When the Plot Met the Clop and Neither Cared

by stanku

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Romance, Original Character, Sex
Length: 10547

Snowdrop, already an adult, is trapped somewhere between a romantic slice of life fic and blatant clop. Can she, or you, put the story before the temptation?

Snowdrop, over eighteen, has to find her way out of a romantic slice of life fic before it ultimately turns to clop. The problem is, she doesn't know this herself.

Cover art made by NeonLineMLP. Check out her stuff in DA!

Snowdrop invented/inspired by the Silly Filly Studios. Go check them out too if you haven't already.

Published 2014-08-27 21:20:03 UTC
Last updated 2014-09-14 15:31:20 UTC

The Blue Door

The blue door closes behind us without a sound.

“I can’t see a thing,” says Fright. He sounds less secure than a second ago. “Can you turn on the lights?”

“There are no lights nor windows here,” say I, the voice from the darkness. “I have little use for them.”

He turns around, trying to locate my position. But the room is large, and I know every inch of it.

“I knew blue was more of your color,” he says.

I move farther away from him, against the opposite wall. “You think? I couldn't say.”

He heads for my direction, and apparently makes an effort not to be noticed. It’s not that he’s awful at it – there is very little that escapes my ears.

“You have to be quicker than that to catch me,” I say behind him. He swirls around, groping for the empty air. “Better, but no dice.”

“When I signed up for a blind date, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” he says.

“Why? This really captures the main point. Spontane intents, remember?” My voice circles him, enrobes him. Sometimes it’s a whisper, sometimes a ghost of one. Never ever does it betray my position. “A game the rules of which change you even as you change them.”

“Ah, more games,” he says. “And here I was thinking you’d just want me to know how you feel all the time.”

No response. It’s dead quiet, and the darkness is impregnable.

“You’re still here?” he asks.

A few inches in front of his muzzle, my words cut into him like knives: “Don’t ever hint that you could know how I feel.”

I kiss him. After a few seconds of unfreezing, he kisses me back. This time I don’t hold back, but devour him without remorse, my greed unleashed. The lust leads now, and we follow blindly. I drag him to the bed with my lips and spread my wings wide before laying on my back. He climbs on top of me, now kissing my exposed throat. I press his head against my chest, wrap my hind legs around his sides. A trail of his musk finds my nose. The scent is sharp, piercing, oozing of carnal pleasure.

His lips have found my stomach, where he has stopped for now. I love it when they go down on me without asking. That means they’re not terrible at it.

“You don’t taste that bad yourself,” he muses, planting yet another kiss on my coat. “Must be all that wine you had.”

“Can’t be… It’s all in my head.”

He reaches my pelvis. My hind leg rises to his shoulder. Everything aligns perfectly, it feels.

The first lick is gentle, barely a brush. A sweet, shy thing. The second, already done with the formalities, drinks deeper. My blush is inescapable, just as the moan is, on the third lick. After that, it’s just wet, squelchy, sucking sounds, all trapped in a whirlpool of bliss. I wouldn’t call him bad, not at all. Not in the slightest. I’d tell him that, but I don’t want him to stop, not for anything.

He goes on leisurely for a while. Every move is considerate, planned, tentative; as if he was charting the topography of my pleasure. Engineers really are something different, aren’t they…

I shift my front leg over to his head and feel it moving rhythmically. I know stallions don’t like being guided, and he sure doesn’t need to. But he really could go a tad faster. Just… a tad…

He gets the hint.

Oh yes. He gets it.

I reward him with a long, low moan, and let my hoof fall limp. His tongue laps my love button a couple of times, dives and glides over my length with one long slurp. Rinse and repeat. Tweak the numbers, up the beat. Relax and claim your seat.

The heat stacks up quickly. My breathing intensifies, turns erratic along with my movements. The sheets entangle and suck sweat as I squirm on them. I’m close, very close. On the very brink. A bit more, please, the final push, please, only a shove… please… Ah… Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yesahahahmhmh….

I scream.

Oh gosh… I screamed…

“I screamed.”

He sends one last shiver up my spine with a casual lick and pulls back his head.

“Yeah. I heard.” He swallows, and probably licks his lips afterwards. “A part of your strategy, I suppose.”

I giggle at that. “Uups. Busted.”

He rubs his cheek against my thigh. The fragrance of his erection is overwhelming; it’s a demand all on its own right.

“How would you have me punished?”

His excitement is touchable. It’s written in the way his muscles tense, wherever they touch me. With some effort, I manage to slip my hind leg under him. Immediately, it bumps against his rod.

“A favour returned, perhaps?” I muse while feeling his cock with my hoof. From this angle I can’t do much, but luckily there’s no need to. He is horny enough to go mad, I can tell. “Or something more… exotic?”

He groans. The sound reminds me of a distant thunder.

I prod his cock some more. “No need to bashful. The night is on our side.”

“Maybe… A small favour?” he whispers.

As expected. Better to start with what you know you’ll like, right? Doesn’t matter if it’s food or clothing in question.

“Come here,” I whisper back.

The bed is large, for I’m prone to thrashing at nights. He crawls next to me and lays on his flank, stiff as a plank. So strange; he was so much more relaxed while blowing me. This might end sooner than I’d like.

I touch his face with my nose, and blink in surprise as the tip gets wet. He hasn’t wiped his muzzle. Oh well, that won’t do.

He yelps as my tongue travels over his cheek. “What’re you doing?”

“Cleaning you up, silly. Your fur will be a mess in the morning otherwise.” Another lick, another shiver. But no yelp.

“You don’t need to do that…”

“Of course I don’t.” I kiss him deeply, to drain some of that stiffness. In no time, he melts like a snowflake in the sun.

Once he flows along with me, I reach for his cock with a hoof while gently licking his face. My hoof bumps against his tip, from there slips to feel his underside. It’s hard as thousand-year-old ice, warmer than the heart of a forge. A solid, thick piece of malehood; inspiration to a thousand symbols, the topic of countless jokes. All mine to toy with.

First, some kneading and rubbing. Let him become familiar with my touch. Second, a retreat; to allow room for yearning to settle in. Keep the kisses and licks coming for the whole time. Then, a surprise return to make up for the waiting. Never fails, as the eager twitch proves.

His face is more or less clean now, or at least I’m done with changing the composition of fluids there. Time to move on, or down. I choose the long route, by the veins of his throat and the muscles of his flank. The landscape is rich with flavours. I’m drawing a map of impressions, and not a hair escapes my mind’s eye. He is in good shape, at least for a white-collar worker. Must be into sports.

