Class Trance

by CremDem

Rating: mature
Tags: Dark
Length: 22310

Her unruly class has pushed Cheerilee to the breaking point. She wants obedience, by any means necessary.

So what they're 'adults' in the law's eyes, Cheerilee's class is still the biggest bunch of foals she's ever taught. They're noisy, uncooperative and just plain rude. Luckily she checked out a very curious book, How to Hypnotise Anyone at Any Time, and she just loves to try out new knowledge.

She wants a class of obedient fillies and colts and she'll get it.

To those who've read my other stories for their consensual vibe, this will not have that. This is more in line with the rest of the Mind Control/Hypnosis fetish: A controller with irresistible powers of command.

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Woo! Now in the Hypnosis and Mind Control group's recommended fics.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-01-21 01:43:04 UTC

Setting the Stage

They’ve broken me, they’ve pushed me to this. Just a few years ago they were such lovely foals. Maybe a bit rambunctious, speaking out of turn, not doing the work I set them, but they were manageable. If I yelled at them once they’d put their head down and get to work.

Now? Now if I yell, they yell right back. If I send them out of the classroom, I’d be lucky to open the door and find them still standing there. Halfway through the semester and I’ve not even squeezed a week out of the syllabus.

‘Stop that, Rumble!’ He’s punching Pipsqueak on the shoulder. I know what comes next. ‘Don’t even think about it, Pipsqueak!’ His primed hoof hangs.

‘But he hit me!’ Oh, don’t act like justification means a damn thing to you.

‘I don’t care!’ And he punches him. Celestia!

Rumble and Pipsqueak, puberty may have set in late, but the testosterone must have built behind a dam, bursting one summer break to turn the sweetest colts a teacher could wish for into punch-happy lads. Every lunch time I have to step between them so one of them doesn’t end up in the hospital. Sometimes not even that’s enough to stop them. Oh, and the things I hear walking past the boys’ changing room! That room has concrete walls and I can still hear their bilge knock right through them. How loudly they must fire those arseholes they call mouths I’ve trouble imagining.

Diamond Tiara’s whispering into Twist’s ear. I can’t hear myself think! How’s her whisper breaking through the din? From the tears in Twist’s eyes I'll wager Diamond said something like, ‘I feel so terrible saying this, but I think you have the right to know. I saw your coltfriend kissing [insert filly who’s “wronged” Diamond in the past week]. I'm so sorry.’

Terrible though bullying always is, some bullies grow out of it. At some point they'll stop making life Tartarus for their fellow ponies, either because they've grown a conscience, or just gotten bored. Not Diamond. Where others become bored, she becomes crafty. Her bullying skirts the abuse laws, never doing anything physical or too verbally direct. She organises events so others will unwittingly bloody their hooves for her. On those rare occasions when she stumbles over into criminality, her father’s clout nudges her right back onto the side of legality.

Oh, her father! He’s no help. It seems once in a decade his ‘schedule is free’ enough to talk to the little ponies, like the teacher of his own foal. In response to my ‘mere allegations’ as to the behaviour of his daughter he said, ‘She’s done nothing serious unless she’s broken a law, and she’s only broken the law when a court of law deems she has.’ Well thanks a bucking lot, Mr Filthy Rich!

Until recently I would have tarred Silver Spoon with Diamond’s brush, but in my years observing them I've realised Silver has the heart of a decent pony. Years ago she would, at Diamond’s leading, mock her classmates with glee. Now she would only do so at Diamond’s direct and repeated urging. Standing always behind Diamond she releases unguarded expression of empathetic pain for her ‘friend’s’ victims. Between that moment when Diamond canters away from her prey, and the time when Silver is compelled to follow her, Silver will offer as many comforting words to the crying foal as a few seconds allow. Silver isn't a bad pony; she’s a weak one.

‘Scootaloo,’ I say, moving on, ‘Is your project ready?’ A scowl already seizes my face because I know her answer.

‘Huh,’ she grunts through a mouthful of that sandwich she thought I didn’t see her eating. She swallows. ‘What project?’

‘The history project I set five weeks ago, the one that was due last week.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ She rubs the back of her neck . ‘Forgot.’ Forgot, forgot, forgot! Every day I remind her, every day she says she ‘forgot’.

‘You need to get that in, Scootaloo. It goes towards your final mark.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I'll get it in.’

Admittedly her vice isn’t as damaging as some of my students’ – No! No, that’s what’s wrong with my class. I shouldn't be able to call Scootaloo a ‘comparatively’ good student. If I had a halfway decent, or even regular, class, Scootaloo would be my worst student.

I return to the front of the class, resigned to the fact they've not proceeded at all on the work I gave them. ‘Class! Class! We need to get through fifty pages on Celestia’s rise to power soon. We’re already-’

‘Ms!’ Speaking of ‘comparatively’ good students. ‘How much are we lagging on the course?’

Though perhaps the tamest nuisance of the lot, Apple Bloom still irritates me the most. If this class is the manure patch I’ve tripped into, then Apple Bloom is the fly buzzing around my head. Recently she acquired the habit of interrupting me. She has the uncanny ability, dare I say skill, of only asking questions that my very next sentence could have answered.

‘As I was about to say, Apple Bloom, we are five weeks behind. We nee-’ And of course the bell rings.

Before that ten second banshee can finish, most of the class stampes out for lunch. Only Diamond, Silver and Twist remain. Diamond because she’d never lower herself to the panicked exertions of ‘the great unwashed,’ and Silver because Diamond would never lower herself to the panicked exertions of ‘the great unwashed.’ They depart eventually, with the high-chinned calm of those who know they will never have to contend with a cafeteria line, because their chefs have left a fifty bit meal in their lunchboxes.

Her tormentors gone, Twist approaches me, wiping the remaining tears from her eyes. ‘I don’t think I can go through with our lunchtime study session.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I sigh. ‘I'm too tired to be much help to you anyway.’

She either thanks me or apologises under breath as she leaves.

Staring at the ceiling, at the sterile white lights, hearing the groan of the air conditioner struggling against Celestia’s best, I lament, ‘This is my life.’

What does it matter they’re ‘legally’ adults, they’re still the biggest bunch of foals I’ve ever taught. I'm a teacher, I'm their stepping stone between foalhood and the adult world. But they don’t listen to me. They don’t respect me. They don’t even want to learn.

Oh, that’s not entirely true. Twist, Sweetie Belle and even Silver Spoon try to learn, but this class won’t let them. I can only get through so much in after class lessons.

I smile for perhaps the first time this school year.

‘This was my life up to now,’ I muse.

I have a plan, maybe an unethical one, but a necessary one. Doubt bubbles to mind. I’ll have to drag Twist, Sweetie Belle and Silver Spoon into this. No matter, some sacrifices are acceptable. I’ve already invested too much in preparation for this day to back away now. Besides, they’re already well-behaved fillies. I’d just be bringing the class up to their level.

Mmmm, the thought of a well-behaved class makes me spin in my chair. No yelling, no violence, just learning. A few weeks ago it seemed a dream, Celestia, it seems a dream even now.

Over the winter break I came across a book in the town library, How to Hypnotise Anyone at Any Time. ‘What nonsense,’ I thought, ‘Just trash aimed at gullible and horny schoolcolts.’ But then memories of my class flashed before me, and my thoughts of ‘What nonsense’ became ‘What if?’ So I borrowed the book (self-checkout, of course). In a single night I read it cover to cover. As I tried to sleep wicked imaginings already bloomed in my fertilised mind.

‘I’m probably getting ahead of myself,’ I thought, ‘There’s no way it could work in the way I intend.’ Where most would mark that thought as the end of an endeavour, I viewed it as the impetus to start experimenting.

Before I tried it on my class, I must confirm it works. More than that, I must confirm I could accomplish it, first on a willing participant, then an unwilling one, then two unwilling, and so on. If it didn’t work I could banish the whole enterprise with no large embarrassment or scandal.

Lyra would be my first guinea pig. If I couldn’t hypnotise a willing subject, what’s more, one I’d built trust with over many years, then how could I possibly put under a class who don’t even respect my position.

Bon Bon was away at her parents for a week, so she couldn’t interfere. I told Lyra what I would do. ‘It will be fun,’ I said. She agreed without much persuasion. I followed the script and soon she melted into her couch. I tested her suggestibility by making her say something she would never even think in sober mind.

‘Bon Bon is a cum-guzzling whore,’ she said clearly.

I made her forget the session, telling her that we’d just had a cup of tea that afternoon. The next day I hypnotised her unwillingly.

Serving green tea while playing lulling instrumentals, in a room with a heater turned to ‘cozy,’ I began to comment on how tired exam marking had made me. 'As I finished my twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second, twenty-third paper I’d just feel my eyes droop, each paper, twenty-fourth, twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, my eyes would droop just a little lower, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, twenty-ninth, until they’d just close, closed so tight I couldn't open them.'

Her cup tipped, then fell from her hoof, staining the carpet with tea. Luckily this didn’t rouse her.

I gave her the test phrase, which she repeated. ‘It’s so warm in here,’ I told her. ‘So, so warm.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘It’s especially warm the more you move down your torso, the more you move up your legs. Especially warm between your thighs.’ She squirmed. ‘You’re all alone. No one can see or hear you.’ Uninhibited, she let a hoof crawl over her leg, to in between her slowly spreading thighs. With a sleepy, uncoordinated hoof she rubbed her exposed marehood, letting moans escape through her slackly parted lips. I watched her languorously bring herself to orgasm, for purely scientific reasons.

Of course I made her forget that session, but only after using her lavatory for… calming reasons.

While I would never call a result from a sample size of one proof, I had at least shown my goal was possible.

I had to try it on somepony I didn’t know. That would be a telling test.

I visited Quills and Sofas on a slow day (what day isn’t a slow day) to experiment on Davenport, the owner. I’d arrived late enough that I was sure any of his potential customers would have come earlier, but not too late that my presence would irritate him by the fact I kept him from closing up early.

In his eyes there was already the strain of a long day. All I needed do was tell him of the softness of my sofa and the drip, drip, drip of my quills before he dozed right behind the counter. I ordered him to take me to the back room to eliminate any chance of interruption.

