Class Trance

Such are a few of my principal experiments in the mysterious force or agency known as hypnotic suggestion. Whether or not it could be employed by a bad man for an unworthy purpose I am unable to say.

-Ambrose Bierce, The Parentcide Club, 1911

Do you hear that? The scritch, the scratch, the turn of pages? How long since I heard the sound of study! How long since I could think without distraction, speak without interruption, command without insubordination? So long, that just two weeks ago I’d fantasise about this quiet, this compliance.

Pathetic, isn’t it? A mare in the prime of life should fantasise about some strapping mare or stallion, and what she’d do to them with a riding crop. But me? I fantasised about an ideal classroom.

Those fantasies at least, nursed by time, congealed to resolve, and that resolve became reality. I’ve my fantasy in front of me and so much more: a class of studious, quiet and obedient students, entirely susceptible to my whims. As a teacher I’m proud; as a mare I’m wet.

Once I thanked luck if I could get them to shut up for a minute, but now…

‘Button Mash, come to the front.’

Leaving his desk, a happy trot takes him.

‘How is your project coming along?’

‘Very well, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Very good, Button Mash. You are a good student.’ A dopey smile grows. ‘Say, “I am a good student who obeys his teacher.”’

‘I am a good student who obeys his teacher, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Jump up and down, saying, “I am a wittle colt who can’t think for himself.”’

Confusion flashes on his face, but not resistance. He obeys.

‘I am a wittle colt who can’t think for himself. I am a wittle colt who can’t think for himself. I am a wittle colt who can’t think for himself.’

‘Stop.’ He stops jumping. ‘Very good. Return to your seat.’ He does so, beaming.

So well trained is my class that not only will they obey such a command, but should a classmate do it instead, they won't even raise their heads from study.

And that’s just the average student. My problem lot have come along well under their special conditioning.

Rumble and Pipsqueak, still in the same seats, but instead of punching each other when they think my attention rests elsewhere, they hold hooves. Not at this moment, of course. I told the class to get to work. No matter how much they love their partner, distracting each other would mean disobeying their teacher. They don’t want to be bad students.

To think, I only intended to diffuse hatred, instead I’ve fostered love. In those moments, late at night, when hobbling thoughts, bereft of reason, knock on my consciousness, rousing doubt as to my actions, I need only remember these two to console myself.

I keep them after class sometimes, together or one at a time, under the guise of tutoring. In truth, those hours after school marking bore me with secluded silence. Cured of my problem class, I’ve rediscovered the average teacher’s suffering. Company, or at least idle entertainment, soothes my nerves.

‘Sleep,’ I said in a one-on-one to Rumble. I ordered him to the far end of the room, where he would raise his rump in the air, his chin to the floor. ‘Pipsqueak’s bucking you up the arse,’ I said.

That swiftly growing cock dangling between his legs, sweet Celestia. And the groans! Just thinking of them makes me shiver. But I couldn’t risk detection. ‘Quieten down.’ Resounding moans lowered to regular grunts.

‘Stroke yourself.’ He obeyed, jacking his hoof up and down. ‘Don’t cum.’ I know how young colts can rush to the destination at expense of the journey. Like athletes running hurdles as if they were in the hundred metres, they get to the end, but entirely miss the point. I was to be stuck there two hours at least, my off-desk desk toy should do the same.

Cruel of me? Perhaps, but colts, despite evidence to the contrary, love a good tease.

Five-thirty, read my clock, when I was done.

‘Good colt. You must be so horny, so close to cumming.’ Sweat dripped from his body, his moans, though still quiet, threatened to blow-up any second. ‘When I say go, you will head to the colts’ bathroom, lock yourself in a stall and then bring yourself to orgasm.’ From there I filled his head with memories of what had happened those two hours, the mathematics we’d covered, the Prench we’d revised. Amazing how much a hypnotised mind can absorb in thirty minutes.

On the way to the bathroom, he would remember, he had gotten horny, fantasising about Pipsqueak. He had to finish himself off. ‘Go.’