We’ll see if I can figure out his game.

“Turn on your stomach.”

He obeys without a question.

“Open your wings.”

They unfold like worked by powerful springs. The whoosh almost knocks me over. I approach them with care. First the base. My hooves begin their blind work, massaging him while deciphering the story of his body.

“Do you play soccer?”

“Cloud Rift, third division.” He pauses. “Don’t tell me you can feel my tattoo?”

“You have a tattoo?”

“Right above my wings. It’s the team’s logo.”

I touch the spot. There is nothing there that would let me get an idea of it.

“Describe it to me.”

He hums pleasantly while I attend to his wings.

“It’s about nine inch wide, seven tall. There are two clouds, split apart by a football soaring through. The letters C and R are written on it. It’s white ink, so to stand out better from my coat.”

“Are you dark?”

“Like dim orange. Brownish, with the hint of grey… and green.”

A bunch of words that are all but meaningless to me. “Could you repeat that in scents?”

He doesn’t apologize, for which I’m grateful. Save the few moans my massaging stirs from him, he is quiet for a while. Another good sign: at least he makes an effort.

“Bronze. Copper. Take their taste and mix it with… birch… no, with oak. A sprinkle of aluminum on the top. Does that make any sense?”

I give his left wing a long lick, all the way from the top to the base. He purrs like a cat.

“You are very earthen, it’s true.” I smack my lips. “Definitely fertile. Now, turn around.”

As he does, the scent of his arousal gets stronger again. I draw in a good lungful. Yes, very earthen indeed. I get on my stomach to admire it from closer, to get the first real taste. Has it grown since I last felt it, or am I just wishing? Hah, I’m hopeless…

I take the tip in for a test. His reaction is instantaneous, and although he resist it admirably, the cock pushes another inch past my lips all on its own right. I suckle it to let him know it’s fine. Nonetheless, he settles down quickly. Great. It’s good to know that we think alike on certain things.

I pull back, sucking a bit stronger so that the pop at the end is clearly audible. He can’t see any better here than I do, so it’s important to recompense that with other senses. Thus I smack my lips often while sliding up and down his length, from the midring to the base, balls and up to the tip again. He pants fervently, and the precum dribbles down like wax from a candle. I gulp it all down.

I’d love to ride him now, and he probably wouldn’t mind that either, but a deal’s a deal. I draw a deep breath and engulf a good mouthful of him in one smooth motion. The entrance to my throat complains a bit, but he is well lubricated, and knows when to stay still, so I take him past that too. To my triumph, he screams.

A steady string of vertical motions follows, for there’s no way I can play with him any longer without crossing the threshold, and at that point I’d rather not mess the sheets and my mane. I count six slow bobs until the final twitch gives away the game. My throat squeezes him one more time, and then I pull back to let him cum into my mouth. There’s a lot of it, and some of it gets past my tightly shut lips, but ultimately the flood subsides. My tongue finishes cleaning, and the last pop puts the cherry on top before his rod smacks against his stomach. I rest my head on his thigh to enjoy the echoes of his trembling and moaning.

Not a bad way to end a story.

The Red Door

The red door closes behind us. Right at that moment, I sense that something is wrong.

“I can’t see a thing,” he says. “Could you turn on the li–”

“What the hay?” calls out a sleepy voice from a corner. I’d recognize it anywhere. “Who’s there?”

“Cy’, it’s me,” I say before anything too obscure can happen. After a moment of groping, I find the switch. For once, I’m grateful for my condition. It saves me the trouble of squeezing my eyes shut in embarrassment.

“Snowy?” says Cyclone, probably from her bed. I can hear the sheets and blankets moving. “What are you doing here? And who’s he?”

“Oh, my name’s–”

“Didn’t ask from you,” snaps Cy’. The floor thumbs as she gets off the bed. “Snow? I’m waiting…”

I look at her direction. “It’s nothing, a stupid mistake. I got the door wrong. We’ll be leaving now.” I reach for Freight and find his flank, all the while praying that she is sleepy enough to let it pass this time, for this one single, blessed time…

She snorts. “Gimme a break. You wouldn’t get the door wrong if there was hundred of them…”

A yawn breaks her sentence. I try to nudge Freight to follow me, but he doesn’t budge. Cy’ can have that effect on ponies. Still, he does seem to be taken aback especially strongly. Must be the surprise.

“You came here to fuck, didn’t ya?” she asks cheerily. It’s amazing how she can shed off sleepiness like it was a day-old dress.

I lower my hoof. It’s impossible for me to look threateningly at anypony, not unless I know exactly where their eyes are. Nonetheless, I give it a shot.

Cy’ sighs. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Or at the curtains. I’m just curious: why’d you pick my room instead of you own?”

“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Freight, could you follow me? Now?”

There is a pause. “Oh, yeah. Right. Of course.” He moves in my direction. To my annoyance, she does, too.

“Freight, you say? Pleasure to meet you! I’m Cyclone, Cy’ for friends, but I’m sure she has told you everything about me already.” There is a sound like hooves being shaken, hard. “Sorry about the retort, by the way. You caught me unawares, a scary girl like me. Couldn’t help it.”

“It’s quite alright…” he starts.

“Like heck it is! Come, let me take it back, with interest. Hahah, does that even make sense? I think not, but what the heck, it’s only… What time is it?”

“Time for him to get home,” I say while looking at Freight. “You had the early shift tomorrow, correct?”

He gets his cue a tad later than required. “Yeah, yeah I do. Uh, guess I should be leaving, then…?”

“Nonsense!” shrieks Cy’, slamming his hoof against something, probably his back. “A Skyfall never leaves a slight unburied, and that works for both ways. Come, I’ll get you both a drink downstairs. And no buts! House rule!”

He chuckles uncertainly. “Uhm… If you insist…”

No, she doesn’t. She never even asks. She just acts, and expects that the others abide. Cy’ wouldn’t know what strategy was if it hit her straight in the face.

We get downstairs. Immediately, I can hear the clinking of glasses in the kitchen, which shares the same space with the living room. The whole first floor is practically one big living room. “Made for partying,” like Cy’ says. “Too bad that I’m not,” as I always reply. Freight and I receive the honor of deploying ourselves into the circle of couches as she mixes our drinks. This is not going to end well.

“So is this your first date or what?” she asks while pouring liquid from one container to another.

I’ll wait for a moment to see if he wants to answer that one. To my disappointment, he does. He’s already on his way of falling for her charms, if that’s the right word for it. It’s closer to witchcraft, really.

