Chapters All in all, Rainbow Dash enjoyed getting horny. It wasn’t something that she went out of her way to stir up. Indeed, days might go by without a single thought on the matter—she filled a lot of her time with raw awesome, after all—but when the warm, wiggly urge came upon her it was a good way to liven up a quiet morning, afternoon, or evening.
Sometimes all three.
What? She couldn’t be napping on her clouds all the time, now could she? She did occasionally use her own bed. Like now.
Masturbation wasn’t even one of her more awesome activities. Flying was way better. That and saving the world, which was like the coolest thing ever. Nailed it! It couldn’t compare at all .
Truth be told, Rainbow Dash mentally gauged the awesome factor of her infrequent, spontaneous mastuerbarion sessions to be about roughly equal to reading the good bits of a Daring Doo book, of which there were many. Indeed, the two activities occasionally overlapped in a casual, not-particularly-related kind of way. Usually. If she was already laying down in bed, why not do both? Today, however, she was not interested in multi-tasking her efforts.
But if there was a downside to it all, a single something that might make her frown when considering the otherwise simple, reliable and satisfactory activity that was masturbating, it was this:
Rainbow Dash never particularly knew what to think about.
Today, as every day before, her mind flickered from image to image, browsing through ideas and memories for something, anything, with that extra bit of wow . Faces, activities, fantasies. Combinations of the three that were more likely to make her giggle at the absurdity than come.
She had to get more tortoise chow from Fluttershy, she remembered idly; though, as it was, Tank had enough to last him a while. Not like he ate much. Dash rolled her eyes, trying to regain her broken stride.
Dash rolled to her side, keeping up her efforts with casual ease. Her body was...well, her body was responding, she could feel that for certain, both from inside and from the heated, smooth texture underhoof, but her mind just wasn’t in it. Grunting a breath and squinting her eyes shut, Dash concentrated on thinking up a certain special something that’d really get her feathers off.
Faces flicked across her mind’s eye. Fluttershy? Eh, certainly better than Tank, in any case. But Fluttershy didn’t really do anything for her. Mentally, Dash put her doting friend through a quick tryout anyway: poses and actions, hooves and tongues and cliches. It wasn’t that Fluttershy wasn’t very pretty—she certainly was, with dresses and flowers and that junk—but Dash wasn’t interested in getting off on pretty.
Not to mention that Fluttershy was, like, a good friend of hers, which didn’t help matters all that much.
The backdrop of Dash’s imagination flicked over to nighttime. On a whim, she put Fluttershy through bat-ification. Taking a deeper breath, she amped up the effort, just a little bit. Not bad, Dash had to admit with a kind of ambivalent, figurative nod. There was a certain kind of sexiness there, sure, and that freaky bat-tongue was promising, but the teeth it came with? Uh, no thanks.
Besides, she thought Fluttershy was so, well, shy , that the only way to imagine her getting into this kind of stuff, even in Dash’s rather easy-going imagination, was to reinvent Fluttershy’s personality entirely, to the point that the whole thing became a big joke. Or coerce her, and that sort of stuff was definitely not cool by Rainbow Dash. Just thinking of that, even in passing, knocked her back down a peg.
Grumbling again, Dash huffed out a breath and went again onto her back, her wings sprawling, half-open, out from under her. She swapped hooves with little enthusiasm, wiping the one on her hip.
Fluttershy was a bust. Dash mentally shrugged an apology to the mare.
Part of her was amused by all this, in a sarcastic kind of way, but mostly Rainbow Dash was feeling frustrated. With some willpower she could make it happen, simply hoof-power enough stimulation into her genitals to force the matter, like she could force clouds against the wind if she wanted to, but that would be making the whole thing into work. Really dull, pointless work. Today she wanted better than the minimum satisfaction.
“Ugh.” She flopped back to her side no more comfortable than she’d been before. She swapped hooves again, back to her usual. A stray idea, all glimmering and bright, bounced off her conscious. Her eyes shot open.
The Wonderbolts, of course! Ah yeah, that was a feeling she could get behind, or more specifically, on top of. Rainbow Dash hastily built the scene. Firstly, the cast: All of them. All the Wonderbolts. Buck yes! Genius!
The place? The starting line, of course, with everypony there gleaming and totally radical in their flight suits, the wind roaring far below them as the crowds cheered with crazed anticipation. The sudden, wild rush as the race started, the flurry of colours and sounds that rushed past as she pushed herself for that extra bit of speed, that extra sharp turn.
Dash was on her second imagined lap (A three-way neck-to-neck-to-neck with Soarin’ and Spitfire that sent the spectators absolutely ballistic ) before she realized that she’d kind of maybe got distracted. Her clopping hoof wasn’t. She’d forgotten this whole session...thing she’d had going entirely.
The awesome daydream popped away in an instant. Growling, Dash took to pleasing herself with angry vehemence. Pulling herself up and hunching over she went at it with gritted-teeth gusto.
It wasn’t bad, actually, that little observant bit of herself noted curiously. More, you know, unrestrained. Forceful. Yeah, yeah, yeah ...only...it was kind of making her hoof cramp up. And the soreness in that was a bit more notable than the sexy tingles lower down. After a few furiously fast strokes and a great, vexatious groan Rainbow Dash flopped back down.
Holding a grudge every step of the way, Rainbow Dash gave up on her imagination. With a silent, mental “Fine, ” she tried to think of the really mundane, tried and true stuff.
Cocks. Bigger. Nope, bigger. Wait, no, too big. Too big was kinda gross, actually. She cropped the image. Eh, close enough. Oh, and the stallions that had those cocks, of course. Plots. Ponies that wiggled their butts. Kissing, and blowjobs, and ponies that were really into licking her stuff but not touching her hooves.
