Wherein Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Engage In Coitus
Wherein Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Engage In Coitus
It's Five O'Clock Somewhere...
By: Guy_Incognito
Let me start off by saying that I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t want me to.
No. That’s a lie.
I’m here because I want to be here. I’m having fun being here. I love being here.
No. No. That's the lie.
I’m here because it’s good for my image to be here. It’s good for me to get out of my one bedroom apartment in the slums and meet the ponies who my manager said all really liked my new album. It’s good for me to get out of the studio where I spent the last three months of my life working on said album. Where I fought with my manager for a less synthetic sound, and for better samples on my tracks. Where my manager told me I had to appeal to a larger audience and the producer kept mixing in air horn effects.
My latest album was more them than it was me.
My latest album is also why I’m here tonight. It just went platinum.
And so, here I am.
Here is the penthouse suite of somepony that I’m supposed to know, but whose name I can’t remember. I only know ‘that’ because my manager gave me cue-cards to read while I hopped in a taxi-cart to meet him here. I threw them out the window half a block away from my apartment.
All I know is that it’s a fundraiser. Something for ‘The Orphans’.
At some point I can only imagine my manager is planning on introducing me to Mr. or Mrs. Philanthropist, and I’ll smile, and shake his or her hoof, and he or she will tell me how much they loved my new album, and we’ll walk away pretending like we had a really pleasant conversation even though we didn’t.
That’s generally how these things go.
Whoever it is who owns this house, I can tell already that they have terrible taste in interior design. There are these giant plexiglass windows that make up an entire wall and overlook the good side of the city. The walls that aren’t window are cold stone — marble, limestone or something like it — and there are paintings of vast green landscapes the size of three ponies standing one atop the other hanging from them. The rest of the room is empty — open air I believe is the term — save for the buffet, the bar and all the ponies gathered around both of them.
Somepony has hung white and gold streamers from the roof with the inspiring phrase “We can make a difference.”
This place is a joke.
I feel bad for the orphans. I feel bad for the hired help. I feel bad that some buttwipe actually got an honest paycheck out of designing this slice of upper class over-indulgence.
Mostly, I feel bad for myself.
And so, naturally, I’m doing what I always do when I feel bad for myself. I’m slumped over the bar counter, fiddling with a glass coaster waiting for a drink I don’t think is ever going to come.
The bartender is my age and kind of cute, or, she would be kind of cute if she smiled more. She’s hovering over me with this asinine, vacant stare on her face, totally ignoring the crystal tumbler with what’s left of my last glass of champagne (Is that really how the rich drink it now?). I’m trying to tell her that I want a ‘Whiskey Sour. Neat.’ but she keeps looking at me like I have an extra chromosome or something.
“Whiskey. Sour.” I repeat.
I get that same blank face in return.
“You know what whiskey is, right?”
Pale, lifeless eyes stare back at me.
“And… I can see a bottle of Clemmon’s Lime Mix right under the Flor De Cana.”
Finally, something catches and she turns her head to see if I’m telling the truth.
“So, all you have to do is mix them together. In a glass. With no ice.”
She huffs something under her breath that sounds like it rhymes with ‘Stupid itch.’, but I don’t really catch it and I really don’t care what some minimum wage slave thinks about my lack of a personality.
I guess the same could be said about me from her since I notice her hoof avoids the bottle of Vagrant’s Choice (Whiskey) and moves past the Clemmon’s Lime Mix.
This mare is getting paid ten bits an hour to ignore me, and to be honest, it almost seems like a fair deal for her. Most ponies I know do it for free.
Since there’s absolutely no chance I could possibly fix any of the bridges and repair the always nourishing ‘Bartender/Borderline alcoholic, down on her luck, musician’ relationship, I just sigh loud enough for her to hear it, and twirl around in my seat so I face the crowd.
When I was just a filly I used to love the zoo. My mom would take me there sometimes, and I would sit and watch all the animals for hours. That’s sort of what the crowd here tonight reminds me of.
In the corner of the room, near the buffet table, Hoity Toity is drunk and flirting with Soarin the Wonderbolt. I watch him say a few words to Soarin, then Soarin’ laughs and Hoity Toity adjusts his sunglasses. His hoof brushes Soarin’s shoulder, like he’s flicking dirt off of his Wonderbolts uniform. Soarin grins. It actually looks like Hoity is pulling this off. Then, I watch Soarin’s nostrils twitch and I know its over for Hoity.
Soarin turns away from Hoity Toity — who looks totally devastated — and watches as some of the staff wheel in a tray of baked goods. His eyes line up with an apple pie.
Hoity may want Soarin, but Soarin wants pie.
I read an article once in one of those trashy gossip rags while I was waiting for a train to Manehattan. In it, they interviewed a cleaning lady who worked overnights at The Royal Algonquin hotel in Manechester where the Wonderbolts were staying. According to her, Soarin ordered a pie (Extra warm, extra crispy) at midnight. In the morning, when she cleaned his room, the pie was still sitting on the coffee table, looking the same as when it came out of the oven… except for a hole ‘as round as the girth of an average Equestrian penis’ (Her words. Not mine) in the top crust.
Stories like that kind of make you wonder...
I have to turn away. As deeply engaging as it is to watch a middle aged homosexual fashion designer hit on a colt accused of non-consensual dessert rape, I think I’ve seen enough of that for tonight.
I think it’s time I get myself that drink I ordered.
I will myself to turn back towards the bar, and Miss Personality is shoving a Manehattan — with ice — in my face. Giving me that same dull expression. I sneer at her. I scrunch my nose and roll my tongue out of my mouth.
She doesn’t even flinch.
Whatever, this was getting boring anyway.
I sip my Manehattan and I have to stop myself from doing a spit take. It eats me alive to think that I somehow, in some way shape or form, have offended the bartender enough for her to go so heavy on vermouth and skimp out — almost entirely — on the whiskey.
She must have heard my new album.
I find the strength to take another sip and I’m scanning the room again. I get lightheaded. For some reason, seeing all these rich and powerful ponies gathered in one place is kind of overwhelming. The average net worth around here must be enough to feed the royal guards for a month, and, with this many ponies, and at the price we had to pay for entry into this lovely swaray, those orphans might actually stand a chance.
I guess, in a way, this is actually a good thing.
I take another sip of my Manehattan — swallowing hard — and suck an ice cube to wash out the flavour of bad vermouth from my mouth.
I don’t know what I’m looking for tonight. Everyone here is so much… older, richer, fatter, uglier, prettier and thinner, than I am. They’re them. I’m me.
That lightheaded feeling hits me again and suddenly the whole place is starting to look like the bird sanctuary at the Canterlot Zoo. The colts, with their black dinner jackets and their white button up shirts, are all penguins. The mares with their rainbow coloured cocktail dresses, are the peacocks.
The way I’m staring must make me some kind of vulture.
I take the last sip from my Manehattan and suck what little whiskey I can from a few ice cubes I let slide into my mouth.
I consider, for a moment, ordering something else. Something stronger. Maybe a gin and cranberry juice? Or vodka rocks? This thought quickly passes. The night is still young, and, whatever I’m looking for here is still out there waiting to be found.
I tell myself that in twenty minutes, if nothing happens and not a single interesting event unfolds, I will most definitely throw off the shackles of moderate-sobriety and get rip roaring drunk. Front page headlines scream, “Vinyl Scratch thrown out of charity fundraiser.”
This is neither good, nor bad, for my image... I imagine.
I decide to get a feel for the crowd. Submerge myself in their depths and see if anypony here is worth brushing shoulders with. And, just as I’m about to do that, I almost lose my balance when this fucking guy bumps right into me. I spin around to face him; He’s my age (Maybe a year or two older) and snarls at me. He’s wearing an outfit from Perseus — black dinner jacket, white button up underneath — his black mane is slicked back. He’s a yuppie. A total fucking yuppie!
