"What do you think?" he asks, sounding a little more playful than you’d expect.
You knew it was a bad idea, letting him drink so much wine. Worse again when he luridly asked what you thought of his outfit and, barely waiting for you to answer, asked how he’d look out of it. Even when he stood there in nought but his green panties, he never heeded your requests to stop, albeit they weaker and less insistent the further he went along.
The evening had started off well enough. He’d the widest grin on his face upon seeing you sporting a bottle of Manehatten Blue at the door and leaned out through the frame to place the sweetest little kiss on your lips. That was only moments before a stricken look of horror shot across his face and he bolted back into the house, shouting something about the carrots.
For all his worries the dinner had been pulled off magnificently. And more than once he’d asked just where you managed to procure wine like that, usually after pouring himself yet another glass. But he was so pleased and relaxed it was impossible to stop him. To the point where you eventually joined in and the two of you were leaning against one another—though more him against you—struggling not to forget about the meal when far tastier lips awaited you both.
There he stood, after near kicking back the chair, flicking his tail from side to side. The luscious pink locks of his hair hiding the worst of his blush as he slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down. It wasn’t the way he did it, it was how they clung to his bubbly cheeks; the flesh struggled to spill over the cotton confines.
Your own meal had long since been forgotten about, the glass coming back down to the table with a gentle clink. Something else came to the fore of your mind upon seeing Butterscotch bending over, shuffling his legs together as his arm languidly slunk across the back of his chair. The other ran down the smooth, altogether too enticing curve of his back – yellow wings snapped to attention with a dull foomf and his tail rose in a fountain of hair as those clinging fingers dug into the putty-like flesh of his behind.
Tail aside, the view was clear – you weren’t the only one excited by all this. Butterscotch’s mottled cock bounced down between his legs while his fingers vied for your attention, sneaking ever closer to that tiny ring underneath the dock of his tail. The look in his eyes was fierce and devilish as he asked the question, leaving you speechless.
So there you sit now, turning about. You might not have drunk quite so much as him but the warm, numbing feeling was already working its magic. Your eyes only trail after your hand that reaches out, jerking clumsily at the silken tail that brushes its wrist. The first brush of your fingers against his rump is… Of course it was going to be soft but this was something else, altogether. From the velvet-like coat to the buttery, bubbly behind that your hand near sinks into, your other quickly comes up to the other cheek.
Butterscotch moans quietly, wincing and taking hold of one of your hands. He gently pulls it outwards, stretching the little pink ring; you quickly follow suit with your other hand and are mesmerised by that opening.
When did you move in close enough that you could pick up his scent? And how had you never noticed before that it was the most agreeable earthy smell, like the forest he lives near after an autumn rain.
His thick pink tail comes down, wrapping around your neck lovingly as if he were putting his scarf on you. Your world is reduced to this one, beautiful pegasus – to his warmth and scent and touch and taste! Without even knowing it you leaned in until your lips were on his right cheek, near his cutie mark. Butterscotch’s legs wobble and the cutest little whimper escapes him as you drag kisses along his behind. His coat is sweet, slightly musky and deceptively intoxicating.
The shaking of his body only intensifies the closer you move in towards that certain spot. Your kisses become slower, your lips and tongue reluctant to leave him. But the hand that gently grips your head grows more insistent and a part of you is sure you hear a light, soft voice say, "Please!"
Sinking your hands back into his cheeks you pull them apart; slowly, teasingly. You kiss once just above his balls, the poor pegasus’ grip on the chair slipping in time to a bob of his cock. But you don’t leave him – you drag your tongue along that short distance to the now opened ring and then kiss once—light, barely holding it long enough for him to moan—twice—longer, sliding your tongue around the edges of his entrance to moans that rise in pitch and volume.
The third time, however, he doesn’t allow you to pull away. A gentle push of his hand sees you worm your tongue inside him—to a chorus of moans and whimpers—past that quivering, twitching ring, while a groan rises in your throat.
Your fingers dig—sink, really—into his rump, Butterscotch’s legs shaking with the strain of holding himself up against your greed-driven pulling. Dessert had been palatable but this was far more so; his hooves tap excitedly on the ground with the ferocity of your tonguing. Lips pressed in tight to his ring you lustfully slather your tongue around his insides, shifting back in your chair as you feel the poor pegasus start to go limp.