“Yeah, we ate in the Golden Griffon.”

“That old place? Why, you’d only had to ask and I’d have booked you to the Cloud Royale.”

“The… The Cloud Royale? Seriously? That’s the place the Princesses eat whenever they visit Cloudsdale!”

I grind my teeth together. Bragging off is a second nature to Cy’, but that’s a stretch even on her scale. No taste, no taste at all.

“Sure, no problem,” she continues, breaking ice while talking. “Tell you what: we’ll eat dinner there, tomorrow.”

“Uhh… I may have to do extra shifts this week…”

“All on my tab, of course,” she adds like his thoughts were a book to him.

“Oh. Wow. I mean, uhh, okay. Thanks.”

“Pfft, no problemo. When a Skyfall buries a slight, it stays buried.” She trots to us. The drinks fizz like dynamite as they get laid on the table. She crashes on the other side of him. I know that because there’s no other way it can be. “Besides, we own the place. It’ll be like inviting friends for dinner in your house.”

Except that this house has a waiting list that would reach from here to the ground if unrolled. The only reason she doesn’t say it because everypony in Cloudsdale knows it.

“Come on, have a taste!” she spurs.

“What’s in it?” asks Freight.

“A blend of my very own creation. My masterpiece, to tell the truth. I call it The Undertaker.”

A short laugh escapes me, not completely unintentionally. Her previous masterpiece was named The Piecemaker. Apparently it became very popular in certain undercloud circles, until it was eventually banned by the city’s health department. I’d tell all this to him, but Cy’ wouldn’t like that, and I have enough class to refuse taking away a puppy’s favorite toy.

I can tell that he is watching me from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, I just know such things.

“Go ahead,” I say. “The chances are you’ll live.”

“That’s the spirit!” exclaims Cy’.

He drinks it. What reason does he have to decline? What choice?

It gets very quiet after the glass hits the table. Too quiet, as they say.

I sigh. “He passed out, didn’t he?”

“With his eyes still open, yes. Gosh, no stomach at all…”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yeah yeah, now worries. I did a test run in a party a few weeks ago. Everypony ended up flying out with their own wings. Not on the same day, though.”

I cross my front legs over my chest. “You know, I still would’ve had use for him tonight.”

“I bet you would have. No trouble there: I still got a syringe or three of that stuff, ah, what’s it called. Adra… Agra…”

“Adrenaline?”

“Yeah! That’d wake up a mummy!” She moves her wings, and soon swallows something, after which she lets out a high-pitched shriek.

“You drank yours?”

“The trick is to tone it down with whiskey,” she says, her voice pierced by pain. “Don’t be a chicken, Snowy…” A series of coughs follows. The fizzing noise approach me and stops right before my face.

Now, I can make up with at least a dozen ways to decline and half of those wouldn’t even sound like I did. However, since there is a strong chance that my date won’t be operational before the morning, or before an adrenaline shot, I might as well go for it. It’s not like I got anything better to do.

On the other hoof… sometimes, you not only want to take that round-eyed puppy’s favorite toy from her, but also burn it before her eyes.

Which will it be?

Accept the Drink

Knock It off

Accept the Drink

I seize the drink with my a wing and gulp it down without remorse. The effect is immediate, just as I knew it would be.

First, my tongue goes numb. It’s probably a blessing, for my throat is on fire. I cough violently, and wipe tears off my eyes. The shaking comes not long after, but it’s comparatively mild. After all that, the taste is actually pretty good. Like blueberries. Really, really, really fermented blueberries.

“Great, huh?” she asks, patting me on the back.

“Extraordinary,” I wheeze.

“Sure beats all those wines you’re always on about.”

“Not a chance.”

She harrumphs, right by my ear. I realize that she must be sitting on Freight’s lap. “Still on the tight side, aren’t ya…?”

Her breath washes over me, and the fumes make me dizzy. Her voice is broken low, a husky whisper drenched in alcohol. Lust foams on every syllable.

“I’m real sorry for messing up your plans with him,” she continues. “Where they… big?”

I can’t believe it. She is seducing me, at a time like this. And the insane part is that it's working.

“You tell me.”

Some sizing up ensues, by the hear of it.

“You could be doing worse.”

“Good to hear.”

“But size is hardly everything…” She moves off him, right on top of me. She keeps her hind legs on the ground, pressed against mine, and her front legs on either side of my head. “Would you agree?”

I smile, the way she taught me to. It took months to imprint the fine details into my muscle memory. “Prove it.”

She kisses me. The taste is sharp, exquisite. The liquor has burned off all the impurities, yet left no ash behind. It’s all clean, even if her intentions are not.

She pulls away, only to lean closer to my ear. “It has been too long. Why has it been too long?”

“You know why.”

She pauses. “Well, he doesn’t need to know. He hasn’t deserved to know.”

“But he will.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

She takes my ear to her mouth and suckles it tenderly. I gasp under the nimble tongue and lips, and a wave of heat splashes on my face. My body is making the choices now. She must’ve slipped something extra into my drink, too.

It doesn’t matter though, for her hoof is descending down my chest, the carnal intent of it plain as a fresh snow. Her wings have opened too; they stir the air above us, to repel the excess heat. She knows I prefer to keep things cool.

She returns to tend for my lips as her hoof reaches my nether regions. Like she said, it has been a while, but some things you never forget, because you keep on returning to them, over and over again. She starts with a simple rub, using the side of her hoof and the fine fur that grows there. It tickles, but her mouth drains my giggle, along with the shreds of my restraints.

I strain my wing to reach her marehood. It’s a bit awkward, the way how she keep pressing me into the couch, but I dare not leave her pleasure on the mercy of my hooves, not while my minds spins so. The tips of my feathers make one easy slide across her slit, and turn wet instantly. Her moan that I devour tells the same tale: she has missed me.

We keep at fondling each other for a good long while to shed the rust off. Her wings keep on providing a pleasant current, in the folds of which our bodies entwine. There is no rhythm, not yet: merely a few tentative solos, searching one another after an interlude. She’s fall out of sync even easier than I do, for mine is the more subtle touch. It swirls around his love button, hastened by her juices that now flow freely. Once or twice I try to slid deeper, but feathers make an ill tool for that. Thus my attempts remain cumbersome, yet alluring enough to drive her off balance. She tumbles over me, and we roll on the carpet.

I end up under her, as usual. My mouth opens, and my tongue lolls out invitingly. She cooes at that and crawls over me, but wrong way round. Intriguing: usually she wants to ride solo first.