Not particularly satisfied with any of those images, she mushed them all together and threw her hapless, fictional ponies into a big senseless orgy that combined it all.
“No. No. No,” she grunted with poor patience. “Ugh.”
Maybe she needed, like, a magazine, or something? Her imagination was seriously letting her down today. She considered giving up on it altogether.
Not like Ponyville had any of that sort of, uh, specialty shop anyway. Not like she’d checked or anything, but Rainbow Dash knew her town. Did a couple ponies have little stashes they’d built up from other places, or through the mail? Maybe. Probably.
Maybe she’d think about it next time she decided to hop up to Cloudsdale, or bounce over to one of the groundside cities. Were there, like, subscriptions, with deliveries for junk like that?
The next thought bumped into her head nearly sideways: Would Twilight Sparkle know? Dash actually paused her manual efforts to snortle. Oh yeah, sure. Actually, she probably did. Didn’t they always say the quiet nerdy ones got the freakiest?
Changing up her style a bit, Dash pulled herself up with a crunch. Grabbing the pillow, she shoved it down between her legs and squeezed until it was a warm, taut pressure against her thighs. Her hooves on top to steady it, she rolled her hips and rode the motions out like waves of tingly, belly-fluttering goodness.
Twilight, eh? Dash didn’t entertain the thought seriously, but for the sheer tickly humour of it she let it play out. And she’d have that crazy-awesome librarian like putty in her hooves, no doubt of that. It’d be like magic.
Magic, heh. Sure, Twilight always had a spell for everything, too. Even sex. Why not? She slapped a dick onto that pretty purple pony princess. The look on Twilight’s face alone was more than enough for some breathless giggles to break up Dash’s stride.
“Ah, books,” Dash mimicked in a silly tone, “now, at long last, I can show you how much I really love you!”
Fantasy-Twi’s face was an exaggeration of blushing, drooling delight as she propped up a good-sized tome and lay it open on her reading desk. Imagining how Twilight would prop herself up against it, Dash let Twilight have at it, and oh how the pony took to giving herself a bookjob with such earnest enthusiasm.
It was too much. Dash had to breathe, the giggling was too much, and there was no way she could keep her own efforts. When she imagined Twilight Sparkle swapping around to go down on her book with tender, impish affection Rainbow Dash lost it altogether; it felt like she’d suffocate for want of air for laughing.
Dash pressed down with her hoof to work the pillow deeper between her legs. It felt good. Good enough to make her really want it, and really believe this would be a good one. She peeked under the edge of her friendly, helpful pillow. A telltale patch of damp was all she needed to see to get that little bit further into the sexy mood.
When it came to her, she knew this was the simplest image of all, and that made it totally genius. The best of radical, definitely. It was the image of herself, in her head, here and now. Rainbow Dash envisioned how she must look from every angle, how every part of her moved with the easy power hidden in her lean form.
Her earlier image crept back, intermingled with the newcomer. “What’cha ‘reading’ there, Twilight?” Rainbow Dash asked, unwilling and unable to keep the giggles from her voice. In her imagination she was reaching past Twilight, flipping up the cover of the book. It read:
THE BOOK OF AWESOME: RAINBOW DASH: THE BOOK.
“Ha! No wonder you can’t resist it...”
And as Twilight wiped her lips and winked coyly at the cover, she swapped places with the book again, giving those pages the full heft of her meaty bookmark. Dash knew that ponies would be so jealous, rightly so—none of them had earned a book of awesome like her— and that only stoked her arousal hotter. Without really thinking about it, she reached her idle hoof across her chest to play with her wing. The new rush of sensation was her immediate reward. It was a concentrated effort to keep humping her pillow while simultaneously working her wing over with quick, fervid strokes along its heft.
Her giggling from the silly fantasy was making her light-headed. “Yeah, Twilight, you can’t get enough of that, can you? You should totally check out chapter four. And five. Chapter six has additional reading,” she suggested coyly. “Mmm, yeah, go for it.”
Dash could hear her own husky, erratic breathing. Heck, she figured she could even smell herself, a musk permeating the air. The symptoms of her own arousal were...arousing her even more. It was awesome .
Fantasy Twilight was flushed with colour; in Dash’s mind she yelped and closed the book over her shaft, grunting cutely and tilting her head back as she added a chapter.
Deciding she was good to go herself, Rainbow Dash knocked the pillow away in a flurry of hasty kicks and furiously rubbed at herself; a mixed pattern of long gliding motions and furiously quick little circles at that one really good bit, you know, that little one.
She was moaning, and groaning, and her back was arching up spasmodically while her wings were so stiff it ached. They flapped erratically outside of her control, slapping against the bed with as much a sense of urgency as anything. Groans turned to gasps and, with her teeth gritted in a pleasured grimace, Dash finished the race.
First place, of course. And driving headlong into her victory lap.
She fell back with the sheen of sweat and the stink of sex all about her when it was over. Settling in for that well-earned nap, she dragged the intimately acquainted pillow back up to its place under her head. She groaned one last time, flipping the pillow to its dry side.
“Mmm,” she murmured as she snuggled deeper into bed and the sleep therein, “There totally
Author's Note
If you liked this, let me know! Sufficent reaction will spur me on to do set this to 'incomplete' and write five more, one for each other pony of The Six. Have a particular request? Couldn't hurt to drop it below.
What could you say of Fluttershy’s sexuality? Truth was, she didn’t have the best of relationships with herself in that regard. Really, it could have been healthier.
She’d always been a meek pony. Adolescence had only exacerbated the matter. In fact, Fluttershy had stumbled through it with an awkward, gangly gait, and the whole process had nearly been resolved by the time she really began to notice meaning behind the occasional breathless, tight feelings she had, hidden in under the social terror.
