a chain attached to the harness collar. I let him. What comes next?

When the blindfold comes off we’re in the kitchen, and he’s chaining me down to the ring in the floor where we found Cressie, back when I first came here. He takes the gag out of my mouth too but puts a hoof to my lips. “Shh. Goodnight, my hopeful.”

And then he just leaves, closing the door behind him.

What am I supposed to do now? Pokey turned out the light when he left, but there’s a streetlight down there, illuminating a window-shaped patch of the ceiling. Do I just lie down and go to sleep here on the floor? That’s not exciting at all.

For a while I toy with the idea of bailing out now. If I yell loud enough he will hear me, won’t he? I don’t think he would really refuse to let me free – why, he even gave me a kind of safeword with that ‘fireworks’ signal. On the other hoof, he might insist that I use it first. I suppose it’s only meant for if what he’s doing is worse than setting off the ring.

And dammit, if Cressie can be chained here for entire days, then I can endure a night. Never got to ask her how that fits with having a job. Perhaps last week was her day off . . .

Suddenly the door opens again. I look up, half expecting it to be Finey. Good evening, ma’am, I’m from the Rescue Service, do you need a hoof here? But it’s just Pokey, peering in. How much time has passed – half an hour? It is still dark.

“Good, you’re awake,” he says, switching on the light.

He comes over to me and quickly unties a lot of the straps on the harness and then pulls the entire thing off over my head, ring and all. Now I can feel my horn again. I had gotten used to the numbness.

“Well, that’s it,” he says.

I blink in confusion and start saying something, but discover I don’t know what.

“It’s alright, you can speak now. You’re free to go, too, if you want.”

“Um, what happened to ‘the last decision I’ll make before morning’?”

“Well, if I gave you the whole ride now, how’d I keep you coming back for more?” He winks at me, and then stands tinkering with the harness for a second or two. “Besides, Cressie insisted.”

That’s nice of her. “What, she insisted? I thought bitches don’t talk.”

“In aftercare they do. Care to join us? There’ll be hugs and apologies and perhaps some talk about feelings.”

He holds a hoof out to me, smiling.

I take it.

Author's Note

Thanks to Taialin for proofreading and light editing.

9. Guilt

There goes the last candle.

It’s been flickering weakly for some time, but now it finally gave up the fight and snuffed out with a last little sputter. There’s a faint smell of half-burned wax drifting down here too. I wonder why their most intense smell is always right after going out.

It is pitch dark now. I shift around in the blackness, just to hear my chains clink and remind myself that I still, at least, have sound left. If my horn worked I could make light, but the blocker ring is unyielding.

It’s all right, though. I have been in darker places.

The phone call from Hissy Fit saves me from getting my brain spaghettified by trying to visualize four-dimensional tensor field surgery. Supposedly that’s the key to proving the discrete Haflinger conjecture, but I won’t be unlocking that today.

“Finey? You up for a quick trip to Ponyville?”

“I’m on the list, aren’t I? Just tell me where to go.”

“Can’t – it’s a blind account. You’ll pick up the details and your partner at the bakery. You know where that is, right?”

“Sure. Give me, um, an hour and a half.” Normally I could be there faster, but the new feathers aren’t quite fully grown yet. Better be a bit careful.

“Excellent. Fly safe.”

“Thanks.”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a way to scratch my shoulder!

It’s funny, isn’t it? Here I am, tied to a table in a dark basement, helplessly delivered to the whims of my Mistress – and what gets to me is the itching.

But who am I to judge? Even the tiniest little discomfort of my punishment is worth dwelling on, worth categorizing and cataloguing. After all, I deserve all of it – the worst Mistress can do cannot begin to match the wrong I did. So the small things have to count too.

It’s been some time since I was in Ponyville last, so I choose a scenic approach, staying low above the outskirts while I take in the ambience. With all the happy ponies out enjoying the Saturday afternoon, you almost wouldn’t think this town would need a Rescue Service. Yet here we are, doing business.

I wave at a group of foals frolicking through a park, and one of them throws herself down on the grass, waving back to me with all four legs and looking almost as if . . . ew! Nope nope nope. I bank sharply to the left and start flapping to put some altitude between myself and that sight.

Okay, calm down. That filly didn’t mean anything with it – it’s just that ever since Cinna, my mind has been full of upside-down mares. Grown-up mares, that is, mind you. We went four times after coming home to my place, always with her on her back. It seemed innocuous at the time, but what if I’ve gotten myself addicted to some kind of perversion? Can I even get back into an ordinary relationship with a mare who isn’t subserviently ready for anything-I-want?

I don’t regret it, though. Between the sex we talked a lot, and she taught me how to think of my ordeal without letting it control me. It’s something bad that happened to me, not something that defines who I am. I’d still be a wreck if it wasn’t for her.

The park is far behind me now. I collect myself and start looking for my destination.

Shouldn’t Mistress be back by now? It feels like it’s been a long time.

Then again, she’s fond of playing games with my sense of time. Once she went a whole week coming down here every sixteen hours to say her “good morning, prisoner!” Fooled me completely – I thought she had gone rogue, changing the agreement without telling me. It’s just plausible enough that she can do that that I actually felt afraid.

Or take those candles. Usually Mistress comes down to change them before they burn out. But the way I lie here I can’t see the candles themselves, on a shelf far above my head – only the light they cast on the walls and ceiling. I wouldn’t know if she changed them to stumps the last time so I would think she has left me alone for longer than usual, or if she actually has done that.

I don’t really try to keep track of time anymore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t grow impatient. It is lonely down here.

Our Ponyville branch is run out of a pastry bakery in the town square. It’s a bit of a family operation, with the baker and his apprentice doing most of the rescues and his wife helping out at home. Makes an ideal front for us – even if you know the side business exists, you can’t tell whether the pony in line behind you is there for a cinnamon roll or to pay a rescue subscription. Privacy is important in towns like this.

Today must be a slow day; there’s nopony in the shop when I enter, except for the wife behind the counter.

“Welcome to Sugarcube Corner, what can – oh hello, Finey. It’s good of you to come out on short notice; Pinkie had to go away on a friendship emergency.”

“No trouble.” I fold my wings in and and look around the room. “What’s a ‘friendship emergency’?”

“Oh, you know, Pinkie is on this board of advisors to Princess Twilight, and every so often they have to drop everything and go save somepony’s doomed friendship. At least that’s how she tells it.”

“What, Princess Twilight? Hold on, are you saying she’s the Pinkie Pie? Element of Harmony and all?”

“Why, who else would she be? Hasn’t she told you?”

I shrug. “Always assumed it’s just a common name hereabout.” I’ve been on rescues with this Pinkie several times, and she never struck me as somepony who’d be a many-times-over savior of Equestria. In fact I doubt she’d have the attention span to save Equestria even once.

“Oh no, she’s the real thing. Why don’t you have a seat – Carrot had to run an errand, but it shouldn’t be long. Here’s your paperwork.”

I sit down at one of the cafe tables to wait for my partner-in-rescue.

Loneliness is a strange thing. If you know for a fact that you’re utterly alone and no living soul cares about you, then . . . well, you find a way to cope. Not necessarily a healthy or constructive way, but somehow you survive. But as soon as there’s the tiniest chance of some real equine contact, however brief and fleeting – that’s when you start craving it. That’s when every heartbeat where it doesn’t yet happen becomes a torment.

Soon – in a minute or an hour, or two, or three – Mistress will be down to administer my evening flogging. She’s not going to talk to me or even make eye contact, only take out the whip and beat me with it again and again until I’m a whimpering little ball of pain and tears, barely breathing. And then she’ll walk up the stairs again, not looking back.

I’m eager as a foal on Hearth’s Warming Eve for her to appear. Because at least she’s somepony.

It’s not always whips. Sometimes she uses paddles, or canes, or knives or needles or scalding water. She’s very creative with ways to hurt me – she’s under explicit royal orders to make me miserable, and she takes pride in being good at it.

Still, what she does is never as bad as what I have done. That’s why I won’t scream. Screams are for ponies who don’t deserve what they get.

The work slip is almost empty – just an account number and a bunch of SEE SEALED DEPOSIT notations in the fields for the address and instructions. There is indeed a small sealed envelope to go with it, with the same account number on the outside and something heavy inside. The customer must have mailed it here anonymously, so determined not to be found out that he or she wouldn’t come here in person to deliver the key.

Mrs. Cake keeps her eyes fixed on the envelope as I tilt it back and forth, trying to judge the weight distribution. She’s one of those ponies who always look like they’re expecting something bad to happen, so it’s difficult to tell when something is really up. But somehow I get the impression she’s actually worried here.

“Um, is something wrong?”

She grimaces awkwardly. “I don’t know if I should tell you – but when Ms. Fit called with the appointment, she said it has been scheduled ever since last Sunday and postponed eight hours at a time all through the week.”

I shrug. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but think of the pony you’ll be rescuing! If they’ve been there since Sunday – I mean, there’s being kinky, and then there’s this.”

Oh, Mistress – my jailer, my tormentor, my lover (whenever you decide that if you are to have a pony chained up in your basement, you might as well take advantage of her to get that itch of yours scratched – not that I mind; it is your right), my accomplice, my subject, my friend! Have you forsaken me?

“Okay, we’re good to go,” says Mr. Cake. “Rip it, please.”

I hold up the envelope, showing that the seal is still intact. If we had a cancellation before this moment, it would have gone back into the branch safe unopened. But now I tear it open and shake out a piece of cardboard with two keys taped to it. The address written on the other side means nothing to me, so I give it to Mr. Cake.

“Wait! I made something extra nutritious for that poor pony!” Mrs. Cake comes out from the back room with a thermos that she slips into her husband’s saddlebag.

I wonder how it can upset her that much that this rescue has been a week in the making. I’ve heard Hissy Fit say some of our customers in Canterlot and Manehattan have kept daily appointments running for more than a year, but perhaps ponies are more moderate in a small town like this. Or have I simply grown callous on the job?

Mr. Cake holds the address card out towards his wife. She shies away from it. “Don’t show it to me if it’s somepony I know! What would I say to them?”

“Makes sense.” He shrugs and turns to me. “Come on, let’s go.”

Tia would kill me if she found out what I’m doing. Not literally, of course. At worst I would get a stern talking-to. But she would be so very disappointed in me, and she would find ways to prevent me from coming here again. I can’t let that happen.

After I nearly doomed Equestria for the third time, they were all so understanding and made wonderful speeches about how I must forgive myself, stop punishing myself, and move on. I’m sure they mean well. It’s just easier said than done.

Oh, most of the time I do manage. Sometimes I can go moons on end without hating myself now. It’s a nice feeling, and I try my best to stretch it. But eventually, inexorably, the urge to suffer for my misdeeds always grows overpowering. I know better than to make another Tantabus, so instead I’ll quietly slink down here for a week of suffering at Mistress’s hooves. It’s not the moon, but it works. After a week of this I’ll be fed up enough to convince myself that it’s unfair I should be punished and everything is everypony else’s fault. Then I’m ready to be the gracious princess again, revered and respected.

Tia accepted easily enough that I sometimes need to go away by myself on short notice, and that she’s not to ask what or where. She still regrets banishing me back then (as if I gave her any choice!), and I try not to abuse that too much. But this is important. She may suspect what I’m up to, but she keeps her word and doesn’t pry.

It is fortunate that one of the six ponies alive I would trust with anything turned out to have a dungeon and know how to use it. But it wasn’t easy to get her to agree to our arrangement. I had to plead and point out how badly it went the last time I had to do it myself. Was that just one friend begging another for help, or a threat? One more thing to atone for, I suppose. They pile up.

“The pony whose house we’re going to is something of a celebrity,” Mr. Cake explains to me on the way, “especially outside Ponyville. So we have to be doubly careful with the secrecy rules. Even ponies you’d usually share anecdotes with –”

“Yes, of course.” I feel mildly offended that he assumes I’m sharing anecdotes with anyone. “I’m not a gossip.”

Our destination is a big round pavilion that looks like a cross between a wedding cake and a fairground ride. There’s a sign stuck to the front door:

SORRY
The boutique is closed for FRIENDSHIP EMERGENCY
Please try again later!

When nopony answers after we knock, we let ourselves in. Mr. Cake studies the address card. “There should be some basement stairs next to the fitting mirrors,” he says. “Wherever that is.”

We spread out to search the inside, which is full of mirrors and drapes and fancy clothing, hanging on racks and displayed on dummies. Soon I come across a bank of three full-height mirrors, with a conspicuously locked door beside them. “Over here, I think!”

That was the door at the top of the stairs rattling! And somepony is speaking too – not Mistress, but a stallion. Two stallions. This is it, then. This is when it happens.

I wondered when Mistress would start taking stallions here. She can do that, of course – as long as she releases me alive and intact when the week is up, anything painful or demeaning she can think of is fair game, and I have forbidden her to ask my permission for any of it. But a few moons ago she did start asking these blatantly coincidental questions about contraception and whether alicorns can conceive (she needed not worry – Tia’s doctors insisted after I came back that I get my tubes plugged. Apparently even a few centuries on the moon will do bad things to ovaries). Perhaps she expected me to decide there should be limits to my punishment after all. But I didn’t; there can’t be.

The thought did keep me away from here several weeks longer than usual. But here I am, and there they are, coming down the stairs with a bright light that casts dancing shadows all over the dungeon.

What if I recognize them afterwards, up there? I always imagined Mistress would blindfold me first. I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe steadily. Remember, I did worse myself. I deserve this. I deserve this . . .

The stairs lead down to a cavernous sex dungeon. Most of our customers make do with ordinary bedrooms or living rooms, but we do come across dedicated dungeons now and then. This is the most impressively themed one I’ve seen yet. Heavy chains hang on the walls like garlands, with manacles and collars dangling from the bottom of each arch. There’s a row of barred cells at one end and a big old farrier’s chair at the other, its unused restraining straps tied into bows.

In the open space in the middle there’s a mare lying on an upturned table, her four legs tied to the table legs that stick up into the air. Her tail, sparkling faintly in the light of Mr. Cake’s lantern, lies draped elegantly across the floor and leads the eye towards a nice set of almost black buttocks flanking an invitingly pink marehood. Her wings are bandaged up and chained to weights on the floor, and up at the far end it looks like her horn is . . . hey, wait a minute –

“Princess Luna!” Mr. Cake drops into a formal bow.

I follow suit, not quite sure what the proper etiquette for meeting a tied-up royal in a dark dungeon is. Should we wait for her to acknowledge us? Is she even awake?

Finally she speaks, her voice quavering. “Do what you must, sirs, but don’t pretend to respect me while you do it.”

“Um, Your Highness –”

“Gentlecolts, we all know why you’re here. No need to dress it up. Then again I can’t really make demands, can I? Would you have me issue royal decrees for where to violate me first? Know ye that I come with the same set of holes as any pony –”

“You misunderstand, Your Highness,” says Mr. Cake, standing up and interrupting the princess! “We’re from The Rescue Service, here to free you.”

She lifts her head and looks at us from between her upstretched legs. “Didn’t Rarity send you?”

“Somepony did, Your Highness,” I explain, “to rescue an unnamed pony if they failed to call in regularly.”

“She left a note saying she’s away on a friendship emergency,” Mr. Cake says.

She lets her head fall back and sighs. “You’d better set me free, then. I think she keeps all the keys in the cabinet by the stairs.”

Together we get the princess free of her bonds. It’s not as easy to remove the military-grade suppressor ring she’s wearing. Without instructions from the princess herself, we’d never have figured it out – you need one pony to keep a key turned while another grips and twists the lower part of the ring with his teeth.

“Do you want something to drink?” asks Mr. Cake in a commendable attempt to stick to our script. “We’ve got sports drink, or, hmm, a protein-fortified milkshake.”

She wrinkles her muzzle. “Thank you, but I’ll pass. What I do need, however, is your silence. Nopony can know I’m here, least of all my sister. Can I do anything to earn your cooperation about this?”

Are those bedroom eyes she’s making at us? No, it must be my imagination – she was lying upside down on that table before, and life just seems to delight in tormenting me with inverted mares of the wrong size or station to lust after.

“Your Highness can be completely assured of our commitment to discretion,” I explain quickly.

“I promise not to tell anyone you’re the client,” says Mr. Cake.

That’s a way of saying it too. “So do I.”

“I am grateful,” she says gravely. “I cannot pay you back here and now, but if you ever need a favor that is in my power to grant, come and talk to me. Can I have your names and addresses?”

Mr. Cake is already getting out a pencil from his bag, but I stop him. “We’re not really supposed to tell clients our names.”

The princess sighs. “You don’t have to. But I need to instruct the castle staff to let you talk to me if you come to claim your favor. And if I wanted to harm you, I could simply have the Guard track you down.”

Mr. Cake has finished writing his name on a bakery flyer. He holds it out to me, and I take it because it would probably be rude to reject such an offer from a princess, even if she’s a client. But I can’t help thinking I’m going to regret this sooner or later.

* * *

“The Rescue Service, good evening.”

“It’s Finey. I’m done in Ponyville.”

“Good, just come home now. And once you’re back in Canterlot, could you pop by the office to see me real quick, please?”

“Um, right. Of course.”

Great. Now I have all the way home to worry whether I’m in trouble again.

As soon as I enter, Hissy Fit turns to me from her desk.

“Finey, you know we don’t usually allow clients to contact the agents who handled their rescues –”

Oh shit. She knows I gave the princess my name. How can she know? Was the whole rescue just a ruse to catch us breaking the rules? Why would the princess take part in that, for a small private business like Hissy’s? She was the real princess, wasn’t she?

“– but I’ve been convinced to make an exception here. And I really hope I’m not going to regret that. Miss Scratch, the floor is yours.”

The last part is directed at a pony sitting in the couch. It’s Vinyl! Vinyl is here! Why?

Calm down, Finey. She could hurt you back then because Tavi had tied you up. You’re not tied up now; you can run away. But why has Hissy Fit brought her here? I thought she was on my side.

Vinyl doesn’t react to Hissy Fit, just sits there bobbing her head back and forth with an unreadable expression behind her shades. Hissy marches over to her and uses her magic to lift a headphone away from one of her ears. “Your turn, Miss Scratch!”

Vinyl jumps up from the couch and quickly takes a step away from me. Then, slowly, she walks out in the middle of the floor and stands still for several moments before she speaks.

“I want to apologize for what I did to you. I thought you were cool with it, and that you had already agreed on how far it would go, but that is no excuse. I should have checked it myself, and it is my fault I didn’t do that. I never meant to really hurt you, and I’m very sorry that I did anyway.”

That is the last thing I ever expected to hear. It sounds more rehearsed than sincere. “Did Tavi send you to say that?”

She shakes her head. “Me and Octavia are, um, not really seeing each other anymore. We had a fight.”

“And then you came here to apologize?” It feels like something’s missing from my understanding of this.

She nods. “I would be have been earlier, but it took a long time to find you.”

“And – alright, you’re sorry. Does that just make it okay? Do you think you can do . . . those things to me and then just trot up and say you’re sorry, and everything’s suddenly right again?” I’m angry at her, and also angry at myself for saying ‘those things’. Cinna taught me I must not make them unspeakable; that gives them too much power. But Vinyl is not Cinna.

“I don’t know.” She hangs her head. “I just wanted to say it. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me or anything.”

“Darn right I’m not. What the hay kinda thing is that to come and say? How does being sorry make anything okay?”

“Listen, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it more okay. Or less bad. Anything you want, just tell me what to do.”

“What could possibly make it more okay?”

“I don’t know!” She shrugs awkwardly. “I thought perhaps you’d want to tie me up without a safeword and get even?”

“Pardon me, miss,” interjects Hissy Fit, “but if you’re the sort of pony who habitually gets herself into situations like the one I met you in earlier this week, one might suspect this plan of yours isn’t quite the sacrifice it sounds like.”

Vinyl turns to her and just stares at her for several long moments.

“Lady, you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” she says eventually. “Yes, I bottom a lot, but that doesn’t mean I get off from asking random ponies in the street to beat me up. That’s not how it works. That’s something you do when you trust somepony so damn much you let her take you all the way out where the world spins, and you know she won’t do anything to really harm you. Because you’re in fucking love with her. But what do you know about that?”

Hissy Fit doesn’t rise to the bait. “Am I to understand that you expected my employee here to trust you that way?”

“No! That’s not it! I thought he trusted Octavia, and she knew what he could take and she’d stop me if I went too far. Because that’s what I would do – what I did do. And I sure didn’t think she’d just stand aside and watch while I do horrible things and become a monster and afterwards she just says nopony was really harmed like it’s all my fault . . .” Her face crumbles up, and she turns away from us. “Damn you,” she sniffles, either to me or to Hissy.

“So is it your fault or isn’t it?” Hissy Fit is sounding uncannily calm. “I’m getting some mixed signals –”

“Stop doing that! It’s – I mean it’s my fault to him.” She points a hoof towards me, shaking angrily. “I’m not running away from that. But it’s her fault to me that she let me do it. And I don’t fucking care if you understand that or not – how’s it your business anyway?”

“Boss, please,” I say. (Why is it up to me to keep things civil? I thought I was the victim here.) “It’s not gonna happen anyway – getting even, I mean.” Cinna helped me figure out that revenge won’t help.

They both stare at me. “Thanks, I guess,” Vinyl says. “It was a scary idea. But I want to do something to make it right. You sure you can’t think of anything?”

Hissy Fit starts saying something, still trying to fight my battle for me. I wave her quiet. Can’t deal with that now. “No,” I just say. “I can’t.”

There is an awkward pause. I’m fighting an instinct to thank her for offering. But she still did what she did. It’s not like she’s my friend, saying sorry for some random misstep, and then all is well. I’m not looking for revenge, but that doesn’t mean I can just up and forgive her.

Eventually Vinyl sighs. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve made things worse, trying to apologize. It felt like the right thing to do. Shows what I know.” She walks towards the door, head hanging. “I’m not gonna bother you anymore.”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

Right before she reaches the door, she turns to me a last time. “There’s one thing I wanna ask, though. If you’re gonna press charges, please do it quickly. I don’t think I can take the waiting much longer.”

Without waiting for a reply she turns around again and lets herself out.

“Okay,” says Hissy Fit finally. “Sorry for that. I don’t really know what I expected.”

I don’t answer her.

“Look, I did get her business card. If you want to go to the Guard now, I’ll back you a hundred percent. I’m not saying it’s gonna –”

I hold up a hoof. “Please. Can I just think?”

She shuts up. Fancy that, me bossing the boss around like that. But there’s something more important –

Somehow Vinyl’s parting shot hit me harder than anything else. I haven’t even thought about pressing charges, just about putting it all behind me. But . . . I don’t think I can take the waiting much longer, she said. That felt more real than a thousand tearful apologies. Why?

Of course! She reminds me of myself, a week ago. Slowly going to pieces, never sleeping, always expecting that knock on the door . . . It’s different because she’s guilty and I wasn’t; I know that now. But the waiting must be the same.

Can I wish that on anypony, even Vinyl? It would be easy – part of me does want her to suffer, especially if I won’t have to do the dirty work myself. Just let her stew! But that feels like bitterness, and Cinna taught me I need to avoid that. Are a few hours of pain and fear more or less than days and weeks of fear and a life going to pieces? I’ve tried both, and I can’t tell. But the waiting wasn’t Vinyl’s doing; that was Tavi. Wasn’t it? But if what Vinyl says is true . . .

And if I just keep dithering here, it won’t matter what I decide.