“Excuse you,” I grunt.
He stops dead in his tracks turns towards me. For a quiet second he’s just staring at me. His eyes are cold and dead. Little black beads in a sea of endless white. Then, he smiles — more of a grin really — and bows his head.
“Sorry,” He snaps under his breath.
He has weird red stains on the tips of his collars, and around the throat of his shirt, that are far too dark to be from the punch. They almost look like…
No. They couldn't be…
He notices that I notice the stains and his face falls absolutely flat. Like, ‘I just got caught using my fiance’s marital aid’ flat. He doesn’t try to hide them, but he does run his hoof through his mane, nervously, and then he fakes a smile.
“That’s cranberry juice,” He says, in a hushed tone. “Cranapple…” He looks at me. “From the punch...”
I have no desire to find out if he’s telling the truth.
Just. Walk. Away.
The voice in my head that ponies often call intuition tells me to do this. I don’t argue.
I decide now, more than ever, that I will in fact brave the glares from the bartender and have another Manehattan.
I make my way back to the bar; keeping my eyes on the ground and brushing past guys and girls who are in my way. The room feels smaller now. The air seems heavier and polluted. My lungs feel like I’ve been a pack a day smoker since I was three. Once — and only once — I look back to see if Mr. Cranapple is staring at me. He isn’t. Thankfully. I take a moment to catch my breath, breathing in deep then exhaling slowly, and the room starts to feel normal again.
Its about time I had that drink, I think.
I slap my hoof on the bar and the flat faced Bartender stares at me again. By now I’m not even bothered by it.
“Whiskey Sour,” I demand.
She grunts and fixes me another Manehattan. This time there’s so little whiskey in my drink that what she gives me is practically a tumbler of cold vermouth.
I’d love to see how my night could get any worse.
Meeting Octavia
By this point in the night I’ve been drinking bad Manehattans at the bar for almost an hour. I’m on my third (maybe my fourth?) and I feel like the second I get up, its going to hit me all at once.
I still haven’t found whatever it is I’m looking for yet and I’m starting to seriously doubt that I ever will. If there’s something, or someone, in this crowd that I was expecting to steal my attention and drag me outta this self-imposed pit of despair I’ve sorta dug myself into it hasn’t come my way. Yet.
I sip a little more vermouth and whiskey out of my straw.
“I know that you’re paid hourly, and that your tip jar is entirely dependent on your attitude, but, if you can’t learn how to mix a proper Old Fashioned, would you kindly make my next drink a double bleach on the rocks?”
I think I might have just found what it is I’m looking for.
I have to look, because, well, I have to know who I’ll definitely be sharing my next drink with. I tilt my head casually enough that she won’t spy me spying her. With my sunglasses on it shouldn’t be a problem, but, I like to be on the safe side.
Who I’m staring at is the prettiest mare I’ve seen all night. She’s young, probably my age, maybe older. Her coat is a smokey grey and her mane — which is done up in a bun with her bangs chopped just before her eyes — is a shade I want to be pretentious and call ‘charcoal’ or ‘hazey’ (But is really just a nice shade of black). Her eyes are a pretty, darker tinted purple. She’s wearing a lovely merlot coloured cocktail dress from Perseus and, from the wry little grin spread across the right side of her mouth, I think I’d like to get to know her.
“Cheers to that,” I say, raising my nearly empty glass in the air and then smiling at her. “Make it two.”
The bartender’s face grows bright with a crimson hue and she turns away from us. Embarrassed, and, maybe if we were preachy enough, looking in some guidebook for the directions on how to fix a pair of ‘Bleach on the rocks’.
I almost feel bad for her. Almost. So does Miss Old Fashioned. She looks a little ashamed of herself, her eyes are small and her lips are upside down with a frown that still makes her look pretty cute.
“Hey,” I say, still smiling, “Someone had to say it.”
“I suppose,” she says and nothing else.
“Vinyl,” I say, holding out my hoof. “Vinyl Scratch.”
Suddenly, I feel like the hero in some cheesy spy novel.
“Yes, I know.” she says. “I’ve heard about you.”
She’s grinning and a chill runs up my spine. I shudder, wondering if she knows me, as in Vinyl Scratch; the personable, always fun, well sought after dinner guest and all around decent, tax paying Equestrian citizen, or, me as in DJ PON-3; the crass, brash, totally out of control, drug addicted (Depending which magazines you read) hard partying, rock 'n' roller.
“Nothing good I hope?”
Its cheeky, but, it’s really all I’ve got.
“Only the horrible, terribly condemning things that they print in the papers.” She grins, but, it’s a nice, playful grin. If she actually believes anything she’s read she certainly isn’t showing it.
My confidence has been lifted.
“Yeah, well,” I chuckle, “I can’t exactly pretend that ‘The Equestrian Enquirer’ got my side of the story.”
“That’s a shame,” She says, still grinning, “I was expecting to see the mare who slapped Prince Blueblood across the face for making a pass at her.”
She’s talking about this article they published in The Equestrian Enquirer which was only half true. See, the truth is, they got the wrong side of the story. Yes, I did slap Prince Blueblood (Which could have ended me up either headless, or, locked away in some dirty dungeon. And not a fun and kinky kind of dungeon either) So, yes, that part is true. What they didn’t mention was that this came after our benevolent monarch got me so drunk I could hardly walk and practically molested me in the coat room when I was trying to get my jacket to leave. This all happened during a show I did for Princess Celestia’s sister (Luma? Lupus? She’s been back maybe a year and I still don’t know her name. I think that’s also a punishable offence?).
The sad part is, I was actually planning on leaving with him that night. Up until he slapped my ass and tried to screw me in a place that would have made it so that I sat uncomfortably for a week right there in the coat check, I had every intention of adding a member of The Royal Family to my always impressive list of mistakes I’ve made with my sex life.
Anyway, that’s the real story. Just to clarify.
Miss Old Fashioned holds her hoof out for me to shake it, “I’m Octavia.”
I take her hoof in mine. Her shake is dainty, ladylike, and from the smile on her face now, I’m guessing there’s a chance she wouldn’t mind joining me for a proper drink. Hells, if I’m lucky, she’ll ask me what I’m doing after this.
It’s wishful thinking, but, hey, I’m a dreamer.
Right now, I’m just trying to get a good read on her. Her entrance into my life was enough to leave the impression that she wants to be here almost as badly as I do, but, I could be wrong. Maybe she actually cares? Maybe she enjoys rubbing shoulders with the upper crust of society? Maybe she likes fundraising and dressing to impress? Maybe she cares about orphans?
Maybe this is even her place?
I shudder at that thought.
“You look familiar,” I find myself saying (I’ll chalk that up to the booze, I think). “Have we met before?”
She stares at me and her eyes study my form. She nods, once, and mouths a few words to herself, then her smile picks up again. She has a really pretty smile.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” She says. “I would certainly recall it if I did, Mrs. Scratch.”
Time for an exceptionally cheesy one liner. I want to test the waters and see if she has a good sense of humor.
“Please,” I say, faking a laugh, “My mother is Mrs. Scratch.”
She covers her mouth with her hoof and giggles a lovely three note crescendo into it. When she’s finished she pulls her hoof away and there’s a bit of pink still on her cheeks. It looks good on her. Blushing is a nice look on Octavia.
“I think I could stand to have another drink,” She says, taking the seat beside mine. “If you could use some company?”
I nod. Not eager, or desperate. Just a simple head nod.
“Wonderful,” she says, “Tell me about your life.”
My Music At Work
We’re two drinks and about an hour and twenty minutes into a really great conversation by this point in our night. I’m still drinking Manehattans. Octavia’s been drinking proper Old Fashioned’s out of a straw, and I think they’re starting to hit her a bit harder than she planned. She keeps giggling at my jokes, which, forty minutes ago was really cute, because I was worried I was laying it on too thick. Now, it seems like maybe she’s a bit drunk. It’s still really cute mind you, but, it’s not doing much to convince me that I have a great sense of humor.