In that hour I had him convinced the twig I picked up outside was a rare example of the Zebrican Master’s quillcraft. I could barely contain my chuckles as he scraped the ‘quill’ along the paper, praising its smoothness.

To test the limits of my control I commanded him to, in the style of the old spies, demonstrate to me the use of ‘every stallion’s personal stylo.’

He apologised for his delay in exhibiting this most ubiquitous inkpot of the world’s own design. For my benefit he raised himself onto his hind hooves so I could clearly see his growing stallionhood.

Drawing his hoof up and down his shaft, he stopped in his advertisement only to groan. As I watched his hoof pump up and down, I realised my head was bobbing along with his motions, entranced. I heard his groans grow longer and shorter apart, moaning so that my heart hammered. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t be bothered speaking. Faster and faster, stronger and stronger, louder and louder, until –.

Awaking from my own spell I realised, blushing, that my hoof was massaging my marehood. ‘He’ll never tell,’ I thought, ‘There’d be no harm finishing off.’

As I left I commanded him to forget the whole incident after he’d cleaned up the mess he’d made.

Results: Hitherto unacquainted individual (stallion) could be surreptitiously brought under hypnosis. Trance deep enough that delusions and… socially unacceptable actions could be elicited.

A pony I knew, a pony I didn’t. Then I decided it was time for a multiple induction.

Next evening, as luck would have it, I found Applejack and Rainbow Dash in the middle of a conversation after a day’s work. Injecting myself into their conversation I found it all too simple to bring them under. Focus them on their hard day’s work and they couldn't stop their yawning. Tell the how tired you've been feeling and the can't stop their eyelids drooping. Tell them how much their legs ache and they can’t stop themselves agreeing the dirt is a nice, soft place to lie down. Then just tell them how sleepy they must feel and how much they deserve a nap and their minds melt under your words.

I guess the greatest reward most ponies truly want is a deep, relaxing sleep. So much that they’ll do anything to thank the pony who gave it to them.

I told Applejack she had never set foot on such a dirty thing as a farm. She was a prissy Canterlot secretary with a submissive streak who was in an affair with her boss.

Rainbow would pay no mind to flying, being, as she was, deskbound. The Wonderbolts vanished from the mind of this lecherous lawyer whose only pleasure now was eating her oh-so-proper secretary’s pussy.

They stood in Dashing Justice’s office, thirty floors above ground level. Weak Sherry adjusted the collar of her ultra-conservative dress.

‘Ma’am, we mustn’t, not here. What if a client comes in,’ Weak Sherry said, looking out over Canterlot, her back to her boss.

‘You know we have no clients.’ Dashing approached her, nuzzling her neck like a wolf deciding where to make the first bite.

‘But what if, mmm, somepony should kn-knock, ma’am.’

‘You know no one will.’ Dashing’s nuzzling grew stronger as she began nibbling along Sherry’s neck. Her secretary’s soft moans pushed her on. ‘Just take off that stuffy thing. You know what we both want.’

‘Oh, but, mmm, what if, a-hh-’ Dashing spun her around to tear apart her dress.

Dashing drew her hoof along Sherry’s exposed torso, brushing her teats, making her gasp. ‘This is what I want.’

‘But- But, it’s improper.’

‘No buts!’ She yelled, pulling off all that remained of her secretary’s dress, leaving her in only a pair of black, lace panties. ‘You pretend to fight me, but I see how wet you are. You act all proper because you love how it feels when I make you realise you’re just a hungry slut. Am I right?’ Her secretary nodded, her face a mixture of shame and lust.

Dashing pushed her to the ground. ‘Those panties were a gift from me to you. So they are mine, mine to do with as I please. So take them off, or I'll take them off for you.’

Sherry peeled off her soaked through panties and tossed them aside, closing her eyes and biting her lip in anticipation of what came next.

Dashing wasted no time teasing. She slobbered all over her yielding secretary’s pussy, licking up and down, in and out. Sherry bit her hoof to keep from screaming in ecstasy. But she couldn’t stop panting and moaning. She tried to hold out, but then Dashing flicked her tongue over her clit. Not even her hoof could stop her. She screamed, cuming all over Dashing’s face.

‘And SLEEP!’

It was an odd sight, certainly. Two mares snoozing in a secluded grove of the Apples’ farm, one of them using the other’s marehood as a pillow. In reality there was no office, dress or even panties.

Having pleasured myself in three out of three experiments, I accepted my interest exceeded scientific curiosity.

I left them with the memory that after weeks of jest, they finally decided to give it a try.

My other experiments were the much same, but writ larger and larger. For my last few I took a four day trip to a town a hundred miles outside Appleoosa, in the hope news of thirty pony orgy wouldn't stick to me.

And today it would all pay off. By now I could hypnotise anyone, willing or no, sceptic or no, one pony or, in this case, twenty-four. A few well-chosen words about the weather and I could conquer Equestria. Well, not quite, but I'm very good.

I'm not taking any chances, though. Fail here, all will have been for naught.

All my tricks are set up. I will lure them into trance aurally, visually and atmospherically.

Since term started I’ve taken to wearing clothes, garish ones at that, so that the sequin dress I'm wearing, which glints in the light just so, won’t seem amiss. I'm holding them in after class so I won’t be disturbed. On a thirty-three degree Friday I doubt any snooping teachers or students from other classes will linger long. Any janitor who sees me in here will just move along, leaving this room until last. Fabricating a reason to keep them in never concerned me. Their first period alone gave me twelve excuses before I stopped counting. None of them are getting out of this, nothing short of a medical emergency will allow them leave. I’ve threatened a conversation with their parents, and, if that doesn’t work (it rarely does), detention for the rest of the semester.

And just so the bloody bell doesn't shock them from trance, I’ve just padded the alarm so the metal against metal becomes metal against foam. Thankfully, the bells in the hall can barely be heard once I close the door.

Seeing the time, I scamper to turn the air conditioner off. Defences broken, Celestia’s hottest day of the year yet saturates the classroom. As the dress pastes to me I remember why I hate clothes.

The hallway bells’ muffled ringing barely reaches me as the bell just over my head stays silent.

My class trudges in, far slower than they had exited. Feeling the heat many of them groan.

‘Sorry, class,’ I say, ‘the air conditioner just broke down over lunch. We’re stuck with it for the rest of the day – AND!’ I say it loud enough that everyone would hear me, ‘for the time you’re all staying in.’

More groans.

‘You've only yourselves to blame.’

An hour and a half later, I must say, the class proceeded better than normally. Not well, but better. Though, I suppose the heat sapped their energy to much of anything, including misbehave. Early on some still did though.

As the hour and a half went on, though, even those stragglers fell into half-waking stupor. A few murmurs and mutters bubbled through the class, but other than that, silence.

I made sure to speak slow enough to lull the wakeful, yet loudly enough to rouse the too sleepy to a point just short of the brink of sleep. I read and lectured to them on something mathematical (not even I really cared today), asking no questions, setting no work. I didn’t want their minds turning at all.

I hear the dull rings of the school end bells patter at the door. Either I am the only one to hear it, or those foals that do hear feel it like a gentle nudge of a rocking chair, pushing them further out into drowsiness.

All of them are glassy-eyed, all sway gently in their chairs, too tired to speak, too tired to keep their lips together, but none of them are so tired that they've placed their heads on the desk to go off to sleep. Perfect.

‘Today, we will review psychology,' I start, speaking so slowly, so firmly. 'We will review sleep science.’

None have roused, none have slept.

‘An average adolescent needs nine hours sleep. Without nine hours sleep they become tired, sleepy and slow during the day. Most adolescents do not sleep for nine hours, therefore most adolescents become tired, sleepy and slow.’

Slowly, I begin pacing up and down in front of my desk. Sunlight gently glints from my sequins, making the foals blink.

‘They may think they are not tired, but very easily they realise just how sleepy they are. A light glints in their eyes. So they blink, then blink a little longer.’

Rumble’s eyes droop before closing, staying shut a good few seconds before opening. Light gets in his eyes, so he closes them just a little longer before opening.

‘Just a deep breath in…’ Half the class obeys. ‘And out… and their eyelids flutter as their body grows so heavy. They become so sleepy.’

Diamond’s eyes stare from narrow slits obscured by eyelashes. She blinks, and each time seems like the last.

‘They want to avoid sleep. But they are too tired. And it feels so good to give in to the sleepiness, to close their eyes a bit longer each time, to take a deep breath in…’ The whole class obeys. ‘And out…’

Scootaloo sags like a ragdoll on her chair. Her mouth lolls open. Her eyes open barely a second before closing for ten.

‘You just want to give into this sleepy feeling. It feels so good to close your eyes a little longer, so good to breathe in… and out… in… and out.’

There is something adorable about their clueless, dreamy faces. It would just be teasing to keep them up any longer.

'You need nine hours sleep. You have not had nine hours sleep, so you feel tired, sleepy and slow. It feels so good to give in to the sleepiness. You need nine hours sleep. So sleep. Close your eyes, all the way down. Lock them tight, so you can’t open them. Try to open, and realise you can’t… Realise you don’t want to open them, and stop trying. Just relax, and sleep, deep sleep.’

Scanning the room I can’t see a single open eye. They’re all limp, all sound asleep, deeply hypnotised. I could start here, but a suggestibility never hurts.

‘Put your front hooves on the desk.’ They all obey, some slower than others, but they all obey. ‘Lots of empty balloons are tied to your left hoof. Slowly they fill with helium, and the more they fill, the higher they rise, as they rise your hoof rises too. Feel the helium fill the balloons, feel them rise.’

Before long all their hooves rise above their heads, straight up. All but one.

Scootaloo’s hoof dangles in the air, caught between rise and fall.

I go over to her, squatting down by her desk. ‘Scootaloo, I want you to tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how deeply asleep you are. Ten being most deep, one being least deep.’

‘...Ssssix.’

‘Very good, Scootaloo. Now think of the pony you love and trust most in the whole world… Have you got them?’ She nods. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mu…mmy.’ I restrain a laugh. Even the brashest adolescent can be the biggest foal.

‘Feel your mummy hug you, Scootaloo. Notice how it makes you feel so warm inside, so relaxed, so safe. It's like you're a foal again. All your worries, you concerns, melt under this warm hug.’ A smile grows on her face. ‘Just relax into the hug, relax deeper into sleep, deeper and deeper… On a scale of one to ten, how deep are you now?