“Be right back!” I shout to Hissy Fit, and bolt down the stairs.

“Vinyl! Stop!”

There she is, trudging gloomily down the street. Either she can’t hear me, or she’s deliberately ignoring me.

“Vinyl!” I’ve caught up with her, but she still doesn’t react. It’s those headphones, blaring a thunderstorm of angry guitars so loudly that I could hear it from several steps away. I have to step right in front of her before she notices me.

Her horn glows briefly, making the music stop. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah. Um, I just wanted you to know I’m not going to press charges.” Wait, I’m not? I thought I hadn’t decided yet. “Or at least not until I’ve had some time to think.”

“So, you’re either gonna or you’re not gonna. Got that, thanks a bunch.”

“Well, yes . . . I didn’t really think this through, did I?”

“That makes two of us.” She looks back towards Hissy Fit’s apartment.

“Okay, what I mean is if I do go to the Guard, I will tell you first. So it won’t be a surprise. And you can, uhm, relax until then.” I almost said that she can sleep, but I don’t know if that’s what the waiting does to her.

“I guess that’s something. Why are you telling me this?”

I had expected more gratitude. Oh buck, this is shaping up to be another fiasco; I’m feeling stupider by the second. “Because I’m trying to do the right thing is why, but excuse me for never having been in this situation before, so I don’t actually know what the right thing is. I just need a few days to figure it out, alright? Is that so much to ask for?”

She backs away from me, looking more resigned than afraid. “Didn’t mean it that way.” For a brief moment she manages a small smile. “Thanks, um, whatever your name is.”

I stare at her.

She shrugs. “Your boss wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well, I’m Finey.” Automatically I hold out a hoof.

She shakes it. “Vinyl.”

“I know.”

“Look, I’m really sorry,” she repeats. “About back there, too. I didn’t mean to shout at your boss. I thought if I just got to say my piece, everything else would happen and I’d just have to let it. Kinda like getting tied up, if you know what I mean.”

I’m not sure I do. “Just a few days, okay? Tuesday!” – I pick a date out of thin air, anything to get away from this – “I’ll have an answer for you on Tuesday. Promise.”

“Okay.”

I take off and start flying back towards Hissy’s office before the awkward can spread further.

Why do these things happen to me? Just when I thought I had it all figured out, Vinyl had to drop an apology on me? I think she meant well, but can I trust that? Is it just wishful thinking because I want to live in a world where nopony has it out for me? But even if it’s true, what am I supposed to do with that?

When I come back, Hissy Fit just waits for me to say something. That doesn’t make it easier to ask for the favor I’m about to. It’s probably an expensive one.

Okay, deep breath. “Can you get me Cinna again? Just to talk?”

“I don’t think she has a just-to-talk rate. But I’ll see what I can do.” She smiles encouragingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Let’s call that a success. It means I won’t have to begin deciding until she shows up, or Hissy Fit tells me she won’t. Until then I can take refuge in the nice, simple world of tensor field surgery.

Right. So, the stitching maps all work by permuting the indices. Therefore the fundamental group must act on the space of admissible frames . . .

* * *

I have asserted eminent domain over Rarity’s living quarters. Just until she gets back, that is – if I can’t keep wallowing in guilt, the next best thing is a long hot bath. And uninterrupted sleep in a soft, cool bed. There’s one just as soft awaiting me in Canterlot, but there are also courtiers, guards, heavenly bodies to shift around, endless papers to sign, long lines of ponies to smile and wave to.

This must be what Tia thinks I’m doing each time I skip out for some personal days, just lazing about somewhere. It’s nice, actually; I should take it up sometime.

For now I justify myself by saying I can’t just let Rarity come home and find the place empty. Imagine that, a princess of the realm housesitting! Then again, Twilight probably does that all the time. I wish I had her natural humility.

It’s a bit past noon on Sunday when she comes home. To her credit, she immediately rushes to the basement, shouting my name. It stirs me from the couch upstairs, and I go down to greet her as she comes back up again.

“You’re late, Rarity. Your hired goons already found me.”

She gives a jerk. “Goons? Why, I never! That firm has an impeccable reputation in the community.” It’s not quite clear whether she’s offended by the supposed goons, or by me calling them that.

“Relax – I jest, of course. They were perfect gentlecolts. And admirably foresighted of you to arrange for their presence.”

“Well, yes. Oh, Princess, I’m simply dreadfully sorry for cutting your session short in such an unexpectedly informal fashion. Can you ever forgive me?”

I have to smile. “Of course. It all seems to be within the bounds of our arrangement.”

“Because it has none. You know, I do so wish you wouldn’t need that ‘arrangement’. I will help out if you need it, but it’s just not the same as working with ponies who enjoy what I do.”

“I know.” I step forward to hug her. “I will try my best, I promise.”

Shall I tell you that you’re lying, Rarity? I have seen your dreams; I know what makes you tick. You’re only fully alive when you truly impress somepony, when you can cause their thoughts to be all about you. What better way to do that than to make them suffer? The other guests in your dungeon, you’re the center of their experience, but at the end of the day it’s their own strange pleasure they’re there for. When I’m down there I think only of how you might hurt me next. You love that.

You also hate loving it, I know, so you tell even yourself that you don’t. Who am I to deny you that comfort just to show how clever I am? You must come to terms with yourself at your own pace. And once you do, you will thank me; most ponies with that affliction never get a chance to live it out.

Yes yes, and if I’m such an expert on the pony psyche, why don’t I heal myself too?

I guess I do owe you to try.

“Thanks for your help this time,” I say, breaking the hug. “But I should be going now.”

Usually I come and go under cover of darkness. But today I think I’ll chance a daytime flight. It’s a beautiful day, from what I’ve seen of it. And no matter how soft the bed, if I stay holed up in the boutique waiting for night to fall, I’ll only have swapped one dungeon for another.

Rarity follows me outside. I jump into the air and turn around to smile at her, and my mistress and friend waves back as I take to the clear blue sky of the magical land of Equestria.

Author's Note

Edited by Taialin.

10. Tartaric Gallop

The small diner behind the Ponyville train station was not a place sophisticated ponies like Octavia Melody frequented often. She looked quite out of place as she sat at one of the outer tables, wearing a pink bowtie that made a mockery of the checkered tablecloth (and vice versa), and nursing a mug of hard cider for the third hour straight, sometimes looking wistfully out the window at the trains that came and went.

Ponies who do come in such places tend to have a good feeling for when somepony wants to be left alone, so the few other patrons at this time of the day sat well away from her, and in return she bothered nopony. Looking at her, one might have gotten the impression that she was out of place in a deeper, inner sense too, ironically making the diner the right place for her to be.

Of course there was nopony around who would appreciate that delicious little paradox.

Then Pinkie Pie came skipping through, humming along to the insipid pop music streaming from the sound system, on her way to doing whatever it is Pinkie Pie does.

“Hiii Octavia!”

Octavia looked up from her cider and stared tiredly at Pinkie.

Pinkie screeched to a halt. “Oh no, you’re sad! Why are you sad? Oh, oh, oh! I know exactly what you need to cheer you up. Wait here, don’t move!”

Then she zipped off, not waiting for a reply.

Not half an hour later, Vinyl Scratch barged into the diner and stomped up to Octavia’s table. She sat down across from her.

“What the spinning splat are you doing here?” demanded Vinyl.

Octavia looked up again. “What does it look like?”

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re out playing a gig. Pretty sure I’d know if you had one anyway. And otherwise you only ever come to Ponyville to see me. So. What kind of creepy stalker are you?”

“The pathetic kind who can’t even bring herself to go to your side of the town.”

“So instead you sent Pinkie Pie to get me.”

Octavia sighed. “She’s your friend. Do you have a way to make her do or not do something when she gets an idea?”

“Point,” Vinyl said. There was a long pause. “So what do you think you’re doing here?”

Octavia made a show of collecting herself. “I’m being stupid. I shouldn’t have come at all. I know you need some time to stop being angry before we can talk it over properly, like grown-up mares.”

“Really.” Another pause. “Well, I’m here. So talk.”

Octavia shook her head. “I can hear you’re not ready yet. I respect that.” She looked back at her cider.

Vinyl started saying something, but caught herself several times. Eventually she gave up. “At least tell me why you did it.”

“Why I did what?”

“Why you did what!? You tricked me into, into brutalizing that stallion! And you just hung around while I did it, like it was all a laugh. Is that all I am to you, someone to laugh at while she destroys –”

“Vinyl, we’ve been through this already.” Octavia sighed. “I didn’t make you do anything. It was all something you decided to do. You were in charge of that scene; that’s how it works. And if you ask me, then I will readily agree that you went a bit overboard there, but –”

“Then you should have stopped me! Why didn’t you stop me?”

Octavia reached out towards her in a calming gesture. “Listen, precious, I don’t think –”

“Don’t call me that!”

“– Sorry. But that’s the point, isn’t it? When you’re being on top, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let you make your own mistakes?”

“A real one! Do you think I wanted to be a monster? Dammit, Tavi, I trusted you! You’re the one who knows how to top. You’re supposed to help me get it right.”

“And I would, if you had asked me.”

“Asked you? What the hay kind of behavior is it to wait for me to ask you when you can see I’m going off the rails?”

Octavia frowned. “I wouldn’t say you were ‘off the rails’ as such, just –” She stopped herself and rubbed her forehead with her hooves for some time. Then she shook her head violently. “Alright, I’m sorry if you feel I should have said more. Okay? Okay?”

“And what about him?” asked Vinyl.

“Who?”

“The stallion! The guy you made me brutalize! The guy whose life I ruined!”

Octavia sighed. “Vinyl, you’re entirely too hung up on what that mare said. Look, she’s his boss, alright? Of course it’s against the rules for him to have sex with the customers, so naturally he’d tell her he didn’t want to. Probably gave her a real tearful show for her money; it’s that or be fired. But you know he was actually having a great time.”

“Says who?”

Another sigh. “Really, Vinyl, I know you don’t do stallions a lot, but you had sex ed in school, didn’t you? It’s not generally a subtle thing whether they’re enjoying themselves.”

“That doesn’t mean they want it!”

“Yes it does. Trust me on that.”

“No it buc– why, you didn’t even know the guy! I thought he was one of your usual toy colts, whatever you call it –”

“Is that what you’re upset about?” Octavia reached a hoof across the table again, wearing a pained frown. “We’ve talked about that before, and you were okay with it then, but if you’ve changed your mind, just say the word and I’ll swear off stallions forever.” She paused. “Damn it, Vinyl, I need you. The things you do, the things you can take . . . Don’t you understand? You’re the one pony in the world I would put up this whole pathetic show for.”

Vinyl looked away, watching a train huff off towards Fillydelphia.

Eventually she said, so quietly it was barely audible over the music, “I miss the Tavi I could trust. I don’t know – I think she’s left Equestria. Together with the Vinyl I could wake up and like being.”

“Vinyl, how can I be that Tavi again?”

“I don’t know. Convince me you can be trusted, I guess. How about finding Fi–, I mean, that fine pegasus you made me abuse, and make good by him?”

Octavia sighed demonstratively, rolling her eyes. “Vinyl, read my lips here: It’s not about him. It’s about me and you. Us. Vinyl, I’m fucking desperate; I will do anything it takes to be alright by you again.”

Vinyl raised her eyebrows. “Anything.”

Octavia nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”

Vinyl looked at her for some time. “Okay, how about this: I know this guy in Manehattan who runs a nightclub . . .”

* * *

“Rise and shiiine!”

Light streams into the small room as the stallion kicks open the door. It’s not even really a room, more like a janitor’s closet with delusions of grandeur. There’s a grey-coated earth mare lying on the floor, in the space left between a mop trolley and a collapsed stepladder.

“I’m awake,” she answers, not moving.

“Then what are you doing there on the floor? Come on, the music’s about to start, and you’re gonna miss the show!”

“Oh, haha, very funny.” She tries to turn her head, but her neck is shackled tightly to a bracket in the floor. “Why didn’t you become a comedian?”

“A comedian, moi? When bartending pays so much better?” He reaches in with his magic and unlocks the small combination lock that held her collar together. “There are so many fascinating ponies to meet. And we both know you’re our real star anyway.”

She grunts while she gets on her hooves and steps out of the closet. It opens up into the back of the gentlecolts’ washroom.

“How are we feeling today then?” asks the bartender, still chipper.

“Hungry,” she says curtly.

“Oh yes, you didn’t make quota yesterday, did you? Tell you what, if you reach nine today, come up to me at the bar and you can have the tenth from me.”

“That’s what you said the day before yesterday. And then you went to the other end anyway.”

“I did? Oh dear me, how fickle and fleeting are the promises of ponykind these days! You can’t trust anypony! The offer still stands, though – who knows, perhaps today I’ll keep my word.”

She glares at him. “I’m thirsty too. I’m allowed to have water, that’s the rules!”

“But of course!” Ducking into the broom closet, he picks a floor cloth out of its bucket and dumps it into the long urinal. It makes for enough of a barrier that water begins to pile up upstream of it when he pushes the flush button. “Here you go, miss, best quality Manehattan tapwater.”

The mare looks between him and the trough in disbelief, but then sighs deeply and starts drinking from it. It’s probably the cleanest thing she’s going to taste today anyway.

While she drinks, the bartender runs a hoof across the short black fuzz growing on her scalp and crest. “Looks like your mane is growing out again. Time for a fresh shave soon, eh?” He grabs the dock of her tail as well, casually rubbing a hoof against her marehood as he picks it up. “Your tail too.” The short hairs on the stump are barely a quarter inch long.

“Yeah yeah, just get it over with.”

“Oh no, miss, no need to do anything rash right now. I’m sure you’ll be able to last for, oh, several hours before you’ll be hairy enough to need that.”

“By which time the place will be full of ponies,” she says flatly.

“Of course! We artistic types, we have to let the hoi polloi have their little diversions, don’t we? Oh, why couldn’t you have been a pegasus? A plucking, that would have drawn some real crowds!”

She saunters over towards a booth where a group of stallions have just started their first round of beer. It’s not easy to saunter when one has no mane or tail to swish, but she makes it work. More or less.

“Well, hello, stallions!” she says in her sultriest voice. She has to raise it a little to be heard above the music.

They look at her. Some of them decidedly looking her over. Good.

“Um, can we help you?” says one of the older ones, blue with a yellowish mane.

“I was wondering whether one of you fine equines might be interested in a free blowjob?”

The stallions look at each other. “A free what?” asks one of them at the other side of the table, a big black-maned guy.

She smiles at him. “Darling, don’t you know what a blowjob is?”

A few of the other stallions begin snickering, but he responds calmly, “I’m wondering whether you do. It’s not something mares are usually eager to pass out to strangers, even in a place like this.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day, isn’t it? Okay, to make sure everypony can follow along, I’m here to suck some cocks. Would any of you have a cock that needs sucking?” She blinks her eyes seductively.

“What’s the catch?” shouts a younger stallion at the back of the booth.

“No catch, no strings. You whip out your thing and I show you what heaven is like – full satisfaction or you get a free second try. You game?”

The stallion who shouted blushes hard and shakes his head, trying to shrink into the couch he’s sitting on.

“I think what he’s saying,” says the yellow-maned one who spoke first, “is there has to be something in it for you.”

“I . . . it’s –” Suddenly the seductress persona fails her. “I don’t get to eat unless I can find ten stallions to blow before closing time, and I didn’t make it yesterday, and I’m so hungry. Please, won’t one of you let me blow you?”

The stallions look awkwardly at each other again. One of them decides to be a wiseguy. “So if a blowjob buys you a meal, how much is a real fuck worth?” Yellow and black mane both glare at him.

She winces slightly. “I am not allowed to resist if you try that,” she says tonelessly. “But it won’t count for my quota. Please, can I just suck you off instead? It’ll be amazing, I promise.”

He waves a hoof in her direction, backpedaling. “Just kidding.”

“How about you?” She turns to the one of the stallions who hasn’t said anything yet, licking her lips.

“Um, no, sorry,” he says nervously. “I’ve got a marefriend.”

“Oh, come on, who says she needs to be told?”

“She’s my sister,” declares the black-maned one.

“Look, lady,” says the yellow-maned stallion, “we’d like to help, really, but I think that’s just too weird for all of us. Nothing personal.”

“I see.” She lowers her head, admitting defeat.

“Hey, can’t we buy you something to eat?” asks the one with the marefriend. “I think they serve food here.”

“Not allowed to accept that either. But thanks for offering.” She looks around to the others. “If any of you change your mind, come and find me. I’ll be around all night.”

She turns around and trudges away from the booth, trying to get back into the saunter.

“Good luck!” shouts yellow mane after her. “Sorry we couldn’t help.”

Later on she’s sitting on her chair, by the doorway towards the restrooms, staring into space for a moment.

A small gaggle of youngsters enter the club at the other end of the room. As soon as they’re all in, they make straight towards her. The unicorn in front walks with a confident swagger; the rest try to match his bravado with various amounts of luck.

“You the broad who gives out free blowjobs?”

She looks up at the unicorn. “Yeah. Interested?” It’s taking her a moment to get her charm into gear.

“Our friend Nimbus here thinks it’s time for him to become a real stallion. Isn’t that right, Nimbus?”

The group parts to let a pegasus colt through. “Hi,” he says, grinning nervously. He doesn’t quite look old enough for the bouncer at the front to have let him in. Yet here he is. “Um, what happened to your mane?”

“Let’s just say I lost a bet. Don’t worry; it’s not contagious. So you’re here for a good time?”

“I guess.” He glances around at his friends who’re boxing him in on all sides. “Are you sure it’s free? I don’t have any money.”

“Oh, you’ve come to the right place. It’s free like the sun and the wind here.” It’s been some time since she saw either. She stands up from the chair.

He shuffles his hooves a little. “Uhm, how does it actually work? Is there a room in the back we go to? Or is it just, like, a bathroom stall?”

She takes a deep breath – this is where it gets difficult. “Sorry, no back room. It has to be out here where it can be seen from the DJ box.” She points towards a raised platform behind the dance floor. The blue-maned pony up there grins and waves back at her.

“Here? That’s not – I’m sorry, I didn’t think – I mean, I thought it would be somewhere more –”

The unicorn interrupts him. “Nimbus, for pony’s sake! You’ll never get to anything if you keep locking up like that every time a filly talks to you.”

“Yeah, and we didn’t come all this way just to see you chicken out,” says another of his friends.

She walks up to him and puts a foreleg comfortingly around his withers. “Shh, it’ll be all right. You’re gonna be too busy feeling wonderful to even notice them. I promise.” She massages him gently while she murmurs into his ears.

“Really?” he manages.

“We’re all here to help you, pal!” shouts one of the hangers-on from somewhere behind them.

She feels something in him give way, the resignation of somepony who gives up fighting the inevitable. “That’s good, sweetie, now you just sit on that stool here, forelegs out to the side. Yes, like that. Then lean back and relax – I’ll do the rest of the work.”

He sits stiffly on the chair and presents his belly to her, breathing quickly and nervously. His stallionhood isn’t out from its sheath yet, so she moves her head in between his legs to suckle gently at one of his testicles. There’s no stallion she can’t get in the mood when she puts some work into it. He gasps when she first touches him and shuts his eyes, as if to make the room go away.

His friends stand clustered around them, most of them watching in disbelief or awe. The unicorn leading them is standing back a little, staring at the mare’s hind end. An erection has been growing between his legs since it became clear that Nimbus would go through with it. It doesn’t take long before he’s ready.

“Watch this!” he shouts to his comrades. When he has their attention he rears up behind the mare, forcing his stiff member into her exposed marehood. He doesn’t even have to swipe the shorn stump of her tail away.

“Fuck, Trotter,” says one of the colts. “You can’t do that! I mean, just fuck!”

“Why yes, that’s exactly what he’s doing,” says another one. They all laugh.

A few of them look nervously towards the mare’s head, expecting an angry reaction, but she merely moves her hind legs apart so there’ll be better room for him. She knew this would be coming, from the look in Trotter’s eyes when he first talked to her. She moves her head a bit to the left to nibble on Nimbus’s other testicle.

Trotter stands tall above her, his forehooves planted on her withers and pulling on her skin each time he rams into her. It only takes seven or eight thrusts before he’s done and pulls out of her to aim a deluge of semen at her buttocks and tail. At the last squirt he pushes off her croup with his forelegs and lands down on the floor, grinning smugly.

“That’s what all these sluts really want,” he explains. “Of course it’s against the rules for her to ask for it, so one needs to be a bit sensitive. Right?” He slaps her flank, far enough forward that it’s not dripping with semen. She doesn’t answer him.

“Okay, who else wants a go? Nopony? How about you, Comet?”

“Ew, no,” says another unicorn with a bit of a slow expression. “When she’s got your gunk all over? No way.”

“C’mon, don’t be a sissy. I’m sure you could get some napkins from the bar to clean her up with.” Trotter laughs at his own joke, but when he looks back Comet is nowhere to be seen. “Where did he go?”

“To the bar, I think.”

“You mean, he actually . . .? Oh, this ought to be good.”

Meanwhile, the mare has given up on Nimbus’s testicles and moved up to the opening of his sheath, reaching her tongue in to tease the penis out. He’s never had a marefriend to teach him the inside of the sheath is a place that needs washing too, but she perseveres, and his cock begins growing up towards the light. When it’s large enough to be seen from the DJ box, she steps to the side for a moment to make a clear line of sight.

The music that was playing stops abruptly, and in the sudden silence a spotlight comes on to illuminate Nimbus and the mare. Then the loudspeakers start blaring the theme from Offenbuck’s Tartaric Gallop. She didn’t think it was possible to hate an orchestral piece that much. With a sigh, she lowers her head around the penis in front of her and sets to work.

Comet comes back from the bar, carrying a stack of napkins that he sets down on the mare’s loin. “The barpony gave me some water too,” he announces, holding up a big glass of water in his magic. It has lemon slices in it, and a generous helping of ice. He pours some over the mare’s hindquarters.

She gives a jolt when the cold water hits her. Most of the napkins slide off her back, and she narrowly avoids emasculating Nimbus with her teeth in surprise. She shuffles a bit to the side, planting her hooves further apart to steel herself against this new onslaught. If she lets go of Nimbus now, it will all have been for nothing.

Comet alternates between pouring water over the mare and wiping her off with a wad of napkins that he holds in his magic field. Eventually he’s satisfied that she’s clean enough. “Ready now, ma’am?” he shouts.

She doesn’t answer. She has just managed to make Nimbus come and has enough to do with not choking on his load. She’s shivering from the cold, and Comet seems to take that as a sign of excitement, because he climbs onto her and takes careful aim with his dick before penetrating her. He ruts her slowly and methodically with a beatific smile on his face, hugging her forebarrel.

Nimbus finishes ejaculating, and she lets go of his cock. “See, that wasn’t so – oof! – bad, was it?” she asks, interrupted by a particularly deep thrust from Comet. Nimbus doesn’t answer, still sitting straight up with his eyes closed like when she began working on him, only now drenched in sweat. He unsteadily stands up from the chair.

“Okay, next, up front!” she calls out to the group at large. Nopony answers.

Comet has stopped pumping and lies draped over the mare, panting hard. Trotter nudges him in the ribs. “No falling asleep up there; there’s a line.” He snorts and climbs slowly off the mare.

“Anypony else for a blowjob?” the mare shouts again.

Trotter puts a foreleg around Nimbus’s withers. “Well done,” he says. “See, there’s the other end for you too, so you can really become a stallion.”

