Alone at last.
Applejack slumped against the barn door, panting gently, sweating profusely. The cool fall breeze flew through the gaps in the door and brushed against her damp arms, sending a shiver through her spine. Her teeth gritted as she crossed her arms and tried to control her heavy breathing. There was no need to panic, of course. There wasn’t a pony around for a good half-mile or two, and the only other living creature she could hear were the loudly buzzing cicadas and the gently chirping crickets in the underbrush. Nevertheless, her brain was aglow with panic, adrenaline coursing through her, slowly dying but still making her heart beat like a tom-tom.
Alone at last.
She swallowed gently, panting, her breathes hot, rising clouds of vapor, slowly opening her lidded eyes. She’d been waiting for a chance to be alone all day. Applebucking was hard enough work without being all hot and bothered. What in the hay had ever come over her? This wasn’t normal, usual sensation. She’d been head over heels all day, a sweating, shivering, nervous wreck.
Big Mac, bless his soul, was certainly no help. He kept asking her if she was sick, kept saying that he could do the south orchard today if she wasn’t up to it, insisted that she go get some rest. She very politely turned down his offers each time. It was a wonder he didn’t get the hint at all throughout the day. She was very certain she smelled of need and sweat and exertion, ver certain that the scent of her heat was traveling for absolute miles, and yet every time he went to her he acted all like she had a fever of some kind. Silently throughout the day, she had hoped and waited for him to get it, for him to grab her by the waist and take a quick break for some down time. It certainly wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before…
“Now look, AJ,” she chided herself, grunting. “Ya know it’s wrong. I m-mean…”
She swallowed. “Ain’t no time for that durin’ work hours. Ain’t professional.”
She grunted, slamming her head back into the door, letting out a low growl. The family needed her more than her nethers needed somepony. As much as she was tempted to and as much as Mac would probably be up for it, there just wasn’t any time. She couldn’t get herself alone or get her big dumb brother to get the big dumb hint. They were working so long and so hard… If only he would help her for as long and as hard.
She glanced around the barn. It was an older one, somewhat rickety, so not too useful for storing apples or ciders, but very useful for storing other necessities. Tools, mostly, and mechanical tidbits here and there. A rusty old tractor sat in the back of the barn, probably an old project Mac had picked up and later forgot about when Aunt and Uncle Orange sent them a brand new one. There was a note that snidely contained a few stereotypes, but at least one of them was true– nothing helped a farm more than a functional and powerful tractor.
Applejack’s legs quaked. And nothing would help her more than a functional and powerful cock.
“D-Don’t be so shameless, girl,” Applejack said gently to herself, stepping away from the door and into the barn, shrugging off her flannel and revealing her paint-stained tank top. The crunch of gravel beneath her feet told her that it’d be a good idea to keep her boots on, or at least close enough where she could jump in them easily. Besides, these old storage barns were tricky. Could be bits of broken glass on the floors, or old nails that fell out of the ceiling. Applejack was horny, after all, not stupid. What was stupid was the heat, and how cool the fall night was against her sweaty skin, and how it made her shiver and long for a warm, strong body to hold her–
“Agh!” Applejack groaned, throwing herself onto a hay bale and putting a hand on her forehead. “‘Taint fair! Ain’t ever been this… Bothered before…”
Alone at last.
Applejack bit her lip. Too late at night for anypony to do anything. She was all alone, nopony around for miles, and her body quaking with arousal. This was what she came out here for, wasn’t it? She cursed herself gently. She should have seen about dragging Mac out here, or brought out her toys or something, anything that could help her out. She just had to content herself with hands and fingers. In her haste, she had even forgotten to bring out a washcloth– she was an awfully messy pony whenever she had to do this.
“Agh,” Applejack grunted. “AJ, ya galdarned moron…”
Her shaky hands struggled with the buttons of her jeans, her already rapid heartbeat growing even faster, her body shivering so hard it was difficult to get a grip on her waistband, her eyes closed tightly as the warmth and heat of her nethers sent shocks through her system. They begged to be released, begged for their master to relieve control to them, let them guide her actions for a little while. Her legs kicked out as she finally wrestled the button out, reaching down to pull at her zipper.