‘Ten.’

‘Very good, Scootaloo.’ I step back. Her hoof’s right above her head.

To the class I say, ‘The balloons slowly release helium. They slowly come down.’ I wait until all their hooves are rested again on the tables before continuing. ‘Very good, class, deeply asleep, listening only to my voice.’

Oh thank, Celestia!

I gallop as quietly as I can to the air conditioner, turning it to full power. Shedding my sequin dress I let the cold air tickle my sweat coated body. From my drawers I pull a water bottle and take one mouthful before pouring the rest over my body. After sitting long enough for the sweat to dry, and my heart to stop hammering, I turn the cooling down.

Looking at my work, more pride than I’ve ever felt in my teaching career overcomes me. Pretty sure that’s a bad a thing, but who cares, they’re the quietest they’ve ever been. And, best of all, helplessly obedient.

I walk to the front of the class, as if to start a lesson.

‘Sit up straight.’ They do! I’ve not felt this giddy since high school. ‘Say: “We’re sorry for being such a nuisance, Ms. Cheerilee.”’

All at once they chime, ‘We’re sorry for being such a nuisance, Ms. Cheerilee.’

I’ve made respectable women expose themselves to passing crowds, I’ve made grown men masturbate while screaming out nursery rhymes, I’ve made sheriffs blind to my literally stealing their moustache from under their nose, but this! This! is better than sex.

But I didn’t do this for the novelty, I aim to make some long term changes.

‘Open your eyes but remain deeply asleep.’ They obey. ‘Repeat what I say, and as you say it, realise it is absolute truth.

‘Good students obey their teachers.’

‘Good students obey their teacher.’

‘I love being a good student.’

‘I love being good student.’

‘Therefore, I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Therefore, I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘I hate to question Ms. Cheerilee’s decisions.’

‘I hate to question Ms. Cheerilee’s decisions.’

'Because I know Ms. Cheerilee is always right.'

'Because I know Ms. Cheerilee is always right.'

‘I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee’s commands.’

‘I love to obey Ms. Cheerilee’s commands.’

‘If Ms. Cheerilee tells me to do something I don’t agree with, I will still want to obey.’

‘If Ms. Cheerilee tells me to do something I don’t agree with, I will still want to obey.’

‘I will still want to obey, because Ms. Cheerilee told me to do it, therefore there must be a reason.’

‘I will still want to obey, because Ms. Cheerilee told me to do it, therefore there must be a reason.’

‘I love to obey my teacher, therefore I am a good student.’

‘I love to obey my teacher, therefore I am a good student.’

‘I love being a good student.’

‘I love being a good student.’

‘Because to be a good student I just need to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Because to be a good student I just need to obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee is easy.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee is easy.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee feels good, because she is always right, and doing what is right feels good.’

‘Obeying Ms. Cheerilee feels good, because she is always right, and doing what is right feels good.’

‘I choose to obey Ms. Cheerilee. I could disobey Ms. Cheerilee, but that would make me a bad student.’

‘I choose to obey Ms. Cheerilee. I could disobey Ms. Cheerilee, but that would make me a bad student.’

‘I don’t want to be a bad student. I love being a good, obedient student.’

‘I don’t want to be a bad student. I love being a good, obedient student.’

I phrased the statements, 'love to obey' and 'choose to obey' just as an experiment. Giving them the choice it will be interesting to see who can deny their new instincts.

‘Stop repeating. Very good, class. Now stand up.’ They obey instantly. ‘See, you can obey. See how good it feels to obey. Before today you were disobedient. What does that make your past selves?’

‘Bad students.’

‘Do you want to be bad students?’

‘No.’

‘Very good. Then it’s time to close that part of you away, because from now on you want to be good students.

‘Outside of class you will act as you did before, but inside class, when I’m teaching, you will be docile and attentive, because this will make you a good student. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very good, my good students. Now sit down.’ They do.

Well, that’s the whole class, but now time for some one on one time.

Teacher-Student Dedication

The nightmare class of Ponyville high, their minds reduced to clay, await my instruction. Most of them just generally misbehaved before, nothing exceptional, only the torturous extreme of what every foal Equestria-wide does. When I said quiet or listen, they kept yelling. When I said work on your project, they got out their magazines and Walkmans. Oh, it doesn't sound like much does it? I always hear that, mainly from supply teachers I try to warn, the ones who've gone on to draw up an unofficial blacklist of schools with only one entry.

But though collectively these students ooze out a Tartarus, whose only end is the final school bell, theirs is but a problem of discipline. A shortcoming that requires only a firm hoof, or hypnotic programming, for rectification. Those whose problems run deeper, however, whose actions symptomize something greater than limp resolve, require a treatment greater than all-purpose brainwashing. Why tighten the screws if the motor spins backwards?

Rumble, Pipsqueak, Scootaloo, Diamond and Apple Bloom. Five students requiring a full tune up. Well, four students requiring a full tune up, one requiring a bloody good oiling.

I left the blinds up. Hopefully, all anyone looking in saw was a very boring class. I doubt they’ll call what happens next boring.

Closing the blinds one by one, I say to the class, ‘Whenever I, and only I, tell you to sleep, you will return to this state. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ they say.

I walk back to the front. ‘And from now on, you must finish any address to me, be it in school, out of school, on work, or just the weather, with “Ms. Cheerilee.” You will do this because referring to your teacher by title and last name shows you are respectful. It shows you know your place. It shows you are a good student. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Very good, class. See how easy it is to be good students.’ Now who first – Ah! ‘Rumble, Pipsqueak, come to the front.

They walk as if filing in for assembly.

Once here, they stand either side of me, looking straight forward into nothing. ‘Face each other.’ They obey, but even as their eyes meet I see no flicker of recognition.

Rarely do I get to really stare at my students without somepony accusing me of something. Despite their usually less than stellar attitudes, a colt with a good body is a colt with a good body – Who cares what’s going on up top?

Everypony knew Rumble would be an athlete. Top flier and sprinter in the school and, mmm, it shows. Lean, like there’s not a wasted pound on his body. Those muscles and that frame, looks firm enough to carry two stallions on his back.

His diet and workout regime must be excruciating.

And Pipsqueak, hard, sexy Pipsqueak. Only a few years ago he was packing away one too many of the Cakes’ finest. Not fat, just a never-intimidating plump. Maybe one day the teasing got to him. If you want to find him after school now, just look around the town gym. He’s there most of his free hours (when he should be studying). Anypony teasing him now makes sure to do it behind his broad, broad back.

Though I drool over their bodies, I wonder if their fights would need less attention if they exercised less. I mean, two fat ponies couldn’t do that much damage to each other, could they? (Ah, right, Neighponese sumos).

Shaking my head away from these highly irrelevant issues, I return to the case at hand.

I heard in cases of severe antipathy merely plastering over the hatred does more harm than good. The symptoms vanish but not the sickness. They must feel and express their anger at its deepest level, and from there, hopefully, pull it out by the roots.

‘In a few moments I will say awaken, which will make you wake up. You, him you’re looking at, and I will be the only ponies in the room. You don’t have to bottle anything up or censor yourself around me. In fact, my being here will help you open up more, because opening up means being honest with yourself and others. A good student is honest around their teacher. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee,’ they both say.

‘Good colts. Now, awaken.’

Glazed eyes ignite as they realise whose eyes they’ve been staring into. ‘Don’t move just yet.’ They seem ready to throw themselves at each other. ‘I want to take you both through a little exercise, one that will be very good for you. Would you like that?’

Grinding their teeth, I know they want to spit at the suggestion. ‘Work through anything when that dick’s there!?’ they must be thinking. But their newfound deference towards me soon kicks in. Their teacher suggested it, so she must have a good reason. They don’t want to be bad students.

‘Y-yeah, Ms. Cheerilee,’ says Pipsqueak then Rumble.

‘Good colts. Now, I want you to focus on how you feel, at this very moment, about the pony opposite you… Just nod from now on if you’ve done what I asked.’

They nod.

‘Focus on the feeling, focus on all the reasons you have this feeling.’

They nod.

‘Focus on the pony opposite, think about why they make you feel these feelings.’

Nodding, they stop clenching their teeth and breathe more deeply, which can only mean their hatred has surpassed heart-thumping rage and become tranquil fury.

‘Focus on all the reasons you have these feelings for the pony opposite. Now, focus on these reasons and think about why they became reasons for your feelings about the pony opposite.’

They nod slowly. To sign his aggression and willingness to fight, Rumble spreads his wings. The look of hateful obsession in Pipsqueak’s eyes tells me if he weren’t compelled to stay in place he would leap at his enemy.

‘Focusing on these feelings, these reasons, these reasons for reasons, and most of all the pony across from you, open yourself to the entire magnitude of these feelings, let them course through you… Now, without hurting each other, give in to the feelings.’

Charging at each other in mad ferocity, they’re ready to-

‘Oh my…’

Well, they’re not hurting each other.

Rumble’s lips meet Pipsqueaks, both pushing firmly against the others’. Their mouths open to let the other in as they rise to their hind legs, pressing their bodies together. Pipsqueak runs his hoof down Rumble’s coat, down and down, eliciting shivers until his hoof reaches Rumble’s cock. Rumble moans into his lover’s mouth as pleasure from the soft pumping throbs through his body. He removes his mouth from Pipsqueak’s, moving down to his neck. Whimpering as Rumble nibbles his neck, Pipsqueak presses his cock against Rumble’s to run his hoof up and down both shafts, faster and faster, forcing moans from both ponies.

Breaths coming quicker, each more obviously aroused, Rumble summons all his restraint. Shakily, he moves to whisper into Pipsqueak’s ear, moaning I can see, after every word. Pipsqueak seems to agree with whatever was said, letting go of their cocks.

Rumbles lowers himself, kissing Pipsqueaks torso as he descends, hearing his lover’s moans grow as he approaches his stallionhood. He kisses the base, then wraps his lips around the shaft, drawing upward to the sound of Pipsqueak’s pleasured gasp. Reaching the tip, he engorges it, suckling it a short while before taking the massive thing deep into his mouth.