Nimbus wiggles out of his grip and backs away from him wild-eyed. “No! I’m not – I mean, that’s not – it’s all wrong!” He turns around and bolts towards the exit.

Trotter looks after him and shrugs. “Okay, who else –”

“– wants a blowjob?” says the mare hopefully, turning around towards Trotter. This brings her hind end in line with one of the earth colts, who seizes the opportunity to jump up and hump her. It takes him a few tries to get his cock properly into her, but then he’s up and riding her, basking in his friends’ attention. She lets her head drop in resignation.

“Way to go, Silver!” somepony shouts.

“Wait a minute,” another one interjects. “Comet, you just came inside her, didn’t you?”

“Sure did,” replies Comet proudly.

“So Silver’s basically wiggling his tap around in a pool of Comet’s jizz?”

Silver stops humping and looks uncertain as wheels begin to turn in his head.

“And, um, won’t that make you gay?”

“Aargh!” Silver pushes himself off her as if she’s burning him, and starts trotting panicky in place, half-erect penis dancing in the air under him. “No, get it off! Get it off! I didn’t mean to! Shit, what am I gonna do?”

The mare turns around to face Silver while his friends laugh at his misfortune. “You know, if you get an actual mare to lick the gay off you, I think that’ll break the curse.”

There’s a sudden glimmer of hope in Silver’s eyes. “You think so? Yes! That’s it. Thank you so much!” He rears up to climb on top of her head and push her in under him, smearing his dick desperately across her face so it takes her a few seconds to maneuver her lips around it.

Even while trying not to choke, the mare is aware that the spotlight comes on and Offenbuck starts playing again. Another point in her tally is recognized. Only eight more to go for today now – –

* * *

“– and when you’ve made quota on, let’s say, seven days, then we’re quits!” Vinyl grinned and wiped sweat off her forehead. She had become somewhat excited while she outlined the plan, throwing in piquant details left and right as she thought of them. “So, what do you say?”

Octavia stared at her open-mouthed.

“Vinyl,” she said at last. “You’re sick. No, of course I’m not gonna do that.” She stood up noisily, looking at Vinyl with disgust. “Seriously, Vinyl, you need to get some help. I don’t even know why I came here.”

Vinyl watched her leave, slamming the front door and stalking across the tracks towards the station.

“Right,” she mumbled to herself. “Anything it takes.”

After some time she sighed and stood up herself. She downed what was left of Octavia’s cider, and made her way towards the exit. She had her own anything to do.

Author's Note

Edited, as always, by Taialin.

And for those who don't get the reference, here is Jacques Offenbach's Infernal Galop.

11. Hugs and Rainbows and Friendship

At first sight, Rosemore Point looks like so many other plazas in Canterlot: a semicircular expanse of white marble with a fountain in the center. There’s always a fountain – legend has it that the cousin of one of the first Royal Architects ran a fountain construction business. Supposedly, if you know where to look, you can still find builder’s plaques reading ‘Cargo Pants & Co.’ in old-fashioned lettering on some of them.

At Rosemore Point, however, the fountain is the least important part of the plaza. The real draw is out on the perimeter of the circle, namely a low balustrade and behind the balustrade a sheer thousand-foot drop down to the valley beneath Canterlot. It’s one of the only places, apart from the closed castle gardens, where ordinary ponies can go and see that.

For a pegasus, of course, that is not very exciting. But unicorn and earth pony tourists flock to Rosemore, thrilled with confronting their fear of heights. The back side of the plaza is lined with souvenir booths and food stalls, and the entire thing is a fixed stop on all the tourist trails, except for those visitors who can’t abide the thought. Some get panic attacks even from entering the plaza, knowing what lies a hundred steps in front of them.

I wish I could say that isn’t my real reason for asking Vinyl to meet me here. But in truth I have no idea why this was the first place that came to mind when Hissy Fit suggested we ought to meet in a neutral public space rather than her office. Who can ever be sure of their subconscious motives? I only hope she won’t be too affected.

The plaza is fairly quiet late in the morning; the guidebooks all warn that the light won’t be properly dramatic before around one o’clock. There are a few dozen visitors hanging around the perimeter, but nothing like the circus it’s going to be later in the day. I stay by the fountain, staring at the falling water and trying to collect my thoughts one last time before Vinyl arrives.

There’s a commotion over by one of the entrances to the plaza.

“That’s none of your damn business!” shouts Vinyl’s voice.

Turning around, I see that she’s arguing with one of the Ponies For Life volunteers on duty. I trot over towards them.

“All I’m saying is that the pegasus guards catch nineteen out of twenty ponies that jump,” the white-blanketed volunteer says. “You’ll only get a giant fine and be sent to talk to the same counsellor pool that we can get you into for free, no names taken. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s alright; she’s with me,” I tell him, briefly fluffing up my wings.

He raises an eyebrow. “Of course, sir.”

I walk Vinyl away from him, wondering at the strange authority it seems to give me here simply to be unable to jump to my death. Or perhaps I’m reading it all wrong and only making a fool of myself.

Vinyl is still grumbling to herself. “Just what do they think I am?”

“Depressed,” I explain. “They’re famously good at spotting genuinely unhappy ponies and not bothering the ordinary tourists. Used to be a game, back when I was an undergrad: you put on your best mope and try to look like a jumper, and if you get them to talk to you without approaching them yourself, your friends buy your drinks for the rest of the day.”

She looks at me dubiously. “What if you actually are depressed?”

I shrug. “Then I think the idea is that you deserve the drinks anyway.”

“Still sounds horrible. Not something to joke about.”

“It also means that those students who do need help know where they can find it.”

“Hrmf. Did you ever win one of them?”

I wave one of my wings. “I’m not really eligible. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, being stopped by the Piffles means you’re probably actually sorry and not just faking it.”

Way to end the small talk and introduce the elephant in the room, Finey. Vinyl stops dead in the middle of the plaza, hanging her head. I notice she’s not wearing her sunshades. “So what is it?” she almost whispers.

I’m supposed to deliver a verdict; that’s why she’s here. But I still have a dodge left. “I need to ask you something first. Why did you do all that to me? What were you thinking?”

“I think . . . You know I’m usually the sub, right? What that means?”

I nod.

She stares at the fountain while she continues. “But Octavia, and also some other doms, they were having so much fun topping that I thought I oughta try that too. And then I thought you had already agreed with Octavia to let me try it out. So I tried some things, but they were not very fun, but I thought perhaps I just need to be a bit rougher before it starts being fun. But no matter how hard I tried, it just made me sicker, even though I had to pretend to like it, because, you know, I didn’t want to disappoint Octavia. But she never said, stop, that’s too much, back down, no matter what I did. At last I just gave up.”

“You mean it was all an act?” I remember how she grinned and giggled while sticking things into my body, pulling my feathers, slapping, biting . . .

She cringes. “No, that’s – or yes. Perhaps. Perhaps I also wanted to convince myself I was having fun.” She turns around, looking at the ground in front of me. “I don’t know if you can ever forgive me . . .”

“I don’t think I can.” There, may Celestia strike me dead, I said it.

Her ears fall down. “I understand.” She turns around and walks slowly away, towards the edge of the plaza.

I hurry after her. “I’m not gonna press charges, though.”

“Why not?” She keeps walking.

“I did some research on what would happen. Everypony says being the accuser in one of those cases is really stressful.” When I talked it over with Cinna, she told me stories she knows from some kind of organization for sex workers she’s in – apparently the legal system is not too friendly towards them. There’s a good chance I’d get that too, she said, due to what the Service does. “And it wouldn’t really make me whole anyway, would it?”

“No,” Vinyl replies. “I guess it wouldn’t.”

She walks up to the balustrade and stands for some time staring at the mountains on the other side of the valley.

“You know, I tried to turn myself in,” she says darkly. “Walked right up to the guard barracks and told everything. Day before yesterday.”

“Shit, Vinyl, you can’t do that! Do you know they exile rapists?” That’s another thing I found out while researching what would happen if I pressed charges. Also part of why I’m not going to – even if I won, I would have that on my conscience. She shouldn’t have done all that to me, but to ruin her life forever for it? It’s not proportionate. I’ll get better.

“Ha,” she says. “In my case they laugh at rapists. Said unless I show them either a dead body or a live victim to complain, they couldn’t do anything.” She spits into the abyss. “I’m supposed to congratulate you.”

“Thanks,” I say, automatically. “No, wait – why would you even try such a thing?”

She shrugs. “Save you the trouble.”

My head is spinning. Did she really do that? Why? Yes, she’s sorry, she says, but there’s feeling bad about something and then there’s this. On the other wing, if she’s making it up, why?

She’s breathing heavier than before, isn’t she?

“Um, you’re not gonna jump, right? I kinda promised –”

Suddenly her face crumbles in on itself, and she’s bawling her eyes out soundlessly. “What kind of w-world is it if I can get away with that?” she sobs. “How can the princesses let that happen?”

What do you do when somepony who was a bastard towards you, someone who hurt you and used you for her own amusement, stands crying in front of you and there’s nopony else? I think I ought to be happy she’s hurting – it’s what she deserves, isn’t it? But somehow I can’t. It’s just sad.

I reach out a wing and wrap it around her, to coax her away from the edge. “Perhaps they don’t know.” It’s trite, but you can’t hold the princesses responsible for everything bad that happens. They’re ponies too, after all. “Come on, we have to get you away from here. Where do you live?”

“P-ponyville?”

“Oh.” That’s a bit far to walk her. What else is there – my place? I don’t really want her there.

“But I’m staying at t-the Prancing Pony . . .”

I know where that is. “Okay. Come on, this way.”

She lets me lead her away, past the volunteers, into the city. She calms down a bit while we walk.

“Would you feel better if I lie and say I forgive you?”

She shakes her head. “Not when you tell me it’s a lie.”

“Sorry.” It’s dawning on me that I have a kind of power over her, being the victim she wants to make it all right with. If only I knew how to use it. Or what to use it for.

“Forgiveness is overrated anyway,” she continues. “Too easy. Why would you forgive me?”

I shrug. “Because it’s the right thing to do?”

“Says who?” With my wing still wrapped around her, I can feel her becoming agitated again. “It’s not right that I can do what I did and not pay for it somehow.”

“So we’re back to getting even?”

It takes some time before she answers.

“I know I can’t really ask anything of you, but . . . please, can’t you try?”

The receptionist at the hotel is busy talking to a few other ponies and doesn’t notice me going up the stairs with Vinyl. I doubt he would have said anything, though. They’re not nosy here.

Vinyl’s room is small, just a bed and a half-ajar door towards an adjoining bathroom. There’s no chair, so I stand around not quite knowing what to do with myself while she roots around in a pair of saddlebags in the corner. Coming back up with two pairs of hoofcuffs, she lies down on the bed and locks her hooves together two by two.

She notices me staring at the cuffs. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I like to put them on nice and tight,” she explains. “It helps. But I have to keep these within reach.” She dangles the keys in the middle of the room with her magic and suddenly tosses them around the corner into the bathroom. They land in the tub with a loud clatter. “Now I can’t get at them myself – too far.”

I sit down on the bed behind her. The rest is up to me, I suppose. Why did I let her talk me into this?

“So what now? Do I just punch you?”

She half-shrugs. “If you want. There are some toys in the bag too. No rope, I’m afraid, unless you go out and find some first. I’m not going anywhere.”

I look at my forehooves, trying to imagine beating her bloody with them. I don’t even know how beating somepony bloody works. It’s something you hear said, or read about in dramatic stories, not something you do. I want to find out about that even less than I want to know about those ‘toys’ she spoke about.

I hold out a hoof and let it fall limply onto her body. Immediately she tenses up all over and almost stops breathing. I don’t think she actually wants to be beaten up, and I’m glad she doesn’t, but she wants something. What?

I lie down behind her back and reach a foreleg and a wing around her.

“What are you doing?” she stammers, surprised.

“Hugging. I think you need a hug.”

She begins to shake violently, and I know she’s crying again. I have no answer to that, so I keep hugging. It takes a long time until she stops.

“You’re being nice,” she says eventually. “You say you won’t forgive me, and you don’t have to, but then why are you being nice?”

That matches an answer I’ve already thought of. “What you did was real, and it’s only luck it didn’t put me in the hospital. I can’t just up and pretend it didn’t happen at all. Perhaps a better pony than me could do it. But that doesn’t mean I have to hate you indiscriminately.” I stumble over that last word, which feels clunky and insincere all of a sudden. Where was I? “I mean, you’re still a pony, a pony who needs a hug. And I’m the only one around to give one.”

“Mmh.” I can’t see her face from here, but it sounds like she’s smiling. “Octavia’s a pony too. Would you hug her?”

“Is she sorry too?”

“Ha! No, Octavia didn’t do anything wrong. In fact it’s all my fault. And you, she says, you’re a lying liar and you had a great time, all the way through.”

“Hmm. No, then I don’t think I’d hug her.”

“The worst of it all is that she’s getting away with it too. I mean, both not stopping me, and whatever she did to you before.”

“Yeah, that’s a shame. If she doesn’t even get to feel bad for it . . .” I want to say something about how Vinyl feeling bad about ‘getting away with it’ sounds like it ought to be punishment enough that she’s not truly getting away with it after all – but I can’t think of a way to phrase it that won’t sound callous. Oh, if only I had a blackboard! And an audience that understood symbolic logic . . .

Suddenly I’m aware I’ve been quietly nuzzling at the back of Vinyl’s neck while I lost myself in thought! I jerk my head away, shocked and disgusted with myself. Damn you, Finey, here’s a mare in emotional distress, a mare who made herself helpless before you – those hoofcuffs are fairly tame compared to what I’ve seen in the Service, but all the same she won’t even be able to walk in them, so if I wanted to take advantage . . . She even cuffed herself left and right rather than fore and back. I could simply roll her onto her back and push her legs apart . . .

Bad thoughts! Of course Finey Jr. takes that as a cue to wake up. I let go of Vinyl and roll over on my side to give it space to come out. It’s a reflex thing; trying to smother a growing erection by lying flat on it is a mistake you only make once. I narrowly avoid hitting her with it.

Vinyl twists her neck around to see where I went. “You’re flagging,” she informs me, redundantly. So much for hoping she’d be together enough to ignore it.

Play it cool now. “Sorry. I don’t really control it.”

“I know.” She lies back down, looking away from me again. “You can fuck me if you want, though. I don’t mind.” Did her voice tremble a bit there? Her fatalist attitude is beginning to annoy me. Her tail is twitching a little, but that could mean anything.

I manage to reach over and stroke her mane comfortingly. “You say you don’t mind, but you don’t really want it, do you?”

She starts shaking again. After a few seconds I realize she’s laughing this time.

“Sorry,” she says, rolling onto her back so she can look at me. “It’s just, a stallion with his wang out, trying to be all gentle and touchy-feely . . . that’s a bit comical, isn’t it?”

“It is?”

“Yeah. It’s like, excuse me, ma’am, just ignore the big built-in dildo with the lifelike squirt function, and let’s pretend it’s all about hugs and rainbows and friendship instead. Nothing personal, you know. I’m sure it works on all the straight mares.”

Right. She is – or was – marefriends with Tavi. I hadn’t stopped to think what that implies. She’s welcome to lean that way, of course – I like mares too; who am I to judge?

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask.

“Nah, it’s alright.” She smiles. “Only, if you wanna take me, you have to be brutal about it. Demanding.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Not for me.” But I guess I can stay for a bit, make sure she’s alright. At least until she wants her hoofcuff keys back.

She leans back lazily. “You’re not very good at getting even, you know that?”

Perhaps not. But I’m pretty sure I like it that way.

* * *

Of course it couldn’t last.

Over the last week I think I’ve spent more nights with Pokey than at home – and then only because I had late shifts at the cafe and couldn’t very well come knocking after closing time, in the darkest night. That would have felt like I was moving in, like it was a relationship, which it wasn’t. I don’t do relationships. He was with Cressie anyway, and they were cute together and I didn’t want to break them up.

He was still a magnificent lay, though.

I didn’t let him tie me up again right away. Not that it hadn’t been interesting, but I don’t want to become one of those ponies who can only get off that way. So we were back to the old-fashioned way – ‘vanilla’, they call it – and Pokey didn’t push at all, but stayed just as civil and thoughtful as before, and we made excellent vanilla love, and I didn’t even mind when Cressie invited herself into it halfway through. Then we did another round with her in the middle, since I thought she did deserve thanks for loaning out her stallion, and then one for Pokey, and it all felt delightfully naughty, cheating and not-cheating at the same time.

On Sunday he took me down to Underfall Park (or he took us, or they took me, or perhaps we took Cressie – anyway, we all went) where I hadn’t been since forever. I don’t know why; it’s a beautiful place. We went to see the mistbows and had a picnic, and I caught myself thinking this must be what a family feels like if everypony isn’t at each other’s throats all the time.

When we came home I helped bathe Cressie. I know earth ponies need to help each other scrub (which, to be frank, makes me thankful to have a horn), but somehow I doubt it usually involves quite as much splashing and whining and desperate escape attempts. I came this close to shouting banana pie and yell at her to pony up just long enough to get it over with. But that wasn’t for me to decide.

After we all got dried up, Pokey did me up with harness and stocks and gag and blindfold and a bandage pinning my ears down to my skull, and spanked me with the paddle for about an hour (or so it felt) before fucking me well and hard. Then he left me to contemplate my fate while he did something to Cressie that made her come loudly, and came back to me for more spanking with a different instrument and another fuck. I went to sleep still wearing the blindfold and harness – he loosened most of the straps first – with my ass on the fire and the rest of me glowing. Just once in a while won’t do harm, right?

Today, however, Pokey appeared to be nervous and sad when I arrived in late afternoon, and he barely said a word during dinner. Afterwards he made Cressie stay in the bedroom, and he came back and sat down in the couch in the far end away from me. He sighed.

“Bellchaser,” he said. “I’m not sure you ought to keep coming here.”

The next thing I remember is standing in the middle of the floor and something I had shouted echoing through the room. Pokey still sat there in the couch the same as before; it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

“You see,” he was saying, “it’s – I mean, you know Cressie means a lot to me, right?”

I nodded, numbly.

“She’s the most important pony in the world for me, and she’s always gonna be that, no matter what we play at otherwise. She’s given so much – put so much trust in me . . . So I think it’s not fair to you to let you keep hoping for something more.”

I struggled to follow along. “Who says I’m hoping for more?”

He looked at me. “Go ahead and say you’re not.”

I was about to protest that I never wanted to be anything but fuckbuddies. But then I remembered that ‘family’ feeling. That was more, wasn’t it?

“I thought so,” he said. “And I’m sorry for, well, stringing you along this far. It just happened. And you’re still a very – I mean . . .” He caught himself and chuckled sadly. “I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s not you, it’s me.”

Liar. Of course it was me. He was choosing between me and Cressie, and he chose her. It’s what he should choose, what I would have insisted on if he gave me a say. But it still hurt.

See, that’s why I don’t do relationships. Getting dumped sucks.

“Okay.” I composed myself, fought to remain mature about it. “It’s not fun unless it’s fun for both of us.” That’s the first law of fuckbuddying. (Don’t take it personally is the second. I’ll get on with that tomorrow.)

“Yes, exactly!” Pokey suddenly brightened up. “Where did you – well, none of my business.” He deflated again.

I felt like I should be screaming and shouting and throwing things. But down that path is where you become Mrs. Crust. I still haven’t figured out what else there is to do, though, so I just stood there.

Eventually I had to say something. “I guess I should be going now.”

He looked away and nodded.

Before I left, I found Cressie dozing in her basket in the bedroom. I reached out with a hoof and ruffled her mane like I’ve seen Pokey do.

“So, this is goodbye, I think.”

She jerked awake and stared at me, possibly not believing she heard correctly.

“Your master doesn’t want me around anymore.”

Her ears folded down, and she gave a pitiful little whine and started licking the hoof I’d been petting her with.

Oh, of course she wouldn’t break character for something as trivial as me being kicked out! No, wait, that wasn’t fair. I knew her well enough to know she doesn’t break character, period. It’s probably easier that way too, not needing to think up something to say on the spot.

I wanted to say something more, but what? Take good care of him for me? No, that would be an insult; she’s already doing that for herself. Was, even before I came.

Then I heard myself say, “I hope you’re happy.”

She shied away as if I’d hit her, and shrunk down into the basket, looking at me with big hurt eyes.

Did I really say that? “Wait, no!” I backpedaled. “That’s not what – I mean, I didn’t . . .” I couldn’t even think of a reason I’d have said that. How does one explain oneself then?

I turned and fled, down the stairs, out, home.

I had forgotten how empty my apartment feels. Perhaps it only began doing that recently? What am I going to do with myself here?

There’s a stack of papers on the writing desk, staring at me. I don’t even remember what I was doing the last time I worked on them. Finding places where I can foreshadow Rose Petal’s betrayal? I’ll have to revise that. Betrayal is not something you see coming.

I sit at the table, trying to figure out what I did wrong. It had been so close to perfect, hadn’t it?

Horseapples. Horseapples. Horseapples.

12. Royal Favor

The pony at the door is not happy to see me.

“You’re early,” he says sourly after I introduce myself and show my invitation. It’s about seven minutes to the hour.

I try my best disarming smile. “Better than being late, right?”

“On time would be better yet,” he grumbles. Then, with a sigh like all the trouble in the world rests on his back, he opens a side door for me. “You can wait in here,” he allows.

The room behind it is a smallish, oppressive space, with windows that don’t seem to let in a lot of light and a few low stools along one wall. Apparently not all parts of Canterlot Castle are equally glorious. Perhaps it’s to get ponies in the right mood for a visit to the Royal Dungeons.

I sit down in the dimness and wait.

There was a fancy certificate waiting for me in the mail when I came home from my meeting with Vinyl. It stated that, whereas Mr. Affine Scheme of Canterlot City – that’s me – was owed 1 (one) Royal Favor from the Princess Luna, the palace guard was hereby graciously instructed to arrange for me an audience bypassing the usual waiting list, at such time as I would be ready to specify the nature of my desired favor.

I mulled over that for a day or so, and concluded that there is only one time where I have really wanted royal help with something – not counting the time when I spent a week banging my head against a wall with a ‘warm-up’ homework exercise where it turned out the professor had forgotten to specify that the antimorphism group was solvable. But I doubt the princesses could really have helped with that. This one, though . . .

The guards at the castle entrance directed me to a majordomo’s office in a side building. There a clerk took my certificate into a back room for some time, and then I was being escorted through a maze of stairs and corridors by a guardspony in full ceremonial armor (I think). We stopped at a set of double doors, guarded by an uniformed courtier who disappeared behind them with a file my escort gave her. A short while later she came back and told me to follow her inside.

I thought I was being taken to an audience-scheduling office of some sort, but we came through an antechamber – and there was the princess, my princess, wearing fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe, eating hay out of a bowl!

I dropped to my knees. “Your Highness!”

“Affine Scheme,” she replied. “I remember you. Rise, my little pony.”

I stood up again, sneaking a glimpse of the room while I tried neither to look rudely away from the princess nor to stare at her informal attire. It seemed to be less pompous than I had expected a royal audience chamber to be. Oh, it was grand alright – deep carpet, chandeliers, doubtlessly invaluable paintings on the walls. Perhaps it was the way the furniture was arranged, chairs clustered around a low table, that gave it a cozy, homey feel nonetheless. There was a desk in one corner with several neat little piles of papers and books on it, and a dresser in the other with one of the drawers pulled halfway out.