Its all for the best though, I’ve gotten the chance to learn a lot about her over the past hour or so. She's a member of the Canterlot Philharmonic Orchestra. She plays the cello. She thinks that she could be maestro some day, if Frederic Horseshoepin ever decides to retire, or, alternatively, if she ever gets noticed for pulling everypony else’s weight. She’s lived in Canterlot all her life. She had a dog named ‘Clifford’ when she was a filly. She hates the noise pollution from the inner city. She’s an only child. She has a top floor apartment/penthouse six blocks away from where we are.
It’s amazing what you can learn about a girl after a few drinks.
Right now, she’s telling me that she thinks I’m remarkably talented.
“Your early work,” she’s saying in between sipping brandy and whatever else goes into an ‘Old Fashioned’ through her straw, “Was a bit new wave for my taste-”
I’m not sure if this is a compliment or not, but, I want to see where she’s going with this, so I don’t ask.
“-But, when Sports came out a few years ago, I feel you really came into your own, commercially and artistically. That whole album had such a clear, crisp sound, and a sheen of consummate professionalism that really gave your songs a big boost.”
Wow. Someone has really done her homework. Maybe it’s the booze, or, maybe it’s something else, but, my whole face feels hot right now.
“You know,” She says and she leans herself a little closer to me. “You’ve been compared to Poison Jam, but, personally, I feel you have a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor.”
It feels like a compliment. I’ll take my victories where I can.
“Thank you,” I say.
She smiles and its really fucking cute. She looks like a foal showing her parents a good report card. There’s this adorable mix of innocence and playfulness on her face right now and I realize that if I don’t leave with her, or even get a chance to set up some kind of date, I might have to jump off the roof for not chasing after this one.
“I think,” She announces, pushing off the barstool and standing upright, “I’m going to step outside for a smoke.”
I nod.
“Would you care to join me?”
How could I possibly resist?
“Sure,” I say, getting out of my seat. “Sounds great.”
Smoke and Mirrors
We’re on the balcony overlooking the city. I’ve always thought, of all the cities I’ve been in, Canterlot has the prettiest nightlife to look at from above. The lights from all the lamps in all the homes are dancing. Shadows of ponies are cast against closed blinds, and this high up there’s absolutely no noise coming from the city below. It’s something else to imagine that each light from every lamp in every window has an owner, and, since they’re all on, that each one has a story attached to it. A reason that at this late at night they're still up and at it.
Anyway, slight detour there, back to the action.
I’m on the balcony, away from the noise of the fundraiser, and Octavia is with me. She’s standing beside me and smiling. The wind is blowing a fair bit up here, and loose strands of Octavia’s bangs are getting brushed against her face.
She looks like a model.
We made our exit without stirring any interest from the crowd. Half way between the bar and the door, I saw my manager chatting with Fancy Pants, who was so drunk he didn’t even notice Fleur De Lis, his partner, staring at that yuppie with the ‘cranapple’ stains like she wanted to pounce on him right then and there. Last I saw, she was licking her lips — in that slow, deliberately teasing way of hers — and he, the yuppie, was grinning like some kind of jackal back at her.
I was so disgusted that I broke into a dash for the door to the balcony. Octavia kept her pace with me, and, now, we’re both catching our breath before we suck the cancer out of a cigarette.
Does that make this ironic? Or just stupid?
“Nice night,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, “It is.”
Octavia’s mane blows in the wind again and, shit, she looks absolutely gorgeous right now. Like, ‘Cover of an issue of Cosmarepolitan magazine’ gorgeous. The way the light from the moon bounces off her eyes. The way the strands of her mane never slap her in the face, but touch and slide against her cheeks oh-so-gently. The way she brushes her hoof against her chest while she reaches into her dress. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be with her tonight. That's not the booze, or the two weeks I've gone without S-E-X talking either. There's something special about this girl. I can feel it.
From her dress she pulls out a small square cigarette holder. It’s gold plated — genuine gold from the look of it — small and compact enough to rest against her chest without leaving any imprints in her dress. She flips it open; there are half a dozen menthol cigarettes (She so would smoke those) with one of those skinny, long, black cigarette holders. This is on the bottom rack.
As I stare at the top rack of the cigarette case my eyes go wide.
There isn't a single cigarette on the top half of the cigarette case, instead, there are four or five perfectly rolled joints that look like punctuation marks. Fat at the top, thin at the bottom.
I think I’m in love.
Octavia takes one of the joints out.
“You don’t mind?” She asks, grinning and raising an eyebrow.
“Nah,”
I’m trying to play cool, but, I’m almost dying right about now. How-Fucking-Cool is Miss Octavia? She’s about to spark a bone. Right here on the balcony. There’s a room full of — I’m sure — anti drug advocates in the next room over, seperated only by a plexiglass window. This group of total squares include both my manager, and hers, and, despite this, Octavia is about to do something that if Tracy Flash (The Paparazzi), or anyone with any power caught her doing, could ruin her career.
Best of all, she’s doing it with me.
She pouts her lips like a fish. There’s a filter — a torn piece of the rolling paper package — on the end of the joing that she kisses and then she’s fishing a gold plated lighter from her chest and torching the tip. She inhales first, it’s slow and deep, and then she holds it for a few seconds. When she exhales, she does it through her nose and the wind wafts her smoke cloud to my face.
If I wasn’t before, I’m definitely awe struck now.
She doesn’t speak, but, she offers me a puff and I can’t argue. I take the joint out of her hoof, gently, bring it to my lips and then inhale slowly. Fire burns in my chest. My mind goes blank. All the noise from the party washes away. I exhale like she did, through my nostrils, and this amazing light headed feeling takes me miles and miles away for a minute.
Octavia is cool.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
The words come out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think about them. It’s a corny line. Really corny. The kind of pick up line I expect some hick farmer to use on a fat dumpy mare in a place like Dodge Junction. With little success.
I shouldn’t have said that.
“I’m here, of course, for The Orphans,” she says and then snickers.
I laugh with her.
“My manager,” She admits, finally, “He told me it would be exceptional for our image if we of the Equestrian Philharmonic Orchestra came out tonight to show our support for ‘the struggle’.”
“What a coincidence,” I say, “My manager said the same thing.”
“Really?” She turns her head to me and cocks it to the side. A wry, but restrained grin dances across her lips and her eyes — half glazed from the dope — sink to a squint. “Your manager said that it would be good for my orchestra if you came out tonight?”
I snort and find myself smacking her on the shoulder.
“You know what I mean,” I laugh, “Don’t be so... so…”
“Delightfully coy?” she poses, “Wonderfully cheeky? Playfully obtuse?”
I laugh and then she slaps my shoulder with her hoof. Payback for my flirtatious assault. Her touch is light, but still commanding. Strong enough to jap the laugh out of my throat, but kind enough to let me know I haven’t pushed her too far.
“You’re funny,” I say.
She smiles, takes the joint from me and puffs on it. Smoke comes out of her nostrils. She leans her head back and all the loose strands of her mane fly backwards. Her eyes are shut. It’s just her, smoking a joint and enjoying the moment.
“How come I’ve never heard of you before, Octavia?”
Slowly she lifts her eyelids open. She doesn’t move her head, but, she eyes me out of the corners of her eyes. Her smile lifts a bit.
“I’m not sure, really,” says Octavia, “I suppose its because I’m part of an ensemble?”
“Yeah, an ensemble” I say, nodding, “Right.”
“Though, to be honest, I’m quite glad we met.”
“You are?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
I’m pretty confident that something sexual might happen between us tonight.
“I’ve been recommended your work for a while, and, I must say, I’ve developed quite a taste for it.” She accents the word taste by licking her lips, slowly.
She shuts her eyes again.