Briefly, I worried that cleaning staff, seeing a colt with a hard-on wandering the halls, would grow suspicious. But then I remembered, this is a high school where few students wear clothes. An erect cock is as common as spread wings, and only slightly more embarrassing.

I treat Pipsqueak much the same, but sometimes I will smuggle weight-lifting equipment (or rather, order Pipsqueak to smuggle weight-lifting equipment) from the school gym, and get him to perform a body building session for my pleasure. I’m not normally one for the buffer stallions, but… Well, I hardly get any work done when he gives me a show.

Watching them now, diligently plowing at their work, I smile, knowing they’ve no idea of what they do for me.

‘Scootaloo?’ I call.

She looks up from her textbook, halting her pen’s furious annotations. ‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘You working hard?’

Panic stains her face. ‘O-of course, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Very good, Scootaloo.’ She exhales with relief.

After the hypnosis session that Friday, I kept her back after I ordered the other students home. I awakened her with the impression that after chewing out the entire class, I wanted to talk to her personally.

‘Enough is enough,’ I said. ‘Your project is weeks late.’ The same faux-embarrassed grin plastered her face. ‘Monday, I want that project Monday. And don’t tell me that’s only two days, you’ve had weeks. The project is due Monday.’

I refrained from explicitly ordering her, only telling her the due date. Although programmed to please her teacher, I fully anticipated her procrastination, or carpentry commitments, would preclude her from finishing. As such it came as no surprise that Monday, when I asked for the project, that she said, ‘Heh, sorry. Don’t have it, Ms. Cheerilee.’

Oh, I was not surprised. In fact, inside I was jittering with expectation. Would I be able to sleep, I thought, in foal-like excitement for what she was to do tomorrow.

It was greater than I ever imagined.

Tomboy Scootaloo, more balls than the colts Scootaloo, never-wore-a-dress-in-her-life Scootaloo, skipped into the school gates, greeting everypony she passed, wearing a dress so girly that even Rarity questioned if it was what I really wanted. For the day the school had the friendliest filly anypony could hope to meet. She’d compliment your fur, your plumage, your wit. Every now and then she’d trip all over herself apologising for some inadvertent slight she believed she made. So deep in her new persona was she that at lunch, rather than work on her woodwork project, she begged for the keys to the home economics room, which, luckily, I possessed.

‘Wouldn’t you rather work on your carpentry?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no. That’s much too dangerous. I might scratch a hoof, Ms. Cheerilee,’ she replied. ‘N-not that was a foolish suggestion, Ms. Cheerilee!’

‘Is it a joke?’

‘Is it a dare?’

‘Has she gone nuts?’

Lovely whispers, foreshadowing at the very least a week of shame awaiting the filly.

The next day I had her project, done to no decent level, but it was the product of one night’s work.

That day, Wednesday, I set the class an essay due Monday. Guess who handed it in Thursday? To decent level too, but I refined her programming. Not only must she hand work in on time, but she must hand in work representing her highest ability.

Seeing her even now studying for next period’s test, I know she’ll get her first passing grade this year.

And Diamond. I believe she was the first to openly mock Scootaloo’s special day. She was also the first to never mention it again. The second that insult passed her lips, Silver Spoon tapped her on the shoulder, and fear blanched Diamond’s face.

I tailed them behind the school, hiding around the corner when they believed themselves out of everypony’s perception.

SMACK!

I couldn’t hear Silver’s scolding, but I heard that.

SMACK!

It took all my will to keep my hoof from my pussy. A cane resounding on Diamond’s raw behind, few sounds stoke me more.

More than delivering the delicious degradation of Diamond, Silver has begun her lover’s long journey to reformation. Though not the perfect student yet, I notice Diamond shoots her mouth off less, and commits fewer pranks/crimes against her classmates. On those occasions when her discipline slips, Silver promptly taps her shoulder, then proceeds to beat her back into line. I notice already that Diamond glances at Silver as a non-verbal, 'Was that alright?' or 'Can I?' A few more weeks and… who knows, perhaps we'll have a harmless member of society.