“C-C’mon, now,” Applejack groaned. “Les get these down n’ maybe I can get some rest afterwards.”
Applejack sighed as the zip went down, and started pushing on her waistband. Her wide, strong hips pushed against the sides of her jeans, and hugged tightly against her body, as if teasing her, not willing to let her go ahead and have her fun. Taking in a deep breath, Applejack closed her eyes and wriggled her hips, the jeans coming down her thighs. She sat up a bit, pushing them down to her knees, opening one eye to check on herself.
There was a small itch of a too-tight waistband above her hips. “Gonna have ta get a size or two bigger,” she muttered to herself, tilting her hips a bit as her hands trailed over her thunderous thighs, grown by kicking trees and softened by many a delicious, apple-based pastry. “Easier ta do that than go n’ practically spit in Granny’s face, takin’ smaller portions.” As her hands drew upwards, she laid back again, shivering gently, licking her lips, letting her imagination take hold, a thousand reserved, dirty thoughts filling her mind.
“Mmmh, would hate ta get caught,” she whispered, letting her hands trail between her copious thighs. “Don’t wanna embarass poor Macintosh or nothin’... Poor fella’s prolly as pent as I am. Sheesh, when was the last time he got off?”
Applejack cooed, one hand tracing little circles in her coat, while the other left her thigh and began stroking against her hips. “S’been a while since we had some fun,” she murmured. “A long while. I aughta surprise him one a these days…” Her hands traveled around her bothered body, caressing her, feeling her, teasing her the way she knew Macintosh would. If only she pulled him out, if only she’d at least brought something to pretend he was there. She was in the most maddening haze, her entire body a shaking wreck, little whimpers leaving her as she closed her eyes and took in deep breaths, trying to relax despite the anticipation.
“M-Mac,” she gasped, biting her lip. ‘Ya big lug, ya shoulda gotten the h-hint… Ah need ya…”
Applejack’s hand shakily stroked up a hefty thigh, and she closed her eyes, trying to imagine him. His bare, barreled chest, slowly heaving as he stroked against her, shushing her, whispering the sweetest things brothers weren’t supposed to say. His hands, calloused, rough, brushing against her skin, the coffee-like smell of his body mixing with the dust, the dirt, the sweat, the arousal. She tilted her head downwards. She could see it now, the bulge in his jeans, just waiting to be unleashed upon her, her body shaking and rocking with need.
Her hand finally found it’s way in between her legs, and she gasped, her shaking stopping as teasing strokes came up and down her marehood through her drenched panties, a camel toe showing through as she gently squeezed one of her breasts. Macintosh was stroking her, or licking her, or something, anything, he was trying to relieve her only to make her torment worse. He wasn’t practical like she was. He was primal, an animal tamed by years of loneliness and reprieve, and here she was, thinking of him fondly, almost woefully. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, no doubt, but it was at the very least giving her some satisfaction.
But it wasn’t enough. Her grip at her breast grew harder, her mind reeling as the scent of arousal nearly knocked her out with it’s sweetness, her hips rising into his imagined touch and body quaking with need. He was talking to her now, saying the naughtiest things. You’re so naughty, AJ. You need me so much…
“Y-Yesss,” she hissed. “B-Big Mac… Ah love ya… Nnnf…”
I love you too, he said in her mind, kissing her mound fondly, continuing to stroke her. He had such big, wonderful hands, such a loving touch. It wasn’t so much fulfilling a stereotype, no- Applejack knew it wasn’t like that. this was something special. She thought of him always and him likewise. She belonged to him, belonged with him, needed him. As she slid her panties to the side, and stroked a single finger up her swollen lips, Applejack let out a long, languid moan, groaning as she threw herself backwards and kicked outwards, not knowing or caring what was beside her.
She hit something, and that something fell onto it’s side, and the sound of clattering metal of various sizes and weights hit the floor. Applejack was pulled from her arousal for a single, irritating second, sitting up and letting out a growl.