One hand snakes up over your neck, through the thick strands of his tail—so soft that it leaves your skin with a tingling sensation—then back onto hips that wouldn’t look out of place on a mare. Your partner whimpers, the noise calling your attention to the movement of his left shoulder – where are your manners? Here he’s provided you with a veritable buffet of delights and you’re focusing solely on one course. Even over his moans you hear hooves clop on the floor as you gently shift his legs apart and slide your fingers over the moistened tip of his member, rubbing against his own soft hands.
They’re shaking, just as he’s done so many nights previous and you can’t help but intertwine your fingers with his. The two of you slowly start building up a rhythm on his length – his fingers stroking the edges of his flare while yours stroke over and back against the urethra and tip.
Butterscotch’s interior clamps down on you, in time to a particularly lurid moan. His right cheek wobbles back into place as you let go and slide your hand up, along his smooth, arched back. Those wings have already unfurled and stand quiveringly stiff – just the lightest brush of your fingers against the wrist has him chomping down on his lip, little "mmms" and "ahhhs" just getting through.
It unseats him just long enough for the hand at your head to slacken in its grip, for you to yank your tongue out—forcing his lips apart and a loud cry of pleasure past them—and catch a quick breath of air before your lover pushes you back in where you belong.
"You’re such AHH good boy!" he half coos, half groans.
Unexpectedly, the hand at your head disappears again and this time you feel him fiddling about with your belt and zipper. Shaking fingers don’t make for an easy job and he’s dealing with the effects of his earlier drinking, too but you’re not in any particular rush; while your own erection may be painfully stiff, lavishing attention on Butterscotch has always been the most enjoyable of acts.
The belt buckle clatters just as you slip your hand and his down along his shaft and he pauses there, tail twitching against your skin. It’s far more heady than any wine or beer you’ve shared with him and his friends and you moan loudly—muffled by his thick rump—before thrusting your head in against his behind, seeking to delve ever deeper.
Freed from the first of its fabric prisons, your member bulges against your boxers and Butterscotch teasingly rubs a thumb against the tip. You shiver, your hand on his back slipping down and eagerly taking hold of his to guide it. Just as you with his, those movements are slow, teasingly deliberate. Were your tongue not firmly lodged inside him, you’d be putting it to use directing him.
So instead you pull it out slowly, at a pace that leaves him shivering from hoof to head, and gently lap at his ring. Your hands move together along his length, stroking and squeezing the throbbing, twitching flesh; with your nostrils full of his scent you can’t help but try to speed it up, to hear his low moans turn to high, feminine whines.
Perhaps hoping to entice you back to your ministrations, Butterscotch shifts your underwear until your member pops free of it. You can’t hold yourself back from thrusting into his gentle grasp a throaty groan accompanying the movement – no matter where those hands touch, it always feels good. Just as quick, your tongue delves where your length cannot. But not before you abandon your grip on the pegasus.
The underwear squeezing his thighs comes down easily enough, though your shaking hands still haphazardly tug at it. They come down to just above his hock before Butterscotch shuffles about, trying to shift his legs and get the garment off. Still with his rump tight to your face, however, his efforts only see him stumble and, with a cry of surprise, fall onto the table. His member spatters the floor with a few thin strands of seminal fluid, rump wobbling slightly. Your hands immediately latch onto it, stroking across the velvet-soft coat and down his thighs.
Butterscotch coos, a little drunken giggle mixing in with it as he wiggles his hips and lifts his legs for you to pull his panties down. You kiss each hock as they pass up over your head, slipping the nefarious garment off him and tossing it aside. Two soft clops ring out when his hooves touch the floor again, your hands holding his legs apart as they come down. That pink tail snaps up, filling your face with its softness and scent; a gentle pull sees him positioned back over you but not with his rump pointed at your face.
On wobbly hooves, your pegasus lover looks down and smiles shyly, steadying himself with one hand to the table and the other on the small of his back. Your eyes meet and you pause – what he remembers of tonight should be done gladly, not with regrets.
