Suicide By Goddess

by kudzuhaiku

Rating: mature
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Original Character, Comedy, Princess Celestia, Sex
Length: 3520

How far will one pony go to commit suicide by Goddess?

The story of Sebastian Melmoth, who draws near the end of his life as he attempts suicide by Goddess.

Published 2014-10-10 17:10:09 UTC
Last updated 2014-10-10 17:10:09 UTC

The only chapter.

The only chapter.

There are many stories out there in the world. Stories of noble sacrifice. Stories of unrequited love. Stories of simple love between two ponies. Stories of a parent’s love of their foals. Stories with meaning , that teach some great lesson, imparting some measure of wisdom upon the reader. The world is full of stories, that, when combined together, showcase the greatness of Equestrian society.

This is not one of those stories.

Instead, this is the curious tale of Sebastian Melmoth, a most intriguingly named pony, and how one night, he finally lived out his fantasy, acting upon his most sordid and lewd obsession. Most stories deal with the protagonist and their beginnings. Sebastian Melmoth had no great beginnings, only what he hoped would be an ignoble end.

How Sebastian Melmoth began his ending.

The city of Canterlot claimed to be the most beautiful city in the world, and it did not disappoint. I had arrived, like so many others, on a dirigible airship, and I was lost in the crowd of tourists, immigrants, vagabonds such as myself, and travelers of various stripes.

Trottingham, a city across the sea, is a wretched sump hole. It is where I was born. It is a dirty smelly place, devoid of any sort of redeeming characteristics. Endless expanses of factories, rowhouses that all look same upon identical streets that differ by name but not appearance, it is an assault upon the senses of all those who are unfortunate enough to live there.

Which is why I left.

My name is Sebastian Melmoth. I was born to a common prostitute who had the delusional airs of aristocracy about her. My father was some trifling noble with a penchant for slumming that I have never met, nor do I desire to. My mother, deciding that being a bastard was not enough of a humiliation, saddled me with the most ridiculous name one could imagine. I have no idea where she came up with this line of nonesense, but I must thank her for doing so. My name has made me famous.

I am a dramaturge by trade, but that is all a means to an end. I laboured to secure enough coin to make this trip to the city where I planned to meet my chosen end, Death by Sun Goddess. Alas... I have somehow managed to get ahead of myself.

Not long after leaving the elevated platform where the airship was moored, I soon found myself in the part of town that preys upon the tourist, those fresh arrivals just off the airship. Kitschy knickknack shops, overpriced cafes, restaurants showcasing local cuisine, all of the dreck that I had long come to despise about society. I passed no less than a dozen ponies offering to sell maps that revealed the locations of the dwellings of the Canterlot Elite, those famous nobles that were adored and worshipped by the public.

I was not here to worship them. I only had eyes for one perfect, flawless creature, and I had plans to meet her soon enough. I knew all about the Canterlot nobles, the vacuous and somewhat scabby aristocracy of Canterlot. I had helped to write several plays about their failings and their foibles. I had researched their lives in detail, digging out every horrible nugget of truth, because in truth there is comedy, and the greatest comedy is tragedy. Watching the high and the mighty laid low through some trivial circumstance or by their own hubris.

As the author of my own life, I intend for my life to be remembered as a comedy, and I have long prepared myself to meet my chosen end, and what a glorious end I have chosen. I had first conceived of my end when I was but a colt, just beginning my adolescence, and it has been my all consuming mania ever since. Every waking hour of my life has been spent in pursuit of this goal. Becoming a successful dramaturge and playwright was merely a means to an end, I did not become what I am for my own self satisfaction, it was a means for a lazy unicorn such as myself to amass the wealth I needed quickly, before old age and a willingness to settle had poisoned my ideals and motivations, causing me to settle into the life I had chosen, yet another louche drunkard who forsook his dreams, and settled for a life of miserable but reassuring comfort, a condition known as complacency, something I find quite appalling. But I digress.

