Perhaps another sugarcube...?
You watch from backstage as the world-renowned Octavia Philharmonica plays the very last notes of her cello solo. Her bow, just a moment ago flying at speeds nearly imperceptible to the human—and probably pony—eye, now slows to a stop at the pace of a gradual ritardando.
A tear rolls down your cheek as she stands, taking a bow before the audience. The entire crowd rises to their hooves, a roar of applause echoing around the concert hall as a few thousand ponies stomp their hooves and cheer for Equestria’s most talented composer—and one of its greatest performers.
Your hand clutches two tickets in your suit pocket. You have to admit, you’d developed a bit of a crush on the pony. Her music, as hers was the most common sounds to be etched into vinyl, was in all likelihood the first you heard upon arriving in Equestria. It was only later, after having hummed the haunting tunes floating about your head for months, that you learned the name of the one who composed them.
To be able to see her in person—or pony, you suppose—was surreal. Not only that, but you have the privilege to be one of the closest to her while she performs. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the very swing of her dark mane and delicate manipulation of her instrument looks to be the perfect replication of an angel’s grace. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.
She rests her cello on the stand, and with her snout held high, seems to breathe in the crowd’s applause. The curtain lowers, concealing the performer from her adoring fans in a dramatic fashion.
Once the curtains have fallen, she turns towards you. Your heart skips a beat as she walks towards you, her mulberry eyes sending jolts of electricity up and down your spine as they pierce your very being.
Oh Celestia, she’s looking at you!
As she draws near, you open your mouth to say something. Anything. Much to your horror, your words just get caught in your throat, jumbling up and creating a blockage that just becomes worse the harder you try to speak.
To both your relief and disappointment, she walks right past you. You swallow down the congestion of incoherent sentences and sigh. How do you know she’ll even say yes? You set up stages for a living—right now, you’re going off the questionable rumor that Octavia is open to dating other species.
So far, from what you’ve heard, none of them are even remotely similar to ‘hairless monkey.’
For the umpteenth time tonight, you sigh. You pull the tickets out of your pocket. Glancing over them, you silently mouth the words neatly printed in identical type on each of the tickets:
Admission to Any Friday Night Show
at the
Canterlot Central Theatre
Front Row
Ticket does not expire. Counterfeits will not be accepted, and their owners suspended from the premises. Copyright Canterlot Central Theatre® 1005. Admit one.
Despite working here, these took a hell of a lot of trouble to get your hands on. The manager of the building, Vinyl Scratch, had you work weekends for nearly three months straight—with no pay, at that—in exchange for the tickets.
Groan all you want, but she was being extremely generous. Front row tickets to any showing in Equestria’s largest and most renowned theater are usually reserved for the upper-crust, tophat-wearing Dr. Peanuts who play battleship with yachts for their morning entertainment. Considering the fact that a normal week’s pay for you could fit in one hand, there’s absolutely no way you could ever afford it.
Octavia Philharmonica could probably afford it easily. It would be nothing for her; hell, if she wanted to see a show, she could probably pay for a whole group to come watch it with her, and have a spa built in at the front row—for each pony she brought with her.
You gulp. In retrospect, it was probably a bit shortsighted to work for the tickets before she even said yes—if she said yes—but you can’t back down now. Besides, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Backstage, you attempt to track Octavia down. It’s not hard, really; all you have to do is locate the throng of reporters surrounding the spectacle of a pony. Numerous news cameras click and flash, and the buzzing hum of excited voices fills the air. You contemplate attempting to cut through the crowd to get to her, but figure that waiting would be your best option if you really want her full attention.
You swallow another lump. The very thought of speaking to Octavia Philharmonica… You want to throw up. You want to squeal like a little girl who just received a pony for Christmas. You don’t have butterflies in your stomach, you have a horde of excited dragonflies writhing around and tickling you from the inside.
After a length of time, the crowd dissipates. The last of the journalists, holding a pencil and a notepad, leaves her presence looking downcast.
Poor guy. She probably refused to speak to him. ‘I only accept interviews from the most prestigious news sources,’ you imagine her saying in a refined, classy tone.
‘I only allow the most attractive and wealthy of stallions to court me.’
You shake that thought from your head. You worked so hard for this, you sacrificed so many beach trips and parties and weekends spent dicking around for this… The least you can do is try.
There she is, sitting all alone on a small stool. She beams, gazing up at the overhanging lights. Her eyes reflect the bright white light, giving them a beautiful sparkle to accentuate her angelic smile.
Drawn like a sailor to sirens, you approach the queen of beauty. She finally notices you as you draw near, her lips parting slightly as her face alights with wondrous curiosity at you.
Your heart beats wildly in your chest. She’s seen you! She notices you! The figure you’ve transfixed your eyes on for ever so long holds you in her sight, and as of this moment—
“No one is allowed to speak to Octavia right now. Please, take a step back.”
You nearly cry out in anguish; so close, yet so far. A burly stallion, likely a bodyguard, blocks your path to the mare of your dreams.
“B—B—But—” you stutter, once again finding yourself unable to form sentences. The guard, however, just shakes his head.
“Sorry. Octavia’s not takin’ questions for the rest of the night. Please—”
He suddenly stops and looks back. The gray mare, Octavia, lightly nudges him on the flank, signalling for him to move aside.