To his waist go your hands, to gently encircle him in arms that lovingly wrap around him. You reach upwards, across his abdomen and feel it suddenly contract under a light gasp. It leaves Butterscotch shaking and unable to hold himself high; the motion is smooth but still agonisingly slow and you can but watch--determined not to rush him--as he lowers himself. It's not the first night you've come together in this fashion but certainly the first done under these circumstances; his sopping wet hole inches closer to your member until, shifting himself into a more comfortable standing position, Butterscotch touches you.
It's impossible to stop yourself from reflexively thrusting forward and your lover whimpers quietly, the sound dying down as you tighten your grip on him and place a small, sweet kiss against the curve of his back. You look up, clamping your mouth shut as he begins anew to come down. Your hand twitches away from his chest, roughly brushing the locks of his pink mane from his neck, exposing it. A throb of pleasure follows from the sensation of him taking the tip of your member, Butterscotch tensing up momentarily before leaning back against you. Those wings flap outwards once, wrapping around him to leave you access to his back.
His hips wiggle, that chubby behind wobbling in turn and a moan erupts from you both as another inch slips into him. You clasp his chest tightly, nibbling and kissing at his shoulder blade; the scent of his masculinity is strong there, intoxicatingly distracting. He's shivering, you suddenly realise, struggling to hold himself in position awkwardly before the rest of your member enters. Down, your hand slides, to his hip and to gently push him on the rest of the way. His whimper overshadows your quieter sigh of relief and you quickly cover even that with a kiss upon his neck.
Butterscotch gasps, leaning into it, his left hand eagerly seeking out your own and you take it and squeeze as hard as he does. The other slips down to his thigh, stroking along it but inching closer to his cock each time. He wiggles his hips, angling himself forward but only succeeds in grinding down harder into your lap; the two of you mix your moans, him squeezing your hand all the tighter.
"Take it easy," you whisper. In the hope of satisfying him, you grasp his member in your hand and lightly squeeze it.
Your lover, in turn, squeezes down upon you, sliding a hoof against your leg. The hand he's been holding is deftly drawn upwards to rest against his heaving chest. Smooth, and firm yet soft, you can easily pick out his heartbeat; rapid and regular, picking up when you stroke your leg against his. You lean around him, struggling to properly reach his lips and instead settle for a somewhat awkward kiss on his cheek. Butterscotch giggles breathlessly and the cock in your hand twitches.
"C'mon," he whispers back to you, "I wanna have some fun." There's that playful edge to his voice again, as well as the smell of alcohol. If you weren't so sure of what he meant to you--and you to him--you'd never have even considered letting him do this. But there has not, so far as you can recall, been a night after which he has expressed true regret in that way.
"Aren't you enjoying this?" you coo, pushing forward slightly. The moan you receive tells all.
Butterscotch chews his lip, grinding himself harder into your hips. "More. Harder." Forget playful, he sounds positively predatory.
He lets go of your hand and you lower it, intent on holding onto his hip to abide by his wish but instead you're left surprised as he pulls upwards and off you. Neither of you can keep yourselves from shivering but it's you who has the better view of that beautiful behind of his while he stands. Just as soon as he's back on his hooves, Butterscotch wobbles and falls forward, catching himself against the table.
The desire to reach out, to touch and steady and hold grips you but you're instead left watching as he--in a move that belies his staggering--quickly turns about. His sleek, lithe body leaves you breathless. Normally so body-shy, it's not often you have the chance to so openly admire him. While he may not partake of the same workout regimin as Rainbow Blitz, his work with the animals does keep him trim. Coupled with a healthier diet than most ponies and he's a stallion any would call themselves lucky to call their own.
Still, you could never stop your gaze from lowering to between his thighs - to that mottled pink and brown member. Perhaps, later, if he does not finish here you may return the favour. The thought drives you to biting your own lip.
"Come."
You're entranced by the word, the hungry passion in his voice and how lucidly he leans towards you. The kiss is brief, sweet and serve only to distract you while Butterscotch tugs at your jeans. You stand, hoping to catch those soft, soft lips again but instead are forced to focus on shuffling those suddenly troublesome trousers off. And while you do that, your partner busies himself by keeping you from kissing those utterly kissable lips - or lifting your shirt over your head as you're sure he's thinking to himself.
It takes a moment longer before you realise you're as naked as he.