I am, by evidence of the wealth I have amassed at such an early age, an exceptional artisan for my chosen craft. This has been rendered null by the fact that I am now a pauper. I am, by all accounts, skilled at magic, I have a great deal of book smarts, but I clearly lack wisdom because of what I plan to do with my magic, which is folly.

I am a fool, labouring towards my glorious end.

How Sebastian Melmoth’s ending begins.

What a comfort to know that Canterlot is really no different than Trottingham. There are slums here, but they are high class slums. The place where the lowest on the social ladder congregate and attempt to scrape by. Where a dozen maids cram into one tiny apartment and pool their coins to barely pay the rent, growing ever thinner and dying by degrees because they make just enough to clear rent, but not enough to eat well.

The streets are filled with those who have grown wise and realise that the game is rigged, mares and stallions both who sell the one thing that everypony is willing to purchase, a good time with the possibility of a creeping itch, a combination of buggery and gambling that make life so deliciously exciting and provides ponies like me and endless source of inspiration to draw upon for my works.

I watch them, trying not to sneer with contempt, as I sit eating and enjoying my tea in a ratty but delightful cafe I have found. Above the cafe is a hot sheet hotel and I am treated to the theatre that is the sounds of sexual debauchery while I eat what might be my final meal. The food is quite good, probably better than anything I would find in the tourist section, and the portions are generous. In the slums, everypony is starving, and that little extra offered with your meal is what brings ponies back to your business. It is how you survive in these wretched conditions and make your business prosper. I plan to leave a staggeringly good tip, what little money I have left is of no use to me as I near my chosen end.

I watch the walking flesh market on display all around me and ponder one final fling. Perhaps a painted mare? A submissive stallion? An overeager filly who perhaps knows her trade but does not yet know true perversion? Perhaps I should impart some of my wisdom before I go. A curious colt perhaps who has not yet been with a stallion and I could offer a lesson of cruel surprise. It all seemed so tempting. Such cruelty had been done to me when I was young, curious, and in need of coin. I consider it a cornerstone of my education. Passing on the lesson would be an act of generousity. Perhaps the next great playwright stands upon these corners offering up his services with a crooked smile and a lewd wink.

Sipping my tea, I dismiss such thoughts. I must be prepared for what I have planned. I have no desire to continue this existence any longer than absolutely necessary. Will is a funny thing. There is a sea of new faces that I could corrupt, that I could introduce vice the likes of which they know nothing about. I can see it in their faces. They know their trade, but I do not see any eyes that truly know debased perversion. I could spend months changing the sexual geography of Canterlot and not make a dent.

I feel I should note, the tea is marvelous. Some sort of red tea blended with black tea, a few elements that I can not recognise, and there is a faint flavour of cloves that delight and titillate the senses, much like the scent of a filly who has never been taken, but drips with the knowledge that she is about to be.

I am a condemned pony, and I allow myself to enjoy the sights, smells, and tastes of my final hours.

How Sebastian Melmoth found where the sun takes refuge.

Years of planning were now coming into play as I prowled the halls of Canterlot Castle. I had spared no expense procuring everything I needed. I had studied hundreds of maps of the Castle layout. I knew it like I knew the fine spiderweb of veins upon my own prick. I had potions made by master zebra alchemists. I had my own magic, which was considerable. I would have made a fine wizard, had I the drive and the desire, but every spell I had learned was merely a means to an end.

Soon, I would be meeting her. I had fallen in love with her as a colt. She was my refuge. She was my muse. My motivation. When some randy stallion was buggering me as a colt, I would think of her or look down upon her picture. I had amassed quite a collection of pictures… postcards, photos, newspaper clippings, I would look upon her sunny face and I would have the courage to continue living in a world that had grown far too dreary for one such as myself. As whatever stallion of the moment continued to huff and puff away upon the back of my neck, her beaming face would fill my mind with such beauty and inspiration. I dedicated all of my great works to her. When I finally stood triumphant upon the stage of the Globe Theatre in Trottingham, the place where the Immortal Bard of Trottingham had once performed, I dedicated my entire existence to her, announcing it publicly. Such an act was considered gauche among the theatre culture of Trottingham and I was publicly ridiculed. It was the beginning of the end of my career, but that was fine really, because I had what I needed at that point.