“Consarnit,” she muttered, pulling up her pants and quickly buttoning them. “What in the hay was there?”
She rubbed the fog of lust from her eyes, and shook her head, her ears twitching as she peered at the dark, poorly-lit floor. Long, black things seemed to shine in the moonlight. She slipped off her haybale and kneeled down, picking one up. It was cold steel, contoured, slippery under her pussy-juice soaked fingers, and as she got up it became clear what she had knocked over.
“Damnit, Mac,” she muttered. “Ya shoulda locked up this barn, ya eedjit.”
She had knocked over a gun rack.
More half-true stereotypes. Brilliant. she ground her boot against the gravel, and heard the plastic clacks and the metallic clinks of shotgun shells and copper casings. He was keeping ammunition in the rack too, it seemed. More violations of common sense and gun safety. She’d have to have a very strict talking-to to him eventually. “Always keep ‘em seperate, Mac,” she grunted. “And keep ‘em someplace Applebloom can’t get to ‘em and blow herself away with ‘em! Ya great, big, stupid… Aaagh!”
Applejack groaned, flopping back onto the haybale, her problems now twofold. Here she was with one of Big Mac’s pump shotguns, and without his little Mac to pump. Horny as hell, mad as hell, all of it. She could hear his excuses now. I didn’t think AB would poke around here. I figured long as I kept them unloaded she’d never figure out how to load one. Makes it easier in case we’ve got a varmint problem to get them. I’m sorry I didn’t get it, here, let me make it up to you. Let me help you…
Applejack shuddered. She looked down, and realized that she had held the shotgun between her legs, the wooden stock grinding against the crotch of her jeans, thick, hard, sensitive rosewood pressing against her pussy with no panties in the way of the sensation. A thick, heavy feeling filled her throat as she saw that the barrel of the weapon was right at her lips, gleaming, deadly, powerful, begging to be–
“Fuck no,” she said, shivering. “I… But…”
She clenched her legs. No. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t sensible. But even as she tried to pull her hips away from it, she let the stock drag against her cunny, and threw her head back, letting out a gentle moan. It wasn’t… Rational. She couldn’t ever even think about it, and yet here she was, fantasy filling her mind again.
“B-But Macintosh…”
He shushed her, putting a finger to her lips. dragging the stock up and down, up and down, grinding it against her as hard as any cock, the lack of thickness made up for by the rush of euphoria Applejack felt from the potential danger. The smell of gunmetal, cold, clean, and efficient, the scent of polymer and freshly-polished wood, it all filled and enticed Applejack’s senses in a way that she hadn’t felt in the longest time. It was Macintosh, in a way. How he held it in his strong hand, his eyes filled with a mixture of danger and reassurance, that he would never hurt her, and this was the closest he would ever come to that…
“It’s dangerous,” Applejack whispered, licking underneath the barrel. “Ya s-sure it ain’t loaded?...”
She reached down, her shivering hand trailing over the trigger guard, over the little button in front of it. Safety was on. She clicked it back and forth, double and triple checking. Safety was on, so even if it was, it wasn’t a problem. Like taking the teeth out of an alligator. She held the weapon against her breast, caressing it as carefully as any cock, her hands trailing over the receiver, a shiver coursing through her spine.
“This is dumb,” she reminded herself, leaning back against the haybale. “Good Goddess, this right here is the dumbest thing I ever done ever…”
It’ll be fine, Big Mac reminded her in her mind. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.
Applejack shivered, unbuttoning her jeans, letting them fall again. She gasped as the crosshatched grip of the tool against her body ground upon her slit, groaned as she pushed it back, the stock pushing her pants down to her ankles. Holding it by the cold steel of the barrel, Applejack slowly dragged the piece over her marehood. The ribbed furniture of the pump made her shiver, the cold steel of the ammunition tube making her moan. Her pussy winked incessantly, thick-smelling juices leaving a slick, shiny trail around the loading gate, opening up at just the right moment for the trigger guard to slip in between her lips. She squealed. It was cold, emotionless steel, and it was making her clit throb electrically like anything warmer, softer, squishier.