And did you regard him as hungrily as he does you? You gain a newfound appreciation for his self-conscious nature and vow to be more understanding of it, but only before you feel that hand of his slip around your waist and tug you close and into a kiss. It's rough and passionate and makes your legs wobble just enough for him to start gently pushing you backwards. And back, across the room while you absently hope you don't--
Quite suddenly your legs give out from under you, folding against the couch that presses to the backs of your knees. Butterscotch wastes no time, kneeling down to straddle your waist with all the practiced pacing of a certain elegant white stallion. His hands slide lazily over your shoulders, coming together across your back and leaving you bewildered and holding him. Many's the night you had to coax him into taking the lead and yet here he is, leaving you speechless.
But only so that your lips are free to be used to kiss his. Your lover practically dives forward, pushing you back along the couch until he has you pinned and at his mercy. But you receive none, his lips and tongue both leaving you a moaning, shivering mess underneath him. Even the old trick of sliding your hands down his back and buttocks in one motion does nothing to unseat him - it buys you a momentary lapse while Butterscotch gasps but he only smiles after and returns to his oscular assault. And all the while that silken tail of his swishes from one of your thighs to the other, the tickling, teasing stimulation making you laugh into the kiss and Butterscotch's eyes shine with love.
Because he does love you. And you him. And even if he's only filled with false bravado from a night's drinking, it's so very good to have him taking the lead. Even if he'll turn red as a beet tomorrow he'll still smile and ask if you enjoyed it and then turn redder still when you ask did he.
Because you love him and want him so terribly much and so tell him, the words spilling out messily amidst the kiss. Somehow he still shivers, the lithe muscles of his back rippling under your fingers.
"Please," he whispers, wiggling his rump against you.
The coupling is rougher this time, both of you no longer content to handle this so innocently. Instead you slip your hands over his hips and pull him down, in time to his thrusting back. Butterscotch whines, digging his fingers into your shoulders as your member easily sinks back into his warmth.
The coat of his body provides some insulation for the sound but with the force with which your bodies meet, there's still a muffled smack.
This time you don't settle to tease but instead gingerly wrap your fingers around his throbbing, aching cock and swipe your thumb across the wide head. Butterscotch moans, a quiver radiating out from his thighs and down his insides, delightfully squeezing you. You just manage to roughly stroke its length before your pegasus lover descends and locks lips with you again. His thick pink tresses fall about over your face but still, you keep your eyes on those beautiful pools of cyan.
This time and in this position, Butterscotch is free to pull up, to push you down with his kiss before he thrusts. You had not been expecting it and your hips buck forward, meeting his own. Your lover whimpers, breaking the kiss but keeping his head against yours.
Lilting grunts come from him as he picks up his pace, squinting his eyes shut with the effort of thrusting himself down on you. His tail twitches from side to side, tickling against your legs and it almost distracts you from stroking his member. It’s difficult enough, rubbing his rump with the other and trying to angle yourself just so to catch his lips with your own.
"Please, oh please…" There’s such need in his voice, you can’t help but awkwardly line yourself up and kiss him roughly. Butterscotch whimpers, one of his hands snapping off your shoulder and gripping your head like a vice.
Yet even over that you can hear the smacking of his rump against your hips rise in volume just as he struggles to hold the kiss. He does break it, pulling back with a gasp before thrusting down onto you particularly hard. A part of you wonders if you’re hurting him, holding his rump so roughly but the rest is taken up with trying to pull him tighter to your lap.
Butterscotch grinds himself there, whimpering and shaking and all the while his cock twitches in your grasp. The shaft, your fingers and most of your palm are wet with his secretions but your movements are still slow and only enough to make him thrust fitfully.
His hands slide back over your shoulders, down your upper arms and you only reluctantly meet them with the one gripping his rump and even then you trail it up over his hips. Almost as if he’d been waiting, Butterscotch lifts himself slightly and then mashes his hips back down, squeezing your hand tightly. He lifts it to his smooth chest and strokes your arm while you push back against him.
"Jesus, ’Scotch," you mutter, "t-take it easy!"
"Do you know how long I’ve been—unf—waiting for this?" His grunt mingles with the soft squish that comes from his rump meeting your hips.