Knock, knock.

I keep the door locked during class for obvious reasons. To have an uninvolved teacher or student wander in while the students chant, ‘We obey Ms. Cheerilee. Ms. Cheerilee is always right,’ would raise doubts as to my teaching methods. Oh, sure, I could hypnotise the interloper, but that sounds too much like pleasure becoming work. Besides a locked door saves me hours preparing an induction.

KNOCK, KNOCK!

Unlocking the door, I open it to welcome in Sweetie Belle returned from her singing lesson.

Today is her first day back from a weeks-long stay in hospital (she fell on her horn or something). As such I’ve had no opportunity to condition her as I have her peers. Not that she needs it for the reasons they did. Always handing her work in on time and to a high standard, always coming close to top score on tests: she is my best student, though not my smartest one (that honour goes to Twist).

However, I can hardly take full advantage of my newly docile class if there is even one mind to notice something amiss. As of yet she’s made no mention of her classmates’ unusually subdued attitude, but since this morning she has looked this way and that, confusion colouring her face at every ‘Ms. Cheerilee’ spoken.

‘Sweetie,’ I say, ‘I think an after school lesson is in order to catch you up on what you’ve missed.’

A smile blooms on her. ‘All right.’ She trots to her desk.

I round out this day’s final lesson with an explanation on how to draw the integral of a function based on the intensity over time graph of Luna’s celestial telekinesis. As a teaching aid, a hypnotically open mind has been invaluable. In two weeks I’ve gone from four weeks behind to a week ahead of schedule.

While I speak I spy something in the corner of my eye, a sight I’ve seen the past two weeks, but never ceases to please me. Apple Bloom gagging on a phantom cock. Look at her, her neck jutting in and out as the invisible stallionhood bucks her face. Oh, she’s going faster now, faster, and... she swallows. I love how she scrunches her face every time she swallows the ‘spunk.’ Even more though, I love that in two weeks she has not interrupted me one bucking time.

Admittedly, my negative association therapy has not worked entirely as intended. She can’t speak in class, for ‘Featherweight’s’ cock will cut her off, but she keeps trying. Slow learner, I thought, until one day I chanced upon a bliss-eyed Featherweight emerge from the sports storage shed, Apple Bloom strutting after him, wiping her lips on her hoof. Perhaps it's an acquired taste.

Either way, she can’t speak during class, yet another thing I don’t want Sweetie getting to the bottom off.

DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

‘Just in time. I hope you have this copied down.’ I turn to them. ‘Stand.’ They obey, Sweetie awkwardly following the others’ example. ‘Have a lovely weekend. Class dismissed.’

They file out at walking pace. Another improvement on their former selves. Once it was the case that the smaller students had to hang back at the final bell, lest they be trampled in the mad rush to the doorway.

All gone.

Approaching Sweetie I say, ‘I know it’s not your fault, but you will need to put in double effort to catch up to the class. I’m afraid these after school lessons will be needed daily. A shame, isn’t it?’

‘Oh. Heh, y-yeah. Drat it.’

‘Or I could give you the list of textbook sections you need to study and leave it to you.’

‘Oh, no!’ Blushing, she lowers her voice, ‘I mean, I think your tutoring will really help me study.’

I grin. ‘Very well. If you think that’s for the best. Come with me.’ I walk to the front, her following just behind. She doesn’t think I notice her staring at my swaying flank.

A year or two ago I discovered her crush on me. Before that point I believed her a terrible student like all the others. She would miss deadlines, fail tests, and ask stupid question after stupid question. It got to the point where I had to scold her weekly, increasingly exasperated that she just didn’t seem to learn.

But one day, during one of these sessions, I knocked my chalk to the floor.

‘Buck!’ Under the irritation she caused me I couldn’t contain myself.

Bending to the ground to bite at the piece, I had unthinkingly pushed my rump up towards her face.

‘Meep!’

