Cruel and Unusual

by Mercury Zero

Rating: mature
Tags: Tragedy, Princess Celestia, Sex, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Original Character
Length: 10025

Accused and found guilty of a terrible crime, all that’s left is to wait for Princess Celestia to pass sentence.

Contains: Rape.

Mares are trouble. A few words get whispered over crimson lipstick and the next thing you know you’re in deeper shit than you ever imagined possible. If you’re not careful, they’ll drive you nuts—wrap you all the way around their left hoof and then step on you.

Yeah, mares. I think I miss mares more than anything.

They tell me Celestia herself will come down into this musty armpit of a dungeon to pass sentence on me, so I guess I’ll get to see one more mare even if it’s the last thing I ever do.

Published 2016-01-31 02:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-31 02:10:02 UTC

Cruel

Your back hurts. Your haunches are cold.

You can’t tell if you’re sitting on granite cobblestones or blocks of ice, and as if it wasn’t cold enough, there’s water seeping from the wall you’re chained up against, and no amount of twisting and squirming is keeping it from getting wetter and colder and achier. There’s a crick in there that’s just getting worse and it hurts like Tartarus.

Better to keep your mind on other things. You’ve been trying to focus on working out what you could have done to avoid ending up down here. You’re replaying it through your mind: all the things that happened to you, the things you should have said, the things you should have done. But it’s hard to concentrate on important tasks like worrying about things you can’t change when your back hurts and your haunches are cold.

How long have you been down here? Maybe they forgot about you. Maybe you’re going to shrivel up like a raisin and die, crucified and starved in some moldy corner of a torchlit dungeon. The thought makes you unconsciously test your bonds with a tug.

You realize what your foreleg is doing and will it to stop. You wonder how it’s going to happen. Starvation? Loneliness? You look up at the rotting old logs that could loosely be called a ceiling. Maybe the foundation will crumble and put you out of your misery with a big wet splat.

At least there aren’t any bugs or rats.

Right?

You squint suspiciously at the glassy cobblestones around you, trying make out shapes in the dark and flickering light. Great. Now your brain is trying to convince you that every shadow is a rat, or some blood sucking insect with three mandibles, or a blood sucking rat with three mandibles and a case of mange.

You decide it’s best not to look. You breathe and lean back, closing your eyes.

This sucks. Your back hurts. You’re bored. You’re scared. Your back hurts. Your haunches are cold.

You’re hungry, too. That’s new.

“Hey!” Your voice echoes around the corner.

Nothing. There aren’t even any other prisoners in here to talk to.

“Can anypony hear me? I’m hungry!”

You listen for a lifetime before releasing a breath and letting your head limply bop the wall behind you.

“Just tell me what you’re going to do to me!” you say with gritted teeth, choking on what wants to turn into a sob.

“Is anypony there?!” you scream. You shake your foreleg, jingling the chains.

“Horseapples. This is horseapples.”

You might pray to Celestia, but it’s not likely to help. She was at your trial, the only one sitting higher than the judge on her throne of gold dispassionately watching everything. But maybe she was watching a different trial than you, because she didn’t seem to give a damn that you were being lynched by a kangaroo court in front of her. If she didn’t help you then, why would praying to her help you now?

“Why am I shackled to the wall?!” you scream. “It’s not like I can fit through the bars!”

Maybe the time will pass faster if you just don’t think. There’s nothing you can do about this anyway, right? Might as well just space out and empty your mind, and just come what may. You think about how you’re trying not to think. You think about how you just thought about trying not to think, and that was thinking, so now you have to start over. You try not to think again. It’s working, you think to yourself.

You groan with frustration. Your mind won’t stop torturing you. You don’t know what’s worse, going on like this forever, or getting used to this place.

You cry out into the darkness. “How long are you going to keep me down—” Your ears swivel forward. There’s a crunching sound. You scooch on your haunches to sit up straight, tugging on the jingling chains above you to help you rise. You listen. Hoofsteps. Armored hoofsteps. A guard is coming.

Your heart comes alive in your chest. You stare into the darkness and breathe sharply, swallowing down your anxiety.

A white-furred royal guard rounds the corner at a leisurely pace. This one is wearing a porcelain mask, that’s different. The rest of the armor matches what you’d expect from a royal guard of Princess Celestia, but this is the first time you’ve seen a mask like that. It looks very plain, but very expensive, like it was made with a great deal of care by a skilled artisan who was asked to use all his skill to craft something as dull as possible.