There Rumble stops, on his knees, the cock of a Pipsqueak standing on his hind legs fully submerged in his mouth. He’s waiting for something. Slowly, Pipsqueak lowers himself, careful not wrench his cock from its lovely new home. He keeps going until he’s laying on his back, with Rumble crouching on all fours. Rumble shuffles around, never removing Pipsqueak from his mouth. The minor friction of the revolving lips drives a gasp from Pipsqueak. Rumble turns until his erect cock hangs above Pipsqueak’s now open mouth. He’s gladly accepted in.

They start sucking, Rumble up and down the whole length, Pipsqueak focusing on the tip, licking it like a lollypop, as he pumps his hoof over the exposed shaft. Moaning and groaning, they send appreciated vibrations through their lover’s cock. As one’s pleasure builds, he speeds up his sucking, building the other’s pleasure, who speeds up his sucking, a euphoric cycle.

Sucking, moaning, quickening, their mouths up and down, faster and faster, they’re reaching-

The dying down of the muffled cries tell me when it’s over.

When they remove their mouths I command, ‘Swallow.’ I can’t have them making a mess. ‘Stand up.’ They obey, defying wobbly legs, gazing at me with fuzzy eyes. ‘That was… very good. Now sleep.’ Their eyes stay open, but the spark of consciousness, even lust, vanishes. Looking at the rest of the class and seeing the number of spread wings and gently pulsing horns, however, it’s clear that not all lust vanishes. ‘When I say go, you will go to the gym and enter the storage cupboard, if it’s not open just go to a corner of the room. This encounter happened there. I was not there. When you get there you will awaken in each other’s embrace, and then you will have a calm, clear discussion about your feelings for each other. You cannot deny what you have just done. Go.’

They march out, closing the door behind them.

Dear Celestia, I really hope no games are playing in the gym today. Toilet! I should have said toilet. Darting to the door, I open it and look left and right. Gone. Well, they’re not actually going have sex there, they’ll just think they did. Yeah. Can’t trace that to me.

I lock the door behind me.

Now… eenie meenie minie – Oh, what the hay! Scootaloo.

I once thought her inability to complete homework and perennially abysmal test scores marked a lazy, or just dim, mind. But seeing the results of her woodwork class I realised that she possessed a determined and intelligent mind. Or at least determined and intelligent enough to pass a few tests. Before school, during lunch, and after school she dedicates herself to creating complex and beautiful furniture. She has the determination to do that, she has the intelligence to design. Therefore, she could put that determination and intelligence towards my classes. She doesn’t avoid work because she’s lazy or dumb, she actively chooses not to do it. Why? I don’t know. Maybe she thinks a career’s all lined up for her as a carpenter.

Well, be a carpenter for all I care, but you will leave this school with at least a passing mark on your exams.

I approach the orange tomboy. ‘Scootaloo, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Come with me.’

I take her to the closet at the back of the room. Opening it, I remove my special order from Rarity (a gift for my niece, I said). Setting the hanger aside, I dangle before the blank-eyed Scootaloo the pinkest, frilliest, most froufrou and downright girliest dress to ever to assault fashion.

‘Wake up, Scootaloo.’ Her eyes refocus. ‘What do you think of this dress? Give me your honest opinion.’

Disgust drips from her face. Recoiling away with a cringe, she seems a step from vomiting. ‘It’s ugly, sissy, uncool, un-Rainbow Dash thing I’ve ever seen… Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Sleep.’ Her disgust dissipates as her face slackens and her eyes unfocus. ‘Put it on.’ I don’t want her awake for this, convincing herself I’ve a good reason for asking her to do this. Oh, I’ve a brilliant reason, but it requires her to hate it.

With little difficulty she puts on the dress. Awww, it’s like a dog in a sweater, so unnatural, yet so perfect. ‘When I say wake up you will be the girly filly Scootaloo. Wake up.’

She comes to consciousness. Seeing her dress her face lights up.

‘Oh, it’s so pretty. Thank you so much, Ms. Cheerilee.’

Well, it’s a start. ‘Girlier.’

Twirling around to get a better look at her dress, her beams. She finishes with a curtsey. ‘Oh my Celestia, it’s perfect. I’ll show it to my mother, she’s always wanted me to care about my appearance. Oh, I'll show it to Button Mash as well.’

‘Girly like Rarity and Fluttershy’s daughter.’

‘Oh dear, you’ve been so kind giving me such a lovely dress.’ She giggles before looking down in shame. ‘But I don’t have anything to give you. And this would look so good with some makeup – Not to imply you should have given me makeup too. It’s just your dress is so pre-’

‘Sleep.’ Whatever she was about to say withers on her lips. ‘You will remember that girly filly you just were. Not consciously, but she will be safely hidden away at the back of your mind, ready to come out when you put this dress on. If you don’t have the dress on, you’re just normal, tomboy, Scootaloo, but when you have the dress on you are the girliest filly in Equestria. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘When you go home you will take this dress in your backpack. You will put it at the back of your closet. At the back of your mind you will know it is there, but you will not think about. If you see it you will just brush it out of mind. If someone else sees it, you will acknowledge it, then let it slip from your mind. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Scootaloo, from now on, whenever you don’t hand in homework the day it’s due, or fail a test, you will, the day after the homework is due or the day after you get the test results, you will wear that dress to school. Do you know what happens when you wear that dress?’

‘I act girly, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘No, you are girly when the dress is on. The day after you will wear the dress at school. You can have it off on the way to school or leaving school, but so long as you are in the school you will wear the dress. You will not consciously realise you are putting the dress on, but once it’s on you will be the girliest filly in Equestria. And you will be a very friendly filly, talking to everpony you can. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘And when you take off the dress and you’re back to being regular Scootaloo – And you’ve put the dress back in the closet where you won’t notice it – You will realise what you did that day. You will realise you wore an ultra-girly dress and were the girliest filly in Equestria. You will remember how everypony reacted to you. Although you won’t know why you did what you did, you will know that it was because you didn’t do your homework or you failed a test. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Good filly. Now go back to your seat, then take off that dress and put it in your backpack.’ She obeys.

Who next…? Diamond.

I’ve a very special plan for her. You see, I’ve always thought her problem arose from a father who not only fails to discipline her, but believes this failure a virtue. Oh, but I’ll see her disciplined. Not by my hoof, of course, for that would be grossly unethical, and, more importantly, illegal, and, ultra-importantly, traceable to me.

Between a teacher and a student, the discipline I envisage would breach Celestia’s law. If carried out between two consenting adults, however, it would not just be permissible, but actively catered to by some fine Canterlot establishments.

I admit, the word ‘consenting’ is up for debate. But, my fellow ponies, tell me, in the spirit of the law, who could prove me guilty.

I bring out two chairs to the front of the class. ‘Diamond Tiara, Silver Spoon, have a seat.’

As Diamond sits down, empty eyes betraying empty mind, I realise I could do far worse to her than what I’ve planned.

I could force her to relive her every trauma, set them on repeat until she sobs like she made Bright Future do (poor filly). I could set her to piss herself every time she opens her mouth or raises her hoof, incontinence does terrors for one’s charisma. Or – or worst of all, I could make her join a punk band. Let’s see how Filthy Rich likes that!

Calm, calm yourself, Cheerilee. I only aim to correct, not destroy.

Before correction, however, the repairer must first identify the malfunction.

‘Diamond, is “bully” an accurate description of you?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’ At least she’s not delusional.

‘Do you care that you hurt others’ feelings by bullying?’

‘No, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Tell me who you do care about?’

‘Silver Spoon, Ms. Cheerilee.’

Ah, the theoretical basis of Plan A is correct. Although Diamond convinced Snails to graffiti ‘Dike’ (sic) onto Scootaloo’s locker, she could never fully hide the loving looks and caresses she gave to Silver Spoon, nor could Silver Spoon hide the ones she gave back. Diamond may find no greater pleasure than treating wounds with a sodium chloride scouring pad, but she’s still a pony, vulnerable to love. Love is, in part, giving another pony power over your pleasure and pain.

‘How does Silver Spoon feel about your bullying?’

‘She enjoys it, Ms. Cheerilee.’ I won’t call her blind, just uninquiring.

‘Have you asked her recently?’

The question pierces as deep as her trance. For a few moments she remains silent.

‘N-no, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Diamond, how would you feel if something you’d done disappointed Silver Spoon?’

‘Ashamed, terrible, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Now, you’ve been disappointing Silver Spoon a lot recently.’ Her face, though emotionless, pales. ‘But she’s not been telling you when you disappoint her, so you keep disappointing her. What we’ve got here is-’ I lean close to her. ‘-failure to communicate.’

Walking behind my desk, I glance at Diamond, her eyes blank, yet glistening.

‘I know you don’t want to disappoint Silver Spoon, so I’m going to give her something that will let you know just how much you’ve disappointed her.’

Unlocking the bottom left drawer I remove a memento. On my second day teaching at Ponyville primary I realised a jammed drawer in my desk. I’d a key which didn't work, so in the end I resorted to copious oiling and an upper body exertion leaving me unable to write for the rest of the day.

‘What is this, Diamond?’

‘A cane,’ she says.

On that first sight I knew, from its shortness and narrowness, that it could not have been put to any innocent purpose. Any cripple of at least average height would do better hobbling.

Celestia’s court outlawed traditional forms of ‘Encouragement’ (as the cane was engraved) decades, even, before I attended primary. As such, the cane excited little in me. I’d uncovered a tool of past times, like discovering a sabre in the basement. ‘What must this feel like across the rump,’ I wondered, then was thankful I’d not the experience to answer. I locked it away in the desk as my predecessor had done, and quite rightly too.

Quite rightly too…

And yet, I carried it with me, from desk to desk, swatting it around in my idle time, harder and firmer as the class I knew became the class I know. After an afternoon of marking I’ve found few more effective catharses in recent years than setting up a chair, pacing around it and saying, ‘Well, well, well, haven’t you been a despicable buck today. Bend over that chair and take your punishment.’ Though I battered empty air, the sweat I shed carried with it my rage, annoyance and self-pity.

I believe the cane shall do much the same today.

‘Diamond, I will give this cane to Silver Spoon. When you do something that disappoints her, she will use this cane on you. If she indicates she will use the cane on you, you will submit to whatever she chooses to do – But only in private. If you are not in private, you will tell her that for both your sakes you must take your punishment in private.’