Of course, she knew all about sex, and breeding, and the logistics of reproduction. That was all nature; natural and celebrated, in its way. But that understanding always came with a subtle division of self from subject.
‘Sex’, in casual conversation with Fluttershy, was a word for gender. ‘Hot’ was a temperature, and ‘sexy’ warranted an immediate blush and an emergency screen of defensive hair to hide behind.
Indeed, the conscious mind of Fluttershy had very little to do with sex, and sexuality, and all the memorable messes that came with it.
The un conscious mind of Fluttershy, however; that was a different matter. A different matter entirely.
All this meant that sexual release for Fluttershy was very rare, an occurrence to be measured on the scale of seasons. Like the swarming of honeybees it came from hidden, internal prompts so that a myriad number of tiny tensions, frustrations and desires came out in a nascent, nigh-unstoppable rush of urges, and one entirely detached from consciousness. Bees didn’t think about happening, they just did .
Today was one of those such days, and though she thought knew nothing of it yet, she was already being tugged at subtly by her own awakening needs. And there was much honey to be had.
We find Fluttershy in her bathroom. It is like most bathrooms, with the amenities one would typically expect. But Fluttershy’s lifestyle had a way of spilling over into every possible corner of her time and space, and the bathroom of her home was no exception.
As such the bath was almost always full, and was presently the happy abode of a half dozen baby turtles. A fat, shining shubunkin brushed with white and gold swam stately curves between their number: a Ponyvillian pegasus had had to give him up after moving residence to Cloudsdale. There was simply no safe way to keep a fish in the sky. Until a more prestigious home could be found for Royal Ribbons (for he had a long, billowing tale) he was content to preside over the bumbling, aimless terrapins as their magnanimous bath-tub emperor.
Overhead sat budgeraries atop the mirror, jockeying for positions amongst one another that only they knew the meanings of while the air was a discordant melody of their quick chirping. It played against Fluttershy’s own musical humming, a rich and quiet tone that seemed to want to come alive, to become lyrics and song. Humming her tune, she danced elegantly through the motions of cleaning and feeding.
And today it did become song. Natural, unwritten, with words that came and went like the breeze. Silly words, just whatever happened to bounce across her thoughts as she nurtured the tune. The budgeraries paused in their antics to regard her quizzically, to test her song with a few chirped notes. Fluttershy accepted, and the song grew. Even the burbling water of bath-tub fins found a place in the melody. She finished her task here with unexpected energy that left her giddy and breathless.
“That was lovely,” she said with a contented sigh. As the song faded and her body calmed Fluttershy relaxed, yet under that there was still this energy. A secret, motive force inside.
Lowering a bucket gently into the tub, she tipped it slowly, letting the water flow inside sedately. Without a word to prompt them the baby turtles dutifully flippered their way inside, not without some effort. “I’ll be right back,” she said to the rest of her denizens. Of course they knew she would be. Every morning the terrapins were taken to the pond and every afternoon were brought back inside for the night.
Fluttershy hesitated and, acting on an impulse opened the window. “You too,” she urged, meaning the budgeraries. “It’s a beautiful day outside.” The little birds chirped, hopped about one another and reaching some manner of consensus alighted in quick succession, streaming out the window in a flow of colours.
It was a quick trip out and back. As she tended to do, Fluttershy took a moment to ponder just what should be done with Royal Ribbons. Ideally she’d prefer him to be in a pond, there was a secluded little pool in WhiteTail Woods just off one of the trails she had in mind for him, but the shubunkin was having none of it. He was captive-bred, a pampered fish from the start, and definitely thought that he preferred a home of artifice where he knew he’d be seen and admired. Fluttershy had tried being coy, but he’d proven better at it.
Ultimately, she knew, she’d take a firmer hoof with Royal Ribbons. She’d try him on the pond; if only he’d give it a chance, she was sure he’d be very happy with it. But for now she kept him close by, her eyes and ears open to Ponyville. Maybe something would come up.
With the bathroom nearly to herself her thoughts took on a more secretive manner. That was to say, Fluttershy thought of herself, something she didn’t necessarily do often.
Most of the cottage was empty at this time of day. Those animals that did hang around were unobtrusive, having made it through the hustle and bustle of the morning, now awaiting the afternoon to resume matters where they’d left off.
Though she typically went to her couch to relax, where she could better keep an eye on everyone, today Fluttershy went to her bedroom. Yet, as soon as she’d walked into the room she’d walked out again, nearly like she’d been repelled, and what followed was an aimless, ever-so-slightly distraught wandering through the upstairs, as if she’d been looking for something.
Her meanderings brought her back to the bathroom. Royal Ribbons, swimming his lazy loops, acknowledged her with a blurble of bubbles.
“I am going to have a bath,” said Fluttershy, somewhat to her own surprise. So...decisive!
There was a number of glass fish bowls about the place. Fluttershy didn’t like them all that much, she was concerned that they were always a bit small, but she’d inadvertently picked up a few over the years and hadn’t the heart to actively get rid of them.
With a bit of fishing on her part, she scooped the shubunkin up into the largest such bowl she had to hoof. He was, all in all, a little more comfortable with the snug space than she’d have liked, but it’d do for little stints like this.
She really would have preferred to get him into that pond. Another time.
The drain gurgled. Not loud, but in the quiet it seemed that way. Royal Ribbons in his bowl was like a crystal ball, swirling, flashing in gold and white as it caught the light of the window. She set him by the sink, just out of sight. Then she closed the window.
As she placed the plug and turned the tap steamy warmth washed out over the porcelain. When the water was a few inches deep and the steam a few inches more, Fluttershy put her hoof to it it. Hot, painfully so.