“I did not expect you here quite so soon,” said the princess.

“Oh.” That much was obvious. “I can come back at a more convenient time if you want, Your Highness.”

“It’s alright.” She waited until the courtier who led me in had left. “There’s only so many categories I can sort my visitors into before it begins to confuse the staff, and you have already seen me at my worst anyway, so right to the top you go. I hope breakfast doesn’t offend you?”

It was past three in the afternoon, but I supposed that would count as breakfast for a Princess of the Night. I suddenly found I liked her. “No, Your Highness.”

“Good. So what can I do for you?”

It all happened so quickly that I hadn’t yet prepared how I would explain the plan. “Well . . . I have this friend –”

“Why don’t we pretend this friend is yourself, just for convenience?”

I grimaced, feeling like I’d failed an oral exam in a single sentence. “Can’t really do that. This friend – she kind of raped me.”

The princess’s eyebrows shot up. “Then how are you still friends?”

“We – I mean, we weren’t.” No time to be clever, just spit it all out. “But she’s really sorry for it, and it’s eating her up that she’s ‘getting away with it’, as she says. And she wants to turn herself in to the Guards, but I can’t let her do that because she would be horribly punished and she doesn’t deserve that, no matter what she thinks. So I thought perhaps you could pull some strings so they’ll take her case, but perhaps I won’t have to testify, so they have to let her off with something mild? And she could still get peace that way?”

I gasped for breath, amazed that I’d managed to say all that without imploding. Even now it all sounded ridiculous to me, spoken out loud like that. And it occurred to me that perhaps I was dooming Vinyl anyway because the princess could have me investigated and find out who my ‘friend’ was even without promising me to pull the strings in the right direction.

The princess sat with a thoughtful frown for some time.

“What I think,” she said eventually, “is that you ought to sit down and tell me all that once more, from the beginning.”

“Affine Scheme!” shouts a different guard, poking his head into the waiting room.

I’m the only pony in the room. “That’s me.” I stand up.

“Follow me.”

He leads me through another maze of corridors – for all I know, we may be retracing my steps on the way to the princess last week exactly, only three levels lower. The royal lustre is definitely thinner down here.

“So you’re here for one of them pretrial mediation things?” asks the guard while holding open a barred door for me.

“Yeah,” I nod.

He lets the door close behind us with a loud clang. “Yeah,” he echoes. “Usually one of us would stay in the room and make sure you and the perp don’t gouge each other’s eyes out, but, y’know, what with the budget cuts and that bug that’s going ’round, we can’t actually spare anypony for that right now. Don’t worry, though – we made sure you’ll be quite safe.”

I’m not sure where this is going, so I just nod and grunt.

He stops at a closed door off the corridor, rifles through his keys. “Now you’ve got one hour, sharp. If you’re done before then, pull the bell by the door.” He opens the door and nods at me. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret later, alright?”

I nod again in confusion and walk in. The door slams shut behind me.

It’s a bare room, with just a few chairs in the corner and a barred window overlooking a courtyard. In the middle of the floor stands Vinyl, wearing a bright orange bridle and a suppressor ring of the same kind I remember the princess wearing.

“Hi,” I say, awkwardly. After going through all this to visit her I’m not actually sure how to start.

“Hi.” She smiles weakly. “So you finally changed your mind and reported me?”

“Yeah, that . . . sorry for not telling you first. It all happened very fast.”

“It’s not really important,” she says quietly. I suppose it isn’t.

It occurs to me that she hasn’t moved since I came in. “Um, is something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Just feeling a little pinned down is all.”

She looks down towards her hooves, and I see that she’s wearing orange prison horseshoes too, with protruding eyes that are bolted to the floor of the interview room with big wingnut bolts. She literally can’t move a hoof.

“Oh, I’ll take care of that.” After all, I’m a professional at getting ponies free from all kinds of bondage. I reach down towards one of her forehooves to screw it loose.

“No – please don’t,” she pleads. “It’ll only get me into trouble with the guards.”

I stand back up. “Is it very bad in here?”

She shakes her head carefully. “It’s good I don’t have to worry about ending up here anymore. Now it just happens, whatever’s gonna happen. But they are very good at creating hopelessness. Just little things, things you can’t prove or even complain about, to remind you your life is not your own anymore.”

I get a terrible thought. “Did they – I mean, have you been . . .”

“Not yet. But I hear a lot of whispers that I shouldn’t expect any sleep the night before my court date. And there’s this, of course.” She makes a head movement that seems to encompass me and the room in general.

“This?”

“Yeah. They found out I confessed to rape, so I think the general idea of all this is that you might want to return the favor.”

That makes a sickening kind of sense, at least if you assume the guards are monsters. Or out-of-control pranksters who don’t know when to stop riding a vulnerable mare. “Why, I would never!”

Another small smile. “I could have told them, but I don’t think they would listen.”

For several minutes neither of us speak. I rack my brain to find something to say. I remember it seemed so urgent to get to see her, but what for? To be sure she’s alright? Let’s call that a very qualified success.

Eventually she breaks the silence. “Have you talked to Octavia? She’s here somewhere too, I think.”

I shrug. “I put in a request for both of you, just in case. But she refused to meet with me.”

“Figures.”

“You two were close?”

She sighs. “Close is not the word. Finey, I really thought she was the one. We’d settle down and grow old together . . . perhaps foals too. She could have gotten some stallions at stud easily, and they could be uncles or something if they wanted to stick around. But that’s all just silly.”

“There’s nothing wrong with dreaming,” I say, the first platitude that comes to mind.

“But suddenly I don’t even know her anymore, and she’s all . . . just fake and callous. And I wonder, did the mare I loved ever exist? Or is she still in there and if I just sat down and really talked she could be herself again? But I’ve tried that.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, and look away in case she starts crying – I don’t think I have it in me to console her for the loss of Tavi. There is another awkward pause.

“So,” she says, suddenly brightening up. “You gonna make the guards have made all those preparations for nothing?” She wiggles her butt and smiles invitingly.

I stare at her. “You want me to – to –?” I can’t believe it. And yet I can. “It’s still about getting even, isn’t it? Even after –”

She sinks back down a bit. “Not really. You got me arrested and all, that has to count. But, well, you know how I’m made up, right? This get-up is pretty hot if you ask me –” she wiggles her behind again.

So that’s what I’ve been smelling. No wonder Finey Jr. is already enthusiastically agreeing with the proposition. One of these days I’ll have to sit down and have a good long talk with my libido about what’s okay and what’s not.

“– especially if it’s a pony I like and trust who’d do the honors,” she concludes.

Wait, what? “You like and trust . . . me?”

She shrugs. “What’s not to like? I’m the one that’s the bad guy here.”

Okay, time to put this to rest. “I’m flattered. And if you still feel that way after you get out, let’s talk and see if we can come up with something.” If I had met Vinyl Scratch in happier circumstances, I’m pretty sure she would be solidly not-my-type. But who wouldn’t be moved by this kind of trust and need? Not while she’s bolted down to a prison floor, though. Nope nope nope.

“Get out?” She laughs bitterly. “Haven’t you heard I’m gonna be exiled? The lawyer they got me thinks I might get it down to a couple of years if you testify for me. Would you do that?”

“Of course.” I walk up to her immobile form and hug her. “Don’t worry – I’ll get you out of here.”

“After you got me into here? How?”

“I cut a deal with – Actually I can’t tell you.” I’ve suddenly remembered it’s a secret how I first met the princess and earned my royal favor. I don’t even know if I can tell anypony I had one. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Of course I trust you.” She pecks at my neck lightly. “But seriously, not even a quick hoofie? Damn it, I can’t reach back there like this.”

“Tough luck. You know, abstinence strengthens your moral fiber.”

“Jerk.”

* * *

Elsewhere in the castle complex, Octavia is waiting for a visitor of her own in a similar interview room. This one has a table and chairs. Octavia is sitting in one of the chairs, watching the sky boredly through the window while she waits. It makes her quite pleased with herself that boredom is her most immediate problem, given the circumstances.

Octavia has known since she was a filly that she can do anything she decides to do and works hard at. Surviving prison is just one of those things. Before she had been here two days, she’d gotten herself set up as the waifu of the biggest and meanest of the guards. That’s how you get the rules bent for you instead of the other way around. The little whore who was with her guard before is not having a wonderful time right now, but Octavia has no intention of sharing that fate. She’s going to be out and acquitted before he gets tired of her and starts looking for fresher meat.

She wonders idly how Vinyl is doing. Her guard has confirmed that she’s here too, but she doesn’t have the kind of assets or connections that make Octavia’s stay bearable. Vinyl always could take an inordinate amount of punishment, though – but if there’s any place that can break her, this will be it. Octavia almost feels sorry for her.

She knows she made a monumental mistake with Vinyl, and she’s still paying the price for that. There’s nothing she can do about it now, just collect the pieces as well as she can, and then make sure never to give another pony the opportunity to harm her like Vinyl did. What was she thinking anyway, expecting love from a pony like that?

The door opens briefly to let Octavia’s guest in. Curat de Minimis is not the best lawyer she knows, but all of her more high-powered friends turned out to be curiously ignorant of criminal law when she called them after being arrested, and stubbornly unwilling to read up on it. She’ll have to do something about that later, but first things first. Fortunately, her case ought to be a fairly open-and-shut one that even a B-lister like Curat can handle.

Curat slams his briefcase briskly down on the table. “Octavia, did you ever do anything to make Princess Luna angry at you?” he asks while pulling out a stack of notes.

“Princess Luna? Not that I remember. I’ve met her at a few court functions I was playing at, of course, perhaps exchanged a few words. Why is that?”

The lawyer sits down with a frown. “She’s taken over your case.”

“Taken over? What does that mean?”

“It means she’ll be the judge. There’s still a magistrate doing motions, but once the trial starts, it’s all going to be the princess.”

“She can do that?”

“It seems so. Court proceedings have always been ‘in the names of the princesses’, meaning that judges are just standing in for the princesses and their job is to judge like they would if they had time to be there. Apparently Princess Luna decided to take that literally. There are some open-air fairs where the Princess is traditionally present to settle disputes in person, but nopony can remember when it last happened for a real case.”

“But why my case?” Wheels are starting to turn in Octavia’s head, searching for a way to turn this to her advantage.

Curat shrugs elaborately. “We hoped you could tell me that. For all anypony knows, she just wants to try her hoof at judging and picked a case at random. I’ve got one of the senior partners on it, working on a brief to argue you should at least still have a jury.”

“Why would I want a jury?”

“Well, the argument is that juries were originally –” but Octavia doesn’t really listen. She’s been worrying about the jury, unsophisticated common ponies that the prosecutor might manipulate into a false conviction. Of course Octavia would have been able to manipulate them right back, but apparently it’s only the lawyers who’re allowed to talk for most of the trial. If there’s no jury, that whole risk disappears. She wonders if she has made a particularly favorable impression on the princess somehow.

“Stop,” she says, interrupting the lecture. “Tell your guy to cut it out. I don’t want a jury if I can get out of it. No, wait, even better, send in a protest but make it bad. Weak arguments, backwards logic, the works – I’m sure you can manage that. Then when we lose that, she’ll feel obliged to give in to us about something else. Oh, and for pony’s sake don’t make it sound like we don’t trust the princess.”

Curat sighs. “Octavia, that’s not really how it works. I wish you would leave the trial strategy to me.”

“I’m sure you do, but it’s my pelt on the line, so we’ll do this right, okay?”

“Very well.” He rubs his temples. “May I put down that you want a perfunctory jury demand to be filed?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it? What else?”

He shuffles his papers. “I tried to get a copy of the Rescue Service’s employee handbook as you instructed, but they refused to give me one. Then I went to the magistrate to ask for a subpoena, and she dismissed that out of hoof without even hearing the prosecution first. She says it is irrelevant to the case.”

“The hay it is. Can you appeal that?”

“I can, but I have to warn you that taking an interlocutory appeal at this point is going to postpone your trial even further –”

“That can’t be helped. Do it. That handbook is critical to our defense. It’s what explains why what’s-his-name lied to his boss and said he never wanted the sex after all.”

Curat rolls his eyes. “Very well. Now, about your character witnesses . . .”

All in all it’s a productive meeting. After the lawyer leaves, Sergeant Trombone shows up to escort her back to her cell. He’s the guard she has thrown her lot in with, and it’s not really a secret they’re together; ponies know not to mess with her. But he still prefers to keep appearances up, so it’s slow going, taking microsteps all the way because her hind hooves are shackled closely together and he’s leading her by a shank threaded into her prison bridle.

Finally they’re home – ‘home’ being a short corridor of just four cells of which Octavia is currently the only occupant. Officially she’s in solitary, something he arranged so they could have more privacy. It suits her fine, even if it does come with shackles whenever she’s out of the cell; that way she won’t have to mingle with the criminal rabble in the general population. And it’s only for a few weeks anyway.

As soon as they’re inside the ‘front door’ to her home corridor, he eases up on her lead and drops some of his stern facade. “So how was your meeting?” he asks conversationally.

“Oh Rusty, it’s dreadful. They’re postponing my case again. Just as I thought I could see the end. I’m never going to get out of here at this rate.”

“Hmm, it’s not that bad,” he mumbles while unlocking the door to her cell. “I’ve seen many ponies get it worse. It’ll all work out, you’ll see.”

She microsteps into the cell. “Oh Rusty, I know you’re terribly busy, but I really need some snuggles right now. Do you think you could possibly . . .”

“I guess there’s always time for a surprise search for contraband,” he grunts. “You’re a high-risk prisoner, you know.” There is in fact plenty of contraband in her cell, including not only a make-up set and a proper set of mane brushes, but also a tea kettle and a record player with headphones – but since Rusty was the one to smuggle most of it in, he’s not going to find it. The cello, alas, would be too big to smuggle, but she doesn’t want to risk leaving it behind if they release her on short notice, anyway. She can do without practice until she gets out.

She sits down on the bed. “Come here, stallion – no, wait, take that cuirass off first. I can’t snuggle a tin can.”

He dumps half his armor on her desk and lies down on the bed, wrapping his forelegs around her. She buries her head in his chest.

“Oh Rusty, you know I’m innocent, don’t you?” She shifts around slightly so she can start subtly rubbing her belly against his sheath.

“Of course I do,” he says, nibbling a little too hard on her ear. “You told me you were framed.”

“Mmm. The one good thing about it is I wouldn’t have met you otherwise. Oh Rusty, what would I do without you?” She has carefully allowed him to think they’ll still be a couple after she’s released – though she hasn’t said it in so many words, because blatant lies tend to make ponies suspicious.

He grunts noncommittally and she hums contentedly into his chest until she feels the grinding have the expected effect. When it’s big enough she breaks away from him, pretending to suddenly notice his cock.

“Oooh,” she says, enthralled, “do you really think you have time for that too?” She bows down and kisses the cock from the front, running her tongue briefly around the tip, which gets him all the way to full mast.

“Might as well,” he growls. He rolls down from the bed to the floor, and in a quick movement he has grabbed a set of hoofcuffs from his kit on the table and cuffed her forehooves to the headboard. Somehow he’s figured out she’s into cuffs – which is not a lie, though she prefers being on the other end of them.

Never mind, what she has to do now is play along. “Oh Rusty, you naughty colt,” she drawls. “You done trapped me. What all shall I do?”

“You shall shut up, unless you want to wait while I fetch a muzzle.”

“Yes, sir,” she giggles, “shutting up now, sir.”

He sweeps her hind legs off the bed so she’s lying diagonally across its front end with the hind legs on the floor. It would be a better position if she could lift the near hind up on the bed, but he hasn’t removed the shackles yet, so this will have to do. He grabs her tail and pins it in between her flank and the bed.

“Eanie meanie miney mo – where shall Rusty’s pecker go? Oh! The top one!”

Darn.

Fortunately Rusty is not such a barbarian that he’s never heard of lube, so he gets out her illicit beauty kit and smears a generous amount of crème-selle across her asshole before he mounts her, panting and grunting. She clenches her teeth and does her best to relax her sphincter, remembering to whisper, “yes . . . yes . . . yes” each time he pushes further into her. Then he stops grunting and there’s that warm feeling that tells her he’s ejaculating, and she finishes off the performance with an “oh Rusty!”

He climbs back down and takes his time putting his uniform back on, not really acknowledging Octavia. Then, just as he’s about to leave, he turns around towards her. “You know what? I think you’ve deserved a bonus round, on the lower floor too.”

“Oh, Rusty!”

He’s not normally a bad fucker, and as often as not she can actually enjoy sex with him. This time, however, she’s rather put off by knowing where his cock has just been – but of course the show must go on, and she manages to fake a somewhat decent orgasm at the end.

After he finishes he really does have to leave. He bows down to kiss her forehead. “Alright, sweetie, duty calls. I’ll be back with more later, okay?” And then he’s gone, locking the door behind him.

Octavia is left lying on the bed, still hoofcuffed to the headboard. She can’t even get up to get herself some music to distract her from the crawling feeling in her snatch. Instead she passes the time by imagining what would happen to Rusty if, by some cosmic fluke, she suddenly found herself empress of the world. It’s a bit of a foalish conceit, but sometimes you’ve got to do what you have to in order to stay sane.

And Octavia can do whatever she puts her mind to.

* * *

Suri Polomare hangs by her forelegs from the ceiling of the dungeon under Carousel Boutique, just high enough that she can push off from the floor and get some relief for her forehooves, at the cost of bending her hips backward at an insane angle. She is blindfolded with her own expensive neckerchief, and her tail is wound up in a knot, to prevent her from using it to shield herself.

Rarity is pacing around her, levitating a long flexible switch. Every so often she’ll bring it down on Suri with a WHACK that echoes through the dungeon. She’s trying for an aesthetically pleasing pattern of marks, subtly evoking the cut of the designs Suri stole from her.

Suri is not fighting back, just weeping quietly and whimpering under her breath when Rarity finds a particularly sensitive place to hit. The bitch knows she brought this on herself. And there’s the unspoken promise that if she behaves, Rarity will eventually let up for a time. Good girls get painkillers.

Whenever she lets a bit longer than usual pass between strokes, Rarity can taste Suri’s hope that it will be over for now. That’s a funny thing, tasting emotions. She makes a mental note to figure out later what’s up with that.

She rounds a corner and discovers that, inexplicably, one of Suri’s hind legs is not covered with welts. That doesn’t look right.

“You forgot one,” says a helpful voice behind her.

She spins around and sees that a tall alicorn, blue as the night, has entered the dungeon.

“Princess! I – I, I can explain!”

“Can you now?” says Luna with a smile.

“Of course. It’s – I – she – we, we’re just sharing a kinky but completely voluntary and consensual bit of funful pain. And sex. Weren’t we, darling Suri?” Somehow she materializes a vibrator out of thin air and jams it in between Suri’s hind legs. “Brzzzz!” she hums.

Luna chuckles. “Relax, Rarity. We’re not engaged; you’re allowed to dream about punishing ponies who’re not me.”

“This is a dream?” Rarity looks around. In hindsight, the fact that her dungeon suddenly has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking famous Equestrian landmarks probably ought to have been a giveaway. “Oh thank goodness, then I’m not a monster yet.”

“Of course you’re not. Why would you be a monster?”

Rarity shrugs helplessly and points towards Suri, now sitting in a small gem-studded cage that is suspended from the ceiling by a chain of knotted ribbons.

“There are monsters out there, Rarity,” says Luna with a bit of a hard edge to her voice, “but you’re not one of them. For one thing, real monsters don’t have nightmares about the thing that makes them monsters.”

“Nightmares? But this couldn’t possibly be a – I mean, I was –”

“You enjoyed hurting her, didn’t you?”

Rarity swallows a lump and then nods, hanging her head in shame.

“That’s what makes it a nightmare, Rarity. A nightmare is where you meet your innermost fears.”

She looks up at the princess. “Are you saying that I’m . . . afraid of enjoying to hurt ponies?”

“Which decent pony wouldn’t be? You have been telling yourself for years that you like it only because the pony you hurt finds pleasure in it. I fear it is my fault that you have discovered it is not so.”

“Princess, I – you may be right about that, but it’s still me who is –”

“You’re not a monster, Rarity. But it is unhealthy for you to keep being afraid of what you are. Just because you like a certain thing, you’re not going to start snatching ponies off the street because you think they deserve punishment, are you?”

Rarity shakes her head uncertainly.

“For example, how did she come here?” Luna points at Suri, who lies hogtied and gagged on the floor, staring fearfully up at the two of them.

“I don’t remember,” says Rarity, frowning. “I just . . .”

“It is so far from your mind that you don’t even need to fear it. You’re a good pony, Rarity, a pony with unusual and sometimes impossible tastes, but you can afford to be honest with yourself about them.”

“Yes, Princess,” she says meekly. “I’m afraid it’s easier said than done, though.”

“It always is,” Luna agrees. “When you wake up, see if you can find the time to come visit me in Canterlot. I may be able to help you with that.”

Rarity nods, beginning to feel dizzy.

“By the way,” says Luna, and the dungeon suddenly solidifies again, “I’m surprised it wasn’t my obnoxious nephew here. My sister tells me some stories.”

It is now Prince Blueblood who is hogtied on the floor. “What is this outrage –” he sputters, before Luna’s horn glows and his voice disappears behind a muzzle.

“Oh, him?” Rarity says. “He’s just an oaf. Not worth wasting a good whip on.”

“See?” says Luna. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

With an audible pop she winks out of existence, followed by Blueblood and the dungeon at large, and Rarity wakes up.

13. Clemency

They took Octavia up to the courtroom more than an hour before it was supposed to start, ruining her plans to make herself a bit presentable first. She caught herself trying to remember the names of the guards who came for her so she could complain about them to Rusty – but today was the day of her acquittal; she wouldn’t have to deal with Rusty again.

It felt strange to be leaving the cell for the last time. Who’d have thought staying in a prison cell for barely a moon could make it feel so yours? She was leaving her carefully smuggled amenities behind, but they would be easily replaceable after she was released.

The courtroom was not the one it had been the previous days, but a large hall where she had once played at a court event. She had a sudden memory of counting bars in the allegretto movement of Maneyef’s seventh, looking down at the interlocking pattern of polished stone tiles in the floor.

A young earth mare came walking across that floor, cream with a purple mane, wearing courtier lapels. She gave a sealed scroll to the senior of Octavia’s guards. He read it in silence.

“Very well,” the guard said, rolling up the scroll again and sticking it in behind his cuirass. “As the princess commands.”

The mare who had brought the scroll was making little glances towards Octavia. “Can I talk to her?” she asked the guard.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She turned to Octavia, blushing slightly. “Sorry, but are you really the Octavia Melody? The cello player?”

Octavia usually tried not to be too gruff towards talkative ponies from the audience; you never knew if one of them would turn out to be useful. Standing here in chains and prison tack didn’t exactly put her in the mood for small talk, though. But something about this mare caught her interest – her bearing, the way she moved, the way she kept her head when she spoke. Octavia couldn’t help imagining her gagged and strapped to a rack, begging silently for release.

She manifested a warmish smile. “Indeed I am.”

“Lavender Crescent.” The mare shook the hoof Octavia held out, and smiled shyly, very cute. “My coltfriend’s a big fan of yours.”

Well, poop. “Won’t he be overjoyed to hear you’ve met me in these circumstances?”

“He –” she looked uncertain “– I’m not allowed to tell anypony about this anyway.”