“I feel bad,” I mumble, and I do mean it. All night she’s been talking about me, and my music, and I don’t even know what kind of music The Equestrian Philharmonic Orchestra plays. Classical if I had to guess?
“Why is that?”
“Well, I haven’t heard any of your stuff, and-”
“We’ll have to fix that,” she says, cutting me off in the kindest, most inviting way possible.
Octavia pushes herself off the railing and gives me a look that if I’m not mistaken is sultry. Her eyes — which are lidded — are half shut though her dilated pupils are huge and inviting. She has a hungry grin on her face.
If I was getting mixed signals before this is a more than appreciated bit of overt flirting.
“Would you care to accompany me back to my place?”
Yes. I do believe I would.
We make our exit without running into anyone that either of us knows. I’m sure my manager will be greatly offended that I left without saying goodbye, or even hello, to the host, but there are more important things in my life right now than pandering to the rich and powerful. Right now I’m staring at the ass of one of those things and marveling at the wonders of good cardio.
Octavia’s Place
She leads me into her apartment, and all I can think is this isn’t such a bad place to hang your hat every night. It’s nice, really nice, and totally fits the style of what I deduce to be her upper class sensibilities. The floors are all a dark brown hardwood, except for the kitchen, which is a white marble with splotches of ink black. There’s a manticore skin rug (Faux, I’m guessing) that sits just before her pleather sectional. This is where I take my rest.
I lean into the couch, sinking a bit, and Octavia’s giggling about it. She’s half drunk and half stoned. Crossfaded. Her eyes are still glazed a bit but that look, which by now I’m certain is sultry, is back. Just as I’m sure we’re about to turn light flirting into heavy petting, she spins on her heels and walks into the kitchen. She does this without even looking back at me.
“Are you thirsty?” she asks, “I have a bottle of Skynoff chilling in freezer, or a few bottles of Buckweiser that my tailor left in the fridge?”
“A beer is fine,” I say.
When she comes back into the room I notice she is now sans-cocktail dress which she had on earlier. This, and the idea that it was possibly too restrictive to her movements, makes me a tiny bit excited to see what comes next. Being naked like I am has it’s benefits, since I can be as limber and flexible as my body allows. Now that Octavia’s naked, so can she.
The thought makes me giddy.
Octavia puts a bottle of Buckweiser, and a glass of vodka on the glass coffee table, then she falls into the seat beside me. She’s smiling at me again.
“This is a really nice place,” I say.
Octavia inches closer towards me, “Thank you,”
She reaches her hoof to grab her drink and when she pulls it back she brushes her hoof against my lap. I notice her grinning. Even though I know she wants me just as much as I want her, I still try to play it cool. I take my left hoof and slide it over the headrest just behind her skull, tussling a few strands of her mane when I do.
She smiles broadly, lifts the cup to her mouth and then takes dainty little sips of her drink.
When she’s finished, she sets a half empty glass down on the coffee table and tilts her body so that her crossed legs are touching my own and her head is facing me. She doesn’t say a single word or make a single sound, her movements speak for themselves; She rests her head against my outstretched leg and her left hoof falls into my lap.
This is the start of a conversation without words.
She rubs my thigh slowly and tilts her face into the leg I have wrapped around her body. She nips the fur, never biting, just pinching. With the hoof I have that isn’t being used, I touch her stomach and slowly rub down to her rear. With any other girl I’d go for a pinch, but, that’s heresy with a girl like Octavia. I can tell her type, she’s all class, elegance and sophistication, and as much as I’d love to push the limits of her temperamental attitude, I don’t wanna take things too far with her. At least, not yet.
She kisses her way up my leg. Her lips are still wet from her drink and her kisses leave behind these sleek, pale bluish/black stains on my fur in the shape of the perfect pair of lips. She tickles my skin beneath my fur each time she does kiss me, and, then, just to add emphasis to my growing attraction, I can feel her run her tongue through my coat and against my skin.
I rub her back, tracing my hoof up the relaxed muscles until I’m touching the back of her head with my hoof. Slowly, with romantic intention instead of lustful force, I turn her head to face me. She has this look on her face; her pupils are wide and dilated (Probably still from the joint we smoked earlier), but there’s a fire I can see burning in them. Pure fucking sexual desire twinkles in Octavia’s eyes. She puckers her lips into an ‘O’ shape and I pull her towards me. We press our mouths together, her tongue snaps past my lips and rolls over my own tongue and electric jolts fire through my brain.
Her lips are soft, moist — from her drink — and taste just the teensy tiniest bit like vodka. It’s the first actual kiss we’ve shared of the night and it’s perfect enough that I decide I can let loose for a few minutes to go back for more. She pulls her lips away from me — making sure to brush her upper, then her lower, lip over my lower lip while she does — and then she stares at me. The look on her face right now is priceless. She looks exactly like a puppy dog, or a kitten, or a totally sexually charged mare playing innocent.
By now I’ve decided that sex certainly is on the menu tonight, and, so I do something I wouldn’t have done an hour ago. I kiss her. I lunge my face forwards and press my open mouth to hers, she hardly has time to do much before I’m slapping my tongue to her pursed lips. She invites me inside, I roll my tongue over hers — which, like her lips, still has hints of the taste of vodka — and we wrestle our tongues for a moment. I run my hooves up her back, she presses hers into my chest and then we’re rubbing, pinching and grabbing each other until she gives my tongue a playful nip and I draw back, almost hurt.
“Lay back,” she commands, pushing her hoof deeper against my breast and moving my body backwards into the couch, “And close your eyes.”
Her wish is my command. I snap my eyes shut, lean back into the sofa and wait for what happens next. My heart is racing. Then I feel it. Her lips press into my chest, she takes a gentle, playful bite at my fur, then she pulls back, and does the same an inch lower. Kiss by kiss, bite by bite, Octavia makes her way from my chest, down to my navel, where she stops and kisses me just below my stomach.
“Do you want me to keep going?” she asks. The words roll off her tongue, escape her mouth and bring with them soft breaths of hot air that blow against my wet little cunt. Shivers. I’m all shivers each time one of her words blows against me.
I still have my eyes shut, by her command, but I’m sure I’d absolutely love to see the look on her face; I can only imagine it to be this wonderfully pleading/playful sort of look that makes me hot down under. I squint my left eye open just enough so that she can’t tell I’m disobeying her, and the look on her face makes me all kinds of giddy. Like I suspected, she’s got that ‘eager-to-please’ puppy dog look on again. She’s biting her lower lip, grinning around her upper teeth and her eyes are hungry looking.
“Mhmm,” I purr.
She kisses me just above my slit and cold chills run all up my spine.
“Good girl,” she says.
Hmm, so Miss. Octavia has a kinky side? Who’d a thunk it? I’m certainly not complaining. If anything, her calling me a ‘good girl’, and offering to eat me out for all she’s worth, is probably the prelude to some really, really, fetish heavy sex later on. If I’m lucky — and so far nothing’s convinced me that I’m not tonight — maybe Miss. Octavia has a box in the back of her closet marked ‘Private’ and filled with all sorts of plastic marital aids, pleather whips, chains, leashes, collars and all other manner of fun erotic toys.
I’d be so lucky as to find out.
She blows a breath of warm air against my nether-lips and my mind does flips in my head. She hasn’t even started yet and I’m already so ready to grab the back of her head and shove her muzzle into my cooch that it’s driving me nuts. This has got to be a part of her game. Some desperate try at getting me hot and bothered before she starts to get me off.
She blows another breath against my vagina then she gives it a single lick. Her tongue pushes past my lips and tickles my insides something wonderful. While her tongue does it’s best job to find the furthest, most sensitive of my inner reaches, my brain kind of snaps for a second. There’s something about the way Octavia is doing what she’s doing that no mare has ever done to me before; she’s not too fast, or too aggressive, she’s delicate, gentle and slow, but, tauntingly so. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was still a bit timid, but, I do know better. She’s teasing.