And with that squeak, it all made sense. Although she missed deadlines, she always hoofed in the work the day after my scolding. She only failed mock tests, the real tests showed a level of study a single night’s cramming could not accomplish. And her questions, well, I assume they were just to push me over the edge.

Time alone with me, that’s what she wanted. And what had I been doing? Giving her positive reinforcement for bad behaviour. Well, that would change.

The chalk retrieved, I turned to her, her flushed face vainly averted.

‘I just don’t know what to do with you. It seems we do this every week, and you don’t learn. No, you just keep on doing it. I didn’t want to do this.’ The panic blistering on her face – I felt like I kicked a puppy. ‘From now on, every Monday and Wednesday I will tutor you personally. Sixty minutes each afternoon. No, no, I don’t care what “buts” you have. I believe this is necessary for your studies. Is that understood?’

Trying to beat down the smile twitching at her lips, she replied, ‘Y-yes. I understand. D-darn.’

Her behaviour improved markedly. Good teaching grows from understanding your students. And if that fails, brainwash them.

I thought perhaps her crush would erode, that prolonged contact would dispel my allure. But, a year or two on, she still insists, at the prescribed end of our sessions, to stay a little longer. Undeniably, I find a puppy-dog cuteness in her attachment, such that I will, every now and then, reward her academic focus with some light humouring.

Nothing large or illegal, just brushing against her a second too long as I walk by, or doing my makeup especially fine for our sessions. And I become so clumsy in these lessons, always dropping things, always bending over to retrieve them. One time I took it a step further.

‘Oh, darn it!’ I said. ‘It’s gone under the desk.’

As I rummaged in the crevice under my desk, I raised my rump as usual, but this time swayed it around a bit, flicking my tail, ‘absentmindedly’ revealing my marehood.

Hearing her silence, I feared I’d gone too far; I’d broken the spell, revealed the act. Laying eyes on Sweetie again, I was assuaged. Whatever part of her was thinking had no concept of suspicion.

‘Is something wrong, Sweetie? You’re so flushed.’ I pressed my hoof to her forehead, eliciting a squeak. ‘Ah! You’re burning. Do you need to take a break?’

Parting near paralysed lips, she said, ‘Y-yes. P-please excuse me.’ She scampered out, leaving her books behind her.

Three minutes passed before I headed to her obvious destination.

I slowly opened the door to the mares’ room, thanking Celestia the hinges were well-oiled. Stepping across the tiles, soft enough to avoid clacking, I approached the squeaking stall.

Ah, the innocent sound of a school crush.

Her squeaking broke to restrained moaning, then to panting, quicker and quicker, pushing her to the edge-

‘Sweetie!’ I know, cruel of me. ‘You all right in there.’

‘Yes! I mean, yes. I was- I was- I thought I was going to vomit. S-so I came in-’

‘Sweetie, Sweetie, don’t worry. I just thought if one of my student’s was truly ill, I shouldn’t let them wander the halls.’ Silence. ‘Are you fine? Shall I leave you?’

A few moments pass as she presumably determined how far gone her orgasm was. ‘N-no. I’m fine.’ Exiting the stall, she keeps her eyes from me.

I held back my affections the rest of that lesson. The poor filly had suffered enough.

All these memories try to pull my hoof from what I will do this day. A lust-struck filly only trying to please her crush doesn’t deserve this fate. But necessity makes even evil palatable. In light of her academic ardour, however, her conditioning shall be different. Oh, the end result will be functionally the same, but I believe she deserves a few perks.

‘I’m sorry to ruin your Friday, but I’ll have to keep you back longer than usual. To even skim the classes you missed we’ll need two hours.’ Walking behind my desk, I gesture her to sit in one of the front seats. ‘Probably the same for Monday. When does Rarity expect you home?’

She sits at a desk directly in front of mine, laying her books across it. ‘I told her you’d probably keep me late my first day back.’

I grin. ‘You know me so well.’ Ducking under the desk, I emerge with a tray holding two teacups and an electric kettle with teabag labels dangling. I’ve had it heating and reheating since lunch. Never hurts to be prepared.