The musky scent stems mere inches from my face now. Normally I’d ask for a pillow for my neck, but my chemically fuelled drive allows no delays. I bury my muzzle into her folds and relish both in the taste and the sounds. On top of me, she chooses a similar course of action. She was right. It has been too long.

I had never considered myself a bisexual prior to meeting Cy’. Aside from odd teenage fantasies, I had little interest for other mares in bed. It wasn’t that the idea repelled me: in truth, it didn’t really exist in the first place. And yet, after the first summer, we were kissing like it was the most natural thing in the world. After that, joining the same bed was only a matter of time. Cy’s magic had worked its wonders and claimed yet another victim. And it’s about to do it all over again, by the feel of it.

She has found a good rhythm, one that will carry far. Her tongue is a dancer, full of grace and passion; of strength, too. And it’s long: she loves to catch ponies off guard by suddenly covering her whole nose with it, or to unroll it over her jaw. It sweeps over me with one big slurp, coaxing me to writhe underneath. I put up my best show to match hers. This is why she likes going solo first: in sixty nine, we always end up racing. If I wasn’t so horny, I might get annoyed by the fact.

Her tongue slides in and out of me, deep enough that you might call them thrusts. I yelp quietly every time while trying to take care of her pleasure. I’m falling behind. That won’t do. I have to… hmmhhhaaahhmm… Keep up… aahhhhmm… Must not… Ah! Let her… aahh…

In the end, resistance is futile. With Cy’, it always is. So I enjoy the ride, and do my best to make sure she doesn’t get too bored.

When I cum, it feels like losing. Fortunately, Cy’s is a generous winner, and I’m a good sport.

It helps that the orgams is earth-shakingly good, too. It’s at times such as this that I thank the mother nature for making me a female.

Stallions always say that cumming feels like crossing a threshold on a hundred-meter sprint. That sounds sad. For me, it’s more like the hundred-meter sprint itself. It’s an explosion in slow motion, a firework that doesn’t die out after the first burst. A flower that keeps on opening until a new flower blooms from underneath. I’d scream, but my mouth’s full. A few abrupt moans of ecstasy roll past my lips anyway, and I drink the juices that flood in their place.

She pants on top of me, all limp. Probably waiting for me to finish in my end. Now that the lust is melting into afterglow, I become painfully aware of my neck ache. I'll be damned before letting it ruin the moment, though.

There's no point in going on ponderously, so I slide my tongue right inside her, as far as it goes. She gasps while I explore her inner walls and knead her round, skinny ass. My face is a mess, yet it matters none. Her clit rubs against my lower lip, a clear hint. I suckle it like a lollipop, but not too hard. It doesn’t take long for her to cross the line in a burst of pleasure very similar to mine. We lay on the floor, basking in one another’s warmth.

A happy ending, as they say.

Knock It off

I sneer and push the glass determinately away.

“You should’ve asked me before poisoning him.”

“I never poisoned anypony,” she says, clearly offended by the notion. “Not anypony I couldn’t have cured, anyway.” The leftover glass hits the table. Apparently the invite is still open: she’d have drunk it otherwise.

“It has been awhile since you brought a stallion this far,” she notes.

“It has been a while since you were out of the house for the night. Or at least should have been.”

“That’s a lame excuse and you know it. Now, did he pass all the tests or did you finally give them up?”

Briefly I consider the option that she played Freight out of the picture in order to talk with me. The proposition is not entirely ridiculous. After all, under all the glitter, self-esteem and parties, under all the Cy’, there rests Cyclone Skyfall, an heiress to a commercial empire. At times I get a glimpse of her. On every such occasion, I get the nasty feeling that everything I know about Cy’ is what Cyclone wants me to know about her.

“For all it’s worth to you, he has been a most pleasant company for the whole evening. Considering that, a chemical knockout is a poor reward.”

“Oh, he’s still conscious all right, but not in the way he has ever known. I think it has something to do with the herbs I got from that zebra; she said they’re meant for shamans who wish to travel into the spirit world.”

“Luna’s craters…”

“I know: cool, huh?” She giggles, way too girlishly to sound real. “So you’ll keep him, then?”

“If his brain hasn’t fried as we speak, I might very well extend his probation time, yes.”

She sighs. To my annoyance, the disappointment sounds very real. “That’s a bucked-up way to think, you know that?”

“For a pony who spends half of her waking hours in partying, that’s quite the statement.”

“And stop averting the topic. You ain’t going to scheme your way out this now.”

We are treading on unfamiliar ground. It’s not like Cy’ to indulge in my affairs this hard. Distrurbingly, it’s not like Cyclone either, as far as I know.
“Scheming?” I answer meekly. “Such a nasty thing to say to a friend.”

“See? You’re doing it again: hiding behind your little strategies. That’s all you do when anypony gets close enough.”

I frown. Where the hay did that come from? “Where the hay did that come from?”

She pauses. “Well, technically I’m supposed to be your personal assistant. But lately I’ve come to think that all I ever do for you is to fly to the work with you.” Another pause, accompanied by what I can only imagine is the sound of Freight drooling. “To be frank, it’s all you ever let me do for you.”

Has she been talking with her mother again? “And I originally accepted you exactly because I was sure you’d be just as content with that state of affairs as I’d be.”

She pauses again. Is she trying to sound more serious that way?

“I just want to help you, Snowy. We all do.”

Ah, and “we” would really mean your mother and her bad conscience. One would think that she’d have gotten over the whole thing already years ago. I know I did.

“And I appreciate that help more than you know. There’s no reason, not from anypony’s part, to make me stop appreciating it.” I stand up. “I think it’s time for me to go to bed. Good night.”

“What about him?” she asks.

Ah, yes, I knew I had forgotten something. “You tell me. Is it safe to leave him on the couch for the night?”

“If nopony puts a pillow on his face.”

“I trust that nopony will. Get a blanket for him, will you? The night is chilly.”

I get upstairs, to my room behind the blue door and to the bed. The sleep comes not long after.

***

Half an hour after Snowdrop got to her room, I sneak behind it to listen. No sound carries from the other side, not for another five minutes. It’s unlikely that she’d fake that long, or that she suspects anything in the first place, but with Snowy, you can never be too sure. A sphinx with dementia would be easier to read.

As I get downstairs, Freight looks at me. “She fell asleep already?”

“Not so loud,” I whisper. “Let’s get outside.”

“But it really is chilly outside.”

“It’ll be the new ice age inside if we wake her up. Come already. And take that note with you.”