She does this thing where she licks her tongue up my slit the same way little foals and fillies would eat an ice cream cone. I can’t explain why, nor would I want too, but it does something so good to me that I want to cry out. A rush of these wonderful bursts of piping hot sexual energy shoot through my body and up to my brain.
“F-f-fuck,” I pant out.
I can feel the smile on Octavia’s lips against my cunny. Her lips turn upwards and spread me open a tiny bit more, which is good for her since she’s now got more room to work with. She pulls her mouth off of me for a second, and, before I get a chance to question her about it (or offer a look of protest), she blows another puff of air into me and my mind does that snapping thing again. I can feel my eyes roll back in my head, my mind is absolutely blank to all and every feeling other than pure, unadulterated, pulsing pleasure.
“Fuck, Octavia.” I moan out, “You’re so fucking good at this.”
Her tongue traces another tantalizingly slow line upwards between my nether-lips, then, again, back down. I’ve never been loved quite like this before. I don’t even want to call this being ‘eaten out’ because that ugly phrase would totally undersell exactly what Octavia is doing to me right now. I’ve been given head before, that much is nothing new, but the way she’s using her tongue to touch, lick, tickle, excite, ignite and stroke every single inch of my — by now moist and loving it — vagina is definitely something close to an artform. Octavia with her tongue inside me is Shakes Spear with a quill and ink, The Wonderbolts with flight patterns, Trenderhoof with… whatever the fuck it is that makes him a self proclaimed ‘genius’.
For all intents and purposes, I’d go so far as to say that Octavia is giving me the absolute best oral sex I’ve had in as long as I can remember. On top of that latest revelation, I’m also starting to realize that, despite my best effort I can feel it coming on; my left leg’s starting to twitch, my insides are all warm and fuzzy and there’s that old familiar feeling of light-headed blissfulness washing over me.
Fuck. Yes.
Just as I’m about to reach what I can only imagine would be the world’s gushiest orgasm, Octavia pulls her lips from mine, gives me a lick as she rolls her tongue back in her mouth, then stares up at me. She wipes traces of her saliva and my bodily fluids from her mouth and off of her chin with the back of her left hoof and a smirk grows along the right side of her mouth.
“Perhaps we should take this to the bedroom?” she asks, cocking her head left, “It’s much more… vibrant than my couch and living room.”
I’m taking in fast, heavy breaths. “Y-yeah, s-s-sure,” I pant out, hoping that she doesn’t notice that my voice is now a mess of high and low octaves. “T-t-that’d be cool.”. When the words leave my mouth they’re followed by a loud squeak that makes Octavia’s grin grow.
She leans her face forwards again and, ever so gently, presses her moist, warm lips to my lower ones again. That kiss, as far as I’m concerned, has sealed the deal for us tonight. No matter what change of scenery her room offers (I’m split between imagining it being a luxurious, lavish experiment in extravagance with flowing silk drapes, a purple shag-carpet and the omnipresent sound of harps playing classical music, or, a depraved and totally tasteless sex-dungeon with a wood and leather, ‘x’ shaped table where the bed should be, half melted candles and, still, classical music playing) I can tell I’m in for something good.
Octavia lifts herself up from between my legs, leans her body forwards and presses her lips against mine in a soft, sensual and delicate kiss. When she pulls back, she brushes her mouth against mine, kisses the side of my mouth, down my cheek, to my chin and then her tongue comes out of her mouth and she runs it, slowly, up my chin, over my lips and stops just before my nose.
I can’t help myself by this point. There’s a lustful, hot and bothersome fire between my legs that’s begging for release, and the way Octavia keeps teasing me is only making it that much worse/better. She runs her tongue over my lips, not begging me for entrance, just to taunt and tease me into submission (Which, honestly, by now I’m fully okay with) and that’s when I decide to do something dramatic. I throw my upper legs forward and wrap them around her tight, lithe little body. The way she feels in my hooves is utterly amazing, her body is the perfect blend of modestly fit and tightly athletic. She can’t even stop to stare at me cock-eyed and curious before I lift her body upright and and pull her onto my lap so that she’s sitting with her crotch attached to mine. I hump my waist forwards, bucking myself against her crotch so that our lower lips touch, once, twice, three, four…. I lose count after a while, but I have no intention of stopping.
She lifts her hooves upwards, then wraps them around the back of my head. She tugs at my mane, pulling strands of it out while she does, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if I go bald at this point. Fuck it. I need Octavia.
I run my hooves down her back, slowly, until I grab hold of the cheeks of her ass and give them a tight squeeze. Her ass is amazing. Seriously. It’s not flabby, or too tight, it’s something else entirely, and it feels so great in the hold of my hooves. I pinch and squeeze her ass again, still in love with the feel of it, and this time I’m surprised to hear a quiet, muffled little ‘Yelp’ come from the depths of Octavia’s throat, followed by a purr, then a moan.
“Yeah. You like that?” I breath out, my voice still sort of taking on that shaky quality it had before, only now there’s a little more dominance and less apprehension in me.
She answers my question not with words but with movements. She throws her face forwards so fast that her neck snaps and a thousand strands of her beautiful mane fly backwards, then her lips are pressing up against mine again and she’s rolling her tongue against my mouth, begging me for entry.
How could I refuse?
I hump my waist against her again, open my mouth and then she lays her tongue flat against mine. She moves her body forwards, rubbing her chest against my own and starts to shake her hips and gyrate her pelvis in tune with the rhythm that I’m humping her too. Our tongues fight each other, not aggressively, more so lustfully. I squeeze her ass tighter, throw my hips against her again and I can feel her blow air against my open mouth when she moans into my mouth. Octavia starts to run her hooves through my mane, still pulling it, only now whatever tiny pain there had been is gone and replaced with this numbing, sensation that I think I kind of like.
She rolls her tongue against mine, then licks over my molars, the left side of my cheek, my front teeth, the right side of my cheek and then slowly drags her tongue one last time over mine before she takes it back from my mouth and pulls her face backwards.
“Bedroom,” she demands.
I don’t want this to end. I could sit here humping, kissing, biting, slapping, pinching, fucking and loving Octavia all night long, but, this is her place, I am her guest and I’m still wildly convinced that she has some secret stash of something kinky and most likely polymer in her room that demand both of our attentions. It pains me (Between the legs, mostly) to watch her unmount herself from my lap, but, when she turns around she brushes the underside of my chin with her tail and shakes her ever-so-amazing ass cheeks at my face.
Like an obedient, hungry dog, I take off after her. My eyes never leave the bouncing cheeks right ahead of me. I love watching her move, she has this rhythm, this way of making every step so fucking sexy and so fucking precise that it’s almost as much of an artform as her exceptional skills with her tongue in my vagina were.
The trek from the living room to her room is short and uneventful. I can’t tear my eyes off her ass, so I don’t really get a chance to admire anything (other than the beautiful butt attached to the beautiful body in front of me) on my way. It’s only when Octavia’s ass stops moving that I realized she too has stopped moving and that also I’m now in her bedroom. I tear my eyes from her rear and take my first gazes at the way my little Cello-playing lover lives.
It’s breathtaking.
The walls are a muted dark blue colour. The entire back wall of her room is one giant window, separated in the middle by two glass doors, that lead to a balcony that overlooks Canterlot. There are paintings from artists I recognize on the walls, as well as a set of framed posters for classic movies (Paul Newmane’s: The Hustler, Audrey Hoofburn’s Breakfast At Hoofany's). Her bed is exactly what I imagined it to be; standing in the centre of the room, it’s a double, with three sets of lavish dark blue sheets.
There’s also a closet in the furthest corner with two sliding mirror doors which is what Octavia moves towards.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the bed?” She begs, not taking her eyes off of the closet ahead of her, “I just have to grab something from the closet.”
Oh boy. Just when I thought my night with Octavia couldn’t get any better...