He gently sets a steel dinner tray on the ground. It’s familiar, the kind of thing you’d see in a cafeteria in a poorly funded public library. The government probably buys them in bulk. He unfolds four small legs from the bottom of the tray so it can lift up to a comfortable eating height for a pony.

You watch your masked dungeon guard in silence over the gentle clicking of flimsy metal legs.

The guard glances out from behind the eye holes. Piercing blue. “It’s food,” he says.

You settle down against the wall. “I didn’t think anypony was listening.”

The guard grabs a brass ring on his hip, and sorts through the wrought iron keys with muted clinks. “The guard station is just down the hall. You passed through it on the way in this morning.” Listening to the way he talks, you’d be able to tell he’s in law enforcement, even if he wasn’t wearing the armor.

“I didn’t see any guards on the way in.”

“Not when the dungeon is empty. We were posted here just after you arrived.”

Crime is not exactly at an all time high in Equestria. You might be the only pony who’s been convicted all year. Your face is probably in thousands of newspapers flying off the stands. Must be a journalistic feeding frenzy up there, not that you’re able to see any of it. Maybe the reporters will thank you for putting their foals through magic school.

The guard slides open the bars noisily, and brings the tray in to set next to your flank. He flips to the next key on his ring, reaching up above your head. You gasp when you feel something cold against your neck and you resist the urge to draw away. You don’t want to be accused of resisting.

He reaches past your muzzle. A muscular white foreleg brushes your chin, and you try your best to relax. The front half of a metal collar swings under your chin, and there’s a soft tinkling sound under your left ear, followed by the click of a padlock.

He steps in closer, and rears up. First a foreleg, now an entire chest. At least it’s not touching your chin this time. You feel the warmth of your own breath reflect onto your cheeks and stare at the dull canvass of white fur for what seems like forever.

With two soft clicks, your forelegs are allowed to fall. The guard steps away, and you gently put one hoof on the floor, the other to your chest. There’s a wave of relief flowing down your lower back.

The guard pulls away from you and takes a seat on the floor next to the tray. At least you’re not the only one with a frigid hindquarter now.

You rub softly at your aching fetlocks. They seem to hurt more now that they’re free, or maybe they hurt all along and you didn’t notice because you had bigger pains to worry about.

You decide to lift the lid, and take a peek at what the fine chefs of the Canterlot Ministry of Corrections have prepared for you.

Vegan jello, a daisy sandwich, some mass produced packet of no-name chocolate pudding, and a cup of water. Could be worse.

You pick up the small wooden spoon hiding under the jello, and scoop up a wriggling cubelet.

“Are you going to watch me eat?”

“Can’t leave you alone with the tray.”

“Oh. Right.”

You could use the company anyway. A few cautious nibbles, and you decide that the jello tastes alright.

“I was expecting moldy bread or crackers or something.” You smile weakly at your captor but you can’t see his expression behind that mask. Judging by the casual stare in his eyes, he’s not terribly interested in conversation, so you squirrel the tray in a little closer and sigh.

You’re three or four bites in before he responds. “Nopony wants you to suffer.”

You pause, swallow, and pick at your jello, slicing a cube in half with your spoon, and pushing it around.

“Are you going to let me go then?” Your voice is small.

“Not my call.”

“You have the keys, right? If… if you don’t want me to suffer, you could just let me go. I don’t belong here.”

The guard’s not responding. The food tastes fine, and you’re getting really hungry, but the last thing you want right now is to eat. You don’t want to finish your food and get fettered up against the wall again, alone, with nopony to talk to.

“I didn’t rape that mare.”

The guard stays silent long enough for you to take one more bite, before responding. “That’s not what the jury thought.”

You take just as long to respond to him. “—All female jury,” you mutter.

The guard shuffles back to get comfortable. “So all twelve of them were sexist? That’s why you were convicted?”

“It came down to my word against hers, and they decided to side with the mare. That’s what happened.”

“Your word against hers.” You can tell he’s hardening his brow behind his mask. “And against the doctor who examined her, and the photographs of the bruises, and your friend saying you bragged that she ‘liked it rough.’ You want me to go on?”

Your gut ties itself in knots. “You—were guarding the trial then?”

“I read the transcripts. They’re open to the public.”

You slice more big cubes into small cubes and small cubes into smaller cubes. You’re going to end up with lumpy sugar soup at this rate.