As I pour I say, ‘I know you like green tea.’ Both cups full, I make sure to take the one with blue roses.

‘Blue is safe,’ I hammered into myself last night. Not that Sweetie is in any danger. In her pink rosed cup I merely left a few, transparent millilitres of mild sedative – just to calm her suspicions.

I take a long sip, closing my eyes to savour the taste. Setting down my cup, I smile at her, such that it would be improper for her to refrain from drinking.

I begin the lesson, more to allow her time to finish her cup than to actually teach. I speak slowly, not yet as slowly as my hypnotist’s voice, but enough to put her at ease.

She puts down her empty cup, which I refill for her – I wouldn’t want her straining herself.

Waffling on a few minutes longer, I’m drowned out by a massive yawn. Tears bud in her eyes as her mouth stretches.

‘You tired?’

She wipes the tears from her eyes with a fumbling hoof. ‘Got home late last night.’

Continuing my lesson, I notice her clench her eyes often, before opening them wide, a futile plea to her eyelids. She shifts on her chair, pulls her main, bites her cheek, anything to shock her eyes open. But as the minutes pass, and I speak so slowly about such dry subjects, even these attempts exceed her energy. When she sits still, her eyes glassy, eyelids wavering, with lips parted ever so slightly, I know it’s time.

‘Sweetie,’ I whisper. ‘Sweetie.’ I put my hoof on her shoulder to rock her. Her eyes flicker wider as her focus returns. She looks me in the eyes. Perfect. ‘Sweetie, I know you’re tired, but you need to focus. Focus on my voice.

‘Here’s a way to keep your eyes from closing, just focus on my eyes. Keep them in view. No matter how heavy your eyes become, just focus on my eyes. Focus on my eyes so you can focus on my voice.’

Her head sways, but she keeps her eyes on mine.

‘I know how hard it can be to keep your eyes from closing, how hard it can be to resist this sleepy feeling. I remember when I was your age and I was sitting in class, feeling so sleepy.’

Those last words make her take a long blink.

‘It was the end of a long day, at the end of long week. It was such a warm day, and I was so tired. My eyes were so heavy, every blink seemed to last forever. All I wanted was to lay my tired head on the desk, and fall asleep.’

She breathes slow and regularly. Awareness fades in and out of her eyes.

‘But my teacher was speaking, so I couldn't just fall asleep. She was speaking, so I had to focus on her voice. So to keep my heavy eyes from closing, I did what you’re doing now. I focused on her big, beautiful eyes.

‘But it was so hard. My eyelids were lead weights. Keeping them from closing just made me more tired, and the more tired I became, the heavier my eyes. I needed to sleep. And every deep breath I took in…’

I breathe in, she follows.

‘And out…’ A long exhalation as all the remaining tension seems to evaporate from her.

‘In… and out… this need grew. I would have given anything to just give in to my sleepiness. But I had to focus on my teacher.

‘And she was so mean. She saw how sleepy I was, and she chose to tease me. She came close to look deeply into my eyes, and began singing.

‘Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

‘I was trying so hard, but my eyes needed to close.’

Oh, the poor dear. I can just barely see slivers of her eyes under her fluttering lids.

‘You’re so sleepy, Sweetie. You've worked so hard. You deserve to close your eyes. For being such a good filly, for focusing on your teacher’s voice, I'll let you close your eyes. That sounds nice, doesn't it? Just close your tired eyes.’

Her eyes shut.

‘Tightly shut. You’re such a good filly. But you still need to focus on my voice. Focus on nothing but my voice. Let go of everything else.

‘Breathe in… and out, let go of your legs.’

Whatever tension remained vanishes, as her legs sink into the chair.

‘Breathe in… and out, let go of your torso.’

A moan of relaxation slips from her lips.

‘Breathe in… and out, let go of your arms.’

Her shoulders droop as her arms slide from her thighs, dangling.