Wincing and holding her breath, she carefully flapped her wings. Up, over, and down into the bath, the tap still spitting and spurting noisily. The steam swirled fitfully under every wingbeat. She held her lips tightly together as all four hooves stood in the near-scalding water. By degrees it became more bearable, changing with acclimation from something that had to be endured to something that could be enjoyed.
Heat swirling under her and creeping up her legs, Fluttershy steadied her breathing. Every new inch the water touched was a new inch that had to adjust. Drawing the curtain shut, she lowered herself delicately into the bath. Shuddering, willing herself to endure, Fluttershy settled down into the steaming water.
Lining the shelf were a series of bottles. Nothing so varied as the collection that Rarity boasted, what Fluttershy had was limited, and most was for the animals at that. But there was one bottle there, pink, with pink goo that had dribbled and spurted out from its cap from its repeated use.
It was about a third full. More than enough for Fluttershy’s purposes. Her heartbeat rising and hot, moist air filling her lungs, she reached for it.
Bubblebath.
It had all started innocently enough, with Zecora’s remedial bubblebath. Fluttershy had liked it, so much so, that she’d then begun to get her own, from time to time. Now she always had an aroused flutter inside her when she put a bottle of the stuff in her shopping basket.
Fluttershy might have cried from embarrassment if ever were she to confront the fact that what she had here was a fetish. She would have denied it, if she had known, but that’s what it was: a fetish. In the truest sense of the word, she’d attached significance to a mundane thing beyond what was normal.
As the suds welled up under the tap, up over her hooves and up between her legs Fluttershy felt a positively sexual thrill. It all had to do obstruction, you see. Fluttershy could only muster up the selfishness to ever indulge in something like masturbation if a small but necessary corner of her thoughts could, in fact, deny everything. Out of sight, out of mind and in between her legs with a fervent hoof, so to speak. With the soapy cloud of bubbles growing by the second Fluttershy felt her anxious excitement grow.
When she did finally stop the tap, only her head and the tops of her wings were above the water. The rest was below, and below the bubble bath too, and that filled the air with the creamiest of cherry scents.
It was a quality product, this. It had to be, not for her sake, but for the animals in her care. As such Fluttershy’s bubblebath was high-end stuff, safe for skin and feather and sensitive scale alike. And other things.
Leaning her forehead backwards into the water and carefully thinking nothing, her hooves wasted no time in patting down her torso. Her stomach. Her legs. The mesh of bubbles crinkled, shifted and popped with every motion. Fluttershy’s eyes were tightly shut, her lips pursed in a frown of concentration. When her hooves slipped between her legs they did not shy away, therefore; Fluttershy touched herself with soapy, sudsy slipperiness. Already sensitive from the near-scalding heat, every pass of her hooves as they explored around her bubble-hidden privacy brought on a stifled moan and a slithering pleasure that made it impossible to stay perfectly still.
“Oh, momma likes her bath,” she crooned. Fluttershy splayed her legs wider, as the bath allowed for. A gentle rush of hot water swashed back over her.
Splish-splash splish-splash were the sounds that scattered the silence. Eyes still firmly shut and mind carefully blank Fluttershy’s moans steadily became gasps. By the time she ended up spilling water and suds onto the floor she was far too lost in her own sensations to think anything of it, or think anything at all for that matter.
Let it just be said that Fluttershy has as an adorable, yet distressing, orgasm squeak. She tensed up, her hooves kicked at the backing, her thighs clenched forcefully, her chest rose and fell with desperate, airy breaths. Her hoof was slipping and sliding, however; it was her rubbing frantic circles at her swollen bead of a clitoris that did it for her.
Fluttershy was red-faced and breathing hard, only now did she open her eyes and and look, wide eyed, at everything. The heat had sunk through her every inch.
She didn’t stop there. Forcing a deep breath into herself Fluttershy got back on the horse, so to speak. If the first had been an act of considerate self-indulgence, than this second run was something feral and determined. Chunks of bubblebath were being flung about the place: more than once Fluttershy had to wipe a pink cloud clear of her face.
Fluttershy was meticulously not imagining herself being ridden hard, nigh-mercilessly, by the ponies she knew. Of course not. They definitely weren’t clustered around her, prodding her, stroking her, spattering themselves upon her, them telling her to do things that she, as a good girl, would never do.
“Don’t stop! Momma didn’t say to stop,” she huffed, urging her suitors of fancy as they clamoured for her. Fluttershy’s second orgasm crashed into her almost painfully, she quivered all up and down, tensing helplessly as the convulsions took her for another wild spin.
Fluttershy was frantic, and feverish with heat and stimulation. Her heart was fit to burst. Her lungs felt strained to their limits. Any attempt to describe sensations lower still would be an understatement. She could feel each erratic quiver in herself with a nigh electric shock.
She stopped, out of necessity, to rest. The water was cooler now, and though the steam still filled the air it was not the hot bath it had been. The frothy bubblebath had taken a beating at Fluttershy’s hooves: smatterings of pink lined the lower sections of the walls, there was bubble bath in her hair and over her hips it was much thinner than it had been. Dissolving slowly with an almost audible sizzle Fluttershy could see, from quick glances by the corner of her eye, that her veil was not so obstructive as it had been. The blurred outline of her hoof was visible to her. Fluttershy blushed and looked away.
When the water was tepid, genuinely cold-seeming compared to the intensity of what it had been, and the bubblebath was a last skim of fizz and foam dissolving, Fluttershy pulled herself up. Water sleeted down her body, from her hair and the tips of her wings. Fluttershy trembled as it coursed in rivulets down her legs. The air was still thick with steam. Everything Fluttershy saw was softened by that haze.
She drained the bath for the second time that day. Later, she would rinse it out to make it suitable for its denizens again. For the moment though she was so drained, of energy, of tension. She stumbled against the towel rack and burying her face in one she breathed in, steadying her nerves in the soft darkness as it enveloped her senses. A last few cloudbursts of pink bubblebath littered the area. The tub itself, the floor, the walls. A few telltale streaks lined Fluttershy, too, and part of her was frantically alarmed by each one, though; for the moment she was tranquil in her exhaustion.