I move towards her bed in slow steps, take a seat and wait patiently for her to find whatever it is she needs from her closet. Meanwhile, my mind is going to all kinds of wonderful kinky places trying to imagine what it is she’s grabbing; the idea that maybe she walks out of the closet holding onto the pleather straps of a double-edged faux-phallus, then again, she could come out carrying a whip, chains, cuffs and a ball gag.
Either way, I’m ready for it.
It takes a few minutes longer than I’m ready to be separated from Octavia before I see her bottom poke out from the depths of her walk-in closet. She takes steps backwards, more of her body comes into my view, and finally she pokes her head out of the closet. When I see what she’s holding my eyes go as wide as they physically can and my jaw almost drops. I can feel my heart racing in my chest and suddenly my leg starts tapping at the floor of her room at a pace I didn’t even know I was capable of.
There in her mouth, held lazily between her porcelain coloured teeth, is a thick, mud brown wooden paddle.
Holy-Fucking-Shit.
She moves so casually from the closet to the bed that I almost can’t believe it. It’s as if, somehow, her carrying a paddle, and all the implications that come with said object, are the most mundane part of her night so far. Octavia’s standing before me now, and she doesn’t even blink as she drops the paddle at my spasming legs.
“Octavia…” I breathe.
She smiles up at me then bows her head. “This isn’t too much,” she lifts an eyebrow and raises her eyes to meet mine. “Is it?”
“No, no,” I say while I reach a hoof to scratch the back of my neck, “It’s… uh… I mean, did you want to spank me, or…?”
The question hangs in the air for a few quiet and tense moments before Octavia grins, “I was hoping you wouldn’t mind doing me?”
Now that’s a proposition. There’s this wicked mental image of Octavia, laying over my bent knees, exposing her sopping wet entrance, her tight ass cheeks spread open, with her little rosebud butthole open to the air and my line of sight. In my mind she’s tossing her head back and giving off the most primal of screams, moans and pants while I tan her hide with the aid of that wooden paddle that fill my mind. The image fades away when I realize this could very well become my reality.
“Not at all,” I say, trying hard to sound cool.
“Wonderful.” She says, “You won’t regret this.”
I know I won’t, Octavia.
She moves with all the grace of a house cat as she positions herself towards my bent knees, then she lays herself flat over my legs. Her fur of her stomach tickles me a bit, and, just like in my mind’s eye, she’s raises her ass to the air to show off all of her Celestia-Blessed naked bits to me.
I pick up the paddle using magic (I am a unicorn after all) and raise it into the air. It floats surrounded by a dark purple glow and hangs in the air a few choice inches away from her shaking, excited rear.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” She tells me.
Again Octavia shakes her cute little ass in eager anticipation of what comes next. Her cheeks move in and out, her crotch brushes against the side of my left leg and she rubs herself against me. I’m a little lost in the woods here, I’ll admit. I’ve engaged many ponies in many more choice fetishes, but, spanking hasn’t ever been one of them. I’ve certainly seen enough adult-cinema, and read enough skin rags, to know what I’m doing, it’s just the doing it itself that’s kinda throwing me off; I’m worried that I’ll go too hard, or, too soft and then all the romance, lust and sexual tension of the night will be thrown away.
I decide to start off gently.
Using that inherent magic I have, I toss the wooden paddle forwards until it slaps Octavia’s bare ass just hard enough to make the little, slutty, begging pony on my knee’s groan out a sexy moan.
“Yes, mommy,” Octavia purrs out, throwing back her head so that all the strands of her loose mane fly freely, “That’s good.”
I like the way she’s calling me mommy. It’s a tad bit incestuous in nature, sure, but, then again, I’m neither her mother nor am I in any way shape and form related to her (As far as I know), so it’s not that weird.
I pull the paddle back, let it hang in there air for a minute and then bring it down on her ass once again. This time a little harder. Her cheeks shake, she gives this wonderful tiny little moan, and then and when I pull the paddle away from her ass I rub the reddish mark that shows even through the fur. Octavia purrs like a fat house cat getting her belly rubbed. It’s low and guttural and makes me want to spank her all the more.
“Is that good?” I ask, winding the paddle back and getting ready to give her a spank on those soft, supple ass cheeks that’s a little bit harder, more firm, than the last one. “Do you like that?”
“Yes, Mommy!” Octavia grunts, “I love it!”
What a fucking fetish. She could have drawn the line at just eating me out, she could have drawn the line at being borderline physically abused by intentionally designed wooden torture devices, but her throwing the word ‘Mommy’ into this has certainly added a splash of something else to this. Borderline incest fetish or not, I’m not too sure how I feel about her calling me 'Mommy'.
That's a worry for sober, non-aroused Vinyl. Horny, drunk and on drugs Vinyl really just wants to get Octavia off.
Again I wind the paddle back. Hearing Octavia call me ‘Mommy’ for all she’s worth and knowing that somehow, in some psychological phenomenon I can’t explain due to the Masters Degree in Psychology I never tried for, she gets off to being roughed up on the rear is making me hot like it's no-pony’s business.
The paddle comes down hard and hits Octavia on the ass with all the force I can muster. This time Octavia’s head launches backwards and she gives out a moan so loud it almost pierces my ears.
“Oh fuck, Mommy,” She moans, “I’ve been such a bad girl!”
Time to indulge a fetishist, I suppose.
“That’s right,” I say, holding back a chuckle, “You are a bad girl, Octavia.”
“Yes!” she moans, “Yes I am a bad little girl! What does Mommy want to do with her bad little girl?”
This seems pretty self-explanatory. I mean, I am still holding the paddle...
She shakes her rear in eager anticipation of another strike, and, I have to say, by this point any fears or apprehension I had about this going belly up, or me being too violent with her, are gone entirely, replaced by this lust I have for seeing how far I can take this. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to do something like this again? I’d be spitting in the face of fate and good fortune to turn down a chance to take full advantage of this opportunity. Tartarus, it would be downright be rude not too.
“Mommy punishes bad little girls,” Octavia explains through a throaty mumble that’s half moan and half pant, “Doesn’t she?”
I stroke Octavia’s thigh with my hoof, rub my cold fetlock up her leg, which starts to twitch as I get closer and closer to her sore cheeks. I can already feel the developing bruises/blunt force trauma marks building up on Octavia’s hiney. Part of me is curious how often she indulges in this fetish? It must be hard to sit in a chair and practice for work the day after she throws caution to the wind, picks up a stranger at a bar and asks her to use a wooden instrument to get her off through physical violence. Do the members of her ensemble question her about the protruding purple/black markings on her ass when she comes into practice the day after a night like tonight? Does she wear dresses/long legged pants to cover them?
This, I’ve decided, isn’t exactly an all encompassing issue in the moment. I have Octavia begging me for more right before me, and who cares what her tomorrow’s going to look like, right?
“Yes,” I whisper, “Mommy loves to punish bad little girls.”
Octavia moans. “Okay, Mommy.”
I wind the paddle back, give Octavia a few seconds to excite herself, then it comes down on her ass. Octavia moans, purrs, groans and then I bring it back again. This begins a rhythm between the paddle and her ass; I’ll wind it back, let her wait, strike her, she’ll moan and then I’ll do it again, and again, and again. By this point her ass looks like a strawberry — it’s more red than it is anything else — but Octavia is hardly complaining.
“I’m sorry I’m such a bad girl, Mommy.” Octavia groans, “I’ve been so bad.”
There’s a weird inflection in her tone. It’s not whiney, or, lustful, it actually sounds a little apologetic. Almost as if she’s actually apologizing to me for something. I try not to think about the psychological underlying issues present here and decide to continue to spank her.
“Y-yeah,” I say, trying to smile, “You’re such a bad girl, Octavia.”
“I know, Mommy,” Octavia gasps, “I’m such a naughty little filly.”