“Mmmgh, M-Mac…”
Her imagination ran wild. He was laying atop her, naked save for the bandolier around his shoulders, double-ought buck shells pressing against her chest, running it up and down against her. The names of the parts came easy to her. Rough, textured grip, smooth, round trigger guard, square, teasing receiver, long, thin magazine, thick, phallic pump. And the barrel. She was holding it by the top of the barrel, and the tip of it now teased against her, Macintosh holding the grip, groping her breast, making her groan.
“S-Safety’s on?”
Safety was on. She checked it before. It was safe. It was fine.
“Fuck me, Big Mac. B-Blow me away…”
The Big Macintosh of her fantasies grinned ruthlessly, dangerously. Of course. S’what ya deserve.
She shivered as cold, ruthless steel pushed against her puffy, needy lips, slick noises making her ears twitch as it slid slowly, up and down, the notch sight on the very tip giving her throbbing clit the slightest nudge, driving a groan from her panting lungs and letting adrenaline surge through her whole body. She rolled her hips up, her legs in the air, kicking out as she let loose desperate little whimpers, sitting up to get a better grip around the deadly weapon that teased against her, that threatened her like the many varmints it had poked away, had barked at and slung lead at. It was a battle-scarred warrior as much as it’s user was, long, thick, an addict of violence and sport, a protector of her family. It lacked Winona’s personal touch, her cute, wouldn’t hurt a fly personality, despite all the squirrels she had chased. Winona was play, but this thing, this leviathan threatening to penetrate her, this was business.
It was dirty, nasty, terrifying business. It was offense and defense, protection incarnate. The first inch of the barrel slid into Applejack, her needy flesh clenching around the cold, unyielding gunmetal, electric sensation making her slam her shoulders back into the haybale. Little static jumps flew through her, making her body spasm, making her grunt and groan as she slid more and more of the tool of destruction into her. Every fantasy faded, the Big Macintosh in her mind no more, only the shotgun, only it’s promises of protecting her, of being a tool of care and love, a necessary violent evil. It was an awful, horrible thing, and it was sliding into her, with only a whispered promise of no harm. Two inches, three inches, four, five. Further and further into her, her hands gripping it tightly.
“Nnnnf… Oh Goddess, I needed this,” Applejack murmured.
Yes, you did, it seemed to say. Yes, you did, you filthy farmer slut. Even as she thrusted it into her, even as every push elicited a submissive mewl, Applejack could hear it whispering to her. It promised her a good time and she was getting it, the sight smashing against her clit with every thrust, rubbing against the roof of her tunnel with every plunge into her, juices slowly dribbling from between her lips and down her thighs. The danger of her new lover was intoxicating, making her pleasure-drunk, every thrust only accelerating the need inside her, pressure building in her head and in her nethers. One hand let go, only the one on the grip remaining, that same iron grasp now groping her breast.
“Mmmgh! F-Fuck me,” she panted desperately. “F-Fuck this dirty redneck b-bitch, please, oh G-Goddessss! I’m a s-stupid mudslut, p-please, nnnngh, fuck me, break me, ffffffghnnngh!”
She wasn’t being careful, not even in her wildest dreams. Even the thoughts of something going wrong began to excite her. She started going slightly past the barrel, the tip of the mag tube teasing within her, stretching her as much as any cock but without the heat, with only the cold, heartless power of the barrel. The pump pushed against her labia, racking back slightly with every desperate thrust, the whole weapon rattling as her body began to quake. Now she was taking six inches, seven, nine, a whole ten, the click of a fully racked pump filling her senses, her clenching pussy lips pulling on it, but too slick to get enough of a grip around it to pump it back. It was fine, though– she was utterly stuffed now, ten inches of barrel and five inches of magazine now thrusting into her, faster now, faster, reckless abandon filling her.