“She asked me. That’s why I choked her. She got off on it. She liked weird shit, I guess. What was I supposed to say? ‘No you’re a pervert, go find some other stallion’ or something? It’s not illegal. I didn’t do anything illegal. I didn’t even squeeze that hard.”

The guard gets up and walks over to the wall behind you. He takes a seat right next to you in the same dank corner you’ve been living in since you got thrown down here. “I’m not judging you. Like I said. It’s not my call.”

You chew down a bite of your sandwich, and wash it down with a little bit of the eggy dungeon well water.

“So, you read the transcripts, then. Would you have found me guilty?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

You scoff at the irony, and stab at your jello soup. “Just… give me the keys. You can say you dropped them.” You turn and look at those eyes, sunken behind their porcelain mask. “Please. You don’t even think I did it. Please.” Your voice gets smaller and smaller. “Please let me go.”

“I do think you did it.”

“I thought you said... you know I’m innocent!”

“You asked me if I would have found you guilty” He moves a forehoof and starts to explain “I think there’s a plausible alternative explanation for the evidence in your case. That’s all it would take for me to find somepony not guilty. I’d rather see a thousand guilty stallions go free than see one innocent stallion thrown down here to suffer unjustly.” He turns his head to look at you again. “But that’s not the same as thinking you didn’t do it.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just take another bite of your sandwich in silence.

“Like I said though, it’s not my call. You had your chance.” He looks over at your plate. “You should eat your food.”

You do as you’re told, drinking a few sips of your jello. “Too bad for me you weren’t on the jury then.”

“Even if I was, things might not be different. It’s one thing to read a transcript, but it’s another to be in the court room. It’s not up to me to second guess the mares in the jury box either.”

There’s no winning, is there? You try to stay quiet, but dripping sound of the dungeon, and the guard’s impassive stare is starting to get to you, so you say, “She has a coltfriend, you know. That won’t show up in your transcripts.”

You look over expecting to see a look of surprise, but the guard’s gaze doesn’t change. He just keeps guarding, like guards are wont to do.

“‘Prejudicial,’ they said. It’s prejudicial to point out why she was lying. She didn’t want her stallion to find out she cheated on him, so when word got around that we went upstairs at that party, she decided she’d rather ruin my life than her relationship.”

“She’s not the one who was on trial,” says the guard. “Do you think every rape victim should be forced to reveal her sexual history for the jury? It’s bad enough that they’re forced to relive what happened to them when they testify.”

“Forced.” You chuckle grimly and reach up to tug on your chain. The guard tenses up, giving you a hard look. You jingle the weighty arc of metal. “This is force. If she was forced, where are her chains? She wasn’t forced to do anything. She didn’t have to do this to me.”

You feel the guard’s forehoof touching your foreleg, stilling the chain. His leg is well toned. It’s probably been through a lot of training, along with the rest of him. You stop tugging on the chain, sink, and reach back down to sip at your jello.

The guard accepts your unspoken apology and releases you.

“They didn’t have any problem bringing up my history. Her history, off the table. My history?” You shake your head defiantly, “I get in one fight in high school, and because it was with my marefriend, that must mean I’m some sort of sick abuser. She hit me first. I hit her back. It was a fight. That’s how it works. Next thing I know, I’m getting hauled away with an assault charge. I know I shouldn’t have hit her but what was I supposed to do? Just let myself get beaten up?”

“That’s not what the police report said. I think the word ‘belligerent,’ came up a few times.”

You scoff. “Of course I was mad. They were arresting me. She started it, and they were arresting me.”

“Why did you plead guilty then?”

You pick a daisy petal from your sandwich, shaking your head at the irony. Maybe under some other circumstances, it might have been funny. “I took a deal. I didn’t want to spend any time in a dungeon.”

The guard huffs wearily, and does his best to try to lapse the conversation back into silence. He looks away from you. You get the hint; you just ignore it.

“You know the worst part about all of this? Watching her testify that I raped her. She didn’t care. She was ruining my life, and she didn’t care.” You stare down into the mostly empty jello abyss. “Not me. Not how I would be. If I was destroying someone’s entire life just to stay together with my coltfriend, I wouldn’t be able to talk. I’d feel sick.” You shake your head, and take another sip. It seems to go down sideways past whatever’s caught in your throat. “She smiled when she was giving her testimony. My lawyer asked her if she enjoyed being choked, and she smiled. She laughed. What kind of rape victim smiles and laughs?” you ask. “She was proud of herself. She duped everyone. That’s why she was grinning. She put one over on everypony.”