“Of course. Can’t have ponies actually knowing how this all plays out.” The trial so far had been held in secret; Octavia wouldn’t put it past the princess to try to hush it up completely.

The mare blinked in confusion. “Um, don’t you know it’s an open session? It has to be when there’s a final judgment being announced. It’s just that I’m on duty; I can’t tell anything then.”

“Wonderful. So everypony can come and gawk.”

“Now that’s not fair,” said the mare, eyes flashing with youthful indignation. “You can’t both be angry when you think it’s a secret and then be angry again because it’s public. It has to be one or the other.”

Octavia knew she was being slightly unreasonable. It was the waiting, of course – she always was in a foul mood after a contest performance, while the judges got ready to announce a score, even when she knew she’d played perfectly. “Have you considered,” she said, “that perhaps I didn’t want to be here at all?”

“Um, if you put it that way . . . Sorry.” The mare shrank down a bit, and shuffled her forelegs before looking up at Octavia again. “Can I ask you what you did?”

Octavia sighed. “I loved somepony,” she said. “And I gave her what she said she wanted. This is the thanks I get.” She had seen Vinyl during the trial; she had been so composed and uninterested in putting up a defense that Octavia was sure she had sold her out somehow.

“Um, that’s not illegal, is it?”

“You wouldn’t think so, would you? But you’ll have to ask Her Highness about that.”

The mare seemed to have trouble finding a response to that. “Well, I have to get back to work,” she said at last. “Sorry about your friend. And good luck!”

“Thank you,” said Octavia – but the mare was already scampering away, out a side door.

* * *

There’s a clock striking four somewhere. “Is it time now?” I ask.

“Not yet, Your Highness!” With a nervous frown, Proper Writ interjects himself between me and the doors. “We’re still waiting for one of the defendants to be brought up.”

I roll my eyes just a little, still undecided whether to be offended or flattered that he seems to have appointed himself my handler. Shouldn’t the State Chancellor for the Interior have more important things to do?

“Think of how it would look if you went in there and you had to start by sitting around for ten minutes before you could begin. A princess doesn’t wait meekly for her subjects to show up; it has to be the other way around.”

“And yet here I am.” In a rather cramped back chamber to the Lesser Diet Hall. Waiting meekly.

Proper Writ grimaces in exasperation. “Yes, but you can’t be seen to be waiting. It’s a matter of appearances, Your Highness. Please.”

He’s right, I know. I only wish I had a bit more say in what those appearances would be – I am the princess after all. But evidently jurisprudence is serious business. I’m beginning to understand why Tia keeps away from it.

I thought I could simply sit down with each of the witnesses and get their version of what happened. By the time Proper Writ was through with that, however, there was me and the witness and a stenographer and a lawyer from the provost’s office and the two accused and their defenders, not to mention a squad of guards to keep us all in line. They were all pretty good about pretending I was in charge, but still.

At least it’s blatantly clear that the accused did what the prosecutor says they did. They didn’t even claim otherwise themselves. But that’s only half of the problem, because I also have to decide which punishment they get. Proper Writ insisted that I at least discuss the sentences in private with the chief justice, Obiter Dictum, and I suppose that was helpful, but it was an awkward meeting all the same. Each of us thought the other’s idea of how an unrepentant rapist ought to be punished was appallingly brutal and barbaric.

If only there had been some doubt about guilt left, I could simply refuse to measure out the terrible fate Dictum wanted me to. But as it is, I have to take him seriously. Perhaps I really am out of touch, and even the accused would prefer his kind of punishment? Can ponies change that much in a thousand years? I’ve changed my mind at least five times already, and I still have time to do so again, right up until I actually announce it. Poor Proper Writ has no idea of the power he wields right now: just letting me go in at this time rather than that could make the difference for what I’m thinking when the time to make it irrevocable comes.

I use the waiting time to go over my lines once more. The ponies in the Protocol Office had a field day figuring out the correct phrasings for a princess to run a court case in person – I remember nothing of that kind from back before, and to be honest I think they pilfered half of it from Ivanhock. But it does sound good, and I’ll get to use the royal Canterlot voice, so I’m not complaining.

Eventually a guard comes in from the corridor behind us and nods to Proper Writ. He steps aside from the door and bows slightly. “Now, Your Highness.”

A wave of motion passes through the hall as a roomful of ponies notice me coming in and drop to their foreknees. I make my way to the throne in the middle of the dais (somepony has covered up the sun sigil on it with a crescent-on-black – touching!) and sit down. A roomful of ponies stand back up.

Most of these ponies don’t care about the case at all, but are only here to marvel at the sight of a princess playing judge. That ought to be familiar, just another smiling-and-waving expedition. But for Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Melody, waiting out there to the side flanked by guards, this is deadly serious. It’s my fault they couldn’t have their sentence in a small, ignored hearing at the prefecture. I have a sudden urge to chase out all of the gossip-hungry spectators, and only overcome it because Proper Writ would kill me for it and then resign in protest, at which point Tia would kill me too.

It’s too late now to make that right, though. The show has to go on, and the show must start before it can go on. I draw a deep breath.

“HEAR YE, HEAR YE! IN OUR NAME AND THOSE OF OUR ROYAL SISTER CELESTIA AND OUR FRIEND AND EQUAL TWILIGHT SPARKLE, COURT IS NOW IN SESSION. THERE WILL BE ORDER IN THIS ROOM.”

I hope Cadance doesn’t mind too terribly being left out. Proper Writ nearly had a fit when I suggested she’d been forgotten – it would be unthinkable, he said, for a domestic prosecution to be concluded, even only in name, by a ‘foreign sovereign’, however close our countries are.

A herald steps out in front of the dais. “Case 1006-538, Guard Provost of Canterlot against Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Melody. Her Highness Princess Luna, sitting in judgment of the accused, has heard evidence against them in private. She has determined it to be in the interest of justice and propriety that this evidence remain sealed to the public. Having considered the evidence, Her Highness will now pronounce judgment on the accused.”

“IT IS SO,” I confirm, following my script. “Bring forth the accused!”

* * *

Old Fizzy had to stay home and mind the shop, so instead I went with Finey for moral support the day the result of his case would be announced. He put up quite a good mask, but I knew him well enough to see how nervous he really was, almost as if he were the one on trial. It made sense, of course; if the defendants went free, it would be the same as the princess declaring he was a liar.

The princess herself, even. Well, not Princess Celestia, but Luna, the lost-and-rediscovered younger sister. A princess, at least. I don’t think it’s common for court cases like this to be judged by an actual princess; even the hammiest courtroom dramas just have a cranky old judge. When I asked Finey if he knew what was up with that, he looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

It was supposed to begin at four o’clock, but it was ten minutes past before the princess showed up. It must be nice to be royal and be able to treat schedules like that. Once she did show up, she almost flattened the room with her volume; she must be used to shouting down rowdier crowds than this.

On a command from the princess, the guards marched the two defendants out in front of everypony. I remembered them from when I’d been called in to testify earlier in the week, O. Melody standing tall and proud, and a blue-maned co-defendant who looked like she had given up already.

When the excitement in the audience at seeing the defendants had died down, the princess spoke up again, mercifully at a lower volume.

“Vinyl Scratch! You are guilty of recklessly endangering a pony, of simple assault, and of violating a pony’s modesty. Your punishment shall be the imprisonment you have already endured during and prior to this trial, plus 120 hours of community service. SO STANDS OUR ROYAL JUDGMENT.”

Straight to the point, I’ll give her that. There was a murmur going through the room, and I looked at Finey beside me to see if he needed comforting at the disappointing outcome – time served and community service sounded very light to me. But he was grinning ear to ear with obvious relief. At least she’d been convicted of something.

The princess was not done yet. “Octavia Melody! You are guilty of rape, of unlawful threats, of false imprisonment, of violating a pony’s modesty, of inducing a violent crime, of failing to come to the aid of a pony in obvious need, and of signing a false declaration on trust and honor. As punishment” – the princess made a dramatic pause, waiting for the room to grow completely quiet – “you shall be exiled to Windhowl Key for eight years, two of which you shall be imprisoned in the royal keep on that island. SO STANDS OUR ROYAL JUDGMENT.”

“That’s more like it,” I whispered to Finey. I’m not sure he heard it; it was lost in the general chatter that had sprung up in the room. But he looked satisfied with the result; that was the important thing.

“ADJOURNED!” blared the princess. She stood up from the throne and everypony bowed again while she strode out.

The show was over. Most ponies in the audience began to drift towards the exit, but Finey was on his legs as soon as the princess had left, darting and dancing eagerly against the flow of the crowd, towards the front of the room. I did my best to follow him.

When I caught up with him, he was hugging one of the defendants, the one who wasn’t Octavia. “I told you so!” he exclaimed, laughing.

“How did you do that?” She seemed to be happy to see him too. I wondered if I had completely misunderstood what this was all about.

Finey glanced around the room furtively. “Still can’t tell. Bellchaser, this is Vinyl.”

I looked her up and down, still confused. “Hello,” I managed.

“Hi.” Vinyl looked between me and Finey. “And the two of you are . . .?”

“We’re coworkers,” said Finey quickly. “She’s the one who was scheduled to be with me that day.”

She made to say something, but was interrupted by a pony coming from behind. “Vinyl Scratch? I’ve got your release papers here.”

That voice was familiar. I turned to look at the speaker, and it was Cressie, wearing white-and-navy lapels and holding out a sheaf of papers. She hadn’t noticed me yet, but after Vinyl took the papers and she turned around, she literally jumped two hooves back when she saw me.

“B-bellchaser?”

“Um, hello.”

“Look, I know you think it was me who told Pokey to send you away, but I didn’t, honest!”

I made a quick decision – Finey didn’t seem to need my moral support anymore, and the chance to clear things up with Cressie might not come again. I started walking away from him, motioning for Cressie to follow. “I didn’t think you did.”

“He says it was for my sake, but he’s been miserable ever since you left. He tries to hide it, but I can tell. Did you have an argument?”

I sighed. “He just said it would be best if I stopped coming.” Damn, I thought I had gotten over that, but talking about it made it hurt again. “I think he felt he had to choose between us.”

She was quiet until we reached the row of columns that lined the main hall. “I miss you,” she said.

“Me too.” It wasn’t until she said it that I realized I’d been missing her too. “But you know where to find me, at the cafe.”

She looked away and kicked a forehoof weakly against the base of a column. “Pokey doesn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Here we are, though.”

“I couldn’t just pretend you weren’t there, could I? And I just met somepony who taught me that what the one you love says he wants isn’t always what you should do.” She glanced across the room towards the guards leading the other defendant away, the dark one.

“So what do you propose?” I asked. “We stay friends behind his back?” I never imagined I’d be cheating on a stallion with his marefriend. But life is strange sometimes.

“Oh, no.” She looked mortified. “I can talk him into it. If you want to come back, that is. We can share him, can’t we? Or you can share me. I don’t care.”

It’s funny – if a colt had sounded like that with me, I’d have thought he was just fishing for pity and crushed his heart with nary a second thought. And even Pokey, as much as I had enjoyed his company, if he began speaking about relationships and commitment, I think I would have balked. But this? Dammit, I wanted to say yes to her. But I don’t do relationships.

Cressie was watching me anxiously while I thought. I could see hope leaving her little by little. “I’m sorry, it’s probably just –” she began.

Oh, blast it all. She wasn’t really asking for more than we’d already had when Pokey called it off, which I hadn’t really wanted to lose. “No, I . . . I guess we can give it a try.”

“Really?” The smile that spread on her face was worth it all. “That’s . . . thank you!”

I almost hugged her, but then I remembered what she was and tousled her mane instead, scratching behind one ear. She blushed and wagged her tail a few times in acknowledgement.

“So, um . . . I’ll talk to Pokey?” she said, looking uncertain. Probably that wouldn’t be easy for her if she was used to him deciding everything.

“Perhaps it’s better if we both go, and tell him right out how it’s gonna be.” Looking behind me, I saw we were the only ponies left in the hall. Finey and his friend (or whatever she was) had left while I talked to Cressie, so he didn’t need me anymore today. “When do you get off work?”

“As soon as I get back to my desk and sign off. Wait for me in the castle square.” She glanced quickly around the hall to be sure nopony was watching, and then reared up against me and licked my face sloppily. Then she turned around, and went out through the same door the princess had used.

I left the same way Finey and I had come in earlier, startling a few guards who thought everypony had already gone. The day outside the castle felt bright and hopeful, and I found myself skipping over to the fountain in the middle to wait for Cressie.

How about that?

* * *

After the trial I’m waiting (again!) back in my private office, for the guards to bring Octavia to me.

She is not happy about her sentence, I know. I watched her face while I pronounced it – first smug self-assurance after her friend got off lightly, then doubt, shock, despair, disbelief, and barely contained rage. For that, at least, who can blame her?

I could have looked away from her and addressed the room at large instead. But that would have been chickening out – if I’m going to do this to ponies, the least I can do is look them in the eye when I crush them. And we ask the real judges to do this for us, week after week. If I can’t stomach it myself, I might as well abdicate. And then, of course, Tia would (once again) kill me.

I’m glad I have the power of clemency, though.

The doors open, and a pair of burly night guards come in, marching Octavia between them. She stands in the middle of the floor, watching me defiantly.

I imagine a poet would praise her marely firmness. But I have listened to her while she defended herself, seen how she reacted to the other witnesses, and I know arrogance when I see it. It’s not a virtue.

“So are you going to gloat?” she asks. Charming to the last, trying to cast me as the villain. (She doesn’t know how outclassed she is – I do that much better myself).

I sigh. “You really have no idea that what you did was wrong, do you?” That’s not what I planned to say, but curiosity gets the better of me.

She stares me down. “I’m not going to play that game.”

So much for having an honest conversation. Back to the plan, I suppose.

“Very well. You’re here because I’m going to make you an offer. Now, to begin with, as far as I’m concerned you deserve absolutely everything I can throw at you.” (That’s not strictly true, of course. There’s always Tartarus. But I don’t even know if I could send her there). “Unfortunately, though, Equestria does have need of ponies like you from time to time.”

Her ears perk up at that, and I can see her getting the smugness back in gear.

“What I’m offering is for your sentence to be commuted to six weeks of community service.”

She chews on that for a while. “What’s the catch?”

I nod. “There are two. First, each of those weeks is a full week, days and nights. You will eat and sleep at the facility. You can spread out your weeks over a year or so, so you can keep a job, but not in smaller chunks than that.

“Second, you are not to tell anypony what the terms of your community service are, or what happens during your service. On pain of – hmmm, whatever high treason is worth these days.”

She squints at me. “Am I expected to accept these super-secret terms without knowing what it is you need me to do?”

“In broad terms, you will be accompanying a friend of mine in Ponyville on a journey of self-discovery. You can get more details after you swear an oath of secrecy. But you can back out later and get your full sentence of exile reinstated instead.”

She thinks some more. “I want to consult my lawyer first.”

I very much doubt that; I saw how she treated the poor guy during the trial. But that’s her business.

“As you wish. Let the dungeon guards know when you have an answer for me.”

* * *

Somehow it felt only natural that Vinyl would come home with me after I accompanied her down to the castle farrier to get rid of the bolt-me-down horseshoes. It was too late in the day to start back towards Ponyville, so she needed a place to stay. I don’t even think either of us mentioned any alternative.

She didn’t say much on the way home, but she looked happier than I’d seen her since that day – since ever at all, in fact. My eyes kept misting up at the sight, and my ribcage felt a number too small.

I showed her where the bathroom is, and she spent ten minutes in the shower and came back to my room all fluffy and relaxed, prison mood rinsed away. She lay back on my bed, and I sat in the armchair, watching Vinyl be happy. It would be the couch for me for the night – couldn’t ask Vinyl to take that after three weeks of sleeping in dungeon bunks.

“Know what, Finey,” she said eventually. “If you have a shred of pity, you’re gonna tie me to this bed now and fuck me silly.”

It was crude. It was crass. It completely derailed whatever my train of thought had been – something about couches and corridors, I think. And still, it felt like part of me had been hoping for something like that.

“I thought you liked mares,” I said, as levelly as I could.

“I do.” She rolled over on her side to look at me. “But I think I like you too.”

I got up from the chair and sat on the bed next to her, letting a hoof rest on her side. I tried to think of an argument that giving in to her now would be taking advantage, but found none.

“Besides,” she continued, “those dungeon guards, you know? Total cuntteases. I haven’t gotten anything since they arrested me. Not even by myself, no privacy in those four-mare cells.”

“They left you alone?” It was a burden on my conscience I hadn’t fully been aware of, suddenly disappearing.

“Yeah. Once I did wake up with my face stuffed full of cock, but then right when he was about to come I woke up again, and it was all a dream.”

Now she was just trying to get me off balance. I began stroking her fur with the hoof I had resting on her. “Are you sure you need to be tied up first?”

“Yes,” she said, with finality. “Seriously, Finey, please.”

At first I wasn’t even sure I had anything that could be used to tie somepony to a bed, but then I remembered I had a spare first-aid pack for the rescue kit, and there’d be gauze rolls for bandages in it. I’m not really supposed to take things from it, but all’s fair in love and war, and it would be easy to replace them.

I had Vinyl lie belly-up on the bed and wound gauze many times around each of her forepasterns. Then I pulled her legs up beyond her head and lashed them solidly it to the headboard with more turns of gauze. It was awkward work, entailing a lot of shifting and bouncing around on the bed, and Finey Jr. had come out too, bumping into Vinyl’s mane or face each time I need to switch sides. She didn’t complain, just lay back with a content smile on her muzzle, as if being clumsily tied to beds was her favorite thing ever. Perhaps it was.

For her hind legs I had planned something of the same kind, gauze wound around the pasterns and pulled out towards the bedposts, but when I tried that and pulled at the gauze strip, the whole spool came sliding right off her hoof. The second time around I found a better way, first tying a length of gauze to the head-end bedpost and then wrapping the loose end around Vinyl’s pastern in alternating directions in a kind of self-locking knot. I found myself thinking about contour integrals and whether a pony’s leg ought to count as a pole or a branch point.

With all four legs done, she was lying upside down with her hind legs pulled up and to the side, hooves level with her head – and her marehood spread wide and open to the room, moist with some secretion that smelled somewhat like Cinna, her clit poking out between the folds when she breathed out. I couldn’t do anything about her horn, but . . . hmm? There was this pony we rescued once who had a –

I stood up and got out a pillowcase from my linen bin, and laboriously pulled it over Vinyl’s head, covering her face and mane. I tied the two bottom corners together in a loose knot to make the opening snug around her neck.

“This is not too tight, is it?”

“No.” It was the only thing she’d said since I began tying her up.

“Say ah.” I wound one last strip of gauze around her fabric-encased head, forcing part of the material in between her jaws and keeping her mouth open while functioning as a kind of external gag. For a moment I worried whether that was too rough – but then again she had done worse to me and thought I would like that, so presumably she’d be okay with this. In any case, she didn’t struggle or show any distress otherwise, so I supposed it was okay.

Stepping back to take stock of my work, I was struck by how it didn’t look like Vinyl at all, with her big blue mane out of sight and tucked into a green-striped pillowcase. On impulse I fetched another one and stuffed her tail into that, completing the illusion of nameless-white-pony.

Now for the ‘fuck her silly’ part. I wasn’t at all sure how to achieve that, but a bit of foreplay to begin with couldn’t be all wrong. I decided to leave her marehood for later and instead started nuzzling around her teats. Cinna had seemed to like it when I bit down gently on a teat and pulled a little – but even though the cadence of Vinyl’s breathing did become a bit quicker when I tried that, she didn’t make any sounds. Oh well, worth a try.

I nuzzled my way forward along her belly, licking a trail through her soft underfur. Her ribs worked up and down beneath my lips as she breathed, sometimes abruptly stopping for half a second before starting again. At least I was having some effect on her.

Past her chest, the path to her face and ears was blocked by the pillowcase, so I changed plans and moved to one of her hind hooves instead, stretched into the air not far from her head. When I started nuzzling at the underside of the hoof, her leg twitched jerkily, and I steadied it with my forehooves while I drew a big wet lick around the frog of her hoof. She gave a series of short grunts of protest or pleasure; I hoped it was the latter.

Then down along the leg: cannon, hock, stifle, buttock, and then I was back at her marehood, convulsing slowly, a trail of fluid trickling down towards her tail. I gave it a tentative lick – and was suddenly vividly reminded of being tied to Tavi’s bed, Vinyl grinding that marehood against my face, demanding to be suckled. It must be something in the taste. Somehow the memory made me fully stiff, and I knew I’d have to finish off soon.

“Ready now?”

“Mhmm mmhmm hm hm!”

Was that a yes or a no? It sounded angry. I looked up towards her head. “Is there anything too tight?”

She shook her head violently.

“Okay, so you’re ready?”

She nodded.

I raised myself up and got my cock positioned in front of her entry and pushed in. Ahh! I folded out my wings and wrapped them around her hind legs, pulling back for a second thrust. And another, and another – but after all the preparations that was all I needed, and I came majorly, at least a dozen pumps.

She had told me she wanted me to be ‘brutal’, so I kept lying on top of her after I came, catching my breath, feeling the warmth of her body. It felt nice and tranquil; it’s a pity mares don’t like it. I almost fell asleep like that, but woke up with a start and decided she had probably had enough.

As soon as I had her head free, she helped me the rest of the way with her magic. Getting a pony out of bondage is a lot quicker that tying her up in the first place. She sat up, rubbing her stifles. I tried in vain to read her expression.

“So, how was it?” I found myself blurting. Yes, I know that’s a horribly pathetic thing that you should never need to ask. I did anyway.

She started smiling, but the smile turned into a giggle, and the giggle turned into a snicker, and she tilted over backwards on the bed, having a laughing fit.

“Finey, I do like you a lot, and really, thanks for the effort – but that was the vanillaest sex I’ve had in years. I couldn’t even struggle because I was afraid of sliding free of those bandage-ties.”

I had stood up, trying to think of a direction to flee in. My room isn’t really big enough for that. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

She stopped laughing and pulled gently on my tail with her magic. “No, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I don’t have a lot of tact, do I? Never really learned that.”

“I guess not.” I let her drag me back to the bed and sat down again, looking away from her.

I felt her bouncing around on the bedsprings, and then she was up next to me, hugging me from behind. “Nopony said it has to be perfect right away. How ’bout we try it your way instead? What do you want?”

I hadn’t thought much about that. “To make you happy?” I chanced.

She giggled again, more sympathetically this time. “That’s . . . kind of sweet, but you’ll never make a proper top with that attitude.”

“Well, can you teach me?”

“I can try.”

Author's Note

Thanks to Jonny5300394 for helpful prereading comments.

14. Not a Monster

Hello there, and welcome to Carousel Boutique!

Octavia, is it? The princess told me you would be coming.

That’s me. But please, just call me Mistress. Why don’t you have a seat over here? Yes, there. Would you like tea?

Just a moment.

Here you go. Sugar?

Oh, I do so look forward to working with you, darling; it really was a stroke of luck the princess had you available.

Right now all you have to do is wait – I still need to mind the boutique for a few hours before we can get you set up.

Well . . . what do you know about fashion?

That’s what I thought. No, darling, I do think it’s best if you simply sit tight there and leave the boutique to me.

Oh, it’s no trouble. Just try not to disturb me, okay?

So, darling, I don’t think there’ll be any more customers today. Shall we get started?