I spank her again. She cries out and then I notice something different; her bloodshot eyes have become wet and when she blinks little beads of water — tears — fall from the corners of her eye. They roll down her cheeks and leave behind black stain trails against her fur.
“I’m a naughty, naughty little filly,” Octavia repeats in that apathetic, emotion heavy tone, “I’m so bad.”
I sigh, “Y-yeah?”
“Oh, yes.” She admits through a half huffed/half panted breath, “I’ve been a dirty little filly, Mommy. I’m sorry.”
I swallow a wad of something caught in my throat. The paddle is still hanging in the air, still being held up by my magic, but, my grip on it is loose. I’m starting to get nervous about going further. I know this is part of a fetish that Octavia is very much into, but for my part I’d like to live without knowing I might have mentally unhinged a pony during a night of, what was supposed to be, emotionless, hot and heavy sex.
“Don’t you want to punish me, Mommy?” Octavia begs, turning her head back to me again and throwing the sexiest pair of pleading eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s biting her lower lip and her pupils are as wide as saucers. Sweat from a night of having her ass abused has made her mane stick to her face. She looks so fucking hot that any reservations I had before go completely out the window; if Octavia is going to lay here and beg me for more and look that sexy doing it, I’m not going to let her down.
“Yes!” I say with all the corporeal meanness I can muster, “I do want to punish you, Octavia. Because… you have been a bad girl. Teasing me all night. Looking so fucking hot doing it. Getting me this hot without getting me off...”
Once again I slap the paddle against her ass, this time, however, unlike all the rest she doesn't moan, groan, purr or grunt, but instead screams something primal and nerve wracking that almost makes me worried I’ve gone too far. That is until I notice the crimson hues on her cheeks and the way she shuts her eyes tight. A few more tears roll down her cheeks and a little part of me worries that this is neither a healthy release, nor something I’m too sure I want to be part of anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Octavia pants between heavy breaths, blinking her eyes and letting a few more tears come loose, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
I know this is her fetish and all, but it’s actually starting to make me feel uneasy to keep ‘punishing’ her.
“I… uh... “ I’m fumbling with my words, totally unsure of what to say or how to continue. Her ass, by this point, looks like it’s lost a fight with, well, a sturdy wooden paddle, but, despite all that, Octavia is still very definitely into this. Her cunny is sopping wet with want and need, her cheeks are moving inwards then outwards with each breath and she’s started to hump her waist against my leg in a slow, deliberately drawn out way.
“Tell me I’ve been a bad girl, Mommy,” Octavia begs, “Please…”
Her eyes are turned to me, they’re wet with those (I really want to assume) joyful tears, and totally bloodshot. Gone from her face is any resemblance of that dominant personality she wore earlier. Right now she looks… completely and utterly submissive. With the paddle in my control, I have all the power, and, from the look of her face and the way she’s fucking my leg with her wet, excited crotch like one of those stupid purse-dogs, I gather that this is the way Octavia likes it.
“You’ve… er… you’ve been very bad, Octavia.” The words fall clumsily out of my mouth, but, when they do Octavia smiles and I’m reassured that this isn’t going too far and that she’s still into it. Or, at least, as into it as she can healthily be. “Yeah… you’ve been a dirty, rotten, little bitch!”
Maybe that’s too far?
“I know, Mommy,” Octavia moans, “I’m a dirty, rotten, little whore, aren’t I?”
Well, that’s certainly taking this a step or two past where I was going. Still, there's no sense in wasting any of the ammo she’s giving me to work with here.
“Yeah!” I say, throwing the paddle forwards again and revelling in the loud 'THWACK’noise it makes once it slams against her ass, “You’re the dirtiest whore in all of Equestria!”
I know it’s harsh, but, hey, if this is what she wants to hear…
How far, I wonder, can I take this degrading, insulting, trash talking with Octavia? It doesn’t seem like she minds it at all, in fact, aside from the tears (Which, I have decided are definitely not sad tears, but in fact joyful ones) I get the sense that all of this is her fetish; the humiliation, the embarrassment, being treated like less than she is. Less than she’s worth.
From my first glance at her tonight I could tell she was a mare of refined culture and taste. Everything about Octavia; her drink order, the dress she wore so tight against her upright, perfectly postured body, the way she carried herself around the room when she walked, the words she used when we spoke, the ones she didn’t, the set up of her apartment, it all screamed ‘Cultured’, 'Well Read' and 'Sophisticated'. Maybe this is Octavia’s thing? Maybe she’s so pent up after all the nights of shaking hooves, brushing shoulders and smiling with Canterlot/Manehattan/Baltimare/Chicagoat’s elite that it cultivates in some weird ‘Treat me like a real piece of shit’ kink? Maybe she’s a lot more like me than I gave her credit for? Sick of the faux-personalities, the fake smiles, the fake… everything?
Maybe this is healthy for her?
I guess, in a way, I’m kind of the hero here. This puts a smile on my face. Yeah. I’m a hero alright. I’m Vinyl-Fucking-Scratch, slapping the ass of a mare who’s very clearly in need of it. I’m as much a hero of this story as Starswirl The Bearded is in any of his tales of triumph and wonder.
Yup. I’m a hero.
Octavia’s still begging me for more. She's humping her pelvis against my legs, and moaning like a mare in one of those adult-cinema flicks I used to catch on the ‘X’ rated channel in my hotel rooms during late nights on tour when I struck out at the bar. It’s almost surreal. To think, two hours ago we were downing drinks at a fundraiser. Me not sure if she was interested in me sexually, her playing hard to get, and now we’re here, at her place, doing this.
It’s trippy.
If there’s anything I can do right tonight it’s give Octavia an orgasm the likes of which I’ve never experienced. Nothing has steered me away from the conclusion that she’s gearing towards having the most glass shattering, leg spasming, pelvis thrusting orgasm I’ve ever seen a mare have, and, since mares getting off is one of my favorite hobbies, I slap the paddle against her ass again.
“Oh, yes, Mommy!” Octavia groans. “I’m such a little whore, aren’t I?”
I pull the paddle back and rub her sore and abused tush with my hoof. She gives a little purr, I smile and then gaze at her. Again the paddle connects with her ass, and, again, Octavia gives off a shrill moan that pulses in my ear drums.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.” she states, “I’m sorry I’m such a naughty girl! I’ve been so bad!”
A pony, one a whole lot smarter than me, once said something along the lines of ‘This is getting pretty fucked up, isn’t it?’. The psychology behind all of this abuse is something I’m not too sure I understand, and, it’s actually making me feel kind of awful. Still, there’s Octavia whipping her mane across my legs and writhing in a way that makes me more comfortable with this.
“Yeah,” I grunt, bringing the paddle to her bare ass and rubbing it against her cheeks, “You’ve been such a naughty girl tonight, Octavia. Flaunting that sexy, slutty ass all across the room, making me want you so bad I could hardly breathe!”
I touch the paddle to her ass, pull it back, slap it forwards and Octavia’s giving life to another quasi-satisfied, mostly loud and pitiful grunt. The tears have ruined her mascara now so that along with the lines of dark, matted down grey fur, streaks of black are running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Octavia states, throwing her hips out to meet the paddle she knows is coming, “I’m so sorry.”
Thwack.
Another connection of paddle against bruised fur and flesh. The paddle, by now, is starting to get more action from Octavia than I am. I’m really hoping we can wrap this up a little quickly and get back to the non-fetish heavy but still sexual eating out of my vagina by her mouth, and then, vice versa. I’m aching. Worse than Octavia is aching, my tight little lovehole is sopping wet from all of this. I’m really tempted to just get myself off with the old tried and true ‘hoof-to-the-clit’ trick, but, that would be a waste. Octavia’s here. She’s got a mouth that worked wonders before and the sooner I can get her off, the quicker she can get me off.
I wonder how many more paddles to the ass it’ll take before she’s a screaming mess of orgasming pony?