You turn to watch the guard staring back at you, trying to get a bead on whether he believes you, or if he even cares. When you finally turn away, he asks, surprised, “—You have a coltfriend?”

You chuckle, and shake your head. “Very funny,” you say.

“I’m surprised you can smile and laugh,” says the guard. Your grin vanishes. “Sometimes humor is all we have when things are at their darkest,” he says.

You’re starting to wonder if you were better off alone after all. You tip the bowl of jello to your muzzle, and drink the last of it down.

You set the wooden bowl down, and stroke its brim softly, staring past the dungeon floor.

You whisper, “So what’s going to happen to me?”

There’s pity in the guard’s eyes, he leans back and looks away from you, choosing to stare out the barred door across the cell. “Princess Celestia still hasn’t handed down your sentence. She usually grants an audience with the victim first, gets their input.”

“Am I going to die?” you ask.

The guard thinks about it longer than you would like. “Don’t dwell on it. You’re not doing yourself any favors. Celestia is going to decide what Celestia is going to decide. You can’t change that.”

Your sandwich looks really unappetizing now. How’s she going to do it? Firing squad? Beheading? A pack of hungry dogs? No. You don’t want to think about it. You beg your imagination to take a break.

“You just have to have faith in Her mercy.”

Finishing off your sandwich, you finally turn your attention to the little packet of chocolate pudding that was no doubt squeezed out of some steaming contraption that traveling flimflam artists managed to sell to the government. It gives you the impression that it was sealed shut with something red hot.

You pick at the lid.

“You’re religious then?” you ask the guard.

Iit’s against the rules of polite company to engage someone about religion, but it’s hard to describe the captor-captive relationship as “polite company” to begin with. Either way, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“We’re all spiritual in some way or another,” he says.

He looks at you, and you look back. He seems to decide to answer you plainly. “I believe Celestia is divine, yes. She can see into your heart, and if you deserve mercy, then She’ll show it to you.” He adds, “But only if you let her. You have to believe in her before she believes in you.”

The guard watches you struggle with your pudding container, and reaches out to set his forehooves on yours. They’re rough to the touch. They’ve seen a lot of running and grabbing. He has little difficulty manipulating the little foil tab, and tugging the lid aside, and he offers you the spoon next.

“Thanks,” you say.

The guard watches you take your first bite of pudding. It’s not bad—a little chalky.

“It’s not my place to judge you,” says the guard, “but if you are telling any lies… to yourself, to me, to Celestia. I think now’s the time for you to come clean.”

Unbelievable. Royal guards. The one who arrested you tried to convince you to make a confession, too.

“I’m not lying,” you say.

If you didn’t know better, you might think that there’s genuine worry in the guard’s eyes.

You turn back to your pudding. “What’s with that mask, anyway?”

The guard stands up, gathering up your fetters and chains, manipulating the metal pins, and opening the ankle cuffs. “It’s part of the uniform of the royal executioner. Nopony is supposed to see my face.”

You stare at your final scoop of pudding. “Oh,” you say, trying to breathe calmly. You do what you can to look away from the guard, and run your lips across the spoon to swallow down the last of your meal.

After you take a moment to reflect on the empty tray in front of you, you look up at the royal executioner as if to ask, “So what now?”

He sits down next to you again, holding the restraints over his foreleg. “Like I said, Celestia hasn’t passed down your sentence, so…” He reaches out and gives you two gentle pats on the shoulder. “Don’t think about it, okay?” The executioner gently cuffs your fore fetlocks, fiddling with the clips and pins at a leisurely pace. You watch the side of his cheek while he focuses on the mechanisms.

With a clatter, the executioner tugs on the chain, and your forelegs are pulled up taut above your head. You let your head hang limply toward the dank stones and feel the executioner starting to remove your collar.

Don’t think about it.

Unusual

You dream about tin cans—cans with soda pop—empty cans of beans—big tins filled with dark roasted coffee—all clattering everywhere and making a terrible mess of your kitchen. And no matter how many cans you pick up, you just end up spilling more in the process. Rueing your clumsiness, you keep at it, and only after you’ve been at it for a silly amount of time do you seem to realize you’re wasting your efforts. You start to wonder why you don’t just give up, and let the dungeon get messy.

Wait. Dungeon?

Your eyes flutter open, and you draw a sharp breath through your nose. You try to stand up before realizing you’re still chained to the wall. You’re a convict, and you just got through your first night in the royal dungeon.