This weapon, this thing, it cared for nopony, it cared for no creature, it had one purpose and one purpose only. It destroyed. It destroyed varmints and now it destroyed pussies, every corner of it’s frame dedicated to that purpose as it slammed again and again inside her, all the way to the racked-back pump, all the way into as much of her as it could go. Applejack was beyond stereotypes now, beyond the literal love for guns she clearly had, beyond the fantasies of her brother wielding this against her, violating every single inch of her desperate flesh with coldness, hardness, danger, making her love every moment of it, love every single second it slammed into her and long for it whenever it left.
The safety was on. She knew it was. But there was a dirty excitement she found in thinking that it wasn’t, a powerful surge of energy, a wonderfully dangerous imagining. Every thrust bringing her closer and closer, the gun rattling more and more, like a vicious snake about to bite, about to destroy her, she wanted to be destroyed, she wanted to be annihilated by this emotionless beast of a demon that was reaming her out, slamming into her again and again, so fast, so quick. It was coming, she was cumming, she was going to squirt all over it, and she could just imagine it, just imagine Macintosh’s excitement as she held his hand, his finger on the trigger, no discipline needed, no safety needed, she wanted to be blown away, she wanted him to squeeze the trigger and just
BANG.
Applejack had never squirted harder.
Her eyes screwed shut, her body going rigid, her hand pushing her improvised dildo as far as it could go, all other sensation lost as she clenched desperately around it, opening her eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent scream as her stream spewed from her incessantly, as she writhed against the haybale so much she eventually felly off, now on her belly, hands letting go of the shotgun as her tightness could hold no more, forcing it out of her and letting it clatter to the floor. Everything was sensation, nothing seemed to be there anymore, only incredible, almost painful pleasure, her body rigid as it overloaded, a string of non-words and swears spewing from her mouth.
“Fuck, fuck, shit, galdamnitall, holy fuckin’ aaaaaaffffhn…”
She felt like she’d been squirting for days. The shotgun was practically coated now, a puddle of marecum pooling out around it, vapors rising from her twitching pussy as she rolled her hips back and forth, riding it out, ever so slowly regaining control of herself, satisfied pants and moans filling the air as ever so slowly, Applejack came back to earth. Her nethers still twitched incessantly, her body shivering slowly. She still didn’t feel all the way there, still didn’t feel entirely whole, still felt sparks and zaps of pleasure zip through her brain.
She struggled to control her spasming arms, reaching down to pull her pants back up from around her ankles, suddenly feeling very faint. She wanted to fall asleep all of a sudden, wanted to just lose herself in the moment. Macintosh couldn’t ever have done anything this powerful to her. She decided against rezipping and rebuttoning her jeans, leaving them open, placing her hands on the ground and shakily rising, still mumbling nothings to herself.
“J-Jeez… Sheesh...Whoof… Fuckin’ A, that was s-somethin’, mmmmfh…”
She stood on legs that felt like jelly, holding herself, feeling sore already. She’d deal with it in the morning, maybe even ask Macintosh for a roll in the hay, maybe bring this fantasy to life. She was still dripping on the floor, her pants utterly soaked from her explosive orgasm, her face flushed gently, now almost permanently stained with red. She leaned against the gun rack, trying still to catch her breath, even as it seemed harder and harder to catch.
“Oooh… G-Golly gee… Should do this… ‘Nother time… That hit the spot real good…”
Her time alone was over.
Applejack stumbled her way out of the barn, the moonlight seeming so much brighter now, the chirping crickets seeming distant. Somewhere out near the farmhouse, an owl hooted, it’s call long and winding in the distance, calling to her, calling her home. She could only move in a drunken stagger, her entire form trembling, sleep threatening to pull her eyes down. She was going to go home, going to get some rest, going to talk to Macintosh, maybe have a day or two where this confounded heat wouldn’t ruin her anymore.
She stumbled into the darkness of the farmyard, leaving behind an open door and a glistening shotgun.
Author's Note
I know it's not my best work, but it should be enough to tide over the crowds. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed your newfound hoplophilia.