Oh, just leave that here; you won’t need it anyway. There isn’t anything perishable in it, is there?

Well, there you go. Come, it’s this way. Down the stairs, after you. Here, let me switch on the light.

Why, it’s a dungeon, darling. I thought you would be familiar with such things already?

Absolutely not – perish that thought at once! Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a perfectly satisfactory circle of lovers without needing the princess to press-gang anypony into banging me, thank you so much. Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you were trying to offend me. Believe me, darling, you don’t want to offend me.

Did I remember to tell you to call me Mistress? We’re going to get along much better if you call me Mistress.

That’s better. Now, if I remember correctly, you’re a cellist, correct? So you do most of your work standing on your hind legs?

Wonderful! I think I’ve got just the right thing to start with, then. Hold out your forelegs, please.

This is not too tight, is it?

Now for the blindfold. Here we go. How many hooves am I holding up? Good – up you go.

Yes, the winch is a bit slow. Just have patience.

I think that’s about it. You can still reach the floor like that, can’t you?

I’m winding your tail up in a knot so it won’t get in the way. Try not to ask stupid questions.

Haven’t you figured that out yet? I’m going to hurt you, of course.

Of course you won’t talk, darling. But you can scream for me if you want to. It’s all soundproofed.

Good morning, darling! Did you sleep well?

Yes, I can see that might be a problem. Let’s hope I won’t have to do that again, shall we?

Oh no, you did good yesterday. That’s why you’re free to move around in the cell.

Yes, you did pass out at the end. Don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you.

To set expectations, darling. Now that we both know what I can do, I’m sure the rest of the week will go a lot smoother.

Would you like breakfast? I’ve got hay and hay and hay and – oof – a fresh bucket of water. Eat up; the princess is paying.

Of course not. I do need to go up and open the boutique now, but I’ll be back in the evening after closing time. And because you were a good filly yesterday, I’ll even leave the light on.

Thank you, what?

Good, and don’t forget that.

Good evening, darling! Are you awake?

Yes, I imagine it can be a bit boring. So let’s get to work, shall we?

Just come out here, this way. Don’t trip on your chain. Sit up here. Yes, upsie! Your hooves go here and here – surely you’ve been to the farrier’s before?

Yes, there are a few extra straps on this one. Keep your head still, then I’ll – good. Everything nice and tight now?

Now, if I understand correctly, your main defense at trial was that your victim couldn’t have performed sexually if he didn’t want to, right?

Goodness gracious, such language. I think we’ll need to muzzle you before we proceed.

So the plan for today is that I’m going to give you a nice warm sponge bath and grooming, and then a massage. I know that isn’t what you expected – but if you want me to stop the massage and instead begin hurting you like I did yesterday, all you have to do is orgasm. That’s easy to remember, isn’t it? And no risk of mistaking it because ponies are in complete control of such matters.

Is this too hot? Just lean back and relax. I’ll lather you up first . . .

This is nice, isn’t it? I think you like it. Almost ready for your massage now, too – you’re tensing up a lot in those hindquarters, but I’ll get it all worked out, don’t worry. We have lots of of time.

Why, look at you go! Squirting, convulsions, barely controlled moaning – that’s your signal, I believe. You must really want to get punishment instead of this. Very well – just a moment while I fetch the whip.

Okay, I think that’s enough for today. Can’t have you faint on me again, can we?

That’s all the straps. Can you walk back to your cell by yourself?

Good girl.

Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.

Good morning, darling! It’s a beautiful day today.

Of course you can’t see that from down here. How thoughtless of me. Here’s your fresh water and hay.

I have to go, darling, the boutique doesn’t run itself. Enjoy your day!

Good evening, darling!

Very good! You get a treat for that. Here!

So, these stocks are what we’ll be working with today. Come on out and get into position.

I wouldn’t recommend that, darling. I’d only pull you out by the chain – I have a winch out here, remember? And you’d lose bunk privileges. It folds up, you see. You’d just have the floor.

Smart choice. Now, your neck and forehooves go here. Then we close it shut. It doesn’t pinch, does it?

Good. And – oof – for your hind legs here – oof – bit further apart, please. Yes, like that.

So, I think you remember the rules from yesterday. You’ll get hurt if you choose to come; otherwise just relax and enjoy.

We’ll begin with the feather duster. Are you ticklish?

I’m quite impressed by your behind, darling. Even after all I’ve done to it, it’s still –

Stop that! I don’t have to tie up your tail, too, do I?

Ooh, there we go again! Almost as much as yesterday. Now I have to hurt you. Why do you do that?

See, I’ve brought some tools with me already. Haven’t you always wanted an ear piercing? It does cheeks too.

. . . What?

Who’s Rusty?

There’s no Rusty here, darling. He can’t help you. Let me just wipe those tears off and then we can get to it.

Do you want it up here, or perhaps more out towards the edge? No? Well, if I have to choose myself, I think somewhere in the middle is best. Ready? Here we go –

. . .

Breathe, darling. Nice and calm, yes, deep breaths. We still need to do your other ear; I’ve never held with this fad for asymmetry everypony is –

That’s just crazy talk, darling. Now be a good filly and hold still while I –

Yes, let it all out.

You know, I think we’ll save that cheek piercing for another day and just have a good spanking instead. I’ve got some lovely studded paddles I’d like to try . . .

Okay, back into your cell.

Get up, darling. You’re not getting any more today.

Faster!

Good morning, darling! Here’s your breakfast.

And let the princess down? You should know better than that, darling.

Good evening, darling.

Be quiet!

So what I was saying is you need to entertain yourself tonight because I need to, um, go and help my sister with some dreadfully important homework. Funny how that kind of thing can pop up all of a sudden, isn’t it? Certainly not because I’m not eager to get on with your punishment, of course. You can borrow a flogger if you want to continue by yourself –

Sorry. Bad joke. Darling, I really need to be going. Terribly sorry to leave you hanging, but you know how it is, don’t you? Family.

Anyway, don’t wait up. See you tomorrow.

Good morning, darling. Enjoyed your night off?

Bon appetit.

Good evening, darling! Ready for tonight’s session?

I suppose it doesn’t. Let’s get on with it, though. Stand over here with a hoof next to each of these rings in the floor. Just a simple tie-down for today.

You know the drill by now, I think –

Sorry, didn’t catch that. I know you can’t what?

Darling, that can’t be. Why, you said yourself that everypony knows –

I see. So would you say this is true about stallions too?

You guess? Okay, let’s make a deal, then: If you can come up with the right conclusion from that, I’ll go easy on you tonight. Okay?

I think you know perfectly well what I’m waiting for.

There’s nothing ‘perhaps’ about it, darling. Try again.

Very good! That wasn’t so hard, was it? So you win an easy ride. Do you still want the massage first?

No? Hmm, I suppose even if something feels good you can still not want it to happen. Who’d have thought that?

I’ll get started, then.

That’s it for today. Let me just get your legs free, and then you have the rest of the night for yourself.

Darling, that was going easy on you. Don’t you remember the other nights? I’ve kept count.

That’s a rather ungrateful attitude, I think. But that’s up to you. Good night.

Good morning, darling! Feeling better today?

Oh, pardon me for asking.

Good evening, darling!

No, don’t bother getting up; we’ll keep it right in the cell today. Hold out your forehooves. Good. Now point them up towards the sky, so I can get the cuffs hung from that hook up there. Yes, like that. Nice and helpless now?

Now, today I’m going to –

For pony’s sake, it’s only a crop. You know a crop, right? It goes like this.

Oh, stop bawling like that, dear, it’s most unbecoming.

Stop crying! It’s a fucking crop. It barely even stings! See! What’s the matter with you?

You’re pathetic, do you know that? STOP IT!

You will be punished unless you stop crying this instant!

Okay, you want something to cry over? How about this? And this? And this and this and THIS –

. . .

Now see what you’ve made me do.

It’s disgusting, is what it is.

Okay, have it your way, see if I care! I’m done here.

What? Why? Give me one good reason I shouldn’t leave you hanging there?

You wouldn’t know that if it crawled up and bit you in the night. . . . Okay. I’ll let you down. Because I’m generous like that. You know that?

Yeah, keep the cuffs.

Bucking foal . . .

Good morning, darling!

Goodnight, darling!

Good morning, darling! Do you know what day it is today? It’s the day I can let you go.

Yes, one week, that was the plan.

Officially you have until early afternoon, same time as you showed up. But I think I’ll just kick you out now. Let’s call it good behavior.

No, I didn’t think you would. So here you go –

Hold still for a moment so I can get the collar off you. Right you go, up the stairs.

Don’t forget your bags.

I’ll take care of that. Now just –

Goodbye.

* * *

“Princess?”

No.

“Princess, wake up.”

Leave me be.

“Princess, please!”

“Uh . . . what time is it?”

A lackey swims into view, one whose name I don’t remember. “Eleven in the morning, Your Highness.”

“Is the castle on fire?”

“No, Your Highness. But there’s a Miss Rarity to see you.”

I sit up and shake my head, trying to wake up.

“She said it was important,” says the lackey apologetically. “And she is on the Purple List.”

There’s a small number of ponies, other than guard officers on duty, that we trust to judge when something is really important – monsters-are-invading important, that is – and get access to Tia or me simply on their say-so. The element bearers are all on that list, though they haven’t been told they are.

I manage to pull myself up to something approaching consciousness, and scramble out of the bed. “Send her in.”

The lackey leaves, and I have time to run a bit of magic through my mane. Perhaps that’s not strictly required – Rarity, if anypony, already knows me at my least presentable – but if she comes to me at this time, she needs me to be The Princess.

Rarity comes in, a model of composed grace. She nods politely to the guard showing her in, and turns to me as he closes the door. Then her façade drops. “Never. Ever. Ask me to do that. Again,” she hisses.

“To do what?” Perhaps I’m not awake enough yet.

“That pony! The pony you sent me. Octavia.”

Right. “Her first week with you ends today, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it is done,” she says tonelessly. “Princess, please. I can’t do that again.”

What gets to me is how quiet she is. The Rarity I know would be loud and theatrical when something doesn’t go her way. This? It’s as if the dramatic entrance was all she could manage and now she’s spent. That must mean something is gravely wrong. I walk over beside her and wrap a wing around her. It’s more Tia’s style than mine, but what can I do?

“Rarity, please . . . dost thou need to lie down?” I guide her towards the bed, sweeping my blankets out of the way with my magic. She climbs onto it, and I lie down beside her, still wrapping her.

“Rarity, what happened?” I knew Octavia would be a tough nut to crack, but Rarity has faced dragons. What did she do?

Rarity shifts around under my wing, collecting herself.

“I did what you told me to, but . . . she begged. She cried. She just wanted to go home . . .”

“She broke,” I summarize for her.

“Utterly.” She sniffs. “She even confessed.”

Are we talking about the same pony here? “She confessed?”

Rarity nods. “Said she knew the stallion hadn’t wanted it. To . . . to get me to stop . . .”

“So you let her go,” I conclude, cutting to the chase.

She tenses up slightly. “Of course not! But, um, I may have neglected the actual punishing the last few days. And I will not do it again!” she says, with resolve.

Oh, Rarity! I give her a bit of a squeeze with the wing. “Rarity, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want it. But – what went wrong? I thought it would be just the job for you.”

“So did I!” she almost shouts. She inches away from me, and I pull my wing back. “And I, I did like it at first. But then she began crying and shaking and being miserable –”

I look at her. “What did you expect? I, too, become miserable when you have me over.”

“Not like that!” She looks suddenly confused. “I mean yes, but not . . . It’s true that you don’t like it, but . . . you still want it, somehow.”

“I see.” She has a point. No matter how I try to let go, I still know I deserve my own punishment. Octavia wouldn’t have that; I should have known.

“At least we know for certain now that you’re not a monster,” I say.

Rarity slides down from the bed and walks over towards the window, sighing. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

I sit up straight; time to get into character now. “Rarity!” I say, letting a hint of royal command seep in. “You did a task for the state, one that turned out to be dirtier than we thought. But doing it doesn’t make you a monster. Enjoying it too much might have, perhaps. I apologize for making it yours, but I truly thought I was doing you a favor. I see now that I was wrong. You are hereby dismissed, honorably, as royal Master of Pain, and I will figure out what to do with Octavia.”

Did all of that come out right? Nopony should be called upon to govern on four hours of sleep.

Rarity turns around with a cautious smile. “Thank you, Princess,” she says. So it can’t have been all wrong. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“No, the fault is mine. But I really should –” I stifle a yawn.

She hides a grin reasonably well. “Sorry, Princess, going now, Princess!” She scampers out the door.

I let myself fall back on the bed. What now? With Rarity taken care of, I still need to do something about Octavia. I promised her a way to avoid exile, and no matter what she might deserve, where would we be if the word of a princess is worth nothing? On the other hoof, I can’t simply let her go free. Oh joy, I may need another meeting with Obiter Dictum . . .

Not right now, though. I pull the blankets up around me and go back to sleep.

* * *

We don’t meet many doms in the Rescue Service. Oh, about two-thirds of the customers who call Hissy Fit are doms, but when we ordinary rescuers get sent out somewhere, it’s because the dom is not there – excepting the few times when they arrive in the nick of time. So, deep down, we tend to think of them as the ones who desert our clients. You can say what you want about selection bias (and you’d be right) but that’s how it goes, at least for me.

I got a lot more respect for doms as a group after Vinyl tried to teach me to top. That stuff is hard! And exhausting. I was perhaps not the best of pupils – most of our sessions ended with Vinyl hugging me and awarding points for effort. Eventually I think I kept on only by sheer stubbornness: This should be right up my alley, not like weathercraft or playing the piano, but just a matter of reasoning out the right thing to do when. Brainy stuff.

Well, that and perhaps I felt I owed her after dragging her through that trial.

It became a bit easier after I figured out she would become especially frustrated with me whenever I said something in a way that implied the role I was acting out was not myself, even when we were talking after a scene. Avoiding that kept her in a better mood, though it also made it difficult to ask what I should have done differently.

One night, at the end of a spanking exercise where I felt I’d gotten my persona at least halfway right, Finey Jr. refused to participate in the big finale. After a few minutes of fruitless jumping up and down, I lay back on the bed, cursing at the ceiling.

Eventually Vinyl stood up – I’d forgotten to restrain her for the scene – and took off her gag.

“Finey,” she said with a slow sigh. “Have you ever thought maybe we should . . . I dunno . . . just be hugging friends instead?”

“Perhaps,” I said, still looking at the ceiling. I had been about ready to admit defeat anyway. In a way I felt relieved.

A few moments went by before it occurred to me that I was being broken up with. Oh well, if it didn’t feel any worse than this, it was probably for the best. “I’m sorry,” I said.

She was about to sit down next to me, but caught herself with a wince. “You don’t really enjoy any of all that, do you? I can tell.”

No shit. I shook my head slowly.

“But I think I need somepony who does that. That’s the only way I can deal with a stallion. I’m . . . I can’t just change what I am, you know?”

I sat up and reached out to hug her from the side. “It’s alright.”

She didn’t move. “Thanks,” she said hollowly.

There was one thing I needed to say before she went away. “You should know I forgive you,” I said. “For that time with Tavi.”

That did make her smile a bit. “Silly colt,” she said. “I knew that.” She turned around and hugged me back. “Friends?”

“Friends.”

Late one night, about a week afterwards, Vinyl showed up on my doorstep and asked if she could borrow the couch. “I’m an idiot,” she said. “Kinda still used to just crashing at, you know . . .” She grimaced, scratching her crest with a foreleg.

“Of course,” I said. “Come in.”

She had been summoned to Canterlot by Princess Luna to discuss the terms of her community service. The deal turned out to be that DJ PON-3 would be playing for free at a number of public events over the next year or so. And a few formal court functions too.

“I don’t know what to think about that,” she said. “It’s gonna give me a lot of publicity, and Celestia knows I need that right now, but how is that punishment? I thought I’d be sweeping streets or something.”

“What did you think? You’ve got a talent; naturally she’ll want to use that. Would you take those jobs for free, just for the publicity, if you didn’t have to?”

“Buck no. Not gonna undercut myself that way.”

“See? Look, I forgave you already. Roll with it.”

She sighed. “Thanks. Oh, and the princess gave me a letter for you. I’ve got it here somewhere.”

Dear Affine Scheme! I hope you are satisfied with how your case turned out. Though, let it not be said that I have perverted justice for your sake; I should hope our ordinary courts would have reached the same outcome, had they heard the evidence I did.

Speaking of what should be said, I understand from Vinyl Scratch that you have not told her you were the one to bring the case to my attention. I am afraid I let that slip, thinking she would already know. If you did not want her to, please accept my apologies. It will be up to you how much more to tell her.

I only ask that, even though you are free to tell ponies that I did owe you a favor, the circumstances in which you earned that favor must remain untold.

LUNA

While I read, Vinyl put down her bags by the couch and sat toying with her travel hoofcuffs.

“Can I get you to hide the keys for me? You don’t have to dom, just . . . it feels more real that way.”

I smiled. “Of course. Old friendship’s sake?”

“Mmhm.” She floated a set of keys over to me and began cuffing herself up.

“Do you know what the letter said?” I asked.

“She didn’t tell me. Is it a secret?”

“In a way.” That was only half a lie, and it would have been awkward to start to explain how I’d been keeping things from her but couldn’t tell her all of it anyway.

“Okay,” she said, and lay down, chains clinking faintly. “Goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams.”

The next morning I saw her off towards Ponyville at the station on my way to the Institute.

Author's Note

Editing by Taialin.

15. Ever After

Octavia took a train back to Canterlot and stayed in bed for several days, sobbing into pillows. She didn’t want to be behaving that way, but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t like how she had behaved with Rarity either. Losing her cool, crying, begging. . . but most of all losing her cool, not being in control of herself. And the lies. Octavia was not usually squeamish about employing a few untruths to get what she needed, but some of the lies she told Rarity to get her to stop had hurt to tell. Especially the ones that claimed the prosecutor had been right. She dimly remembered believing those lies as she told them, anything to make the hurting stop.

And what if it was right, if the stallion hadn’t wanted it? It was still his own fault; then he should have complained more. Served him right for not standing his ground. Like you stood your ground with Rarity? asked a small, traitorous voice inside her. But that wasn’t the same. Was not was not was not.

On the third day she managed to convince herself it didn’t matter. It was all in the past; she couldn’t change it anyway. And there were things that needed doing in the now. She stood up, took a bath, and went out in the world to find out whether she still had her position in the Fillyharmonic after her trip to jail and subsequent conviction.

Nopony seemed to be really sure who could even decide that, but at the end she managed to get the issue settled in her favor, by the tried and true device of fucking the concertmaster. The old goat of a unicorn, who had her meet him in a tiny hideaway in Starview so his wife wouldn’t find out, fancied himself a submissive, but had so specific ideas about how he wanted to be topped that he might as well have swung the floggers himself. Diapers and bare-hoof spanking do not belong in the same scene, was Octavia’s firm conviction – or at the very least not in that order – but she was not there to enjoy herself anyway, so she came through for the cause and landed the deal. It was a distraction, at least.

“Name and business, ma’am?” The two guards at the castle entrance crossed spears in front of her.

“Octavia Melody, for a rehearsal with the Fillyharmonic.”

The guards looked at each other. One of them pulled out a list and leafed through it. “Sorry,” he said. “Felons can’t enter the castle, except with an escort for official business.”

Octavia smiled her winsomest smile. “Sorry, I didn’t make it clear. I’m in the orchestra, not just audience.”

The guard shrugged. “Doesn’t change the rules.”

“Look, I work here, okay?” She swallowed several choice words about the guards which wouldn’t have been helpful in the situation. “That means I’m on official business.”

Now the other guard spoke up. “Actually, the Fillyharmonic is an independent charity that borrows the Great Hall for some of its activities.” He nodded smugly. “Not official business.”

Octavia looked from one guard to the other.

“Say, didn’t you use to date Sergeant Trombone?” asked the first one.

“Why, yes!” she replied, eager to get through with these nincompoops. Who’d have thought Rusty could still be useful?

“Old pal of mine right back from basic,” said the guard heavily, looking past Octavia into the distance. “Poor guy was devastated at being dumped. Tried to tell him it was prolly just a misunderstanding, but, y’know . . .”

“Ah, yes,” improvised Octavia. “I probably ought to talk to him, get that cleared up.”

The guard nodded, but didn’t say anything more, just stood there scanning the castle square for approaching enemies.

“So, are you going to let me in or what?”

The other guard sighed. “You heard the corporal, lady. No felons in the castle. Now scram, or you get to add disorderly conduct to your collection.”

It would be easy to throw a fit, make a scene, demand their commanding officer. But Octavia had better self-control than that. She couldn’t imagine it would end well; the guards were stronger than her and could retaliate with impunity if she annoyed them enough. She considered trying to seduce her way in, but that wouldn’t work either. Damn Rusty.

She turned around and left.

When she came home she found an official envelope in the mail. It contained a summons from Princess Luna – no, not a summons: she was ‘cordially invited’ to pay the princess a visit (at the castle she had just been barred from!) to ‘discuss adjustments to your community service’.

She broke down laughing in the kitchen. It wasn’t actually funny, but the surrealism of it all overcame her. After she calmed down, though, she had to admit things looked pretty bleak. Unless she found something to do about the guards, it looked like she didn’t have a job after all. And now the princess wanted to see her again, no doubt to alter the deal into something even worse than Rarity. That was bad, bad news.

How had everything suddenly gone so wrong? She knew it, of course, knew that it was all her own fault. It had began going wrong the moment she started letting other ponies make the decisions for her. That had to stop now. She had to take control of her life back.

It took her most of the afternoon to convince herself she had to do it. It would involve sacrifices and discomfort, yes, but it was the only way to get back in charge. She would not meet the princess to hear her latest humiliation; instead she would take the option none of the fuckers expected her to.

She played a violent, determined rhapsody long into the night, until the pony downstairs had enough and came knocking angrily on her door.

The next morning she went to the provost’s office to demand the one fate that was hers alone to claim.

* * *

Cressie is first out of the train when it halts, jumping up and down excitedly on the platform. Pokey and I follow at a more dignified pace.

As soon as we’re down, the conductor gives a short peep of his whistle and the train starts moving again. The Coltanooga sleeper usually doesn’t stop in Mill’s Crest at all, but Pokey has pulled some strings and made it so we could get off anyway. He doesn’t really have to impress me with how important he is in the railways, but I don’t mind as long as some of the special treatment rubs off on me. Having a hot meal in the dining car was much nicer than rumbling along in the local, eating sandwiches and getting here hours later.

After the train has left, the platform is lit only by a single lantern on the side of the small station building. Pokey stands below it and fetches a long leash out of his bag, which he clips into Cressie’s collar. That calms her down somewhat.

“I thought we couldn’t do that until we were there,” I say to him while we walk up the modest gravel road leading away from the station.

He shrugs. “We have a kind of understanding with the locals. They know what’s going on anyway, and as long as we keep the real naughty business out of sight, they won’t complain about seeing a leash outside the estate now and then.”

There probably aren’t that many locals either – as far as I can make out by the lights, there’s just a few houses huddling around the train station. Back in Canterlot the nightlife has barely begun by now, but here our own hoofsteps and the soft clinking of Cressie’s leash are the only sounds to be heard. There’s a brook babbling somewhere too, I think, and out in the distance our train is passing over a bridge with a series of ka-dunk’s.