I moved silently and unseen through the halls, passing guards, knowing that time worked against me. The potions would only last so long. The spells would only endure for such a short time. No doubt that casting them again would set off many alarms and I would meet my end, but not my chosen end.

I wanted her to be my end.

I could think of no finer end for one such as myself. It was the ending I deserved. To be consumed by my own obsessions. My life and my ending would become the subject that would inspire the next one hundred years of literature, a thousand plays would be written about me, but more importantly, thousand plays would be written about her. My end would provide my muse the adoration she truly deserved. I was sacrificing myself so she could be worshipped as she was clearly meant to be.

I was close now, so very close. I was near her chambers. I ducked into an alcove, reached into my saddlebags, and pulled out a rare and powerful potion that would give me a phantasmal form for just a few precious moments. It was unbelievably bitter and vile tasting, but a condemned pony cares not for what he drinks. Grinning, I crossed the threshold into infamy.

The Sun finally sets upon Sebastian Melmoth.

Her room is exactly how I imagined it. Slightly cluttered. There is sumptuous elegance, but there is also simplistic grace. There is a desk that must be a thousand years old covered in papers. There are electric lights, but there are also simple oil lamps of a design not seen for over three hundred years. Fine rugs from Saddle Arabia adorn the floors.

She sleeps on the bed, on her back of all positions, sprawled out and her beautiful form is on display. She has no blankets upon her body, there is nothing covering her at all but the moonlight coming in through the window, dappling her alabaster pelt with pools of silver grace. The girth of her barrel rises and falls, and the sounds of her breathing is like a fine choir of castrati colts, the sound of which is both divine and arousing.

She is my Goddess.

I approach her slumbering form slowly, cautiously, my phantasmal form now gone. All of my defenses are failing. I am visible now, detectable, I am vulnerable, and my time is short. I stand at the foot of her bed, drinking in her beauty. In slumber, her ears are limp and frame her face. Her wings are slightly spread. One foreleg is draped over her barrel, the other lies upon the pillow beside her head. My eyes take in every beautiful detail, starting with her delicate muzzle, the fine lines of her swan-like neck, the solid yet graceful bulk of her barrel, the fine curve of her navel and the line where the grains of her pelt meet together and the fine hairs overlap their different directions. Her remarkable teats. And everything else.

I have seen the Sun, and She is glorious.

My eyes linger upon my heart’s fondest desire. It is perfect in every way. The hairs of her pelt thins along the graceful and supple curves of her feminine places, pale pink flesh visible along the secret contours of her belly and her inner thighs. I can feel her heat radiating up into my face. I can smell her, and I inhale deeply.

She is citrus groves kissed by the sun. She is fields of clover on a warm spring day. She is the warm sweet breath of innocence that comes from a nursing newborn foal. She is the sweet scent of arousal that comes from the unblemished and undisturbed lips of virgins, the scent of love that still knows chaste purity.

I cannot believe my good fortune. I lower my head and breathe deeply, my nose inches from what gods and kings would kill for, go to war for, begin great acts of conquest for. She is everything I had hoped for and more. The culmination of my entire life and everything I have suffered for.

I take in every detail, and then I notice that the Sun, my Star, has a brown dwarf. That is not to say that it is brown, it is in fact pink, spotless, and perfect in every way, but it confirms that my Goddess is also flesh and blood. I can see it, the faint shimmering pinkness of it, flexing slightly as she breathes in and out, lost in graceful slumber.

Feeling courageous, I inch ever closer, the heady scent of her aroma filling my nostrils, making me tingle all over, little sprites dance upon my spine, performing the fae jigs of a forgotten time. My brain screams with the raging fires of my own perversion. I draw closer to that which makes her distinctly equine, that which makes her like us, we lowly mortal commoners. No matter how pure, how beautiful, how divine, even her body must rid itself of filth.