Her face registers nothing. Physical pain distresses her less than knowing how she hurts her only loved one. As such, caning seems a kind option.

‘When she uses this cane on you, she will tell you why you deserve it, and you will know you deserve it for that reason. The pain you feel is her disappointment, but it will let you know how to change yourself for her sake. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

I turn to Silver Spoon. ‘Silver Spoon, hold out your hoof.’ I place the cane in her outstretched hoof. ‘Did you hear what I told Diamond?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Then what is that cane for?’

‘For-’ Her breath catches in her throat. ‘For hitting Diamond.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ I say, ‘don’t think of it like that. It is for disciplining Diamond. Do you love Diamond?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘But how has her behaviour made you feel recently?’

‘Awful. I could stand it before, but now it feels like she’s drifting away. Like I’m realising the monster that was always there, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Now, now. No pony is a monster. Some just need… encouragement to be good. That cane will give her encouragement to be a better pony. You want this. Deep down, she wants this, too. She just needs help. Will you help her?’

‘Y-yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Good filly. Now, whenever Diamond does something you know to be wrong, you will indicate to her that you will discipline her. Once in private you will use the cane, telling her why she deserves each swat. You will confidently and firmly administer discipline, because it’s for her own good, but never enough to cause serious injury. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Good.’ I step away from the two. ‘When I say wake up you will be alone in the classroom. Silver Spoon, you have finally had enough of Diamond’s bad behaviour, you’ve brought to this room to show her the firm hoof of correction. Wake up.’

‘Why did you bring me here?’ asks Diamond. ‘That bitch kept us late enough as it is.’ Oh, I will enjoy this.

‘Diamond, do you love me?’ Silver holds herself like the matrons I’ve only read of in old books.

‘Why, of course I do,’ Diamond says. ‘Ooh, is that why you asked me here. I can’t remember the last time we bucked on the bitch’s desk.’ Oh, Celestia, I’ll need disinfectant.

Silver brandishes the cane.

Diamond steps back a little. ‘Oh, is that- ooh. Um, I’m not into that.’

‘This isn’t for pleasure, Diamond.’

‘A-are you still being kinky?’ Fear starts to show.

‘The past ten years I’ve followed you around, watching you just abuse other ponies. I only see you smile when you’re with me or when you’re making life Tartarus for somepony. Guess it makes sense, knowing my fillyfriend’s a sociopath makes my life hay as well.’

Diamond steps forward. ‘Oh, please, Silvy, you don’t mean it.’ She reaches her hoof to touch but has it swatted away by the cane.

‘You do horrible things to other ponies for the hay of it. It’s like you think they’re lesser creatures than you, things to either please you or torture. Sometimes I wonder why I’m still with you.’ She sees the tears brimming in Diamond’s eyes. ‘Then I remember. I'm with you because you’re an intelligent, determined, beautiful mare. You just do terrible things.’

She flourishes the cane. ‘That’s what this is for. I know you can be a good pony. If you truly love me, you'll let me help you become your best possible self.’ She pats Diamond’s chin with it. ‘You’re a block, this is the chisel. Will you let me make you a masterpiece?’

I could cry now. Or vomit, never know until it happens.

‘What will you do?’ Diamond asks, clearly shocked she’s even considering it.

‘Only enough to let you know what you've done wrong. If you want me to help you, just put your hooves over the chair’s edge.’

Hesitantly Diamond obeys, lowering to her knees as she pushes her front hooves over the opposite edge of the chair.

Silver Spoon circles her prone fillyfriend, knowing anticipation is the best torture, next to actual torture. Brushing the cane over the exposed soles of Diamond’s hooves, she examines her face. Diamond’s stare refused to meet her lover’s. Her lips and eyes quiver, a dam requiring just another crack.

‘This,’ Silver says, raising the cane, ‘is for never asking me how I felt.’

THWACK! Diamond shrieks as the cane bashes her hooves.

THWACK! A scream, tears well, dripping from a pony too proud to commit to the cry.

‘Be a mare.’ Silver taps the raw hooves, sparking a gasp. ‘My governess used to dip my hooves in ice water and use a metal rod.’ Placing the cane under Diamond’s chin, she raises her lover’s eyes to hers. ‘And this is just the beginning.’ She walks away. ‘Bend over the chair. I want full access to your flank.’

She submits, pulling her belly over the wood seat.

‘Legs straight.’ Diamond obeys, locking her legs, her plot upturned. Lips clamped, she can’t contain a whine from the back of her throat as the cane scrapes along her flank.

‘This,’ Silver says, ‘is for abusing other ponies.’

SMACK! She keeps her teeth clenched, but a squeak batters through.

‘Like when you put lesbian porn on Scootaloo’s desk, and told everypony.’ SMACK! ‘I lent you those magazines in good faith.’ SMACK!

Though I despise her, I must commend her fortitude. A red bar on her arse that could guide Father Hearth’s Warming’s sleigh, and she can still will her tears to a mere trickle.

Silver brushes the cane’s length up and down Diamond’s flank, smirking a little at the winces she wins every time she touches the mark.

‘Remember when we saw last year’s play, the one where Berry Pinch wet herself on stage?’ The cane remains pressed against the red mark. ‘Remember who spiked her water bottle?’

SMACK! She screws her face, but can barely contain the sobs.

‘Remember when we overheard Sugar (or ‘Snips’ as you still insist on calling her) come out to Snails? Remember how everypony seemed to know the next day?’

SMACK! That forces her teeth open, spittle flying out with a scream.

Silver goes through the entire class, addressing cruelties not even I noticed. She works up from a high base. Some of these plans must have taken months to pull off. Despite myself, the extent and intricacy of her crimes impress me. I would call her an artist, a craftspony whose flourishes are hurt feelings, and a few students who have never returned.

By the end Diamond’s sobbing, heaving, with so many red bars on her flank it looks like she sat on a heater. But I must hoof it to her, she’s not once begged for mercy.

Silver rests the cane on Diamond’s flank. ‘Don’t worry. It’s almost over.’ She raises the cane.

BANG! Harder than the others, so hard even I wince.

‘That’s for treating ponies like shit.’

BANG! A long scream, not of shock, but of persisting pain. Her arse must feel like a bee-stung inferno.

‘That’s for driving away everypony we ever meet!’

BANG! Her legs faulter, like they’ll break under her at a nudge.

‘That’s! for never considering my feelings!’

Silver breathes heavily as she raises the cane for what I hope is the finale.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

‘That’s so you never forget today.’ She walks round to the front of the sobbing wreck called Diamond Tiara. I almost feel sorry for her, then I remember what she’s done, and I don’t.

‘Do you have anything to say, Diamond?’ Silver lowers herself to be level with her.

‘I'm sorry!’

‘Look me in the eye and say that.’

Momentarily Silver blanches at those red-webbed eyes pumping tears.

‘I'm a terrible pony! I hurt everypony! I hurt you!’ Her voice cracks. ‘I don’t deserve anypony! I don’t deserve you!’

‘Oh, no, no.’ Silver circles around to embrace her fillyfriend. ‘It’s not a matter of deserving. You took all that. You've show me you want to be a better pony. I’d be proud to call anyone willing to do that my fillyfriend.’

Diamond relaxes her legs and wraps her own hooves around Silver Spoon.

‘Do you really mea-’

‘Sleep!’ While I enjoy a romance, I’ve other matters to attend to. Besides I’ve seen what I wanted to see.

Looking at their faces, though, it’s extraordinary how emotions of the utmost extremes, ready to boil and froth and scream, can, with a single word, cool to tepidity. Diamond’s eyes, albeit bloodshot, hold no pain or guilt. Silver, so ready to pour love into her thoroughly emptied fillyfriend, now stares at her blankly, like the commonest thing in the world.

‘Diamond, do you have any clothing at school?’ I couldn't have her walking in public with a bright red arse. Ponies would ask questions.

‘Jeans and a shirt in my locker, Ms. Cheerilee,’ says Diamond, her voice hoarse, but even.

‘When I say go, you both will go to Diamond’s locker. She will put on the jeans and shirt. Then you will both come out of trance. The caning occurred in the classroom next door. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee,’ they say.

‘Go.’ They obey, shutting the door behind them.

Only one remaining.

Dear, sweet, pointless, cacophonous Apple Bloom.

Walking over to her, I admire her blank face – the least annoying she’s been the past few years.

In the planning stages I briefly considered rendering her mute. But that would be noticed. Only mute in my class? But even she has (some) worthwhile questions. Maybe, I thought, just order her not to interrupt me.

Hah, where’s the fun in that.

I have the little singing bass entirely pliant to my will – like hay I'll be utilitarian.

‘Can you hear me, Apple Bloom?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Do you have a coltfriend, Apple Bloom?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Are you two sexually active?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘But is there anything that he wants you to do, that you would never agree to? What?’

‘Sucking his cock, Ms. Cheerilee.’ Oh, yes, just as I hoped.

During those late stages of planning, when I started rubbing myself under the desk, I conjured the perfect deterrent. During my yard duties I’ve eavesdropped a store of curios. Most fairly innocent, if distasteful, but one day, wandering by the bike shed, I heard an unmistakeable drawl.

‘No way am I putting that dirty thing in my mouth!’

In a huff she left, not noticing me, followed by a flustered Featherweight.

That little bite rising to mind in the midst of my arousal put an idea in my head. Cruel, but oh so satisfying.

‘I want you to imagine Featherweight’s cock in front of you, big and erect. See it?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘It’s coming closer, Apple Bloom, closer to your mouth. Open your mouth, let it in.’ She obeys, grunting slightly as the ‘cock’ enters. ‘Can you taste it? Just nod.’ She nods. ‘Feel it go in and out, in and out, slowly first, but building.’

Her head moves back and forth as the phantom cock enters and recedes. ‘Focus on the feeling, commit it to memory. Taste the cock as it goes in and out, faster and faster. Can you do that?’ She nods. ‘Now, Apple Bloom, you know how in class sometimes I'm talking, then you start talking over me?’ She nods, eyes watering. ‘Breathe through your nose, filly. From now on, if I’m talking and you open your mouth to interrupt me, Featherweight’s cock will enter your mouth before you can say anything. If you keep trying to speak, it will start working harder and harder, faster and faster.’