You hear more cans falling over. Wait, what is that? Muffled behind the door at the end of the hall, hurried soldiers stomp around in their armor. Male voices you’re unable to make out buzz gruffly through the wood and stone. The tone in their voices fills you with unease. They sound nervous.

You wake up in a hurry, sitting up straight and listening to the darkness desperately. You try to hear what’s being said. Is it about you?

There’s another voice; you recognize it. It’s the executioner.

“Maybe he’s just here to bring me breakfast,” you whisper to yourself over the sound of your heartbeat rushing in your ears.

There’s a louder voice now. It’s still too muffled to make out but you can tell he’s in charge. He seems to be barking orders, and every time he does there’s another distinctive clatter of armor, but the blustering sounds of authority doesn’t seem to last long; everything goes silent except for the clattering of your jaw. You clench your fetlock against its bonds and tense your body.

You stare off into the darkness. What moments ago seemed like a frenzy of nervous guards has turned into the same oppressive silence you slept to through the night. There’s not even a peep or a murmur making it to your ears. There must be a dozen ponies on the other side of the hallway door, and none of them are talking to each other.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. The distinctive sound of a mare’s horseshoes echoes through the guard station, and toward the cell block door. You squint and cover your eyes as a blast of white lamplight showers into the room.

Your vision recovers slowly. Backdropped by the sound of gentle footsteps, and the renewed clanging of armor a looming silhouette comes into focus. Princess Celestia, in the flesh. Flanked by four guards—five if you count the executioner.

You steady your nerves, sitting up straight. You’ve heard it’s your place to bow if ever you encounter a princess, but you’re not going to do that. You’re going to sit up as straight as you can, and stare. If you’re going to die, you’re going to do it up straight with your eyes unwavering. You want her to remember your eyes.

The princess calls out your full name with the commanding voice of the state, and it sends a chill down your spine. “You have been found guilty of the crime of rape,” she adds. “Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?”

You wish you had thought about what you were going to say. You didn’t even realize you were going to be asked. Whatever may have happened, it’s all forgotten now. The only thing you know, is that you don’t want to die here. You swallow hard, part your lips, and speak your peace. You say the words in your heart, and Celestia closes her eyes. She steels herself in silence, waiting for her turn to speak.

Your words spoken, the princess looks you in the eye.

Your full name is spoken aloud once more. “You have used as a weapon of selfishness that which should only be used as a symbol of love. You have shown no respect for the sanctity of marehood and so, by the power vested in me by the crown of princess of Equestria and the subjects thereof, I sentence you to be stripped of your stallionhood.”

You blink. “Wait. What? Wait what does that mean?!”

“Once the sentence is carried out you will be released. You are to—“

“Listen, you can lock me up as long as you want. Okay? Just keep me locked up, safe and sound with all my junk.”

“—have no further contact, direct or indirect, with your victim except as prescribed by due process of law.—”

“You gotta be kidding me. You gotta be kidding me!”

“—You are to remain no closer than one hundred hooves from her, her home, —”

You look over at the executioner. He seems to have difficulty looking back at you. You widen your eyes and pin your hind legs shut. “I didn’t rape that mare! I didn’t do it!”

“—and her place of work at all times on pain of imprisonment for the remainder of your life.”

The executioner turns to his side, and nods. A guard steps into your field of view carrying an ornate silver and ebony box.

Celestia steps closer. Her guards, who were already gulping and cringing from Celestia’s proclamation, stiffen up with concern for their monarch, stepping in and gently urging her to draw no closer to you.

But she lies next to you none the less. Her pictures do no justice to her size, easily head and shoulders above a normal pony. The last thing you would expect is for her to set her immaculate alabaster coat down onto a filthy dungeon floor just to lie next to you.

Your ruler speaks. “I take no joy in this. I promise you, it will be as humane as possible. You will not be castrated, not in the typical sense. If you cooperate, there will be no pain, and you will still be able to have foals. There is nothing to fear.”

Your gaze is captured away from your princess to watch the executioner. He’s opening the box, and pulling out a droplet shaped crystal bottle with the same dispassionate efficiency he was using yesterday to manipulate your shackles.

There has to be something you can do to get out of this. Your mind is racing for options. Anything.

Celestia stands, and takes a solemn breath, and says, “He can not be allowed to struggle during the process.”

The guards tromp toward you. “Oh shit!” you say, trying to crawl backward up your chains.

The first guard, brow clenched, jaw set, and ready to fight, grabs your foreleg. You struggle as much as your chains will allow. You instinctively swing your free foreleg around to punch and push at the guard, but the chain draws taut with a painful clang before you’re able to reach him. You try to wrench your leg from his grip, “No! Get off me!”