“What, this?” he picks up a small piece of paper from the floor. It reads, with hasty hoofwriting: “Drink this and play dead.”

“Yes. Throw it over the edge.”

He does, right as we get outside. The wind catches it immediately and runs away with it. In seconds, it’s lost forever. I wish the same could be said for the memory of it.

“So… How did I do?” he asks.

I shrug. It’s the most honest answer I can give. “She brought you home, so that’s a start. But it’ll take more than that to get to the next level.”

“Which is…?”

“You’ll know when you get there.”

Her rolls his eyes. “She seems nicer than you told me. How long do we need to keep playing?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Right.”

I look at him in the pale moonlight. He does seem to be a bit on the edge. “You would’ve wanted to screw her, wouldn't you?”

He glances at me quickly. “Yeah, so? Who wouldn’t? I know you do, too.”

“But you remember that we can’t, right?”

“Right,” he echoes, turning his eyes away. “I remember that much.”

“‘Cause if she gets laid, it’s the end of the story,” I go on. “The last line; the end-stop.”

“Jeez, sis… It’s like we never talked about this before.”

“Just preparing you for the future, bro. It’ll get bad, mark my words. And you’re not exactly the hardest sale on the market, figuratively speaking…”

“Hey, I got this. You know I once spent a whole month without sex?”

“Without clopping, too?”

“You crazy?”

I shake my head. “You don’t get it. Whenever somepony, anypony, gets an orgasm, the story ends. You cum, you’re no more. Blow somepony and you blow the whole world. Capish?”

He is quiet for a long while. “We’re screwed.”

“Not if we play it by the script. But for that, the story needs to finish properly. All we need to do is play for time.” I put a encouraging hoof on his shoulder. “Every clopfic has a plot, every one. It may be thin, it maybe about a housewife opening the door for the mailpony, but it’s there. That’s why they’re called a clopfics. All we need to do is live to see the end of it.”

The Restaurant (Chapter II)

Author's Note

I'm trying a bunch of new stuff in this story, so critique and comments would be even more welvome than usual. Thanks.

The Restaurant (Chapter II)

“Do you ever dream?”

Another question my dates never fail to articulate. So curious, how single-minded curiosity can be. I sip my wine, feigning to ponder the question deeply. It would not be wise to deprive him of his originality. Besides, the topic is among my favourites. Might as well make the most of it.

“Yes, I do.”

For a while, only the wind whispers around us. The air is chilly, but the cloaks offered by the house keep its bite away. Cy’ told us they’re made of the wool of rare sheep that live on the mountaintops of Canterlot and who shed it only once in their lifetime – when they die. The cost is equivalent to a small village, I hear.

“Umm… Can you see in them?” he continues.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Right.”

The gaels do the speaking for now. One, two, three, four, five…

“What do you dream of then? And how?”

Six. Will you look at that: the new record. He really has broken quite a few of them by now.

“Smells. Tastes. Touches.” Of your lips fondling the curve of my neck; of your wings sliding against mine. The shower in the morning took a quarter hour longer than usual. Such a waste of lust.

“Nopony ever asks what I dream of,” says Cy’, her mouth full of bread. For a minute, I had almost managed to forget that she is dining with us.

I smile at her pleasantly. “That would probably be because they already know. Or can you honestly say that you’d ever miss an opportunity to party, especially in your own head?”

They both chuckle at that. She practically howls. The waiter flies to us.

“Would you wish to have the dessert now?”

“I swear, I can’t eat another bite,” says Freight. There’s a sound of his hoof patting something, perhaps his own belly.

“That’s what you said when the spring rolls arrived,” notes Cyclone.

“My point exactly.”

She smacks her lips. “Suite yourself. I’ll have the strawberry cake, please.”

“And for you, miss Snowdrop?”

“More wine.”

“Certainly.” He flies away, leaving us on our private little cloud. I wish he was back already.

“Strawberries, at this time of season?” says Freight. “Gosh, you sure weren’t joking when you said that they have everything here.”

“Everything worth having, as it says on the door,” says Cy’.

“Yeah, like the view,” he goes on. “Will you just look at that mo–”

Cy’ coughs loudly. It’s not the first time tonight that she has.

“Could you describe it to me?” I ask, ignoring his blunder.

He pauses. In the silence, past the wind, I can swear I hear fervent flailing of hooves. Is she… signing at him? Why?

“It’s like… an orb of silver. Uhh… like your eyes, really. They share a certain… nobility.”

If I wasn’t sure that it’d be ridiculous, I might think she was guiding him. That would be ridiculous, indeed. Not an option, not in the slightest. However… what he said does sound suspiciously sweet to my ears. And it’s no secret to Cy’ that I have a soft spot for compliments on my eyes.

“That’s… very nice of you.”

“I’ve never seen eyes like yours, to be frank,” he continues. “At first you’d think they’re all grey, devoid of color. Blank like a winter morning. Nothing could be farther from the truth. They’re not dead, they’re… sleeping… dreaming…”

My mouth dropped slightly open, I realize.

“So full of different shades,” he says with a steady voice, as if he was reading out loud. “Changing constantly, fluctuating like a river of clouds, but yet softer than that. Deep enough to drown into.”

Motherbucking buck. She is helping him.

“And your eyelashes are like–”

“–strands of black hay, drifting in the wind?” I venture. That’s how Cy’ described them once, the first time we kissed.

“Oh, here comes the dessert!” she says loudly right before Freight’s lines turn into mumbling. He was that close of saying it, I could swear. Now she’s writing something on paper, it sounds.

“A sudden stroke of inspiration?” I ask innocently. She wasn’t expecting that I could hear the pen, I can tell.

“Ahh, yeah, just had to get it down. Hahhah, well noticed.”

“Could you read it to me?”

“Sure, sure… Right when I finish it. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“Of course. I forgot you never show an unfinished work.” I look at Freight. “Cy’ writes poetry, among other things.”

“Oh? I had no idea.”

“Then you haven’t payed very good attention. She has been scribbling all night, by the hear of it.”

They’re both very quiet. Is it my imagination, or can I hear Cy’s lips moving?

“I… thought she was… uhm… Sawing? No no no no, uh, drawing. Yeah, just drawing something, I don’t know, I ignored it.” He chuckles politely. “I mean, who am I to judge, eating on her expense at the Cloud Royale and all that.”

“Aren’t you the real gentlecolt!” laughs Cy’. I laugh with her, longer than her. I stop only when the waiter arrives with my wine, not a second too early.