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I strike her with the paddle three times, all in rapid succession, without ever giving her a chance to savour the moment. I want her to finish. I need her to finish. Watching her bring herself to the edge time and time again, without coming to a messy, screaming, writhing, climax, is driving me fucking mental.
“Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh f-u-u-uck!” Octavia’s screaming, “That’s right! Tan my slutty hide! Treat me like a fucking whore, Mommy!” She grunts and then buries her muzzle into the fur of my left leg, “I want this so bad!” I hear her pant.
I have to do it. Hearing her scream all these terribly obscene things is doing for me whatever me slapping a paddle to her ass is doing to her. I drag a hoof down my chest, rub myself just above my peaked open slit, then run my cold fetlock over my cunt and brush against as much of myself as I can. The cold feel of a fetlock rubbing over my clit isn’t half as good as the warm feel of a mare’s (or stallion’s) tongue, but, Octavia’s a tad too preoccupied with herself at the moment to give me what I want from her. The least I can do is give her what she wants from me then hope she’ll finish what she started earlier.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
By this point it’s become pretty clear to me that the harder I push, the closer Octavia will get to the edge. Five strokes of the paddle to her rear turn her from a docile little lap dog into a eardrum popping, leg humping, mind shattered fuck puppet. She’s close. I can sense it. I have that innate ability to tell these kinds of things and from the way her eyes have rolled back into her head and the crooked smile that’s present through all the moaning, cussing and fussing, It’s evident to me, and to her, that this is one rung of the ladder away from that moment where she loses herself to release.
“I’m so, so, so, sorry!” Octavia chants, “I’m so sorry, Mommy.”
Just fucking come already, Octavia!
Thwack.
“I’m a bad girl!”
Thwack. Thwack.
“I’m sorry, Mommy!”
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Octavia rocks her pelvis against my legs, her rear end bounces, her ass cheeks wiggle and then she’s screaming more apologies to me to the, by now, oh-too-familiar tune of “I’m sorry, Mommy!” only, this time, there’s something else to her humping and ass bouncing; there’s that look on her face, past mess of tears and running mascara, which, if I’m not mistaken, is an ‘O-Face’, that super specific crooked smile, lidded eyed, look a pony gives off right before they finish.
And then it happens, Octavia's body takes on all the characteristics of a mare possessed; she throws her hips out, raises her rear into the air and then she’s screaming at the top of her lungs something that makes me cold on the inside.
“I’m sorry, Mom!” she groans, again. “I’m sorry I’ve been so bad! I'll never play in the rose bushes again! I promise! I promise I’ll be better! I promise I’ll be a good little filly for you, Mother!”
What the fuck just happened?
That was her release. When she’s finished, she falls off my legs and lays flat against the floor on her back. Her chest rises, falls, and panted breaths escape out of her mouth. She’s finished. Done for. All that buildup led to, from what I can tell, one of the most exciting orgasms of her life. Right now she’s in that lovely post-finished phase where the world seems like it’s a million miles away.
“That was great,” Octavia purrs, running her hooves down her stomach to her open pussy, rubbing it as an afterthought. “Really. That was exactly what I needed.”
Again, what the fuck just happened?
The way Octavia’s staring at me now makes me feel like I’m some kind of special helmet wearing, slack jawed, handicapped kid eating glue and riding the short-cart to school. It takes me a few dumb minutes of just sitting there, staring at her, my mouth slightly ajar, her staring at me, before I can find the strength to do anything else. I run a hoof through my mane, clamp my mouth shut and shake my head.
Octavia giggles. She rolls onto her stomach, gets up to her hooves and I’m still motionless as she trots up to me, presses her lips against mine, softly, then kisses the side of my mouth, to my cheek, then my ear.
“Thank you, Vinyl.” she whispers to me.
I blink my eyes. No, the world hasn’t turned into the carnival’s largest freakshow. At least, as far as I can tell. From what I’ve gathered, the world I know is still all around me. Nothing’s changed. Octavia’s still acting like nothing unordinary just happened, I’m still just as in much in shock as she is being cool about all this.
I scratch my neck again, “Yeah…”
Octavia pulls away from me, turns her back on me and then gives me an inviting glance from. “Care to join me on the balcony for a cigarette?”
Seriously?
I suppose the post-coital smoke is an ageless tradition...
Years of therapy probably wouldn’t help me better understand what I was a part of tonight. Whatever. For now I’ve got time to kill and better yet, someone to kill that time with.
I shrug. “Sure.”
Closure
I’m on her balcony, Octavia standing beside me. Our rears are pressed together, she has her head resting on my shoulder and she’s pulling a long drag from a Newcolt menthol. When she’s finished, she holds the smoke in her lungs and then passes me the still lit smoke. I take it from her, bring it to my lips and take a puff. Menthols aren’t what I usually smoke, but, there’s something nice about the cool tickling sensation that tickles my throat and lungs.
A hazy, light headed feeling takes over my brain. I exhale slowly through my nostrils, roll my eyes back and wait a few seconds before I come back down. When I do, and my eyes roll back forwards, Octavia’s pulling the cigarette from my magical grip and bringing it to her pursed lips.
She’s inhaling smoke while I decide to question the ‘events’ of her orgasm, specifically, the intense, pseudo-psychological admission of emotional parental abuse I feel like I was just prevvy too.
“So, like… what happened in there?” I ask.
Octavia turns to me. She blows a smoke cloud through her still pursed lips, then another, and ashes the cigarette over the black-metal railing. We both watch the white/grey dust fall to the ground.
Octavia raises a brow, “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I’m grunting. “What was up with that… you know? The ‘Mommy’ stuff? I get the spanking, ‘Let bygones be bygones’, and all that, but, like…” I’m trying to find a way to phrase this as inoffensively as asking a mare about her potentially deep rooted psychological issues can possibly be, “Is that, like, part of the fetish, or…?”
Octavia smiles. It’s amazing how her teeth stay so perfectly porcelain coloured even during a cigarette reprieve. She answers my question by leaning her face forwards and then kissing my cheek, leaving behind a wet stain I can feel.
Really, Octavia? Are you really going to play this all nonchalant? Are you really going to act like there was nothing else at play just there?
She’s still saying nothing, just smiling that — still very — adorable little smile of hers.
Survey says; No. We won’t be discussing that aspect of her sex life tonight.
“Octavia,” I huff, “Tonight was great, and, well, you’re like… well… you're great. I’ll be honest here, I haven’t gotten head like that in forever, but, what just happened, between you, me and the paddle? That wasn’t exactly… normal.” I sigh, rub the ache I can feel developing in my neck, “We should talk about it.”
Octavia pushes herself closer to my body. “Why ruin the night?”
“Because it was kind of… weird.” I explain.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
I nod.
Octavia passes me the cigarette again, “Did anyone get hurt?”
I take the cigarette to my lips, “Well, that really depends on your definition of ‘hurt’.”
Octavia giggles, rests her head on my shoulder then brushes her cheek against my neck. “Sometimes…” she says, stops, signs then I see her smile fade, “Sometimes there’s more to this than just being physical and intimate.”
“Yeah…” I say, “I get that, it’s just…” My head falls against the railing and I groan, “I don’t know.”
“Can’t we just enjoy this?”
Who said I wasn’t?
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Octavia asks.
I shrug, “Not sure.”
“We should do lunch?” Octavia suggests, “Do you like Gryphon food? I know this very chic bistro on Whyte Street. The owner is a friend of mine, we won’t need reservations.”
Well, fuck it. I don’t have any plans, and, if I’m being honest with myself, I’d kind of like to get to know Miss Octavia a little bit better. On top of getting to know Octavia better, I figure a lunch date, in a neutral, sexual-tension free, heavily populated area is the safest way to get answers about the origins of her ‘Mommy, me and a wooden paddle’ fetish. That and I do really love fine Gryphon dining.
“Sure,” I say, smiling then pulling Octavia a little closer to me, “Why not?”