‘Breathe in… and out, let go of your neck, let go of your face.’

She nuzzles her chin to her chest, her mouth hangimg open.

‘Let go of your entire body, focussing only on my voice. Good filly. How do you feel?’

It takes her sluggy body a long while to obey her wishes. ‘Gooo… Relaa…’

‘Good filly. You’re doing so well, listening so well. Now, I want you to answer my next question truthfully. I know you can. Do you have a crush on me?’

Awake, Sweetie would blush and stutter and deny it with every unfrazzled part of her brain. Now she only drawls, ‘Yeah…’

‘Do you love me?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Sweetie, we’ve had these after school lessons for a few years now. Do you ever have any… fantasies about what might occur?’ Such a good filly deserves a treat. ‘I know you have. Go on,’ I lean my ear close to her mouth, ‘tell me your favourite.’

Her recount meanders in incomplete Equine, punctuated by moans, even long pauses when she loses herself too deeply. Despite this, I piece it together. It’s always the best students who find the naughty filly routine unbearably erotic.

After filling her with the narrative and triggers, I order her to the door.

‘Wake up.’ Her eyes ebb back to life. ‘Well, look who decided to turn up. Don’t just stand there, come closer.’

She approaches proudly. Stopping in front of me, she looks at me with eyes radiating all the determination of a foal demanding ice-cream.

I rise before her, looming tall. ‘Do you know why you’re here, young mare?’

Not breaking eye contact, not stuttering or stumbling at all, she says, ‘Because I’ve been bad mare.’

Circling her, I begin, ‘Bad? Oh, no, you’ve been much worse than that.’

I bend to her ear. ‘You broke school rules.’ She squeaks.

‘You walked on the flower beds.’

‘Eep!’

‘You vandalised the bathroom walls.’

‘Ah!’

‘You missed assembly.’

‘Mmmm.’

I stop moving, lean close, warm breath pluming on her ear, and whisper, ‘You skipped school.’

‘Oohh.’

‘You’re a very, very naughty filly, an insolent filly who doesn’t respect authority.’ I return to my seat. ‘But I know a way to teach you respect.’ Her clamped lips quiver in anticipation. ‘A punishment that will make you the nice filly you’re parents always wanted.’

‘Oh, no you won’t!’ she says. ‘I’m a rebel who’ll never submit to a teacher. Down with rules. Boo.’

I grin at my little protestor. ‘I’ll cure you of your rebellious ways, and turn you into a decent member of society.’ I pat my lap, making my intention known to the miscreant. ‘Sometimes the best way to remedy your sort is with a physical reminder of who’s in charge. Hop over my lap.’

Her face drips confusion and revulsion. ‘You can’t be serious. I’m not a foal.’

‘Oh, no, you’re worse than a foal. A foal knows deep down that adults are in charge. You’re an impudent adolescent who needs to be taught her place. So take your punishment.’

She looks almost shocked that her hooves trot forward. ‘I’ll show you I can’t be broken.’ Panic tints her voice. ‘I’m a bad mare who'll never listen to my elders.’ Once at my side, she gulps before laying herself over my lap. ‘You’ll never make me obey the rules.’ Her eyes lock so tight she squeezes out tears.

Rubbing my hoof up and down her snow white flank, so fleshy and so vulnerable, I relish her little meeps.

‘You’re a very naughty foal.’

SLAP! She screeches.

‘You disrespect your elders.’

SLAP!

‘You disobey your teacher.’

SLAP! Her plump rump turns a lovely shade of red.

‘You don’t recognise authority.’

SLAP! She groans through clenched lips as the slaps build on each other.

I keep spanking her, with a regular beat, thirty more times, telling throughout, in so many words, what an unruly filly she’s been.

By the end she’s crying, yelling how sorry she is. My heart comes close to pity until I feel the moistness of her pussy on my thigh. ‘Hop off,’ I say, gently nudging her.

As she dismounts I admire my hoofiwork. I’d no idea a plot could glow that red before bruising. And thinking of my throbbing hoof, I regret not wearing a glove or some such softener. Guess I won’t be writing for a few hours.