Her head moves faster and her grunts come quicker.

‘If you keep trying to speak it gets harder and faster, until – he cums, shooting into your mouth.’

She stiffens as the load enters her.

‘You will swallow this cum, because a good student does not spit.’ She swallows. ‘If you open your mouth to try to interrupt me again, the same thing will happen. His cock will enter your mouth and he will face-buck you until he cums. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘It will not shock you, it will not be weird. This is just how things are. You will mention this to no pony. If anypony questions what you were doing when his cock was in your mouth, you will say you were working out a bad cough. Understand?’

‘Yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Very good.’

I walk to the front of the class to look over my thralls.

Wait…

Five seats empty. Rumble and Pipsqueak, two; Diamond and Silver, two. One unaccounted. Who?

I reach into a drawer, pulling out my ledger. More than I should, I take pleasure knowing that for the first time in a long time I shall be able to take the roll.

‘When I call out your name, you will say, “Present, Ms. Cheerilee.” Apple Bloom?’

‘Present, Ms. Cheerilee.’ Oh, dear Celestia. That sends shivers to my pussy.

I work through the roll until I find my answer.

‘Sweetie Belle,’ I mutter, paging back through my ledger.

Two or three weeks back I find, held by a paperclip, a doctor’s note, informing me that she is currently in hospital, but will be well in a few weeks.

Well, this is a potential spanner. She’s never been a problem student, so I don’t feel brainwashing is necessary to keep her in line. However, how am I supposed to take full advantage of my newly programmed adolescents if even one pony could grow suspicious?

I’ll hypnotise her as soon as possible.

On suspicion, though, these ones will need an explanation for where they’ve been. I may as well pour a little revision into their heads, as well as furnish them with a more acceptable version of events.

Sleepy Sweetie

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.

Absolute Power

Author's Note

Final Chapter!

A no-prize for they who find the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas reference.

Fetishes: Hypnosis/Mind control; fast induction; pet/kitten play; male masturbation; felatio

Happy ending, nice and tidy.

It's a rule I learned in school.

...

So divide up those in darkness,

From the ones who walk in light.

Light 'em up boys, there's your picture,

Drop the shadows out of sight.

-Bertolt Brecht & Kurt Weill, The Threepenny Opera, Finale

Stroking my filly-kitty, who curls herself up on my desk, as I mark the last test, whose average grade sits high yet again, my current situation becomes apparent in every detail. Calmness, studiousness, deference, obedience – A classroom, heads down, pens to paper – A class room, students stand chanting their truths – A tower of done homework, next to one of passing grade tests – Students aiming high simply to please me.

For five weeks now the new status quo has existed, my spoils from my dragon. Have I acted in a purely utilitarian spirit, exercising my influence only in their best interest? Buck no! Would anypony, granted the gold-laying goose, only satisfy their necessities? I’ll do as I please with them as long as I keep them on course for end of year exams.

Do as I please… mmm. With absolute power, even the little things give me a high. I never thought a game of Simon Says could drive me to orgasm. And they love it. I can tell from the blissful looks on their faces when they obey. Bliss not of sexual pleasure (Sweetie’s the exception), but of the warmth a foal feels wrapped in mummy’s hug, the sense that somepony cares for you, and that all will be perfect if you let her lead.

This bliss wafts from them, especially, during our end of day chants. Nothing complicated or loud (wouldn’t want anypony hearing), just a welcome reminder of whose hoof they’re under.

‘Now class, after me: We are good students,’ I would start.

‘We are good students.’ Unlike when I programmed them, they do not speak flatly, rather they chant as if they’d been waiting all day for this.

‘Because we obey our teacher.’

‘Because we obey our teacher.’

‘Ms. Cheerilee know best, because she is our teacher.’

‘Ms. Cheerilee know best, because she is our teacher.’

‘We want to do what’s best, so we obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘We want to do what’s best, so we obey Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘We love being good students.’

‘We love being good students.’

To end, as a treat to them and me, I give them a silly command. Things like, ‘Buck like a chicken,’ ‘Tickle the student next to you,’ or, ‘Shake your flanks, singing “I Like Big Plots.”’ Ultra-juvenile, I know, like something a sixth-grade teacher would suggest for a game on a camp trip. But they giggle by the end, presumably from knowing they’re such good students who would obey even my most frivolous whim.

I play games with them, too. Once I kept Button Mash and Twist back after class.

‘I’ve got a fun idea,’ I said. ‘I’m going lull you to sleep. All you have to do is listen to me, and whoever stays awake longest receives a special pat on the head.’ Their eyes widened like foals in a candy shop – or rather like Twist in a candy shop and Button Mash in an arcade.

‘I knew you’d like that. Remember you can close your eyes at any time. Just sit back, and try not to get too relaxed.’

I started with a weaker script, reciting it in my regular speaking voice. My class has been so conditioned to accept my voice, I could have just counted sheep.

‘… And now the toasty cloud reaches your arms, leaving them so warm, so limp…’ I was only a quarter through and already they fought to stay awake. Twist wiggled in her seat and kept her eyes as wide as possible. Every twenty seconds those eyes would slam, as would her chin to her chest. Immediately, she would snap her head back up, vainly shaking the sleep out. Button Mash, however, let his head wander and sway, like he was coming round from a dentist’s anaesthetic.

‘… Feel the cloud seep in through your ears, your eyes, embracing your mind. Mmmm, so warm, just let everything melt. Even your thoughts are cosy, too sleepy to move…’

They were at their last. No longer merely resisting my voice, now they had to fight their own desire. So tired, so sleepy, each second forcing their eyes open felt like lifting fifty kilo weights. Why not give in, letting warm relaxation flood their bodies? But they couldn’t, of course not. A pat on the head was at stake.

‘… So heavy, so watery, begging to close…’

After a few weak bursts to keep her eyes even a smidge open, Twist gave in.

Button Mash didn’t have long either, so I quickly patted him on the head.

‘Good colt. Very well done.’ A large, open-mouth smile grew. ‘It must have been so hard, keeping those heavy eyes open. So just close them.’

He happily obeyed.

Seeing them sit motionless, spare the slow heaves of deep breaths, their minds entirely pliant, I thought it would be a waste not to take advantage.

‘Buck.’ It went about as well as you would expect for two romantically inexperienced ponies. Too chaste at times, too slobbery at others.

And Button Mash, Celestia bless him, his cock, though sure to please, isn’t the most impressive. Having examined the colts of the class in detail, I can pass the honour of proudest prick to Rumble.

On those long marking afternoons when I have him sit himself at the other end of the room, stroking himself indefinitely, I think what a lucky colt Pipsqueak is. How Rumble manages to conceal it I’ll never know (nor do I care enough to ask).

One time, so in awe was I, a curious thought arose: I’ve eaten out mares, but never sucked off a stallion. Weeks I’d had the opportunity and never once had it occurred to me. It’s not like I’d been gagging to do it, but new experiences and all that, don’t take their word for it, you know.

So I set down my pen, double-checked the door lock and blinds before approaching my thrall.

‘Remove your hoof,’ I said, standing over him. He did so, but despite his hypnotically and sexually blissed out mind he whimpered. ‘Still so horny, so hard, but feel the surge dying down.’ His panting slowed. ‘I’m removing your cum-lock, feel it vanish. Now you can orgasm, but try to resist as long as possible.’ I didn’t want him firing off as soon as I put my lips to him.

I lay on the ground. Eye-level with that steel rod, I smelt his musk. For a few minutes I lost my train of thought. His moaning jarred me. My head had trailed forward, moved by magnet. My breath now tickled his shaft. Best not keep the poor dear begging.

I kissed his shaft, starting from the base moving up, eliciting feminine squeaks each time from him. I gave his tip a lick.

‘Good colt,’ I whispered. If he was going to beat the starter’s pistol, that would be the time.

I wrapped my mouth around his head, suckling, kneading it with my tongue. He tried to hold his groans. I took him deeper, reaching half-way down his shaft, any more would be impossible. My mouth was full with him. I could breathe, but barely. I started sucking, going up and down his cock. I’d never done this before, so I pretended I was eating a popsicle, a salty, hot popsicle. As much as he resisted I could feel his tremors of pleasure grow as his moans did. I wouldn’t tease, I quickened –Up and down, up and down, until he tensed.

I tried to escape, but I got as far as his tip when the warm cream filled my mouth. Celestia, it wouldn’t stop. Long seconds passed before the pulsing current subsided.

Where it not for shock I would have removed my mouth sooner. Standing up, the taste hit me – Oh, Celestia, buck me, the taste, the worst kind of salty, made worse by the texture, watery yoghurt.

I ran to open the window, spitting it onto the daffodils. Scrambling to my desk I retrieved my water bottle. Five gulps, five gargles, five spits into the garden bed, stopping only because I’d no water left.

Either physically or psychologically the aftertaste still clung.

For the first time, I almost felt sorry for Apple Bloom, believing she’s swallowing that five times a class.

Turning to Rumble, with his flaccid cock and grin, I thought, ‘At least he’s happy.’

These sensual opportunities aren’t my favourite perk, even when they do come off pleasantly, rather it is a specific academic accomplishment that gives me pride.

Just today it pleased me when I approached it, inquiring, ‘Scootaloo, do you have the history project.’

She rifled through her bag, worried concentration on her face. Relief washed over her when she plopped the half-inch stack of paper before me.

‘Here it is, Ms. Cheerilee, all there.’ She flicked through the pages stopping near the end. ‘There’s the bibliography you asked for, editions, page numbers, everything, Ms. Cheerilee.’

I paged through it, pretending to scrutinise, pretending to border on disappointment, in order to savour the dread growing on her face.

I let up, smiling. ‘This is lovely, Scootaloo. And a day before the deadline.’ She let out a long held breath. ‘You’re becoming one of my best students.’ It was true. Since I’d given her an incentive to study, or rather a dis-incentive to slack off, she’d been moving up the class rankings. ‘You know, since you did this so well, I’ve got an idea. Now I know you’ve got maths homework, science homework, Equine homework, oh, and that carpentry project, but I think you would benefit from some extra-curricular work.’

Whatever piece of mind had been growing, crumbled within her.