After a few minutes’ walk, the station road joins into a larger highway. On its opposite side runs an old stone wall, interrupted by a driveway flanked by wrought-iron gates that look like they haven’t been closed for years. A lit sign besides the gate declares it to be our destination: ‘Club Campanile, resort & playgrounds’, and below that in smaller letters, ‘Sorry, no walk-ups’.

Behind the wall, the cobbled driveway curves gently through the darkness, marked by park lamps that make little islands of light on the ground every dozen paces.

Two ponies come walking towards us up ahead, a couple of youngsters about Cressie’s age. The mare is dragging the stallion by a rope and collar. When Cressie spots them, she trots ahead, as far as her leash will let her, eager to make new friends. I stay close by Pokey, brushing my flank against him for moral support. These will be the first ponies from his ‘community’ I meet without being on the job with a script to follow. I’m sure everything will be all right, but . . . it’s nice to have somepony to stand beside me.

The colt is clearly much less enthusiastic about the meeting than Cressie is. As she comes closer to the couple, his expression gets progressively more panicked, and he seems to try to hide behind his marefriend. “Sweetie,” he pipes up, “do we really –”

With a look of sudden fury she jerks him towards her. “What did I tell you about talking!” she hisses. “Are you trying to embarrass me in front of those ponies?”

She baps him in the face with the free end of her rope, and he winces and tries to shy away from her. “Weep,” he says, blinking.

Apparently ‘weep’ is how he represents the whinge of a distraught puppy. Cressie can do that much more lifelike – I catch myself feeling a bit proud on her behalf.

“Heel!” barks the mare, pulling the rope tight for a second more before releasing it. Her coltfriend slowly turns around and sits down beside her, looking sullen.

Pokey clicks his tongue to call Cressie back to his side, on his other side from me. We walk towards the couple together.

“Evening there,” calls out Pokey. “Here for the obedience training, I take it?”

“Yeah.” The mare sighs and rolls her eyes. “It had better work.”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” asks Pokey. The scoundrel, he knows I was apprehensive. No, not a scoundrel – I’m just not used to anypony understanding me that well.

“No,” I admit. “But then again you did the talking there.”

He nods. Ahead of us, the lodge comes into view behind a copse of trees. It’s a large old country house, inviting light streaming from many of the windows.

“It’s really not that different from ordinary society,” Pokey says. “Well, one rule. If you see a pony wearing head tack, they’re being in character with their role, and you shouldn’t talk to them unless their master invites you to. Same with a collar if there’s a leash attached to it. But a collar without leash just counts as jewelry, so you can talk to that pony.”

That doesn’t sound too complicated. “I can talk to Cressie, right?”

“Of course.” He chuckles. “You’re in her pack already.”

Cressie has run a bit ahead, but hearing her name she turns back and looks up at me, head cocked. I ruffle her mane with my magic, and she smiles and starts walking again.

The lobby behind the ornate front doors is brighter and more modern than I had expected. Pokey walks us directly to the reception desk, off to the side.

“Checking in, please. Pierce, two nights.”

The receptionist smiles and implies a bow. “Of course, Master Pierce, ma’am. You’ll need a kennel for the pet too, I suppose?”

Cressie, sitting meekly by Pokey’s side, looks up at him uncertainly.

“No, we’ll just take her with us to the room –”

The receptionist holds up a hoof. “Very sorry, sir, but we have a strict policy of no pets in the rooms.”

“Are you sure? She’s very well-behaved,” says Pokey, pulling a coin up from his bag and setting it down softly on the reception desk. It’s a single bit. “I guarantee you won’t get any complaints.”

The receptionist deftly sweeps the bit down on his side of the desk. “I guess we can bend the rules just a bit,” he says, all smile. “Is there anything else?”

“Well, would you happen to have one of the small dungeons available sometime tomorrow?”

“Let’s see . . .” He consults an appointment book below the desk. “I have number three, six to eight p.m.; would that be alright?”

Pokey nods. “I’ll take it. And a kennel for that period, too.”

“Of course, sir. Your room is number eighteen, up the stairs and down the hall. One or two keys?”

“Did you really bribe that pony one bit to let Cressie stay with us?” I half-whisper to Pokey as we’re reaching the top of the stairs. “And he took it?”

He nods and grins, stopping at the top landing. “It’s a code of sorts. Some of the members like to play at being forced to put their pet away by hotel rules. So the convention is that you can bribe as much as you want; as long as it’s an even number of bits they’ll be completely inflexible and you get nowhere. But if you make an odd offer they’ll hem and haw but ultimately take it. So everypony gets to choose for himself how large a bribe their scene calls for.”

That sounds pretty clever. “So a single bit is just a way to say you’re not playing that game at all?”

“Ahem,” says somepony. I swivel around and see an earth mare has come out from the corridor and is waiting to get past us. Wearing a silk jacket and matching earrings, she looks like disdain made flesh.

“Master Pierce, would it be too much of an imposition to ask that you entertain your . . .” – she pauses, looking me up and down – “companions in a place where you don’t block the main stairs?”

Pokey intercepts her, affable as always. “Why, Mistress Harshwhinny! What a pleasant surprise to meet you here.”

She gives an unimpressed grunt. “If you missed me, all you had to do was show up at either of the last three Trustees meetings. Now, though, you will excuse me; I am late for my dungeon slot. Come, bondsmare!”

She pushes past me and Cressie and down the stairs, followed by a white unicorn with a wild electric blue mane, wearing a bright red halter. As she passes by me, eyes downcast, I suddenly recognize her as the defendant Finey introduced me to after his court case. I remember the head-tack rule Pokey told me about, though . . . which is a good thing; I’d have no idea what to say to her if it had been allowed.

Pokey leads the way down the other end of the corridor.

“What was her problem?” I can’t help asking once we seem to be at a safe distance.

“Harshie? Don’t mind her, she’s really sweet once you get to know her, so they say. I think she was trying to impress her new sub. Well, here we are.” He stops at the door marked 18 and opens it. “Ladies first.”

It’s a very nice room, bright and spacious with a dark hardwood floor. Pokey hangs up Cressie’s leash by the door and goes to one of the built-in cupboards to get out a large pet basket which he places on the floor next to the armchair set.

I sprawl out on the bed. “So what’s with all the talk of dungeons?”

“They have dungeons in the basement you can hire, if you’re lucky and they aren’t booked already.” He turns from Cressie to me. “I could give you a real trip down there, with proper equipment. If you want, that is,” he adds with an apologetic smile.

I can see he doesn’t expect me to say no, but I like that he’s giving me the opportunity anyway. If I nix it, he won’t even complain, but be a complete gentlecolt, and we can spend the entire weekend playing the vanilla couple on a romantic getaway. It could be nice enough . . .

Still, a dungeon! I have rescued ponies from dungeons, generally shoddy affairs thrown together from crude wooden boarding with no attempt at finishing. But I can’t imagine anything in this place being shoddy. Picture myself strapped tightly to a solid, well-made rack, helpless before Pokey as he turns to me, brandishing a – Oh, yes!

“That would be . . .” Nice? Lovely? Hot? I haven’t yet figured out a dignified way to ask him to tie me up and spank me. Good thing he keeps taking that initiative himself. “Belch wants!” I growl, cavehorse-style.

“How can I say no to that?” He sits down on the bed and begins massaging one of my hind legs. There’s a tenderness in the way he looks at me, something that goes beyond the smooth charmer he was at first. I think. “We can do whatever you want, you know. It’s your monthiversary”.

“Yours too,” I protest. “And Cressie’s.”

He nods. “But yours twice over. No, not in the bed. Down!” The last is to Cressie, who was about to climb into the bed with us. She folds her ears back, looking crushed.

“Aw, do you have to?” I plead on her behalf. “It’s a new place; it’s not as if she’d learn the bed back home is for her. And it is her monthiversary too.”

Pokey sighs. “Okay, just this once, then. Come, girl.”

She jumps onto the bed and burrows in between the two of us, burying her face in my side. I reach a hoof over to scratch her ear.

Pokey shakes his head with a resigned little smile and takes to petting her neck. “Perhaps what we ought to do,” he says thoughtfully, “is see if there’s a space for you at that pet obedience course that starts tomorrow.”

At first I think he’s talking to Cressie, but he’s looking straight at me. I stare back. Pet obedience? That’s not what I expected at all – is it really something I want? Me in Cressie’s place, not speaking, sleeping in a basket? I have a sinking feeling that I should have expected it – and I already feel bad about that feeling, because she likes all that perfectly well. Who am I to put myself above her?

“Do you think it’s time now?” I ask, stalling for time while I try to sort out my feelings. It would be kind of a privilege too, isn’t it?

Pokey looks confused. “Time for what?”

“Long ago you said I was not ready to call you master yet. Is now it?”

He stops stroking Cressie and looks at me intently for several seconds. “Bellchaser,” he says carefully. “I don’t think you can ever do that.”

I’m too confused to respond.

“You like being dominated in bed, and you’re wonderful at that. But calling me master, that would mean you let me run all the rest of you life too. I’d tell you where to go, what to eat, when to sleep, where to sit. You couldn’t do that for very long.”

“I can try harder,” I hear myself say, surprising myself with how determined to prove myself worthy I feel.

“It’s not a matter of trying,” he says with a smile. “Do you think Cressie needs to try to be mine? She just is.” He ruffles her mane lovingly. “And you’re you, the strong determined mare I also want to be with. Don’t you ever think you need to be something different from that.”

He’s right, it is a relief not to have to do all that. “But – that pet training . . .”

“Oh, that!” Suddenly he laughs. “No, sorry, what I meant was you could go with Cressie and learn to handle her right. You’re doing pretty well by yourself, but it would help you to be more sure of what you’re doing.”

That makes a lot more sense. “Would you like that?” I ask her, and she raises up her head and licks my face in assent.

“You go and show all those other pets how it’s really done,” says Pokey. “But it’s often the owners who have the most to learn. Remember that mare we met on the way from the station? She’s the one who really needs the course.”

“Mmmm.” I relax back on the bed, still cuddling Cressie with one forehoof. I do like the idea, though it will cut into the time all three of us have together.

“Pity we only have two days here,” I say.

“We could just stay on. I’ll call in sick.”

“Nah. I have to be at the office Monday morning anyway.”

‘The office’ is what we call my old apartment. I haven’t yet dared to tell Hissy Fit I’ve hooked up with a client, so I need to be there whenever I’m on call for the Service. I get some writing done too, but sooner or later it’ll have to stop. It costs almost as much to keep the place as Fizzy pays me – and she might not even fire me when she finds out. Other than her, I’ve long since stopped even pretending I haven’t moved in with Pokey. Which reminds me –

“I love you,” I say. “Both of you.” It’s not the perfect moment, but I could wait forever for that. And I’ve known for weeks I’d have to spit it out at some point on this trip.

He pulls me closer with his magic, reaching out a leg across Cressie in an attempt to hug us both. “I love both of you too,” he says. “I never thought that could make sense, but it does. Thanks for setting me right.”

“It’s Cressie who did that.” I give her a squeeze, and she turns around to lick Pokey.

I never thought I would be using the L-word on anyone, either. It doesn’t mix well with fuckbuddying. But here we are, me and my big, firm, thoughtful, perfect stallion, and my – whatever it is Cressie is to me. Marefriend? Herd sister? Adoptive daughter? Pet? Never mind what exactly; she’s mine. And I am hers. And his.

I am so lucky.

* * *

One day, a few weeks after Vinyl and I called it quits, I ran into Cinna at a Marebucks I had ducked into for breakfast on the way home from a morning rescue. The place was almost empty except for her, sitting at a corner table with a cup of something foamy and a magazine. I just had time to regret that I couldn’t go over and talk to her, before she noticed me and waved me over with a bright smile. Perhaps she doesn’t have the same kind of rules against talking to clients outside work that we have in the Service.

She was wearing a fancy hat and earrings with reddish gemstones in them that made her look a million bits. I didn’t wait to be asked twice when she invited me to sit down.

“How are you doing?” she asked. “I never got to hear how it all ended – did you meet up with that pony, what’s her name?”

So I told her all of it, from how I met with Vinyl at Rosemore Point, to getting the princess involved, to the trial and its outcome, and how Vinyl ending up doing community service. I felt happy to be telling Cinna things again; good memories, I suppose.

“Okay, back up a moment,” she said eventually. “This letter you had from the princess, was that a fancy diploma on yellow paper with an embossed seal and signed by the Chancellor of the Household?”

I tried to remember how it looked. “Sounds about it. It was yellow all right.”

She nodded. “Affine, do you have any idea how big a deal those royal favor certificates are? One of my clients has one – framed on his wall, and he makes sure to show it off to every visitor he gets. And there’s another who has kept his in a safe deposit box for twenty-five years because nothing is ever important enough to use it on.

“But you, you had one, and you went and spent it just so the pony who assaulted you could get to feel better?”

Did I screw up again? “Sorry. But I – she needed it so much, you know? What good would it do me to sit on it forever?”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “I’m only . . . very impressed you would do that. So, um, are you happy together now?”

“Not really, not in that way.” I shrugged. “She likes mares.”

“I see.” She took a long thoughtful sip of her coffee. “Say, how would you feel about meeting up again sometime?”

Oh, I’d love to. But, alas – “You know I can’t afford that.”

She shrank back into her chair, looking small and defeated. “I wasn’t thinking of charging,” she said quietly.

“What – you’re asking me out?”

She nodded. “But, well, you know what I do for a living, so I understand . . .”

“You do a fine thing for a living,” I said, almost automatically.

She didn’t look convinced. “It’s not always workplace emergencies, you know.”

“No, but – I mean, the things you do for yourself, even if they’re the same kind of things, they mean something different when they’re not a job, don’t they? Something more?” I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to cheer her up or trying to convince myself that it would be okay to date someone of her profession. Probably the former – the idea of having Cinna for an actual marefriend was too large to contain right now.

“That’s a noble way to think.” She sighed, letting a hoof fall down to the table. “Not many ponies can keep thinking it, though.”

I put my hoof on hers. “I can try.”

* * *

They let Octavia out of the brig when they were two days out of Manehattan. She had tried to tell them that it was not necessary, she was coming willingly after all, but the captain had his instructions for the handling of transportees and wouldn’t budge.

Once she could go abovedeck, she spent much of the passage leaning on the gunwale, staring out to port at the Equestrian mainland crawling past in the distance, an endless parade of headlands and bays.

Eight years. Eight fucking years.

It wasn’t a life sentence, of course. Why, she would barely be forty by the time she could return. Plenty of time to start living again. But until then . . . well, she’d just have to make the best of it.

Curat de Minimis had tried telling her that the two-year prison term the princess had tacked onto her sentence, like a cherry on top, effectively did make it a life sentence. There wouldn’t be anypony forcing her into prison, he said; she would be free to choose when or if she’d go. She just wouldn’t be allowed off the island until she’d chosen to stay in a cell for two years. Many exiles never quite got around to that, he said.

Curat was a fool. He didn’t know what a pony can do when she puts her mind to it.

After three weeks at sea they reached Windhowl Key, an irregular grey-green knoll that rose out of the water, growing larger and larger for most of an afternoon and evening. Then the sun set, and the captain ordered the anchor dropped so they could approach the island in daylight. The approach was treacherous, he explained to Octavia over dinner. He appreciated having cultured company on the ship; she didn’t even have to sleep with him.

The garrison commander himself came down to the pier to welcome her to the island. “You can call me Skipper,” he said. “Everypony does.”

She shook his hoof and managed a smile.

“It says in your file you’re a sex offender,” he continued. “We won’t have to make you wear a bell, will we?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“So do I. Just see to it that I won’t hear any complaints, alright?”

“I will,” she assured him. “Where do I go now?”

“Hmmm. To begin with you can stay in ‘Codstring’ Trotter’s old hut down in the village. Been empty for the last few years; just ask anypony for the Mansion. But you’ll have to keep yourself fed, no room for loafers here. Got any skills you can make yourself useful with?”

“I play the cello.” She gestured towards the instrument case she had just carried down the gangway.

He shrugged. “Not a whole lotta demand for that, up here. Tell you what, go see the gang boss over there, with the red mane; you can earn some bits helping unload supplies from the ship.”

“I have money,” she said, perhaps a bit too testily.

The commander cocked an eye at her. “To last you eight years? Up to you, though – you can always check into Pension Steel Bars up at the fort when you run dry.”

She would have to do that sooner or later, of course – she didn’t intend to stay here ever after. But not right away; she needed to discover who was who in the island community first, perhaps make some connections in the garrison. Give it a few months, half a year perhaps. Then she’d be better able to control the circumstances she’d serve her time under.

There was also the possibility that the real princess, Celestia, would rein in her out-of-control sister and issue a pardon. She couldn’t afford to rely on when that would happen, of course, but it would be foolish not to give it some time to play out before she went to extremes.

“Thanks for your advice,” she told the commander, leaving it carefully ambiguous whether she was being sarcastic. She turned from him and walked towards the pony he’d pointed out. Even if she didn’t need money right away, it would probably be best not to begin acting the wealthy émigrée just yet. And she might as well start getting acquainted with the locals.

There were perhaps a dozen ponies busily unloading sacks from the ship. She looked them over while she went nearer, trying to gauge which of them commanded the most respect from the others.

Hmmm, one of them reminded her a bit of Rusty . . .

Author's Note

Edited by Taialin and an anonymous volunteer; proofread by Fuzzy Fabricator.

6. Therapist

Today began so well.

I had slept surprisingly soundly for someone who was scheduled to own up to the blunder of his life later in the morning. According to Bellchaser, it was the calm that comes with finally deciding to do something about it. I wasn’t so sure. It was probably just the alcohol.

Anyway, she woke me up at half past eight, and then had the cheek to act like she had let me sleep in. Over breakfast I had plenty of time to start panicking and second-guess the plan, and I’d probably have called the whole thing off (once again!) if Bellchaser hadn’t been there. As it was, I didn’t have that option. She marched me uptown to Hissy Fit’s apartment while I tried my best to think of a way to tell the story that would make me sound less like a horrible pathetic loser than I am.

True to her word, Bellchaser started by admitting she had left me to rescue Tavi alone, that day. Then she turned to me expectantly, and I had no choice but to spill the beans. It went better than I expected, at first. I didn’t quite manage to save my face, but at least I didn’t cry this time, and Hissy Fit sat and listened without showing any emotion other than focused attention.

But then I reached the point where Vinyl had joined us, and ground to a halt. I didn’t even know how to say what came next. To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought much about it, after it was over. It wasn’t relevant anyway – if I could just think of a way to skip past it –

“That – is – NOT – ACCEPTABLE!”

Hissy Fit banged a hoof into the desk and rose from her chair, angrier than I have ever seen her. Beside me Bellchaser gave a start. I let my head drop, cringing. So much for imagining this might have a happy ending.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. It wasn’t much of a defense, but what could I do?

Hissy looked surprised. She sat down again and sighed.

“Finey, you’re an idiot, and you goofed up,” she said, in a tone so calm that one could almost think she wasn’t mad at me. “But with how it ended up, you’re never going to goof up in that way again, am I right?”

“I suppose so,” I mumbled. It wasn’t as if I’d ever to get an opportunity to repeat that particular mistake.

“Good. And Bellchaser, you and I are going to have a little chat about honesty and submitting timesheets for work you didn’t actually do.”

“Yes’m,” said Bellchaser stiffly. I hadn’t thought about how she would be in hot water for herself too, rather than just just for getting me into trouble. I felt a bit selfish for only thinking of the latter.

“But that will have to wait,” Hissy continued. “Finey, basically what you’re saying is that this customer manipulated you into a situation where she could do a lot of harm to you, and then she threatened to do that unless you had sex with her, is that correct?”

“Well, not really in so many words. But it was sort of implied.”

“It doesn’t matter how many words. There’s just one word for that – I don’t know what the lawyers call it – but I call it rape.” The fire was back in her eyes now. “Nopony does that to one of my workers. I will not have it –”

She said more than that, but I didn’t fully listen. I was busy wrapping my head around the idea that Tavi had raped me. From a strict formal perspective I supposed it fit, but that wasn’t how it felt. I clearly remembered wanting to rut her – though of course I wouldn’t have done so if she hadn’t made me. Some of what Vinyl did afterwards, on the other hoof – but it was no good thinking about that –

“– long as you work for me that’s not gonna happen.”

Huh? “Um, aren’t I fired?”

That stopped her dead. “What? Oh no, one misstep won’t do that, not when I’ve dozens of clients praising you. What do you take me for? But look at you, you’re shaking. Please, you need to sit down before you faint.”

She was right; I did shake. I staggered over to the couch, at the end of the room that’s a living room rather than an office, heart pounding. She didn’t fire me! She actually believed me! I hadn’t really allowed myself to think that could happen.

Hissy Fit was searching through her files for something, conferring with Bellchaser in low voices. A few times she tried to phone somepony but didn’t seem to get a response. Finally she came over to me.

“Finey, I’m sorry, but can you handle the phone while I go out and take care of this? I know you’re upset, but I can’t get anypony else right now. You have the training, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Sure.” Answering the phones is pretty easy once you get to know Fizzy’s filing system, just a matter of taking down rescue appointments and cancellations.

“Thanks. Don’t take any rescues that trigger before five, and if there’s any new customers, have them call back later.”

I nodded again, only beginning to comprehend it all. Only minutes ago was certain I’d be kicked out; now she was basically letting me run the shop while she went out doing whatever.

“Also, Finey,” she continued with a concerned look on her face, “do you have anypony you trust you can talk to about all this? Don’t keep it bottled up. Family, close friends – perhaps a mare?”

I searched my mind unsuccessfully. Even if I had a special somepony, I don’t think I’d be telling her about how I let two other mares use me. And Mother, back in Cloudsdale? I love her dearly, but she’s about the last pony I’d share stories of my sex life with. I shook my head slowly, feeling pathetic.

“I understand,” she said. “Just sit tight here; it’ll be all right.” She turned around and went off towards the door. “Bellchaser, you’re with me! I’ll need a witness.”

I was too tired to be really elated over how well Hissy Fit had taken my confession, so I dozed off on the couch. Late morning is a slow time; the phone hardly ever rings. If it did, I was pretty sure it could wake me up.

What did make me up was the sound of the front door being opened. At first I thought it was Fizzy coming back and scrambled to my feet, but instead there was an earth mare I’d never seen before standing in the hallway. Kind of cute too, light brown with a golden-yellow mane. She wiggled out of a pair of saddlebags and came into the living room.

“Hi. Are you Affine Scheme?”

“Um, yes.” I wondered if I should do something to verify she was supposed to be there. I didn’t know how, though.

The mare smiled as if she’d just been reunited with a dear friend. I wish mares would smile to me like that. Except this one did. Huh.

“I’m Cinna,” she said. “I’m here to hug you and listen to you and make you feel good about yourself.”

“. . . I’m sorry?” I looked around, imagining there could be someone else around she might be talking to. There wasn’t, of course.

She chuckled. “Yes, you. Hissy Fit sent me. Said you might need a hug or two. Is that right?”

Before I could react, she came at me and threw her hooves around me. Automatically I hugged back. She was warm and strong, and her mane smelled like Hearth’s Warming and hot chocolate. It was a scent to get lost in. It struck me that this was the first time I’d even touched a mare since Tavi.

She didn’t seem to be letting go of me, until I noticed I was squeezing her pretty tightly myself. I eased up a bit, ashamed to be treating a perfect stranger that way. Then she did put her legs down, and I backed a few steps away from her.