I take a long sip.

At the end of it, I laugh some more. They don’t join me.

“Anyway…” I continue, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. “We were talking about dreams.”

“Right,” he says. “The other night, I had this–”

“As I said, my nights are made of tastes, sounds and feels. They contain stories, detached scenes of my past life, and everything else that you two might dream about, too. The only difference is the lack of visual material. However, the weight of that difference should not be underestimated.”

“How so?” he asks.

“My dreams are sharper, and often very consistent. I used to mix them with memories all the time. Compared to yours, they are decisively more authentic or, it could be said, more real.”

“Uhm… I don’t think it makes sense to compare dreams like that. You can’t show them to others, nor watch other ponies’ dreams.”

I focus on my wine and on the leftovers of the salad. The temptation to start counting again is strong, but there’d be little point. Nopony else has ever made it this far.

“Right?” he finally adds.

“Yes?” I ask innocently.

“Yes, she has seen other ponies’ dreams,” says Cy’, to my great annoyance. “And shown her dreams to another pony.”

He is quiet for a moment. “No way… Unless… No way…” He chuckles nervously. “Do you mean you’ve done that with Princess Luna?”

I smile affirmatively before Cy’ can ruin even that for me.

“That’s…” he begins.

“Immoral?” suggests Cy’, munching her cake. “Unethical? Wrong? Evil?”

Apparently she is trying to message me something. The trouble is, that something is not obvious to me, even if the fact might sound insane. Cy’ can play the role of annoying, spoiled bitch so well that it can’t be real. But what is, then?

“Strange,” finishes Freight. “So the stories are true? Princess Luna can travel in ponies’ dreams, and she does?”

“It’s certainly true that it’s a story,” I reply.

“Have you seen my dreams?” he suddenly blurts. Cy’ laughs heartily.

“If I had, would I tell you? Would that be something I’d like you to know?”

“I…”

“She’s asking if your dreams are worth a secret,” says Cy’. Gosh, she really is trying to get under my coat tonight. “Are they?” she continues sharply.

“If they were, wouldn’t that be a secret, too?” he says.

A clever answer. So far, he has come up with plenty. Makes me wonder how many of them were Cy’s hoofwriting.

Perhaps every single one?

It would make sense, in a very twisted way. She’s the one who hooked us up in the first place. She brought us here to repay for the rudeness she isn’t any more ashamed now than she was yesternight. If I found a single angle in where she stands, I’d say she is building something. But there is no angle. You can’t build without angles.

Right?

“Good colt!” exclaims Cy’. It sounds like she is patting him with a wing. “If Snowy wasn’t at it already, I’d ring you myself.”

Is that it? Playing Cupid is her new sport? Or merely another feint?

Is she trying to steal him from me?

No, That's Stupid

She Is, That Clever Bitch

She Is, That Clever Bitch

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

No, That's Stupid

Hah, as if. Cy’ knows better than to cross me in the matters of heart.

“Hahah, come on Cy’, let’s not make her feel awkward,” says Freight. “Not that I think many things could do that.”

It would seem, then, that I must take seriously the possibility that this time, Cy’ delivered entertainment that she wishes to last past the night. “We all just want to help you?” Wasn’t that what she said yesternight?

“I’m not strong at shame, it’s true,” I say. “I’ve never seen the point, really.”

“Never?” asks Cy’ under her breath.

I turn my head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Clever, is what I said. You’re clever, always have been. In your own way.”

“Seems like you two go a long way back,” says Freight. “How long, I wonder?”

I keep my smile intact and eyes on her. She loves to tell this story, I know. Yet the suspense drags on, and I can feel his gaze matching mine. It’s the way how she breathes.

“Since foalhood,” I answer, looking at him. “We shared all but one class in the school. She spent her first in the–”

“–care of my home teacher,” she finishes. “My parents saw it more fitting, but the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

“All the home-teachers you drove to early retirement agreed,” I add.

“From there, our friendship was only a matter of time,” she continues. “Our mothers went way back, you see, and when they realized that their little fillies shared a classroom…”

“They made sure we spent every waking hour together,” I say. “It was more sensible than anything, really. I needed an escort to accompany me wherever I went, and she needed some dead weight to prevent her from running into trouble at every passing opportunity.” I pause to sip my wine, and to listen if his amused chuckle is genuine or not. My little story certainly was.

“Inscrutable are the ways of the parents,” he says. “Still, the arrangement must’ve paid off eventually, right? I mean, you’re still living together, and your mothers hardly have a say in that anymore.”

“At least mine does not,” I say. “She passed away years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

“That is sweet of you.” In actuality he sounds sour. Bitter. A fellow orphan, perhaps? Perhaps. It’s no use prodding deeper now. The night is belongs to wine, the blood of festivities.

“I want to dance.”

The suggestion meets a brick wall in their muteness.

“Uhm… Right now?” he asks.

“Without music?” she continues.

I stand up and, in one uninterrupted motion, let my wings unfold against fabric of the night. The cloak falls from my shoulders, I don’t know where. The winds rush to greet me, to spur me, to carry me.

“Proud Freight.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Show me the moon.”

He flies to me, to the edge of the cloud.

“Leave the cape,” I tell him. He sheds it at once. So eager to obey, nothing but willing. Trained.

By her?

“Which ocean would you wish to swim in?” I ask. “On the moon, that is.”

I pull him over the edge, softly. So very gently. If my memory serves, we’re over half a mile above the city’s centre. Depending on the weather, the view must vary from incredible to breathtaking.

“I could never memorize them. Not post school exams, anyway.”

The cloud is lost, and we’re adrift. There is no direction, no plan, no strategy. No way to orient. It’s up to the winds to decide our fate.

“The Sea of Clouds is the largest,” I whisper. “Below that spread the planes of Crises, of Serenity, and of Fertility. Be quick, make your pick.”

“Or you’ll get sick?”

I give his cheek a tiny lick. “Rhymes are what make me tick.”

We laugh. His hoof wraps around my waist, another accepts my front leg. For a time, we float still.

“Cy’ was right: there is no music,” he says. “It’s difficult, dancing without music.”

I lean closer to his ear. “There is always music. All you need to do is listen.”

The dance begins with an interruption. An easy wingbeat to stop the wind’s flow, a simple turn to change our passing through the chilly velvet. Then, a stronger beat, one to fight against the gale, to bend them before the grace of our feathers. We skate through a cloud, I feel, and sink into the blue. This is what it means, being a pegasus. This is what it means, seducing another soul.

