Though not as uncomfortable as for those who wear them…
Big Mac cursed to himself.
Of all the days…
Market had been particularly slow—and boring—today, as there had been some event on during the day. Big Mac vaguely recalled a flyer of some kind floating about at home, advertising it. He wished now that he had paid more attention.
All along the trudge home, while hauling the heavy Apple family market stall behind him, cyclists had been overtaking him, constantly getting in the way. And if there was one thing he hated more than cyclists—
It was their cycling pants.
Dear Celestia! Those cycling pants left nothing to the imagination.
How any of those stallions could ride those awful contraptions without sitting on certain parts of their own anatomy, Big Mac could never work out. But it was evident that they didn’t, because the bulging, sweaty pants clung tight to every curve of their bodies.
Big Mac was not looking forward to his next drink at the bar with the boys… not after seeing that much of Caramel.
There were a few mares riding in the race, but most of them had fallen behind the pack, and were now behind Mac.
Ahead of the pack, Big Mac spotted two mares riding tandem. They must have had a pretty big head start, but it looked like they had tired themselves out, and were starting to slow. They seemed to be having quite the heated argument as the rest of the riders overtook them.
“Fine! Be that way!” the first rider shouted.
The second rider harrumphed, but said no more.
Big Mac stared at the two. From this distance, he could barely make them out. They were both wearing black cycling pants, the tight spandex covering them from their necks to their hooves, clinging especially well around their bottoms. They both had their tails tied up, likely braided and wrapped tight in the same black material.
The poor mare on the rear seat seemed to be struggling the most. She was standing on her pedals, raising her rump a little more upright. Big Mac felt terrible; he couldn’t help but stare at that muscular flank.
Big Mac took a deep breath.
He would not give in to temptation.
He would admire the trees along the side of the road, the way they clung tightly to the trunks, how they drew the eyes upwards towards the taught—
No!
He would not think about it.
He would not think about how those round, firm cheeks bounced up and down, the swaying of her hips as she pedalled.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
It was certainly not hypnotic.
His heavy breathing—and now slightly awkward gait—was only because the cart was heavier than he had anticipated. Yeah! And he was pretty certain his harness wasn’t quite connected right.
That was it!
Definitely not that flank.
That tight, muscular flank. A slight trickle of sweat building up, teasing at what wonder could lie beneath. That flank that overpowered his very capability of reason. A flank he would give anything to see, day in, day out.
A cold shower!
That was what he needed! A nice, long, cold shower.
Big Mac had worked hard today… it had been a very long, hot day in the sun. He looked forward to getting home and slipping into a nice, cold shower. Maybe he’d even end up using all of the cold water in Ponyville.
The fabric clung to the mare’s inner thighs. From this distance, Big Mac could see where the pants folded slightly between the mare’s cheeks.
It was mighty embarrassing… getting this worked up in public. He needed to get his mind off of her.
Stupid cyclists.
Long. Cold. Shower.
Stupid cycling pants.
Caramel riding in front of him on a forty-degree day.
Stupid hot mare.
Granny Smith in her old swimming clothes.
It was no use; he couldn’t help but stare.
Back to the trees. Trees were good, they were great! He grew them, after all. Just the trees, the birds and the bees.
No, not the bees. Just the trees. Birds and trees. No bees.
Mac wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at the… trees. Wasn’t he home yet? Why was this taking so long?
Why couldn’t he bring himself to just overtake the two mares?
Why did he insist on slowing down to match their pace?
Well, truth be told, he knew exactly why, but he was loathe to admit it!
A commotion ahead broke him from his deep contemplations.
“That’s it!” the mare at the front yelled. Big Mac was certain he recognised that voice. The mare bucked and kicked, dislodging the second mare from the bike.
That tightly clad rump crashed into the ground as the mare gave a yelp.
The first mare opened up her wings, pedalling faster without her passenger.
“Rainbow Dash loses to no pony!”
Big Mac paled, watching the fallen mare get to her hooves.
“RD, ya varmint!” she yelled out. “Git yer flank back here, right now!”
“Can’t hear you!” Rainbow Dash yelled as she sped off into the distance, eager to catch up to the pack.
“Rassin-fraggin—” Applejack muttered, before turning around. “Oh, howdy, Big Mac,” she said with a big smile. “How long have ya been back there?”
“Not long,” Big Mac squeaked.
A long, cold shower. The longest Ponyville has ever known!
Big Mac stood under the running water.
He had scrubbed and scrubbed, standing there under the freezing water… but nothing could wash away the dirtiness he felt still clinging to him.
He could have stayed in there for another twelve hours, and he’d not even come close to feeling clean.
Maybe he’d never feel clean again.
“Consarnit!” Applejack called from outside the bathroom. “Some of us wanna shower too, ya know, Mac?”
“Don’t come in—” Big Mac called.
Applejack opened the door. “Ya better not be doin’ what Ah think yer doin’ in there!” she said.
Big Mac slammed his head against the tile. No he most certainly wasn’t doing what she thought he was doing in there.
He might never be able to again.
“Well, if yer done scrubbin’ up, an’ haven’t gone an’ clogged th’ drain again, git out so Ah can clean up!”
Big Mac shook the worst of the water off of his coat, then wrapped a towel around his shoulders. Applejack didn’t even wait for him to leave before she climbed into the shower herself.
He dried himself off in his room, and tried to not think about the events of the day.
To not think about his sister…
In the shower…
That cool water running down her back, tracing down her flank and dribbling past her thighs—
Big Mac slammed his head into his wall—repeatedly—until he was greeted with sweet, sweet unconsciousness.