I extend my tongue and give a single lick across perfect unblemished flesh, trailing into the dimple hidden under her dock. At last, I am done and I can die the death I deserve.

“You know, I was willing to let you off easy just so long as you looked but did not touch. Much to my dismay, you licked me with the lascivious organ tucked between your lips. Make no move. The guards are coming. Do be a dear and make this easier on yourself.”

Oh dear, the Goddess was awake and I had aroused her ire.

“I know who you are. You are Sebastian Melmoth. My sister told me that you were coming. She has told me a great deal about you and your arrival was anticipated.”

I was trapped now. Realising I had been a fool, I stayed silent as the doors were flung open and the guards stood in the entrance. I watched her raise her head slightly from her pillow to look at them.

“Fetch tea and food. I intend to speak to our guest. And I do not wish to be disturbed once the refreshments have been brought.”

I watched as the guards saluted, and then departed, closing the door behind them.

“You… I have plans for you. Your life is forfeit for what you have done. There is something I want from you.”

My breath caught in my throat. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. I backed away from the bed as she turned upon her side, then her belly, and then she turned her body about to have a good look at me. I was terrified and my mouth hung open.

“My sister says that you love me more than any other pony on this planet. It is my desire that you perform a labour of love for me.”

“Anything my Goddess,” I whisper in reply, realising my life is no longer my own.

“It is my desire that you craft a story worthy of my beauty.”

At her words, I wept. She had given me the very worst of life sentences for my crime. There were no words, no prose, there was no meaningful language capable of what she requested. I would while away my life, spend the rest of my years trying to fulfill her request, and I knew that I would die, broken, with nothing to show for any of my brilliance. My punishment was the cruelest act that my Goddess could inflict, and as I sobbed, the first seeds of hatred for her were sown in my breast.

“You will be given a room, anything you desire for inspiration, and all of the pen and paper required for such a task. When you are finished, you may go free. I will visit you regularly to inspire you and we shall talk over tea.”

I wailed at her judgment, falling down upon the floor. There would be no reprieve. No mercy. I would never know my freedom. How do I write of her perfection? Her regal beauty? I had expected to meet my end, but not this end. I had expected a swift and merciful death for my perversion. I had been counting on it. I had long dreamed of this end.

And now, I am faced with a nightmare. I dare not refuse her. My love is far too great.

I will do as she asks, however long it might take, and I can see my own end from here, dying of old age, a broken heart, surrounded by sheaves of empty pages. It is not the end I wanted, but it is the end I deserve.

The part where the author explains himself.

Hello. You just got done reading my comedy. Which is really a tragedy, as good comedies are. You might be a little confused about this. That was my intent. This is a comedy of man, or in this case, a pony, versus the divine. It has all of the great elements. Scatological humour, a hint of politics, sexuality, and a whiff of whimsey. It is pretentious and bombastic. Ultimately, it is as empty as the protagonist of the story.

I went to bed last night thinking about other works, and I woke up this morning after a few hours of sleep with this story in my head, pretty much as you just got done reading it. I didn’t really write it for anybody but myself. It is probably an awful story. It probably should never be submitted. Alas, Sebastian Melmoth is a self insert of myself, and my love for Eris, my Goddess, my Blessed Lady of Confusion, whom I am devoted servant to. Sebastian Melmoth is also a pseudonym, a pen name for Oscar Wilde.

If you want to criticise it, you can, but be kind and constructive. Keep in mind what I have just said in the author’s notes. I am fully aware that it is terrible bit of fiction. If you want to downvote, do so, but I beg of you, leave a reason why. If you upvote, I ask the same, as no sane person should be enjoying this story, but if you do, I’d like to know why so I can understand your motivations.

Finally, I’d like to say thank you for reading this far. You, yes you, reading these words, these last few final words, you are the reason why I write and why I published this. And I want to thank you. So, thanks.