Another guard piles onto your body, pushing forcefully at your swinging foreleg, and wrapping himself around it. You scrabble your hind hooves on the cobblestones, trying to use the force of your lower body to get free, until two more guards scoop up both your hind legs. Your hindquarter falls back to the cold ground with a painful thud, and you feel your legs being forced open. You wrench and writhe, but you can’t keep the guards from drawing your hind legs open as wide as they can go, raising up your soft sheath in a lude display toward the princess.

Your muscles ache, and soon your struggles slow, and stop. Your breath is slow to catch and your chest heaves high. You stare down past your endangered masculinity to the white masked executioner, and his small crystal bottle, no bigger than his hoof.

Your struggles are barely even able to move you an inch now, with every one of your limbs being hoarded and splayed out toward the white masked pony who solemnly steps toward you. You definitely thrash the only part you have left to resist with, dusting your tail impotently against the executioner’s fetlocks as he lies down between your legs, bottle in hoof.

“Listen, Mister Royal Executioner, guy, you know don’t have to do this, right? If you say no, she’s not going to force you. She won’t force you to do this. Tell her. Tell her to do it herself.” Your eyes are watering now, and you turn toward your princess. “She won’t do it if a stallion isn’t helping her. She’s a cowar—agh!” One of the guards twists your shoulder and growls.

Celestia doesn’t take her eyes off of you, but you see them fill with sorrow from your words. It’s surprising but—you actually managed to hurt her. Covered with chains and held down by four stallions, you still managed to wound her. The guards don’t seem to appreciate that. You get the feeling they’re resisting the urge to twist your limbs off. One of them pushes his hoof into your jaw, sealing your muzzle shut, and he’s not gentle about it in the slightest.

The cork is popped, and a suspiciously eldritch aroma of cinnamon and icing sugar fills the room, obscured slightly by the earthy aroma of the guardspony’s forehoof. You stare down at your pride and joy as the executioner pulls back your sheath. You’re panting now, crying. Just as you feel the first tear dribble down your cheek, the pink, oily contents of the bottle are poured slowly onto the head of your cock.

A feeling of coldness, like mint, is instantaneous. You gasp and twitch as it trickles down your length. The executioner’s hooftip rubs under your sheath, ensuring as much of it gets onto your cock as possible, before basting further down your belly, over the shaft hidden within its furry cover, over your useless nipples, and finally over your sack.

You stop struggling now, feeling another tear fall from your cheek and watching as the fluid seems to prefer to seep inside you rather than dribble away down your thighs.

The room grows still, and quiet, save for the sound of the executioner gently setting the crystal bottle into the velvet embrace of the open box and setting them both aside. You wait to feel something other than cold between your thighs, and even that seems to wane.

“Release him, and unfetter his legs,” says the princess.

You feel the guards reluctantly uncoil themselves from your extremities, setting you gently back into a seated position, and unshackling your forelegs, then your hind. The guards are quick to close ranks around the princess when you are freed and giving you an expression that seems to beg you to give them some kind of excuse to put you down.

You slump forward onto your forehooves, leaving your haunches on the soggy floor, hanging your head, watching your crotch, reaching up to wipe your cheek, and staring. Your eyes drift slowly shut when you feel the first alien feeling.

Your thoughts seem to wander of their own accord. You think about the princess. If this were any other time, you would be admiring her beauty. Her face, her shoulders, her hind legs. A little bit tall, it’s true, but not muscular or lanky. Her body is feminine, firm, but still curvy. The perfect balance. You feel a warm tingle in your cheeks, and open your eyes, looking up at the princess.

She’s still looking back at you with those piercing purple eyes. You never realized how much power turned you on.

Your belly fills with butterflies, and you take a soft little gasp. Thoughts of the princess’s beauty fill your body with a sense of lightness. There’s a stirring in your loins. Soon you can imagine nothing except for her body. What it must be like to watch her please herself, to push her down, to fuck her.

When you open your eyes, you see your cock poking from its sheath. It’s as if it’s decided to be defiant, and to show itself proudly to those who would seek to take it. Soon, the tingles of pleasant fantasies turn into desperate thoughts of aching lust.

“Please remain as calm as you can,” says Celestia. “Arousal is a normal part of the process as your masculinity tries to resist.”

Your cock, mottled and thick, nearly reaching the center of your chest, has become completely hard now. A thin shimmering droplet of precum is developing at its head. You gasp! You’ve never been this horny before.