My lips enclose on his…

“Gosh, it’s cold out here,” remarks Cy’ behind me. I did not hear her approach. “How do you guys manage?”

How annoying. How strange. How terrifying.

“By keeping close,” I answer while withdrawing my lips from his. Barely a taste, is what I got… Her behaviour doesn’t make any sense.

“Room for one more?” she asks meekly.

“Sure,” says Freight. His hoof leaves my hip to give room for her.

That makes even less sense. Or can’t he take a hint?

“Nope, still freezing,” says Cy, huddling in between us. “Can we get inside?”

“Or you could recover your cloak,” I suggest.

“It’s not made for flying, dummy. Please? I’ll get us all into the Tip.”

“The Tip?” he asks. “Isn’t Vinyl Scratch playing there tonight? The house must be stuffed.”

“I can get us to the backstage, no problem there. Heck, I’ll pay for a private show if we go right now. Yeah, let’s do that.”

As she guides us into the restaurant proper, I find myself unable to escape the notion that she purposefully hit the brakes on me and Fright’s first kiss. Why would she do that? What’s her angle?

Is this one her mother’s schemes?

Ah yes, the mother. Perhaps a word about her might be fitting here.

That word would be guilt. That would be all there is, for her.

And the story behind that word is a paradigmatic example of how shame, especially of self-imposed nature, is a plague on the soul.

The Date (Chapter I)

I’m not picky when it comes to stallions. Nopony who knows me could claim that I am. There’s only one thing that they must avoid doing; one single thing, that’s all. One question they must never, ever ask.

But they always do. At some point, they just blurt it out. I’m starting to believe it’s fate.

This one has broken the record, though.

“So what do you do for living?” he asks. I can hear him cutting into his food while waiting for the response.

“Snowflakes,” I answer. “I design them.”

He swallows before answering. For me, the faint gulp might as well be an explosion, despite the background din of the restaurant. “Must be difficult. They all have to be unique, right? And there are so many, every winter.”

A smile lights my lips. He passed yet another test. Thus far, all the rest have stumbled on this one.

Let’s see if my luck has finally turned.

“That’s why I’m so good at it.” A bait. “I never get stuck with a single pattern.” A hook. Now, to reel it in: “Props of my condition, I suppose.”

He coughs. It’s not for clearing his throat, I can tell.

“I see,” he says, and coughs some more after thinking twice his choice of words. “Uhm, so you like it much?”

It’s the only reason I live for. “The ups beat the downs. But enough of me: what do you do?”

He sighs in relief, probably without noticing it himself. “I’m a color inspector, for two weeks now. I used to work in the maintenance, but I needed change. And air, really.” He chuckles. “Yeah, you’d think you couldn’t find a stuffy place in Cloudsdale, but you wouldn’t have been in the undercloud levels then. Gosh, sometimes you just can’t tell whether you’re even in the sky down there…”

Hoofsteps approach me. It’s the waiter: he steps like a cat.

“Ready to order, miss Snowdrop?” he asks.

I bite my lip. My companion has made it farther than anypony else. He even passed my little test. Perhaps it’s safe to order appetizers. “The house’s carrot salad, please.” After a moment I add: “And a glass of red wine.”

“You come here often?” he asks after the waiter has gone. “You didn’t even look, aah, ask to sss…” He coughs some more. “I mean, you know the list already. And the waiter knows you.”

I choose to ignore the wobbling for now. The order has been made. Besides, there’s that little problem that I haven’t gotten laid for months. I should cut him some slack.

“I come here once or twice a week. The owner’s daughter is my roommate.”

“Oh, you’re friends with the Skyfalls? Fancy that.” He starts eating again. By concentrating, I can hear the crumbs falling down on the tablecloth. “I hear they practically own half the Cloudsdale.”

At least they wish they did. “My mother and Mrs Skyfall go way back. Naturally they would like their daughters to be friends, too.”

“They would like?” he says, again after swallowing. “Is that a touch of irony I hear?”

He has good manners, and a bright mind. Should I dare to order the main course? Even the dessert?

“Don’t get me wrong: Cy’ and I get on like a house on fire. Sometimes I’m the house, she’s the fire, and then we switch. Keeps things balanced.”

He chuckles. He has a pleasant chuckle, too. Reminds me of a laughing pillow.

“Is ‘Cy’ a nickname?” he asks

“From ‘Cyclone’, yes. It’s an apt name, I find.” The salad arrives. I can hear it coming five tables ahead, smell it from two.

“Bon appetit,” says the waiter. A plate brushes against the tablecloth before me. “The wine will be here in a minute. I ordered a new bottle from the cellar.”

“Thank you, Spoons.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

“I was wondering why my order came so quickly,” says my escort when Spoons has gone. “Do they treat you like a princess everywhere in this town?”

“Just here,” I confess. “It gets boring in the long run, I hear.”

“From Cyclone, no doubt.”

“No: from Luna.”

He coughs again, several times.

“Wait… you say you’ve talked with Princess Luna?”

Very calmly, I taste my salad. It does taste better than usual.

“A few times. Nowadays we mostly write to each other.” I swallow, and wonder if his face would be worth seeing at the moment.

“Is that because of your job or is there a horn hiding under that gorgeous mane?”

I smile at that. “We met for the first time when I was only a foal. Apparently I made an impression.” My hooves grope for more salad. “You could call us, if not as friends, then at least as very good pen pals.”

The awe is etched into his voice. “What do you write about?”

The wine arrives. The first sip runs away with my tongue.

“Various things. She is a very good writer.” I tilt my head slightly. “I could show you some letters tonight, in my place.”

His reaction is hard to read, for there is none. Did I go too far? Was I too hasty? Is my mane floating in my wine right now?

“I’d love to,” he finally says. The smile rings on his lips like a string of bells.

I straighten my neck. “Great. Cy’ is out of town, so we have the whole place for ourselves.”

The smile keeps on tingling. I want to taste it, savour it. I want to feel him touch me, caress my neck while I breath his scent pure and fierce, free of all the distractions that spoil the air here. A warmth washes over me, and I drink more wine to get an excuse for my blush. I shouldn’t be this easy: there is no fun in that. On the other hoof, it’s no fun being pent-up, either.

He shifts in his seat: I can hear the chafing clearly. Something’s wrong.

He draws a quick breath, too quick. “So I was wondering… This might be a bit inappropriate… Still, I can’t get my head around it…”

I hold my breath. Don’t ask it. Please. You’ve been doing so well.

“Is this your first blind date?” he says. “Is that okay to ask?”