‘And yes, I know, I’ve already set you to some of that. How is that essay on Shakeshoof’s use of the Clown in tragedy coming along?’

‘I- I’m proof-reading it, Ms. Cheerilee.’

‘Then perfect. One out of the way, pick up another. You may be thinking, “What’s the point of this, Ms. Cheerilee, shouldn’t I be focussing on the course?” But you are. Just a broader view than the course dictates. Which is why I want you to write an essay describing the strengths and weaknesses of the Griffonist interpretation of the Zebrican Revolution. With a length of, say, three, four thousand words, due this time next week.’

I smiled at her blanching face.

‘Of course, I only ask you to do this because of how well you’ve thrown yourself into your studies of late. So, what do you say, think you’ll be able to get it in on time?’

She took a long gulp. ‘Y-yes, Ms. Cheerilee.’

It’s little victories like that which make it all worth it.

Well, that, and the curious pleasure one gets from an adolescent filly dressed in cat ears, tail and paws, napping on your desk.

For the past thirty minutes Diamond Tiara, or Die Tie as she now responds to, has been curled up on the left side of my desk. I didn’t ask her to, she just leapt up and got comfortable with no mind for the marking I’m trying to do. Oh, but it’s not so bad. Having a big kitten softly sleeping beside you is actually quite soothing.

I scratch her behind the ears, earning a low purr.

I don’t always choose cats, nor always choose Diamond. I find particular allure in Featherweight’s puppy. So adorable, the way he woofs and dangles his tongue. Although I realised I’d have to instate a few controls in all my future pets when he tried to relieve himself against the wall.

And… twenty-nine out of thirty. That’s it, the final test marked.

A year ago I would have merely sighed, slid down my chair and stared at the ceiling for ten minutes to relax. But now I have Die Tie.

I run hoof through her fur. Few things relax me more than stroking my kitten.

I seem to have stroked her too hard. Waking, she gives me a sleepy snarl before hopping off the desk.

Her persona has developed over the past weeks. The first time she performed a serviceable imitation of a cat, but it felt off, inauthentic. I wanted a cat, not a filly in costume. When I put her under I ordered her to beg her father for a kitten. He gave her everything else, why not a kitten. When she had it she was to analyse its movements and manners.

This hands on education has paid off. Every time Die Tie comes out, Diamond is further away. I sometimes shock myself when I pull her tail, only to remember it's attached by elastic.

She saunters through the classroom, and I follow her. Viewing everything with a lazy contempt, I see a little of the old Diamond reborn in her.

She turns to me, looks me up and down, and then lowers herself to the ground, rolling onto her back. Fixing me with the expectant stare a master gives to their servant, I know what she wants.

I giggle. She thinks she’s in control. This grown mare in cat ears and plush paws, thinks she’s the master.

May as well oblige her delusion.

Kneeling down, I rub her belly. Moving my hoof around and around her bellybutton, I relish her purrs. Occasionally I shift to her ribs, tickling her. She smiles and meows.

‘You’re a happy, happy cat, aren’t you?’

‘Nyah!’

‘For being so adorable I’ll give you a treat.’

I keep rubbing, but move lower. Her purrs grow breathier. Skirting the top of her pelvis, I hear her anticipatory mewling. Lower, lower, but so slow.

‘Mee-ooow.’ Her eyes roll back as my hoof passes over her clit. I stroke her, firmly along her lips, circling her clit, rubbing it intensely, before retreating, letting her pleasure die down. Whatever dignity remains is nowhere present in this mewling pleasure puddle. If she could speak she would beg to cum, as it stands, she tries rubbing her pussy against my hoof.

And who am I to deny her. Animals don’t take to teasing like we ponies do.

I focus on her clit, my hoof never losing contact. I knead it until her meows reach peak. I rub her firmer, faster, matching her squeaks, growing in intensity until she squeals like the pussy she is.

Considering the amount of bliss dripping from her face directly afterwards, she recovers herself pretty quickly. Standing up she walks away.

How ungrateful.

Knock, knock, knock!

Celestia, dammit.

I trot up to Die, ignore her snarl, and say, ‘Shoo, pet.’

The kitten evaporates leaving a blank-faced vessel. She goes to the open cupboard at the back of the room, removes her accessories, and locks the cupboard before returning to her desk to collect her books. Touching the books, her consciousness returns, as Diamond the filly awakens.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this meeting short.’

The filly crouched back, cowering. ‘D-did I do something wrong.’

Briefly I consider saying, ‘Oh, yes, you’ve been a damned nuisance. Go see Silver Spoon beats it out of you.’ But that would be cruel. And there’s somepony just outside the door.

‘You did nothing wrong.’ Knock, knock. ‘It just appears somepony else wishes to speak with me.’ I see her relief. ‘So off you trot.’

Afters she leaves through the door, my new guest enters.

‘R-Rarity. Um, is anything the matter?’ I don’t think I organised a meeting.

The white unicorn takes a seat. ‘Just a few things, Cheerilee. Matters I’d prefer cleared up.’

I sit myself down, a seed of dread germinating in my gut. ‘Well, is- is it anything serious?’

‘Might be serious, might not be. But if it is, well, I’d like some explanation.’ She takes a breath and holds it, as if preparing for a pre-planned speech. ‘Since Sweetie’s return from hospital my parents (hers as well, of course), saw fit (for once, some might say) to take care of her. From the Saturday after she was discharged to just a few days ago she has been staying with her parents. So, for around two and half weeks. During this time I made only passing contact with her. When she returned (to live with me, that is) she was normal, the same filly she was a few weeks ago. Except…’

My throat dries.

‘Except, when I asked her to do her chores, she threw herself at them with uncharacteristic gaiety.’

‘And is that a problem?’ I say, almost squeaking.

‘Oh, no.’ She grins. ‘In fact quite pleasant to start with. “Perhaps,” I thought, “her accident had made her reassess her life, appreciate those around her more. Maybe this was her way of thanking her big sister.”’ Her grin sours.

‘It was the second change that worried me. You see, when she did her chores I could… smell her enjoyment. No matter grateful she is to her big sister I doubt that is the appropriate response.’

‘Why,’ I say, ‘are you telling me this?’

‘Last night, when I found her still ironing my clothes at midnight, I said to her, “Oh Sweetie, just go to sleep.” And she just crumpled to the floor.’

Oh, buck, oh, buck, oh, buck.

‘I said, “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” The pressing questions. Now I’m familiar with hypnosis, I knew it was a trance even before I confirmed it.’

My ears perk. ‘Familiar with hypnosis.’ Here’s my chance. Million to one, but if she’s been hypnotised before it’ll be, what, thousand to one. I mightn’t be able to lull her down, but I can pull her under.

Interrupting her, I take her hoof in mine and look into her eyes, unblinking. ‘I know you’re worried about your sister, but you just need to – SLEEP!’ As I say it I pull her hoof, jerking her forward. I wrap my hooves around her to keep her rocking back and forth, side to side. ‘Sleep. Sleep deep, deep. Deeper and deeper.’ For ten minutes at least I keep at it. Feeling no resistance, I cautiously assume it worked.

I withdraw myself. Thank, Celestia, she’s asleep.

‘Rarity, can you hear me?’

‘Yes…’

‘What do you suspect me of?’ Stupid, stupid! Dangerous, obvious question. Could be enough to jar her from trance.

‘Hypnotise… Sweetie. Rape her.’

Oh, dear. Well, thank Celestia, I caught her here.

‘Does anypony else know about this? Who?’

‘Honey…’

‘Who is Honey?’

‘Twilight…’

Buck. The Princess of Magic herself thinks I’ve brainwashed her marefriend’s sister. ‘How much does she know?’

‘Said I… needed to talk about Sweetie, hypnotised.’

That’s vague enough. ‘Rarity, I have not hurt your sister in any way. You won’t tell Twilight anything more than you already have. You will tell her that you had a chat with me which sorted everything out and that she should talk with me as well. Do you understand?’

‘Yes…’

‘Good, when you wake up, go back home. Wake up.’

Her eyes blink open. ‘So sorry, I seem to have nodded there. Terribly ashamed about this. I mean, how could I think you’d ever harm my sister?’ She departs.

I sit in silence for minutes after she left.

Thinking back, I know where I went wrong with Sweetie. I failed to program her to obey me specifically. I’m lucky somepony didn’t set her off earlier. Well, she was staying with her parents, I doubt they’d order her to do anything.

But now I’ve got a Princess to deal with.

Alicorns are ponies too. Should only be a little harder to hypnotise. I hope. It’s my only hope. I can’t run, that would be tantamount to confession. I couldn’t just leave it. Twilight’s suspicious, she’ll look into it, study my class. No, I nip the last bud. Hypnotise Twilight Sparkle, make sure she never thinks of this event again.

Looks like I’ll be spending tonight preparing an induction.

An entire day and I’d no fun with them. An entire night and I’d no sleep. Twilight’s to meet me at three-thirty, little more than a half hour from now. Playing with my students today seems a risk, just asking for discovery. My heart throbs and burning cold adrenaline sluices through me – I doubt I’d have much fun anyway.

DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Buck! My heart vomited for a moment. Sweat bursts then dries all over me, a lingering moistness which amplifies the air, leaving me too cold and too hot at the same time. Thirty minutes. A Princess, really! So what if the alternative was a life on the run, probably more chance of survival emigrating to Zebrica than facing the bull with a poisoned cape.

Calm down. Little point worrying now. In thirty minutes I could barely get to the train station, and I’m sure Princesses can exercise some special executive power to shut down the lines. No, I backed myself into this corner and I’ll charge myself out.

‘Class, stand.’ They do. ‘Dismissed.’

Nothing.

‘You’re not going to make us pledge obedience, Ms. Cheerilee.’ It’s Sweetie.

‘No, I’m too tired. You can show you’re obedience by doing all your homework.’

They file out, hesitantly, but eventually.

Thirty minutes… Twenty-seven. I’ve everything set up. I know the script. I have the tea.