The bodyguard obeys, allowing you passage to the august damsel. Your lips tremble with gratitude as you move forward. You kneel down on one knee so as to establish eye contact with the mare. You take a deep breath, and then slowly exhale.
“H—Hello, Ms.Octavia Philharmonica. M—My n—name—” Stop stuttering! “—is Anon—ny—nymous.”
You turn away to clear your throat. When you face her again, she watches you curiously—not judging, nor pitying, nor condescending. Just curious. You force a smile.
Stupid! She probably hears that all the time!
Nonetheless, she nods understandingly, giving you another boost of self-confidence. “Wow. Okay, well...” You wipe your brow. God, you feel like a seventh-grader asking out his first crush. “...I would like to—well, I was hoping that maybe you would attend a... a show with... me?”
She tilts her head in confusion, giving you an inquisitive look. To emphasize your point, you pull out the two tickets you'd been saving in your pocket and present them to her. “I... have these. It took me a long time to save up for them. I—I know it isn't much for you—and I'm probably coming off as a desperate, slobbering idiot...”
Yes. Yes you are.
“...but I've been waiting for you to perform here for a long time. It's okay if you say no, because you probably have more important things to do, but I just really had to try and I think you—”
You feel a hoof being placed on your lips. Octavia holds it there while her eyes trace up and down your bent-over body, studying you like a butcher studies fresh meat. What feels to you like an hour passes before Octavia finally removes her hoof. She smiles at you, her eyes betraying a kind of understanding. She's taken a liking to you.
You heart shoots up into your throat at this realization. You grin uncontrollably; you're completely elated by the fact that Octavia, idol by many and the object of so many stallions' desires, has taken a liking to you. Her lips take the form of that somehow sophisticated smirk, and she gingerly touches your hot cheek with the very tip of her hoof.
“OI, IF THIS AIN’T A RIGHT LAFF! THE QUEER-LOOKIN’ MONKEY WANTS A QUICK SHAG TUHNOIT, DUNNIT?”
There aren’t any words in your limited vocabulary that can fully describe what you’re feeling right now, but the first and foremost on your mind is astonishment. You look around the room to make sure the voice isn’t coming from elsewhere.
“OI, YA BLOODY MELT! ME MINGE IS THIS WAY!” You turn back around to find her scratching her crotch. “I GOTTA SAY LUV, YA HAVE YESSELF QOITE A SET OF BOLLOCKS COMIN’ UP TA ME LOIK THIS! WHERE YA FROM, LUV?”
It takes you a second to realize she’s asking you a question. “I—uh… I’m from here. Canterlot.”
This time, you can accredit your stutter to the elegant fashion in which she picks her ear, sniffs the hoof that was utilized for the act, and scrunches up her snout offensively. She then proceeds to wipe her hoof on the underside of her bow, muttering something to herself about “Ah’ll jus’ wash it latuh…”
“SO, CANTERLOT, EH? AY DON’T PAHTICULARLY LOIK THE POOFTERS, THEY’RE KOIND OF SNOBBISH TA GIT DOWHN TO THA NITTY GRITTY OFVIT…” She shakes her head, seemingly dismayed. “RIGHT KICK IN THA PANTS INNIT? SUCH A CRACKER OVA TOWN, TOO. BUT ‘CHU DUN’ COME OFF AS MUCH OF A LOW CHAL, NOW…” She watches you expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. When she doesn’t receive one, she shrugs. “WORL. NAWT MY BUSINESS NOW, INNIT? NOW, YA SAID YA WANTED TA TAKE ME TO A SHOW?”
The change in subject catches you off-guard. After taking a brief moment to figure out what she just said, you somewhat hesitantly reveal the tickets you’ve had in your pockets this whole time. “Y—Yeah, um… These are tickets to any showing here at the Canterlot theater…”
She snatches them both out of your sweaty palm. She reads the fine print, frowning as she scrutinizes each ticket, before handing them back to you. “WORL, SORRY TA SAY OL MATEY, AH AIN’T MUCH FER SOAPIES, BUT…” She bites her lip, giving you a half-lidded stare that really is—surprisingly—quite sexy. “...WITH YA LOOKING ALL DAPPER-LOIK, AH GOTTA SAY YA WET MA WITHERS JUST SO AH MIGHT ENJOY GETTING TIDDLY WITH YA.” She winks at you, and then ever-so-seductively turns and walks the other way.
“A’RIWGHT MATE, BE OUT AND ABOOT IN FRONT OF THE THEATER DIS TIME NEXT EVENIN’, AND YOU’LL BE SURE TA HAVE YER TODGER WET CUM MORNIN’!” She quickly shoots a wink your way. Following that, every step she takes is deliberate, always accentuated by a slight jiggle in her ass. Her voluptuous hips sway from side to side, her tail swinging just enough to tease you with a near-glimpse of her nether region before changing direction and repeating the motion adjacently.
You have the strangest boner right now.
Author's Note
Shit, I am not good at writing accents. I needed help from two people: an editor who chooses to remain anonymous and Mr. Jazzaman.
This'll be a two- or three-parter, and yes there will be sex at the end. Hot, sweaty, cockney pony sex.
And for any Britbongs reading this: luv ya 