Wrapping the towel about her still-dripping hair, Fluttershy paused as she paused Royal Ribbons in his bowl on the countertop She wiped at the foggy glass. He swam deft loops that flashed golden, white and golden again.
“Oh,” she whispered, stunned with the revelation. An audience. She’d had an audience. She’d never had an audience before. Someone else had heard her do what she hadn’t even allowed herself to see. “Oh my.”
Royal Ribbons danced his colours for her. He, at least, enjoyed an audience. “I’ll open the window for you,” she said. “You know, I mean, um, the birds. I want to go lie down now, but they’ll come back soon. They’ll keep you company, okay?”
And at that, Fluttershy, still damp and hot, went to bed. Not to sleep, though; she was certainly quieter and gentler with herself than she had been.
Author's Note
I may revisit this one later on and give Fluttershy a sillier version as well. Would you like that?
Every tick of the clock was tocking directly into Applejack’s brain, until she was gritting her teeth with the effort of keeping still and quiet. She checked it again, like she had done every few seconds. Seven to be exact, going from what she’d last seen of it. It was nearly twenty minutes past the hour, and she’d shown up even before that just to be sure of the appointment.
There’d been a mixed assortment of magazines for her to pass the time with, mostly worn and outdated things that had to do with who’s who and what’s what. Though she never had cared for social drama and the celebrity game the minutes had pressed down on her until even the years-old Hot New Styles !! was tolerable, if only as something to hide her eyes in.
Applejack had already looked over every inch of the room from her uncomfortably tight-backed seat, and if she had to do it again she felt the doctors might just have to send her down to the other wing of the building, the one where the residents tended to be lead about by quiet, insistent nurses who never, ever made any sudden movements.
The overweight mare with the pudgy cheeks playing receptionist had not moved an inch, save to turn the pages of, Applejack suspected, what was Hott er, New er Styles !!! with perfect mechanical indifference.
“The nurse will see you now,” she announced in a reedy tone that would not have sounded all that different had she said it with her mouth closed. There was no prompt, no little bell ringing or knock on the old oak door that separated out herefrom in there . Just the announcement, just like that.
“Uh, you mean me?” Applejack asked, looking about the place only to receive a mildly caustic over-rim look. “Oh, right, of course. I’m the only pony here, aren’t I? Excepting yourself, but, um, yeah. Right.”
“The nurse will see you now,” came the nasal whine again, this time a little reproachful. Repetition took effort.
Applejack stood up. Shifting from hoof to hoof she glanced at the clock, and the walls, again. “I’m going in to see the nurse now,” she announced, her voice barely cracking at all. “Because that’s what I’m here to do. Me. See the nurse. Because that’s what ponies do. When they’re here, which is the clinic.”
The receptionist’s magazine shut with a glossy slap. The mare herself wasn’t much better.
Applejack went still. She took a deep breath that made the air seem a little less heavy on her. She gingerly pushed her way through the swinging door.
The nurse’s office. Things, and stuff, with a whole eclectic mix up of strange-looking implements. Something bumped her flank and she jumped. The swinging door! Cursing herself in embarrassment, Applejack stepped aside and let the door do its thing. It closed with a soft, reassuring waft of air.
Sitting at a desk in the center of the room was nurse Redheart, flicking through a sheaf of papers. She looked...tired, frowning a little bit with concentration, but with a softness around her eyes that made Applejack feel like the nurse was, all things considered, confident and in control of her work.
Having caught herself staring, she blinked and once more sent her eyes to the tour of off-white walls and ceiling.
“You can take a seat on the bed,” said the nurse. A starchy white paper-sheet covered a clinical-looking mattress.
The white mare clicked her sheets’ edge on the desktop, making a smooth stack that she set down. Standing, she stretched with a deep rump-lifting bow. Sighing pleasurably as she came back up, she regarded Applejack with a wry smile. “Sorry about that. So, you made the appointment for a check-up, was it?”
“Uh, yeah. And you mean sit here?”
“That’s right. I’m a little curious, though. Since when does Applejack the Stubborn make doctor’s appointments?”
Applejack tried to settle in on the gauzey paper. She blinked. “Ain’t you a nurse?”
“Same difference,” said definitely-nurse Redheart with a pout that was quick to fade. “Are you feeling alright? Head, stomach, hooves maybe?”
“What? No, that’s all fine. All fine and dandy, yes-siree.”
“That’s good to hear. Just lay back for me, if you would, and I’ll just take a quick look over you.”
“Alright.”
Applejack tried to be polite and proper, but every little motion crinkled the paper sheeting under her. Something about that made her feel awful self-conscious. She wasn’t tracking dirt in through this proper-clean office now, was she? It was too much to check, and it was a physical effort to bring her head down onto the thin, hollow-seeming pad of fluff they called a ‘pillow’.
Nurse Redheart was humming a few notes of melody. She poked a bit here and there at Applejack with a gentle, yet authoritative hoof. “So you said you’re all fine. Anything bothered you recently? Sick or injured, anything like that?”
Applejack shook her head. It was fine a chance as any for the nurse to examine her neck and chin. “Nothing like that, no.”
“Right. What am I looking for here exactly?”
Applejack’s ears perked. “Look? Who said anything about look? I only came in to talk, is all.”
Redheart sagged. “Well, then...talk. Talk to me, Applejack. You have to help me help you here.”
Applejack chewed her lips. She brushed at her hair, and with a soft clatter her hat fell to the floor. Applejack winced. “It’s personal.”
Redheart’s tone went very soft. Their eyes met and held. “Tell me what the matter is,” she said.