She can barely look me in the eyes.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore.’

‘And why do you feel sore?’

She gulps. ‘Because I’ve been a naughty foal.’ A blush of shame and excitement forms on her face.

‘And what have you learnt?’

The words escape her mouth, ‘I learnt being a rebel is not cool.’ The look of shock on her face morphs to one of acceptance. ‘Rules should be followed because they exist for a reason. I should obey my elders because they know more than me.’ A smile grows. ‘I will respect authority because I want to be a decent member of society.’ I can smell her arousal.

‘Very good.’ I grin before scratching my chin. ‘But you could just be saying this. How do I know you truly know your place? Ah! Here’s a way.’

I spread my legs, exposing my damp pussy. ‘Lick me to orgasm.’

Oh, that wide-eyed shock. It just makes me wetter.

‘This will show you are a filly who obeys her elders.’ Still nothing, spare stutters. ‘And here I thought you wanted to be a nice, respectful filly.’

The bit drops. ‘I am a nice, respectful filly. Adults know best, so I will obey adults. They know what's best for me, I do not.’ The half-robotic words nevertheless bring a smile to her eyes.

She comes to me, the certainty of one confident in their orders evident on her face. I moan when she lowers herself to nuzzle my pussy.

‘Good filly.’ Mmmm, I feel her spreading smile tickle me.

She starts lapping like a thirsty kitten. Nice, but I wonder if she’s never done this before.

‘Sweeti-oooooooh!’ A slow draw up my lips, licking my clit, a shot of cold adrenaline. And, ah! she wants this done quick, working my clit, sucking, nibbling. I want to tell her to slow down, but my tongue won’t work, and my mind – hot, burning – no, discipline! Discipline! Don’t cum, don’t cuuaaah – Buck discipline! Buck-

Coming to in the cosy serenity, I realise I’m still moaning loudly. I should worry if someone heard, but as I stroke my little student’s upturned head, with her did-I-do-alright eyes, I can’t be bothered.

‘Such a good filly. And to think, you used to be a filly who would disrespect her teachers. Stand up.’ She obeys. ‘Aren’t you glad I spanked that naughty, little flank of yours?’

‘Oh, yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’ She gives herself to the unbidden words. ‘Naughty fillies deserve to have spanked bottoms. It helps them become nice fillies.’

‘Very good. Now sit down.’ She does so, but as soon as she touches the wood she jumps up, wincing. ‘Oh, dear, I almost forgot, you’re flank must still hurt. Nice fillies don’t deserve sore bottoms. Now try.’

She lowers her flank to the seat, slowly, but at contact, she purrs at the numbness.

‘You’ve done so well,’ I say, looking into her eyes. ‘You’ve come so far. You know what you deserve? Sleep.’

Her head slumps to her chest.

Don’t you love it when reality aligns with your interests? I’d always suspected Sweetie had a thing for submission, but hay, among fetishes that’s pretty common – even spanking has a sizable following. No, it’s her flavour of it that fits my plans, her panty moistening penchant for sweet surrender to authority. What am I if not an authority figure? Hay, maybe I didn’t need to hypnotise her at all, just let her pussy lead her.

I’m being facetious; I need to ensure her silence somehow. Besides, she also has a little fetish for breaking the rules. Minor rules, albeit, if her fantasy is anything to go by, but something to be ironed out nonetheless.

Perhaps I should question where she acquired these odd, contradictory fetishes, but thinking about her dichotomised upbringing, it’s not surprising. Deprivation of situations and/or stimuli can foster attraction for said things. Take the ponies of antiquity who, for reasons lost to time, would wear clothes year-round (even in bed!). For them the mere sight of exposed fur could inspire an erotic frenzy.

Sweetie’s deprivations, on the other hoof…

I know Rarity personally, and I know her parents from those few times they bothered to show up for parent-teacher night.