"All week?" You’re struggling to catch your breath.
"Mmm-mmph! Yes!" He tugs on your arm, using the leverage to thrust down and squeezes on you, wiggling his round little tush.
There’s a moment here you can take advantage of; with him sat squarely in your lap you press on his chest and keep him there. And all the while you’re free to stroke his mottled cock, to watch him quiver and shake, a little smile gracing his lips as he leans back and lets you give him a little attention.
The strokes are long and slow, each one making the organ throb in your grip. His hips gyrate forward, pushing him against your grasp just as your hand slips down to the base of his member. A light squeeze is all you need to see him throwing a hand across his mouth to stifle something between a moan and a gasp.
"No, wait," he breathlessly pleads, "wait!" The hand that had been at his mouth comes down and gently brushes your own from his member. "I want to enjoy this."
So taking his hand in your own you pull him back down, hoping your smile can match his own. You hold it fast, slipping your other around onto his band and deftly down to his rump, taking a breath before sinking your fingers back in.
Surrounded by his hair, eyes only for his, you hear him clearly when he whispers, "don’t hold back. I want to feel it."
To punctuate his point, the pegasus pulls his plump behind into the air leaving only the tip of your member still inside him before thrusting down. The force leaves his rump wobbling in your grasp and both of you momentarily struggling for breath. But there’s no let up, the thrust is immediately met with another and you meet it with your own; both your bodies shaking with the impact.
Butterscotch leans down, nipping and kissing at your neck, reaching down under you to grip your own behind and hold it tightly. Each thrust upon him brings you that much closer to the edge and leaves you putting more effort into it all, gripping his hand ever tighter. The dining room is filled with the lurid sounds of your lovemaking, some distant part of your mind glad that he lives out here at the edge of Whitetail Woods lest any neighbours hear the two of you.
Sooner than you would have rather—though certainly welcomed by your aching hips—you feel that familiar pressure build in your loins. You turn to one side, hoping to catch the attention of your pegasus lover.
"H-Hey, ’Scotch?" He continues panting but angles himself so you catch his eye. "I… I can’t hold it—"
"Don’t!" Butterscotch sounds positively frantic. "Ohh, don’t! Don’t pull out, I want to feel it all."
And so you don’t.
Your partner continues bouncing on your lap, those warm, soft insides pushing you on until you can hold yourself back no more. Still holding his hand, you pull down with your other and keep him in place as you feel the first spasming of your member. Butterscotch squeals, latching onto you and holding himself firmly in place.
Even as he once again grinds himself upon you, your hips buck futilely against him. His body works to extract what it can from you, the rhythmic squeezing driving you to push deeper.
Of course, his orgasms would always outstrip your own in volume but you could only hope you made him feel half as good as he did for you. The pegasus still nibbles at your neck and shoulder and the warmth that suffuses you is more from just what’s happening below.
Even as the most immediate pleasure subsides, you stroke your palm on his rump in wide, lazy circles while Butterscotch lies atop you, shivering and breathless. Even without the drinking you did earlier it would be impossible to say how long passes between the two of you like that. You’re only dimly aware of your member, now flaccid, slipping out of him; your legs intertwine and fight to pull the two of you closer together.
"Thank you. That felt… ohh." That voice is honey-sweet and calmingly soft, even if he does still pant quietly.
"Sorry I didn’t get you off." Your hands disentangle and his slips under your shoulder while yours drapes over his back.
"You didn’t have to." His hoof touches just the right part of your leg and makes you shiver, turning slightly to one side as you meet his eyes and smile. "But you can come over tomorrow night and we can…" He trails off into quiet little giggles.
And you join him. The gentle sound is broken only by a few kisses exchanged, sweaty brows touching with his mane clinging to it.
"How about I stay here tomorrow?" Butterscotch lets out a contented sigh and nuzzles your neck. "Just promise you’ll stay with me."
"Do we still have some wine?" His flushed cheeks remind you exactly of that.
"I think you might’ve finished it off." He just giggles again, a sound that keeps the smile on your face. "Do you want me to take us to bed?"
"Mmm." He shakes his head against yours. "Let’s just stay here. I just wanna…" But he trails off into nothingness, laying his head against your own as his breathing slows and quietens.