For a moment, Applejack wasn’t sure she could talk. But then she did, if only barely. “It’s... How does... How do I...” Taking a breath she growled her frustration and tried again. “What do I have to do to enjoy myself?!”
Nurse Redheart frowned. Applejack stared with pleading. Nurse Redheart’s eyes widened. Applejack nodded meekly. Nurse Redheart blinked. “Ah. I see. Personal.” Then she smiled. “Right, so how can I help?”
Applejack felt oddly free. Now that the secret - or at least the strongly conveyed euphemism - was out, she didn’t need that pressure on her chest to keep it in. “I don’t know!” she laughed, blushing and shaking. “That’s why I came to you.”
“Ok, ok. Tell me about it first.” Then she pouted. “We are talking about your sexual health and masturbation habits here, just to be clear?”
Applejack cringed. Did she have to be so, so professional about this? She coughed on her attempts to speak. “Yeah,” she managed to choke out, “what you said.”
“It’s okay. Embarrassment is natural for a lot of ponies.” Nurse Redheart went back to her chair, Applejack sat up on the bedside. “Let’s just talk about it first, how’s that?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay Applejack, when did you notice this problem?”
She had her hooves crossed over herself when she spoke, and kicked her legs at the air. “I dunno. I think I just sort of didn’t think about it before. I keep trying, when I can, but it doesn't work. What’m I doing wrong? Is something wrong with me?”
Redheart went and got the fallen hat. Catching the edge delicately in her teeth (both from respect, and the quite strong taste of it) she put it at Applejack’s side. “This is where we’ll find out, Applejack. I’ll help you.”
She pulled a page from the stack and bit onto a pen. “Naow, ell may abow wah hahens.”
“Well, you know, I-I try. With my hoof.” She held up the culprit. “When I’m alone in bed, or...or sometimes out in the trees-”
Nurse Redheart had held up her hoof. With a bit of complicated, earth-pony only lip dexterity, Nurse Redheart shifted the pen around to the side of her mouth. “We don’t need to go into those kinds of details, Applejack,” she said, the pen bobbing up and down.
“Er, ah, right. Well, I have all the, you know, urges. No problem there,” she said. “But, but, with my hoof, it... it barely feels like anything. It’s supposed to feel good, isn’t it? Works fine for you, don’t it?”
Nurse Redheart took a second to answer. Applejack had the sudden feeling she’d crossed a line. “A mare can normally stimulate herself to orgasm, yes,” said Nurse Redheart as if it were a prepared statement. Another pause. “Are you comfortable with me having a look?”
Applejack blanched “You mean, at my...”
“Your genitalia, yes.”
“Well, alright...”
“Would you prefer to be standing or laying down?”
“...which works better?”
“Either’s fine for me,” Nurse Redheart said patiently. “It’s just a matter of preference.”
“Um, standing.”
“Alright.”
The nurse rummaged in a drawer of her desk. There was the snap of rubber as a hoof-glove went on. “Turn about for me please.”
Applejack gulped. She became intimately familiar with the various advisories and information panels posted on the wall a few inches in front of her nose.
“Try to relax. It won’t hurt, and I really do mean that.”
“I trust ya,” Applejack said nervously.
“...I need you to spread your legs for me, Applejack. More. A little more... There you go.”
Applejack looked way up, she looked way down. As she felt her tail being brushed aside she laughed under her breath, but tried to stifle it. She forced her breathing under control. There was no reason to be worried, or be anything but casual and professional, so she told herself.
“Well, everything looks alright from here. Tell me if you can feel this.”
“Um, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“And this?”
“Yeah. A little bit.”
“And now?”
Applejack had to focus on the trickle of sensations that reached her. “You’re on the left side. Now right. Whoops, felt that one! What’d you do?”
Nurse Redheart didn’t answer. The mare hummed to herself. “Applejack, are you aroused right now?”
She whinnied. “I’m embarrassed, is what I am. Not much, no. Why you ask?”
“Just bear with me a moment.” Again the thoughtful humming. There was the slap of rubber and the crinkle as it fell into the waste basket. “I think I know what’s going on here. You can turn around now, I’m done for now.”
But Applejack had put a lot of nervous effort into standing there like that. She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s it? That’s everything?”
“Yes?” asked Nurse Redheart, letting the slight inflection dangle over a not-at-all slight cliff.
“Oh, um, right. Just thought there’d be, uh, more. You know, tests and things.”
“No.”
At that, Applejack took a seat and put her hat back on. “So?”
Nurse Redheart took her own chair. She cleared her throat daintily. “Well, Applejack, there doesn’t seem to be anything inherently wrong, so that’s a good start. It seems you’re a little less sensitive than most mares. Now that could just be the way you are, though I’d wonder if your applekicking-”
“Applebucking-”
“Er, yes, applebucking might have had a part to play.”
Applejack was tapping her hooves together. “Um, now that you mention it, I do remember that applebucking used to give me, um, feelings. When I was smaller.”
Nurseheart nodded professionally. “It’s a lot of force going through your hindquarters. And that means a lot of stimulation. I’d guess that your body has had to acclimatize to that, and that means less sensitivity. It happens sometimes.”
“What does that mean? Am I going to be alright?”
“Applejack, you’re already alright. You’re perfectly healthy and fit enough to even make me a little jealous. You’re just going to have to work at this one thing,” Redheart held up a hoof, “and I don’t mean the brute force approach.” There was a wry, knowing smile snuck into the corner of that clinical expression that made Applejack blush.
The nurse glanced over her papers. “I did note that you’ve very little secretion. It’ll help if you if you can, as they say, ‘get wet’. You may have to retrain your body to let itself be sensitive, so to speak. A lot of people enjoy artificial lubrication and find it heightens the experience. In fact, let me write you a prescription...”