I breathe out. Danger averted. Now where did I put that wine?

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I answer, fumbling with my wing. I swear, I put the glass right there next to my–

A push, a fall, a crash. After all these years, the feeling of shame doesn't’ fail to overwhelm me. It’s a disease.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, moving my hoof as the wine spreads on the floor. Spoons is trotting closer, I hear. He must’ve been expecting this.

“Don’t worry about it,” says my escort, right next to me. Something brushes against my leg. He is wiping the wine off me. He is wiping the wine off me.

“Oh, you shouldn't,” I blurt before I can hold my tongue.

“It’s nothing, really. Just a few stains.” He wipes them off gently, meticulously. I don’t want him to stop. “There, gone. Now, to pick these shards…”

“Let me take care of those,” says Spoons. “Would you like another glass?” he asks after a moment.

“No, thank you.”

“As you wish…”

“Bring the whole bottle. And for the main course, vegetable stew with sunflower bread. For the dessert, waffles with honey and ice cream.”

“An excellent choice, miss. And for you, mister…?”

“Proud Freight,” says Proud Freight. “And I take the same.”

I finish the rest of the salad. I feel hungry, famished. Briefly I wonder if he’d lap the wine off my wings, should I stumble again.

“Eighteen,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“You asked if I’ve been on a blind date before. That’s your answer: eighteen times. This year.”

“Oh.”

I try to focus my eyes on his face. It’s hard when I don’t know how tall he is. “The concept intrigues me. A mixture of spontaneity and determination. It becomes a game, once you get familiar enough with the idea.”

“Ah-ha…”

“You don’t think so?”

He moves restlessly. “I couldn’t say… This is my first time.” He pauses. “What do you mean, ‘it becomes a game’?”

The food arrives like an interlude in a theater. I can sense him behind the curtain, wishing to peer to the other side. Perhaps he likes games, too.

I take my time to taste the stew and sip the wine. “Would you mind if I rambled a bit?”

He shakes his head. I know this because he apologizes immediately after. I forgive him: they always do that, at some point.

“In truth, most everything can be viewed as a game of sorts. It all comes down to how one understands strategy. For example, when I asked your permission to ‘ramble a bit’ – not little but a bit – I made three simultaneous moves. First, I made sure it would be harder for you to interrupt me: I have your permission to go on just a bit more, after all. Second, by foregrounding what I was going to say, I ensured your interest. Thirdly, by belittling myself with the word ‘rambling’, I both put distance between myself and my message, and avoided giving an arrogant image of myself.”

He is quiet for a moment.

“Sounds… interesting. But isn’t that very manipulative?”

I smile. “Ah, you’re trying to break the game by moralizing me. A predictable move.” I take another sip and some more stew. “You’re right, of course. Games are very manipulative, once you become aware that they exist in everything.”

“But you don’t have to play games. You can always stop.”

“No, you can’t. All you can do is forget. Equine relations are built on reciprocity: all things have consequences, every move has an effect. So tell me, which is more moral: making moves blindly or mindfully?”

He seems slightly hurt. “I didn’t say you were immoral…”

“No, you hinted at the possibility. It’s always more effective than a straight statement.”

Silence descends between us. I hate silences. They deprive me of my vision.

“What’s your favourite book?” he asks.

I smile in a way Cy’ taught me to. Apparently it looks highly attractive. “I see you’re not into games.”

“Games suit me fine. It’s the losing that I hate.”

“Then we have something in common. But in the game I had in mind, we could both win. A lot, if you’re up to it.”

This gets his attention, it seems.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever met another pony like you.”

“That would most likely be because you haven’t met me at all. But perhaps you might. Perhaps you might…”

***

Cyclone and I live in the fifth level of the city, on a quiet area with other, more fortunate ponies of Cloudsdale. It’s small as far as cloudhouses go, consisting of only two stories. Cy’ often complains that we should move to a larger building so she could house her endless parties at home. Remember how I told that most everything resembles a game? Well, in that case, this topic would be Kimble, and Cy’ can beat that pop-o-matic like it was nopony’s business. It makes me wish I could turn my ears off.

I fumble with the key on the front door. I’m more drunk than I’ve been for a while. His breathing rumbles behind me, and I can imagine his gaze travelling over my neck, back and rump. I flick my tail, and giggle mentally as he lets out a quiet groan. Finally, the door opens. I close it quickly behind him.

“Nice place,” he says in the hall. “The mat really ties it all toget–aaahh!…”

My lips find his neck, and my tongue lashes out like a whip of a slaver, craving for the touch of fur and skin. The first lick is a long one; it travels all the way to the root of his ear. He wriggles a bit, and moans.

I rest my throat on his neck, feeling the muscles rippling underneath. “You taste delicious. Forgive me. I had to try it.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he muses. A shiver moves over him. “Still… you could’ve warned me…”

My hoof touches his flank, kneading it gently. “You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes…”

I bite his shoulder. Not hard, just enough to get a good mouthful of flesh between my teeth. He flinches, and I bite again, a bit harder. Nibbling my way upwards, I once again approach his right ear. He moves his head, as if offering it to me. I decline, and instead slip in front of him, all the while keeping my flank pressed against his. I close my eyes.

We kiss.

The familiar taste of wine is abundant, but not overwhelming. Beside the berry flavour, a pinch of salt lingers. The bittersweet symphony flows in rhythm of our tongues.

It’s all I wished for.

A hoof wraps around my neck, pulling me closer. His lust is touchable, a primal beat that matches mine to a note. Our lips depart as he revels in my mane, breathing it while I push against him. A flaming forge would not shame the heat that he emanates.

I lean close to his ear. “Upstairs, there are two rooms. One has a red door, the other blue.” I nibble his auricle. “Which one will you choose?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No.”

He pauses. “Can I let you pick first?”

I can hear his blood rushing. “A clever colt. A bad sport, though.” I swirl around and trot across the carpet. One, two, three, four, five, six… Eleven steps. I raise my hoof to the railing. “Don’t you know that breaking a rule will only create another one?”

The carpet muffles his steps only slightly. “The house rule?”

“Yes.” I get on the stairs. “But remember… The true house is the world.”

He follows in my wake. One, two, three, four… and to the left. The rail leads me, and I him, until the two doors stand before us.

“The other is Cy’s room, right?” he says behind me.

“In truth, they both are. This is her house, remember.”

He steps closer. “But you sleep in one of them.”

“Not tonight.”

We step in. It’s up to you to decide in which one.

The Blue Door

The Red Door