Rarity, though by no means dictatorial, will not hesitate to put her hoof down. But a strict upbringing can have unintended consequences. Tell a growing filly to follow the rules, and what do you think will excite her most?

Her parents bear the blame for her second fixation. A too permissive upbringing can inspire a dark fascination with restriction. Clipped wings have allure to the cautiously soaring spirit. She craves the pleasure of a patent leather boot grinding on a pony tongue, forever.

Well, I’m more than willing to aid her in becoming the smiling slave her pussy aches for her to be.

‘You love me, don’t you, Sweetie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I make you feel good, don’t I?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Because you love me, you want me to feel good. You feel good when I feel good. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

I smile. ‘I make you feel good. You feel good when I feel good. Let me make you feel good. Let my tongue hover over your pussy.’

Though too deep to gasp, she shivers as she breathes in.

‘My tongue touches your pussy, flicking around, teasing you. It rolls up your lips, slowly, you feel it approach your clit, oh so slowly.’

Her legs drift apart, her breath grows shallow, short.

‘Nearing your clit, so close, almost there, and goes back down.’ She drops a shuddering breath. ‘But it still feels so good, my tongue licking your burning pussy, roaming firmly up and down, poking in, brushing your clit, making you so horny. Give yourself to the feeling. But don’t cum.

She moans as my oh-so-vivid tongue ravishes her. Her legs spread farther, the scent of her arousal wafting to me.

An innocent filly lost in a fog of pleasure hitherto unknown to her, with blushing cheeks and little squeaks, oh, it’s an adorable sight.

‘Do you love this feeling?’

Between her haggard breaths she manages, ‘Yeah.’

‘I can make you feel this way anytime. You love me. You want to please me. Pleasing me feels this good. Would you like to know what pleases me?’

‘Yeah.’ She’s begging.

‘Obedience,’ I say. ‘Whenever you obey you’ll know you’re pleasing me. You’ll feel my tongue all over your pussy. It won’t shock you, it won’t make you cum, and on the outside you won’t act any different. But you’ll feel this amazing sensation, along with the warmth and contentment you get from knowing that you’ve been such a good filly, for pleasing me by obeying. Does that sound good?’

She hesitates, but soon the pleasure erodes her doubts. ‘Yeah.’

‘Very good. Now let the pleasure subside.’ Her breaths deepen and slow as she sags on the chair, her legs still spread. Now to test her. ‘Put your forehooves together.’ She holds them in front of her chest. ‘Warm glue pours over them, seeping between them. Now setting, setting so hard and firm that not even a diamond hammer could break your hooves apart.

‘Very good. Wake up.’ Raising her head, she realises the state of her hooves. ‘Is something wrong with your hooves?’

She pulls them back and forth, failing to separate them. Her brow furrows. ‘They’re stuck.’

‘Then pull them apart.’

What starts as calm tugging builds to a groaning strain.  Her grunts turn to a high-pitched whine as she desperately tries to pull her hooves apart. Before long tears drip from her eyes.

‘What’s wrong, Sweetie.’

‘I- I can’t do it.’ She gulps. ‘I can’t do what you told me to, can’t make you happy.’

‘Oh, no, you do make me happy. Stop pulling.’ As soon as she does so, a blissful smile outshines her tears, indicating the imaginary tongue on her pussy. ‘You’re a very good filly for trying so hard. Sleep.’

Her hooves drop to her lap as her eyes slam shut.

‘The glue melts, melts away, gone for good.’ Her hooves flop to her sides.

I breathe deeply, realising my task is done. Every student in my class, an obedient teacher’s pet. Sure I only have them for a semester and a half more, but I’m sure I can make that time last. Besides, my next class wouldn’t lose anything from a hypnotic tune-up.

But seeing her sleeping face, I realise now’s no time to think of the future. Now’s time for the dull necessities (i.e. replace her memory of this meeting with facts about the Zebrican Revolution and combustion energy).

You know what, I’ll be kind. I won’t make her forget our little role-play entirely. Tonight, she'll have such a lovely dream.