“What?!”
“Lubrication, or, as they say, ‘lube.’ It’s a simple-”
“No, I get that, but...oh nevermind...”
“Oh, and you might do well to get yourself a phallus as well.”
“A what’sit?”
“A dildo. I can’t write a prescription for one of those, however.”*
Applejack regarded the nurse with a hard, thoughtful glare. Without breaking it, though sweating a bit on her brow, she said, “What’s scary right now is I can’t tell if you’re being totally serious or yanking my chain.”
“Both, probably. But I really can’t write a prescription for one of those. Or any other sex toys at that.”
Nurse Redheart clopped her hooves on the desk. “I think this about wraps up the consultation. Did you have any questions?”
“Uh, no. No, I’m good, I think.”
“Very well. If the problem persists, you know where to find me.” Applejack was halfway to the door. “Oh, one last thing. Start with one of the smaller, more modest looking ones.”
Applejack nodded. “Right...”
As the door swung smoothly shut, Nurse Redheart glanced over her notes. Taking a moment to get her office ready again, she stopped at the bed, noticing the spot where Applejack had sat. Then she changed the paper bedding. “She’ll be fine,” the nurse mused.
Author's Note
* and somewhere completely different, Pinkie managed an impressive spittake, shouting about taxes and wages, none of it for any reason she would ever come to know.
Maybe a bit different as these things go, but I kind of like that. What did you get out of this chapter? Let me know.
Pinkie Pie had had friends in the adult entertainment industry for a few years now. Penpals, really, but wasn’t that just another way of saying inter-continental ballistic friendship? Several times a year it’d be in the mailbox, though; once it had been half-buried under a stunned Derpy in the garden.
It was the unmarked brown and cardboard-lined envelope, generously laden with sticky, gooey stamps for long-distance travel and the destination: one CC SugarCube Corner, Ponyville. Sometimes that was written with a graceful flourish, the hallmark of a unicorn. Other times in choppy-blocky script more particular to earth ponies or pegasi. However it came, Pinkie Pie would always know just what it was, announce the mail’s arrival with a happy squawk and whisk it away to her bedroom. And, since Pinkie Pie regularly received paid-for packages through the post, letters too, and the Cakes were busy enough and trusting enough, the question of its contents never came up.
Today was technically a day off for her. Pinkie Pie as often as not worked off days just the same as regular days. Playing them really, just really, really productively at that, like she did everyday. Letting a calendar or a clock tell her when to do seemed one of the silliest things. They didn’t even have mouths!
But today, at least for an hour or two, she sauntered back on up to her cozy bedroom, envelope in tow. Gummy was alert and ready for her at the corner of the bed. He blinked.
“Nearly had them together that time,” she said encouragingly and flopped down onto the bed with a bouncy thump that launched the gator, unflinching, near-ceiling height. He landed neatly with a tickle on her stomach. Pinkie Pie scratched his chin, then held the envelope over her head. The blankets were a fluffy blast-crater around her.
Gummy knew all about what this was, of course he did. She trusted the runty alligator implicitly. He couldn’t speak for starters, unless he could and simply chose not to, in which case he’d never told anypony her secrets all this time that he could have and had thus proven himself more than worthy of her trust anyway.
She tore open the mail. Photos, Oh! Letters, Ooh! A full, glossy and newly issued magazine? Oooh!
She was so proud of them!
In fact, humble reader, let us step back for a moment. Back in time, to where this began.
Imagine a simpler Pinkie Pie. A country girl turned townie. Happy, but...frantic. Frantic to do...more, to see more. To have her hooves in every pie, forgive the pun.
And excitable young mares should always be forgiven for poking curious noses about.
The magazines were obviously shared, in any case. Simply tucked in under the bathroom sink with the cleaners. Pushed back, yes, but not hidden as such.
Pinkie Pie never locked a door, but for once she did. The Cakes weren’t even in the house. They were already trusting her to mind it, if not run the bakery in their absence, which was closed for the afternoon.
But still!
Pinkie Pie had lain on the fluffy white bath mat, flipping through pages and wiggling by turns until she had a loose circle of double-page prints spread out around her. She just couldn’t keep the giggles in.
It was so silly, all of it, bright and so...silly, though in Pinkie’s own words it would have been expressed more like “Squiggly wiggly, goodness sharing feeling inside, you know?” Also silly. She would have said silly. It was a very good word to know.
The magazines’ contents were silly and weird and random and wonderful. She propped herself up, getting as close as she could to soak in every detail. There were more mares than stallions featured. Their expressions were flirty, seductive or ecstatic, whereas the boys tended more to faces taut with concentration and exertion. Postures, expressions... shapes... sizes. Helpful, discrete blurbs put names and a rudimentary biography to them all.
The second big surprise of the day was in Pinkie Pie’s hips. And her hoof. Up in the air. Moving together. Her cheek smooshed the glossy page rhythmically, crinkling it some. Slow, firm rocking motions moved her body. Not conscious, but powerfully deliberate. Pinkie Pie closed her eyes and let this new sensation take over.
It felt good, really good, and the more she did it the more she wanted to. With her free hoof she she reached back and tugged gently at her inner thigh.
She was at it a while. It was a memorable afternoon. Very engaging. Stimulating.
Later on, when she’d had the names and faces and blurbs all memorized she sent the first letter. After all, there was a mailing address right there in the back of each issue. All the ponies in the editorials were just doing it wrong, no biggie.
Well, it was a bundle of letters, really. She’d draft a few in the evenings, just before bed after a satisfying, tiring day’s work. Each night there was a lit candle, a sheaf of stiff cards and one pencil-chewing, thoughtful-looking, alligator chin-scratching Pinkie Pie.