“It will pass.”

You consider just taking care of yourself right here, in front of four stallions and a princess, but succumbing to your temptations is what got you into this mess, so you tense and writhe, trying to think about something else.

You start to stand up, but you quickly become distracted. Flashes of vile fetishes pass through your mind. You feel a knot in your loins and clench your pelvic muscles. Every tense clench is a relief for a moment, followed by another crashing wave of lust.

You look up, part your jaw to speak, then blink. Something’s changed. Your arousal is gone. A feeling of warmth fills your loins and flows up your back, over your haunches. It’s almost like you’re taking a cozy bath. You look down at your cock. Sure enough, it’s receding, but it’s shrinking as it does.

You watch as your cock seems to pull back into your body, drawing the full fuzzy length of your sheath with it. As your cock travels down your belly, it leaves a tingling feeling in its wake. Your nipples prick you with a mild sting, and the tissues of your belly expand, quickly developing into teats.

Your feel a split form in your sack, and a slickness drip out from between your balls. Your cock has almost fully receded now, but it stops, shrinking away into the newly forming slit, and retracting itself behind the skin of your testes. Puffy outer lips, and tender inner lips form, and with a sudden rushing feeling of warmth, a new opening forms. The feeling travels up inside you, seeming to do its unseen work inside of your abdomen.

“I-I’m a—“ You look up at the princess, eyes still wet with tears, jaw dropped with shock. Your voice is higher. Much higher. You reach up to touch your face and can feel your jaw bones twisting and clicking, drawing back into you, reshaping your muzzle. The same feeling of warmth fills your cheeks and your throat.

“Yes, my little pony. From this day on, you are a mare.”

The guards seem to visibly relax around you now. They barely react when the princess steps out from behind them. She lies down on the floor again, only managing to bring herself down to eye level with you. You might have felt intimidated; you might have considered hitting her and probably getting executed in the process, but stare down at your alien body as it’s eclipsed by Celestia’s shadow.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“I—I don’t—” Your cheeks flush at the sound of your own voice. Is that you? You sound like a filly, barely a mare, soft and very feminine. “Why did you do this to me?”

“I am bound by honor to protect my subjects. You must never be allowed to rape.” Celestia pauses to watch you look yourself over, waiting until she’s sure you’re still listening. “but… I would be no princess worthy of the title if I forced you to rot here, or snuffed you from this earth for one horrible mistake of passion.” She puts her hoof gently on yours, and it comes as quite a surprise. You look up into Celestia’s warm pain-filled eyes. “Please tell me you understand.”

You say nothing. If she is divine, she already knows how you feel. She knows all the sins you’ve ever committed, and she knows you’re sorry for every evil deed you’ve ever done. She knows you wish you could go back and live an honorable life, maybe be a father some day.

“Please forgive me,” you whisper.

Celestia gently touches your chin, lifting your eyes to meet hers. “This will be hard to hear...”

You make a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. There’s more? Of course there’s more. You recoil from the princess, and lift your forehoof limply up in front of your chest. As if the room had shifted under you, you feel yourself tilt and wobble, and it takes you a moment to realize that your center of gravity has changed. Everything is different. Even the way the guards are looking at you has changed. You see pity in the place of fear. They seem to see you now the way the executioner did when he brought you lunch yesterday. Your last meal as a stallion.

“Your male and female essences can not coexist. In cases like this, your body will only shift temporarily, and it will swiftly return to its original state. There are very few ways of maintaining the transformation indefinitely.”

A feeling of hope wells up in your breast.

“The simplest is to accept yourself for who you now are.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“You must know everything it means to be a mare, and you must accept it in your heart.”

You shake your head vigorously. “No,” you say.

Celestia looks like she feared this would happen. The serenity in her voice is unwavering. “There is no shame in being a mare. Where some strengths are now gone, new strengths will rise to fill their space. Where some pleasures are gone, equal pleasures have been gained. There is no need to fear.”

“No!” Your voice is so shrill now. Your shape is so foreign. Is it not enough that they can she can do whatever she pleases to your body, now she wants you to give her your mind, too?

“There are ways to force the process,” she says. Her voice is as soft and tranquil as ever. Celestia stands up, and turns to her guards. “Leave us?” she asks of her guards.

You swallow hard.

The princess, and her masked subordinate remain still as the room empties around them. Multiple guards cross the entrance to your cell, having been waiting in the wings this entire time.