Bending beneath the desk, I retrieve the tea tray, placing it on the table. Blue is safe, blue is safe. In the pink I’ve left ten millimetres of sedative. If it’s too much, I don’t care. Better to overestimate than underestimate. She’s an alicorn. Five millimetres would fell the stubbornest insomniac, but only of the Earth, Unicorn, or Pegasus variety. Ten millimetres would keep them down a day or longer. But for an alicorn, I’ll chance knocking her out for twenty-four hours. I’d just need to move her body to a secluded place, then each time she comes round, dose her again until I find the sweet spot, the amount which makes her drowsy and susceptible. If I underestimate her, I may tip her off, and, well, alicorn or no, I don’t want to be on the other end of Twilight’s horn.

Ten minutes.

I set the kettle to boil. Sniffing the teabags, I wonder, will anything slow my heart. Rising steam and loud rumbling don’t help. I set two chairs in front of my desk.

Knock, knock.

Five minutes! Five minutes, you bitch! You gave me five more minutes.

I answer the door.

‘Cheerilee.’ A smile. Good. ‘Sorry I’m early. Doing some research and, well, saw the time and came running. Overdid it a bit, heh.’

‘No, Twilight, not at all.’ I turn before my face can sour. ‘Have a seat.’

She sits just after I do.

Pouring the tea, I say, ‘So, I’ve been hearing some rumours flying…’ I pass her the pink cup. ‘Ridiculous rumours…’

I take a long sip of my tea, trying not to gag as she leaves the hanging question dangling. She just stares into her cup, smelling it. Drink! Drink. A shallow sip, swishes it in her mouth, then a long one.

‘Oh?’ She looks up from her tea. ‘Those silly things. I admit, when Rarity came to me I was worried, but – but I’ve known you for years, Cheerilee. You would never take advantage of your students.’ She takes another mouthful. ‘And hypnosis? If it worked so well, why aren’t more ponies using it?’ Finishing her cup, she sets it back. ‘Horn injuries are terrible things. Even after the cracks mend, you can’t be sure they’ve healed.’

This may be easier than I thought.

‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘I’m not a unicorn, but I can imagine. Cracks, you say? Makes me wince.’ Be natural. Wait for my chance. Ignore the heat threatening to overpower me.

Twilight smiles. ‘Fainting and improper biological responses would be the least of my worries. We’ve – Rarity and I – we’ve booked Sweetie a check-up. Thursday we’ll know for sure.’

She’s not yawning. Enough to off a cow and she’s not even blurry-eyed.

I move to speak, but she steps in, ‘I always loved the idea of teaching. Growing up, I wanted to be one. Not for the selfless reasons I’m sure you have.’ She giggles. ‘I just thought, “To be a teacher is to know everything about something.” Hah. Not even Princess Celestia could claim that.’

She looks at me. Hot pincers in the back of my neck.

‘Of course, I’m not saying a teacher’s knowledge should be laughed at. Every foal needs a good teacher to give them the essentials: writing, maths, etc. My teachers at the Celestia’s school made sure of that and then some. I loved the lunch time lessons when my advanced magic teacher would talk about theoretical quantum magic. A secret world was opening up before me. Afterwards, as we left the lecture hall, the things the other students said shocked me. “Boring.” “Arsehole.” “She wasted my lunch.” Were they at the same lecture?’ She smiles. ‘I’m sure you get that, Cheerilee. When they think you’re out of earshot.’

‘Oh, all the time.’

She pauses, gazing into her teacup. Is that tiredness? But as she launches into her next monologue that hope dies. ‘But there are things teachers can’t teach. I, um, don’t mean friendship or, uh, relationships. I just mean certain subjects, unfairly ostracised subjects, have trouble finding teachers. I mean, I’m sure in a Canterlot back alley I could have found a teacher of sorts. But, well, what happens in Canterlot back alleys is the reason these subjects are ostracised. You can drink.’

‘P-pardon?’

‘Don't wait for me to stop. Your tea’s getting cold.’

‘O-oh, yes.’ My hooves shake. Ten millimetres wasn't enough. Should I have put twenty? The cup fumbles from my grip, hitting the floor, soaking the carpet. ‘Buck! Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry.’ The stain shimmers, little droplets rising into a hazy cloud. As it rises the patch lightens. She hovers the cloud over the bin, dispersing it to let green liquid fall to the basket.

‘I found, quite easily, books on dark magic.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. Not hate magic. Just magic the law defines as “near-inevitably used for anti-social ends”. It is technically illegal, but only when used against another pony. So long as I didn’t use another student as my test subject, learning dark magic was perfectly legal.’

She stops, considering her next words.

‘Though it was its criminality that drove me to learn it. Not because I intended to be a criminal, and not because I admired criminals. It’s that – it’s that the best criminals aren’t caught. So much magic is flashy, all fireworks and metaphysical mallets - leave it to a criminal to make it unnoticeable. All dark magic revolves around either the victim not knowing, or being left unable to say what they know. It’s elegant. I like elegant things. Dark magic, poison, heh, Rarity.’

She takes a sip.

‘Poison. Another subject I taught myself. Very elegant when done right. At finest it seems the victim died of natural causes. Most developments in this field come from Canterlot nobility, of course. A bloody knife can create difficulties when vying for an inheritance, but a grandparent who died in their sleep…

‘Identification of poisons, that’s essential. Before you start poisoning, you must be sure the pony opposite hasn’t had the same idea. I know what you’re thinking, there must be so many poisons. How could I possibly identify them all? Well, you don’t need to determine the specific poison, you just need to figure out what could poison you.’

She holds up her tea, smiling at me. The back of my neck drips lukewarm sweat.

‘Like if you’re invited to tea, you wait for the host to take the first sip.’ She drinks deep. ‘Of course, it’s not a perfect test. Just because the tea’s safe doesn’t mean the cup is. There are other ways to tell: tea tastes off; colour’s a bit dilute. But what to do if you know there’s poison. You can’t let them know you know. Poison’s just the cleanest way they have to get rid of you.

‘For a unicorn it’s easy. You saw how magic can separate tea from carpet. With enough dexterity a unicorn can separate one type of matter from another. With even more dexterity they can isolate one chemical structure from a liquid body. Say your tea’s been poisoned. Drink your tea and grab hold of the poison, paste it around your cheeks and throat. Your poisoner’s not going to say anything. “Maybe I didn’t put enough in?” “Maybe the cyanide was old?” they’ll think. Keep talking as if nothing’s happened. But when you leave…’

She opens her mouth. Empty, I think, but then I see it, a glint reveals it, I can’t stop seeing it. A clear strand, shimmering liquid, trailing from her throat. Hovering out, it ripples, threatening to break apart. She holds it halfway between us, and lets it splash to the floor.

‘Yeah, sorry. “Eww,” I know. But when you leave, do that. You only do it in front of them when you know you have the upper hoof.’

My chair flies from under me. I hit the floor. Get up! Get up! My legs are dead. They won’t move! Not even my head, only my eyes. I see Twilight’s feet approaching.

‘I got side-tracked. Dark magic – in dark magic, first thing you learn is how to cast a glamour round your horn, can’t let the victim know it’s working. Second, misdirection. Keep them distracted while you work.’

She crouches to the floor, looking me in the eyes.

‘Take for instance the spell I used on you. Causes an uncomfortable heat on the back of the neck. Most ponies would pass it off as guilt, but I doubt you know what that feels like. It’s called the puppet master spell. My own invention. You may have read about supposed puppet master spells, but those are just crude applications of telekinesis. Very inelegant. Five years interdisciplinary training, at least, before you understand even the theoretical basis of what I’m doing to you.’

As she stands up, my body moves on its own, rising to follow her. All the automatic processes I never notice, the shift of muscles, the coursing of blood and adrenaline, seem as apparent as my heart beat, now that I can only witness my actions.

‘It’s in the final stages. Don’t try and fight it. Might get brain bubbles, strokes, aneurysms. At worst, you’ll shrivel up and die.’

Turning to face me, she views me with a look of disgust that contorts her face to monstrousness.

‘What are you?’

Like hoofs squeezing my lungs, moulding my lips, words force themselves out of me. ‘I am a rapist. I am monster. I brainwash foals and molest them.’

No change on her face, the same stare. ‘You know how I said the best criminals are never caught? Well, you are a terrible criminal. Did you really think no pony would notice? The hay-class of Ponyville High become model students over a weekend. You didn’t think that would arouse suspicion? Oh, and Scootaloo. Rarity told me you ordered a very strange dress, so strange she described it to me in cringe-worthy detail. I didn’t know you even had a niece. So, imagine my surprise when one day I see tomcolt Scootaloo skipping along to school, wearing a dress I’d such an intricate mental picture of.

‘And then you hypnotise my marefriend. One day she comes to me, worried sick about her sister, claiming Sweetie’s been hypnotised by her teacher, then the next day she says not to worry about it. Was that your idea of misdirection?’

The look on her, I’m amazed she doesn’t spit on my face.

‘Bring them in!’

The door opens, held by Rarity, followed by my class. The door shuts.

‘Sleep,’ my mouth says. My students go blank.

‘I scavenged through Sweetie’s mind for your triggers. I’m almost grateful you were so sloppy with her.’

‘Class, I hand over control of you to Twilight Sparkle. I am not your teacher, she is.’

‘What I have done to you can be removed, should I wish it, without any lingering effects. Unlike what you've done to them. I will deprogram them one by one. Even then, I doubt some of them will ever be as they were.’

A trumpet blares from outside, muffled but loud.

‘That will be the guard.’

She marches me outside. A two-pony drawn, bar-windowed, iron carriage waits down the school steps. I can’t stop myself trotting towards, stepping through the open doors, sitting opposite the guard pony already seated, and raising my hooves for the cuffs.

The doors slam shut as the drivers start galloping. A grated window looks onto the receding school. Twilight stares at me, even when I cannot see her eyes, I know she stares, even when she is a dot she stares. But she, with the school, vanishes.

My hooves twitch. Hah! Twilight says I’m sloppy, but she’s the one who didn’t factor in her spell having a limited area of effect. Twitching my hooves, I know my body returns to me. I’ve cuffs, but I didn’t need hooves to break my class.

I look at my supervisor. A youngish mare, eyeing me intently. Focussing on me intently.

My lips can move, can form precise shapes. I never needed hooves, only my voice.

Hello, my new slave.

‘…’

What?

‘…’

I open my mouth, shape my lips, cast air correctly, and-

‘…’

‘What I have done to you can be removed, should I wish it, without any lingering effects.’

Oh, dear. Oh, bucking dear.