She was still smiling. “I think you did.”

I sat back down on the couch. “Sorry. I don’t usually – I mean . . . So, are you a friend of Ms. Fit?”

“Oh yes, we go way back.” Cinna sat down in the couch beside me, turned to face me. “But the reason I’m here now is that she hired me to.”

Hissy Fit hired her . . . to come here and hug me? “You mean, you’re an, um, bought mare?”

As soon as I said it, I knew it was a horrible mistake. Probably she was only here to take over the phone so I could be sent home. And now I’d gone and called her a –

“I am a licensed mood therapist,” she said, wrinkling her muzzle. “I’m part of your Workplace Incident Response Plan.”

Oops. Stupid fucking idiot Finey, you waste of good air. I kicked myself mentally, wishing (not for the first time) I could just expire.

Cinna’s miffed expression shattered into a friendly grin. “I’m also a whore, don’t worry. You won’t find me walking the streets, though. Or even in the classifieds. But if sex will make you feel better, then that’s covered too.”

I had no idea what to say. Was this some kind of secret test?

When I didn’t answer, she went on: “You know, your boss must really value you as an employee. She got you the ‘anything you want’ package.”

“And what’s that?”

“Just what it says on the tin, really. You get me for eight hours, and I do whatever will make you happy. Until you decide on something you want me to do, I make my best guess at what you need. Thus, hugs and talking, for now.”

She reached out a hoof to me, suggesting another hug, but I shrugged it off as politely as I could. I had to figure this out first.

“And you do anything I want? ‘Anything’ is a pretty open-ended term, isn’t it?”

“Within reason, of course. You don’t get to kill or cripple me, or wish for more wishes or any other loopholes like that. Apart from that, you’re the boss. Some things I charge extra for, but that’s between me and the insurance company.”

“There’s an insurance company?” I asked, more fascinated than I probably should be. That wasn’t something I’d thought buying a whore would involve.

“Well, yes, otherwise anything-you-want would basically be impossible.” She sat up a bit straighter, apparently resigned to be talking about business. “The thing is, for most ponies anything they want isn’t actually terribly expensive, so I charge just a rough average of that, with a bit of markup for the uncertainty – as least when it’s not themself who decided to hire me, like with you.

“But there are still outliers, of course. Suppose you’re the one in ten thousand who wants to shave me bald all over and poop in my mouth while singing the Maresillaise. That’s when the insurance pays out, so there’s a few account managers in Manehattan who’re not getting any Hearth’s Warming bonuses, and I won’t need to work for the next year or two.”

She looked about the room for a moment and added almost as an afterthought: “Still, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer you didn’t do that.”

“Got it. No singing the Maresillaise.” Wait, was that too flippant? I found myself cringing again.

She grinned easily. “Hey, if you like the song, you’re still the boss.” She reached out her hoof again, and this time I let it rest on my shoulder. “I think I like you, Affine. Just don’t worry about the price, okay? It’s taken care of.”

I nodded. “Sorry for being so . . . technical about this.”

“It’s alright. You’re not the first client to be curious, and I can’t really expect you to open up your soul to me until you get to know me a bit. And we have lots of time. Hissy Fit said she won’t be back until one.”

I looked over at the big clock above Hissy’s desk. Two hours. I still wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I had to take some initiative.

“Can we do another hug?”

The couch wasn’t really a comfortable place for hugging, but Cinna said Hissy Fit had promised we could use her bed. I felt a bit self-conscious about lying down in my boss’s bed, even if my boss wasn’t in it at the time – but on the other hoof not messing up the bed would tell her I hadn’t even tried on the nice rent-a-cunt she’d gotten me. And I didn’t want that either. Yes, I know it sounds silly. To hay with it, I thought, and we settled down on the bed and hugged for a bit, nothing good friends couldn’t do. It was nice.

My mind kept coming back to that ‘anything you want’ thing, though, like your tongue seeks out a bit of straw stuck in your teeth. She couldn’t possibly mean anything anything?

“So for example, I could tie you up?”

Her friendly smile didn’t waver. “You certainly could.”

“And I could shove things into your ass until you scream and cry and beg me to stop, and then keep going anyway?”

“Hmmm.” She bit her lip. It felt like I had scored a point – why, she did have boundaries after all. “If you want loud screams, your boss’s neighbors might take offense, but we can always go and rent a sound-proofed . . .” She trailed off, suddenly lost in thought.

Then she looked at me kind of sadly. “Did somepony do that to you?”

I turned away from her, looking into the wall.

Vinyl towers above me, giggling with fascination. “Oh, look!” she exclaims, “he squirms when I twist it around!” I try to blink the sweat away from my eyes and squirm the best I can. Perhaps that will satisfy her. There has to be something that will; I just have to find it.

Cinna reached a hoof around my withers and hugged me silently until the shaking went away.

“Do you think it would make you feel better if you did that to someone yourself?”

I kept looking away. “You make it sound so easy.”

“To give or to receive it? Neither is easy, sweetie.”

“You know what I mean.” I could hear I sounded bitter, but I didn’t care. “Like it’s all in a day’s work.”

She stroked my mane for some time before she answered. “I’m sorry if it sounded that way. You know, I’m a professional, but do you think I ever leave for one of these jobs without worrying whether this is the one that’ll win me a six-moon recovery and a Mareibbean sabbatical?”

I turned to look at her. “How do you do it?”

She shrugged. “It pays very well. And I like helping ponies. Most times I go home knowing I’ve made a difference. But I know the risk and I choose to take it.” She looked at me significantly. “You didn’t choose, I think.”

I wanted to disagree and point out that everything had been a result of my bad choices. But I also saw that she was right, in her way. I never chose the consequences, only my actions. Did that somehow make it not my fault? I wasn’t sure. But I could see her point of view.

She gave an extra squeeze with the foreleg she had around me. “Do you want to tell me what happened? It will help.”

So I told her. The part I had already told to Bellchaser and Hissy Fit went easy this time, the rest not so much. But Cinna was patient and gentle, hugging me when something hurt to remember and somehow making the silence not be awkward when I needed time before I could put it into words. She sat up behind me and preened my wings while I spoke, even the sore spot on the left –

Vinyl’s head jerks upwards. “What was that? That sound!” Tavi, sitting off to the side, rolls her eyes. “I believe he said: Ow,” she says. Vinyl looks back at me. “Why, I don’t think I allowed him to speak. Did you?” A smile creeps slowly across her muzzle. “Oooh, I think that’s gonna cost another feather . . .”

When I ran out of story to tell, she lay beside me, her side pressed against mine. I could feel her breathing.

“Wow,” she said eventually. “Those two really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

I nodded, not sure if I’d start bawling again if I tried to answer.

“In your mind you know you didn’t deserve any of that, right?”

I nodded again. It still didn’t feel that way, but I couldn’t defend that feeling. “Thanks.” I put a hoof around her, gave a small squeeze.

“So, what I think you should do now is fuck me.”

“What? Now?” I pulled my hoof back and inched a bit away from her. Anything I want, I remembered, but was that what I wanted?

“You don’t have to, of course. Usually the point in case of a rape-like work experience – that’s you – is to give you back the experience of choosing for yourself. That’s why there has to be someone like me who’s ready and willing, so it’s a real choice.

“But you were told it all happened to you because you had sex in the first place. What you need to experience now is that you can give in to a mare and it won’t end badly. So, it’s still your choice, but I really think it’ll do you some good. Please, let me help you.”

That sounded very clinical to me. “Are you sure that will work when you’ve just told me how it works?”

“It’ll have to. If I didn’t tell you why, that would be manipulating you, and that’s the last thing you need now. It doesn’t have to be your reason, though. Don’t tell me you’re not at least tempted.”

I looked her over, trying to be objective. Yes, she was nice and sweet and right here and sort of attractive in a filly-next-door kind of way. But I also knew she was only in it for the bits, even if those bits were not mine, and that was just wrong.

Back between my legs, Finey Jr. began to register a minority opinion, that little traitor –

The feather floats before me, caught in Vinyl’s magical field. She turns it around slowly, regarding it critically. “Now what can we use this little fella for? Tickling was kind of a dud, and it’s too thin to do any good in the ass by now . . .” Suddenly she brightens up with an epiphany, and I know this can’t be good. “Urethra!” she proclaims triumphantly.

– but then it retracted back to the safety of its sheath. And you may call me shallow, but I wasn’t happy about that. Not that I particularly wanted to bone a prostitute, but abstaining by default because I couldn’t get it out was something different.

Hadn’t Cinna just said something like that, too? Perhaps there really was something wrong with me that she could fix.

“Suppose you’re right. How do you like it, then?”

“That’s up to you. Anything you want, remember?”

I hadn’t forgotten. “What if what I want is to at least try to make it good for you?”

“Can’t argue with that. Hmm. . .” She smiled sheepishly. “I do like wings.” She poked with her muzzle at my good wing.

I think I’ve mentioned that my sex life isn’t usually very adventurous. Even though I have wings, I’d never given any thought to how they might be used erotically – so if Cinna wanted that, I’d need to improvise. I unfurled the wing and wrapped it around her body, scratching her far side with its tip. “Like this?”

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes and shivered a little before snuggling closer to me. “Like that.”

I stuck my head down to the base of her neck and began nuzzling around in her fur. Before long I could feel the little jitters below her skin that show a mare is enjoying the attention. I usually like that – with all the mares who ever let me, sometimes even better than the actual sex. But now I couldn’t help feeling weirdly inappropriate, as if it was too intimate and private to do with a mere whore. It didn’t really make sense: I could picture myself perfectly well sticking my dick into her, but somehow still balked at foreplay? Get a grip on yourself, Finey.

As I moved up along her neck and cheek, it became difficult to keep my wing around her. I maneuvered myself around so I could reach her muzzle with the other wing and run the tips of the long feathers along her jaw. That must have been right; she gave a cute little squeal and buried her entire face in the wing.

This left me nibbling at her ear, which was pleasant enough – but it was becoming clear that I wouldn’t be sticking my dick anywhere at this speed. I rose halfway up on my hind legs to try and shake it out. That never works, of course. Not this time either.

“Here, let me help you with that,” said Cinna, and pushed me gently onto my side. She put her muzzle down to my sheath, and – oh, my! – stuck her tongue in to tickle the penis inside it.

That certainly helped! I popped out so fast that Cinna’s head was pushed aside, and she giggled softly and planted a little kiss on the shaft before she lay down again.

I crawled off the bed and stood on the floor, not to spoil the erection by lying flat on it. One of Cinna’s hind legs dangled lazily off the side of the bed, and I took to nibbling at its folds and joints while fondling her bum with a wing. Each time I swiped a feather across her mare parts a sudden tremor went through her body, and she made an adorably half-controlled little yelp.

Then she sort of slid down from the bed, in a flowing motion that left her standing with her hind end towards me, legs spread, rump lowered. She lifted her tail up and to the side and shoved her marehood towards me, pulsing and ready. Some fluid was trickling out from it and down towards her inside thighs. On impulse I stuck out my head and licked it up. She tasted a bit like Tavi had, but also stronger. Spicier.

I got an idea. “Um, actually, could you be upside down instead? On the bed?” Just saying it out loud got me twice as hard as I’d been. She had said anything, after all.

“Sure,” she replied immediately, as if that wasn’t weird at all. And just like that, she lay back up on the bed, legs toward the sky. “C’mere, stallion!”

I reared up between her legs and pushed into her, slowing down to savor the feeling of my cock being enveloped by warm, smooth flesh. Oh, that was good! As soon as I could reach I spread out my wings and wrapped them around her hind legs. She looked up at me with a hundred summer afternoons’ worth of lazy happiness, and grasped my forehooves with hers.

When I started thrusting it was her as much as me who set the rhythm, pulling me back and forth by the wings. Not that I minded; it was a new thing, thrusting together. She lay her head back on the bed and tossed it jerkily from side to side in step with our thrusts, while she whimpered happily: “oh . . . oh . . . yah . . . oh . . .”

And then, “oohOOWAAY!” and she pulled me towards her at the end of the thrust, and her body contracted around my cock, clenching it tightly, and then I came too, pumping out more than a week’s pent-up worry and fear that became something magical and good within her instead.

I let go of her legs and lay down on top of her, belly to belly like I had with Tavi. And just like Tavi did, she wrapped her legs around me and hugged tight, humming softly while I caught my breath. I wasn’t sure it was healthy for me to basically recreate the way I’d fucked Tavi, back when I still thought she was my friend. I wasn’t sure I cared either. If I really was broken forever, at least I’d choose to be a broken pony who could feel like this.

Cinna’s body had released its grip on my cock, and I could feel it begin to retract inside her. I remembered something Bellchaser said once, about how that’s the worst thing a stallion can do (don’t ask me how that came up; she seems to think that just because we’re part of the sex industry, anything she can think of is fair game for small talk), so I quickly climbed back off and lay down beside her instead, staring at the ceiling.

“So how do you feel now?” she asked.

I searched my mind, not looking at her. “I dunno,” I said to the room in general. “A bit sad.”

“Sad? Why?”

“Because you’re not for real.”

“I’m not? I don’t feel like a figment of anypony’s imagination.”

“You know what I mean. Even if I could afford to hire you myself –”

“You can’t. Trust me.”

“– it would just be an act. What would be the point?”

She strangled a sigh and sat halfway up. “Well, did you enjoy this?”

I had to smile. “I did. A lot.”

“That’s for real. Hold on to that. And what’s also for real is that your boss wanted you to have me so you could feel better.”

“I guess.” It did make it feel a bit less empty, thinking about it that way. “So what happens now?”

“Well –” she put her business face back on “– it can’t be long until your boss is back. Afterwards you still have a good five hours of anything you want left. Do you have a place we can go for that?”

“Oh? Sure.” I had allowed Bellchaser in to see the mess in my room last night; surely I could do the same for this mare who was being paid not to judge me.

“Good. There’s a lot of other things I can show you,” she said teasingly, “if you can get over not being for real.”

“Are you for real, though? I mean, did you enjoy this?”

She sighed sadly. “That’s the one thing you can never really know. Think about it: Even if I told you now that I did, how would you know I’m not lying?”

“True.” I remember how she had looked when we climaxed, how she had felt. “You’d have to be a pretty good actress, though.”

“Oh, but I am; that’s part of the job. Half actress, half psychologist, half slit-for-hire.”

“That makes more than one!”

She reached over a hoof to boop me on the muzzle. “Why do you think I’m so expensive, sweetie?”

And then we heard the front door open, and Hissy Fit was back.

16. Epilogue

In the later years, after recordings began making it back to the mainland to become unexpected cult hits, it became fashionable among a certain faction of the avant-garde in Canterlot and Manehattan to travel to master classes on Windhowl Key during the summer moons, braving the elements. The ponies who went came back full of inspiration and anecdotes to tell their friends.

Yes, it was clear even to one who hadn’t seen the pictures that she must have been beautiful in her youth. Her teaching was captivating, otherworldly, magnetic – even if she never raised her voice and her lavender eyes always wore the same melancholy expression. No, they couldn’t explain it.

That wasn’t what the audience wanted to hear about, of course. “Is it true what they say?” they asked, again and again. “Did she try anything?”

The returning students would grin nervously before admitting that they didn’t know. They’d all had the rules drilled into them on the ship, and if one or two were curious or rebellious enough to break them, they certainly weren’t fools enough to admit it afterwards.

Always walk in pairs. Carry a whistle. Don’t answer personal questions. Never be alone with the Maestra.

1. Prologue

“This should be it, 413 Starview Lane. Our client made the appointment yesterday evening, with a trigger time of 8 AM. Since it was not canceled by then, per the usual terms of service we have two hours to be here.”

“Then what are we doing here at quarter to nine?” I stifle a yawn. We’re standing in front of a nondescript apartment block in what passes for a middle-class neighborhood in Canterlot, far too early on a chilly Saturday morning that I’ve just discovered is an hour earlier than it needs to be.

“We’re going above and beyond for maximal consumer satisfaction. If it was you who had been stuck in there all night and needed rescue, I’m sure you would want a prompt one. Why are you even on the morning shift if it has to be like this each time?”

Bellchaser, my partner, is always insufferably peppy on these morning jobs. Or perhaps she’s the same all the time, and it’s just me who’s a grump when I’ve been called into work at a time when reasonable ponies are still sleeping in. Oh well, I did sign up for it myself, and the bits are nice enough to earn.

“Yeah yeah,” I admit, and walk through the street door. There’s a resident directory posted on the wall at the bottom of the stairwell.

“It’s supposed to say Warmblood on the door,” says Bellchaser, still reading from the appointment slip.

“Third floor, then.”

She charges up the stairs, and I follow her, idly admiring her butt. She’s not really my type, but I’ve yet to meet a mare whose butt I didn’t like. Hers is round and yellow, with a straight well-groomed green tail running severely down the middle, as if to challenge everyone to try to catch a glimpse of the goodies behind it. She’s a writer, or so she says, though I don’t think she’s published anything.

I, by the way, am just your average pegasus grad student at the Canterlot Institute of Mathematics and Theoretical Magic, supplementing my stipend with this slightly less average side job. Name’s Affine Scheme, but most ponies call me Finey.

The usual doctrine is that we’re supposed to knock twice with three minutes in between, to give the client some time to freshen up if they’ve just forgotten to cancel. But as soon as I start banging on the door we can hear faint cries of help coming from the inside. Bellchaser already has the deposited key ready, so we open the door and move in.

Following the voice, we find a living room that has a big solid metal cage standing on the floor. There’s a pony inside it, a unicorn slightly past his best age, wearing a diaper.

“Good morning, sir,” I say. “We’re from The Rescue Service. I take it you need a hoof here?”

“Please,” the client says, hoarsely. He’s also wearing a dog collar, which is chained to one of the top bars of the cage and secured with a bright red padlock. If he’s been there the whole night it can’t have been comfortable, not being able to lie down.

“Okay. So where’s the keys to the padlocks?”

“She has them,” he says. “She just gave me the padlocks and ordered me to lock myself up with them before she arrived yesterday. But she didn’t come.”

“How fortunate that you have an account with The Rescue Service, then,” says Bellchaser. She’s at the other end of the cage, studying the padlock that keeps its door closed. “Afraid we’re gonna have to ruin your cage, though. It’ll be easier to cut than the padlock.” She fetches an angle grinder from her saddlebag.

Usually she handles the destructive rescuing tasks – she can work power tools with her horn, whereas I would be looking at half an hour with a hacksaw. Instead I tend to the client.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” If he hasn’t had anything since yesterday, he’s in danger of dehydration. I hand him a bottle of hypotonic sport drink from my bag.

He grabs it with his magic and makes a face at the taste but drinks almost half of it before pausing for breath. “Ahh. Didn’t think I’d be thirsty enough to drink that.”

I shrug. “It’s good for the fluid balance, though. You know, we could have been here a lot earlier if you hadn’t specified a cancel time as late as 8 AM.”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t know how long she would stay. She wouldn’t like it if she knew I had an arrangement. Says it shows I don’t trust her enough.”

The thought of her (whoever she is) not liking it is evidently scary to him. I wonder which kind of marefriend wouldn’t want there to be a backup plan in case something happened to her. It sounds very irresponsible, and not just because I earn bits by being the backup plan.

He shifts around in the cage, looking worried. “Do you think that she has . . . that she . . .”

I let him continue the thought himself. Given what we do in the Service, we do come into contact with tragedy from time to time – but most often it’s a matter of canceled trains, unexpected overtime demands, surprise parental visits, mundane things like that. Of course we don’t know what happened in this particular case, and it’s not my job to comfort the client with pretty lies.

“. . . that . . . I should have paid her more?”

I think I manage to keep my face neutral. “I couldn’t possibly say, sir.”

Bellchaser finishes cutting through the cage door’s hinges while I wait for the client to finish the sport drink. She floats a pair of pruning shears into the cage and cuts through the dog collar. It hangs dangling from the top of the cage in its chain and padlock.

“Right, there you go, sir,” she says. “You should get yourself cleaned up and get some rest before you start disposing of all this. Say, can we borrow your phone to call our head office?”

“Of course. In the hallway.”

She goes out to call home. The client gives me back the bottle and backs out of the cage, flopping down on a couch. I’m glad I’m not responsible for the state of the cushions that come into contact with that overnight diaper.

“Pretty high-end service you’re providing here, sending two ponies to pull one out of a cage.”

“Oh, we always work in pairs, sir. It happens that we meet our clients in positions where they’d be, um, easy to take advantage of. When there are two of us to keep an eye on each other, it’s your guarantee that nothing untoward happens.”

“Ah, I see.” He winks at me conspiratorially, tilting his head towards the door Bellchaser left by. “You’ve got a very nice partner there, son. Congratulations! I wouldn’t mind a one-pony rescue team if –”

Why does every other client seem to assume we’re a couple just because we work together? “Don’t congratulate me, sir. For all I know she doesn’t even like stallions.”

“Oh. Shame.”

We’re back down on the street, and Bellchaser is rummaging through the client directory.

“Just so you know, as far as Mr. Warmblood up there is concerned, you’re hereby a fillyfooler.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure he’s devastated. He did look the kind, with that little love nest of his –”

“Love nest?”

“Didn’t you see how the place was furnished? Only the bare minimum of things, plucked from a checklist without any sense of style or soul. That’s not somewhere to live in, just a place to sneak away and rut.”

I shrug. “I assumed he was just a bachelor. Remind me never to let you see what my digs look like.”

“Oh Finey, you’re hopeless. Be glad I like you. Anyway, old Fizzy had a second job for us.”

“Two jobs? On a Saturday morning? Did an airship crash and all the doms perish in fire?”

Now it’s her time to shrug. “She didn’t tell me. But, Finey dear, it happens that I’ve promised to pick up my niece at the train station in half an hour. Could you possibly potentially do that second job by yourself so I don’t have to leave a poor little filly alone, crying because auntie was supposed to be there but isn’t?”

“Huh. Why are you even on the on-call list, then? Sounds like somepony neglected to arrange for a backup plan in case she ends up deserting a helpless pony whose wellbeing she’s responsible for, due to circumstances out of her control. I hear there are commercial outfits that offer such a service . . .”

“Oh, haha. Yes, let’s branch out into emergency foalsitting too. We already handle diapers after all. But really, Finey, you know I need the bits. And, as you said, there’s never ever two morning jobs on the same day. Please?”

“Why didn’t you just tell Fizzy to call in somepony else?”

“I can’t! I did that once already this month. She’d flay me!”

“Like that would ever happen. I haven’t even seen her throw an actual hissy fit, ever. And you know we’re not supposed to go alone!”

“Come on, I know you, Affine Scheme. You’re a completely principled and upstanding stallion, and I know you’re not going to ravish a client just because I’m not there to chaperone you. Please, Finey!”

As I said, she’s not really my type. But she does do the best puppy eyes this side of Smokey Mountain.

“Okay, alright. But you’re gonna owe me.”

“Yes, anything you need. Thank you thank you thank you! Look, I have to run. Here’s the appointment slip and here’s the key. Trigger time was half an hour ago. Thanks!”

Then she’s off, galloping downtown with half of our kit in her saddlebags. It’ll be okay, I suppose. Most of the tools are ones we use only rarely.

I look at the appointment slip. O. Melody, 1508 Ampersand Terrace. That’s up in Camebury. Shouldn’t be a problem. If I fly, I’ll even have time to grab some breakfast on the way.

I take to the air, waving at Mr. Warmblood through his kitchen window on the way up.