Hi Horny Larry why do you look strained all the time in your pictures you should have more fun do you still work part time like and getting your school thingy what do they call a bachelor’s degree if its for a girl when you say you're an artist what artist do you mean like...
Hi Sugar Berry did you ever decide if you are a cat person or dog person I can’t decide either but I don’t have either so I don’t have to but it’s harder but oh I am definitely an alligator pony anyway his name is Gummy but he is very nice and good and a good listener and...
There were others. More than a dozen in all. After some deliberation and, suspecting their names were pretend, Pinkie Pie signed them all as ‘Kiss Me Pink.’
She was very pleased with herself for that one. And that, as she crammed them all into the mailbox the next morning, was that.
Fast forward some years, past one exploding Princess (she got better), one exploding draconequus (he got better) and one exploding Canterlot (it got better) Pinkie Pie had kept in regular, infrequent, unlikely contact with her pen pals.
Only a few had ever replied to that first round of letters, and some had stopped since. That was okay. She’d just turned her attentions to the those that kept in touch. Horny Larry and Sugar Berry in particular didn’t just reply with one or two lines; they really contributed.
And today (well, sometime in the last month) they’d had a shoot together!
I can’t believe you talked me into doing the cinnamon thing! You said adding hot sauce would make it doable! IT DOESN’T!! I got it all over my kitchen! (Little lightning-shooty clouds had been drawn in around the scratched-in capitals, but there were other idle doodlings of faces and prancing pony-forms in the margins) Look at the second feature, Pinky! (That was the nickname Horny Larry had come up with for ‘Kiss Me Pink’, funnily enough.)
I knew you knew Sugar Berry but I never worked with her before. It was really awkward, actually! But good!! I didn’t know how to say anything but she just came out and said it and during the shoot because what are the chances and she made this joke about ‘pen pals in porn’ being the next big thing and we kept laughing and the photographer got so flustered he made us come back in the afternoon for another take. But we actually got paid extra for that, and that NEVER happens! Isn’t that neat?
BUT THEN He ended up liking the first set of pictures even more! I can’t remember the last time I had that much actual FUN on the job! When we went for a coffee break she was telling me all about...
Pinkie Pie tensed up. Like a smile-burst, building pressure underground. Her senses tinged. Usually that just meant she was casually pleasuring herself as she read (Hey, these were adult entertainment professionals, after all, and sometimes they sent her novelties and mementos), but today it meant something different.
In one hoof was the letter from Horny Larry. He’d writ right around all down the back of the page too! Pinkie Pie held off on finishing it, following her suspicions. In her other hoof she fished up the letter from Sugar Berry.
...Actually smiling. How rare is that for a guy? After showers he bought me coffee, [My feathers were still wet and we’re out in public like Normal Ponies] and he put in brown sugar. Brown Sugar. He said it was an accident, but I’ve always preferred my coffee with brown sugar. Two spoons. It seems silly and insignificant as I write it down now, but it was this big thing for me. Big Thing.
Pinkie Pie trembled with pent up glee. Both her porny ponies were talking about each other! To paraphrase Rainbow Dash: -Awesome-
She skimmed lines anxiously, randomly, across both letters:
...just gets me, you know? Totally knows what its been like!
...keep thinking back to that afternoon...
...ever just have this feeling, Pinky?
...but I don’t know...
...it’s crazy...
...it’s silly...
...sillly. Impossible and silly...
...pointless and silly to think...
Pinkie Pie tossed the letters up in a flurry of frustration, yelling inanely at the ceiling. Where was her pencil?! Where was her paper?! What about confetti bombs? She needed confetti bombs!
She scribbled words down madly, hanging over the side of the bed and pressing it against the floor to write.
...Go for it you don’t even know I will LITERALLY GET A PRINCESS to zap youTWO PRI— She hastily counted all the Princesses she knew —FIVE PRINCESSES TO ZAP YOU if you don’t please please PLEASE JUST GIVE IT A SHOT OKAY!!
Also hi let me know how it goes I’m serious like super duper cereal is the most important meal of the day serious!!!
Meticulously, word for word she copied it onto a second letter. She veritably flung them into crisp white envelopes, confetti bombs too, sealed the sticky glue on with alligator drool and raced down the stairs, fumbling to write the names and address on the railing.
“Hey has Derpy taken the mail yet?” she spewed in a jumble, flying past a nonplussed Cupcake.
“Uh, oh. She’s there right now actually. You’ve got letters for her?”
“YES! Derpy! Two letters to go! Super sexpress! Are you up for it?!”
The pegasus jumped, then smiled. She saluted. “Right away Pinkie Pie!”
Derpy rummaged diligently through her bag, fished out a roll of stamps and slathered both envelopes in the little stickers. Fighting back tears as the letters were whisked away, somewhat erratically, into the sky, was Pinkie Pie. “They take off so fast,” she whimpered.
The suspense was going to drive her crazy. How long until a reply came through? A month? At least! After a solemn second thought, she decided to stick with hope. She really believed they’d get together. It was a warm, heart-tickly thought.
“I’ll be back down in an hour or two,” Pinkie said as she skipped back inside, all frantic haste gone from her. “I just want to finish up some stuff first.”
“Take your time, dearie.”
Pinkie Pie went back to her room. Snuggled into her blanket crater.
She popped open the magazine, still with its freshly-laminated smell and shiny pages. She flicked over to the second feature.
Horny Larry and Sugar Berry! Ah! They were so cute together! Across Eight Whole Pages! She snuggled their smiling, bright-eyed, sexy images. And then took the next hour...or two...to have a really nice clop. Because hey, as had been said, they were adult entertainment professionals. Happy looking ones at that.
And, with any luck, soon to be a whole lot happier.
Author's Note
I can say in all honesty and confidence that you've never read anything quite like this.