You wonder how big Celestia’s entourage is. You consider trying to follow them, just picking a direction and running as fast as you can. Would you manage to see daylight before they caught you? Or is it night time? You don’t know. The room finally falls silent. Doors close, and the light dies down, leaving you once more in the dim torchlight you’ve become accustom to.

“You must masturbate,” says Celestia.

You stare, wide eyed. A trickle of water drips in the corner. The executioner idly clears his throat. You blink, and blink some more. “What? Now? Are you serious?”

She nods. “I know it is an odd request, but it will aid you in completing the process. Were it my choice, I would not thrust this request upon you so quickly, but even as we speak your body is building an immunity. If you do not resist, and you use your willpower to accept your new body, then will allow you to know what it truly is to be a mare, and the magic will run its course. Complete the act, and your days as a stallion will be gone forever, and you will be free to go.”

“No way! Why would I do that? I don’t want this! You can do what you want to me, but you can’t possibly expect me to help you. I’m not going to try to convince myself that my punishment is great, and try my best to make it permanent by reaching down and rubbing my cunt for your amusement. You’re sick! You’re—“ You glance at the executioner. “You’re— You’re going to have me raped. That’s why he’s still here, isn’t it?”

Celestia says, “I will do what I must. I beg you not to test my resolve.”

The executioner unclasps his pauldrons gently, tugging fabric on fabric as he frees himself of the straps. Bits of metal fall away unceremoniously.

“Woah wait, stop! Alright, stop. Fine. Fine, you win.” You take a seat, and look down over your body. Your belly. Teats had been such a welcome sight until now.

The executioner comes to a stop, and looks up. He stays his hooves, leaving half of his armor in place.

“You know, if I knew I princess would be asking me to rub one out in front of her, I might have liked the idea.” You look up. Nopony’s laughing. Through the side of your eye, you peek at the open bars. “I—I don’t really have the equipment to make a good show of it, though, you know.” You slowly lean toward the exit. You take a deep breath, deep as you can. “Here—Here goes. I’m doing it,” you say.

In a flash, you turn away from your captors. You dart for freedom, clamouring for purchase on the floor and exploding with a flurry hooffalls. You pump your legs harder than they’ve ever been pushed before.

There’s no way. There’s no bucking way you’re going to let this happen to you.

You almost make it to the door before a half naked executioner bodyslams the wind from your lungs. You slip on the glistening cobbles and slide through a frigid puddle into a filthy corner of your cell, followed shortly after by the infuriated soldier.

You’re no stranger to fighting. You may not have all the training and natural gifts of a top ranking member of Celestia’s personal warriors, but you have the advantage of desperation. You’re no coward. You’re not weak. You’re not going to let them open that cell door without at least trying to rush through it, and you’re not going to give up now. You wrap a foreleg against the executioner, twist him over, and beat him in the jaw until he’s bloody and limp.

At least, that’s the plan. You grunt girlishly, and you’re not even able to twist an inch. Your body is weaker than it’s ever been. You can barely slap at the guard, let alone wrestle him into the stones. Your grimace with panic and you try to kick, flail, push, but it’s meaningless. You’ve never been so thoroughly overpowered.

The guard’s weighty body presses down against you, grabbing your forelegs up above your head, and out of the way. He’s starting to pull more of his clothes off! You can’t even press your advantage against such a terribly unbalanced position. He’s leaving himself wide open so he can slide more of his armor off, and you can’t even move your foreankles down from above your head under the weight of his forehoof.

Nausea wracks you as the reality starts to set in. You’re fucked.

Your own body betrays you next. His bare fur presses into yours, weighing you down, dominating you in every way. This isn’t supposed to feel good, and it doesn’t really. Pangs of fear and sprained legs are not good feelings. But something else is appearing. There’s a soft flush of comfort and contentment seems to flow from your chest where the stallion’s fur rubs against yours. The feeling of having your inner thighs wrapped around his stifles is especially nice. You can’t help but squirm them, just a little, grinding.

You look up into the eyes of your attacker. They’re focused. More focused than you’ve ever seen them. He’s panting loudly behind his mask, and you feel something slick touch your belly. There have been times when you had that look.

A sob rises up, and you wail. “Stop!” You scream, and flail your hind legs, trying helplessly to scooch away. “Stop!”

The executioner’s breath flutters appreciatively as the slick feeling travels up and down your belly, squeezing themselves between your unfamiliar teats. He leans back to stare over your jaw, down your neck, and across your chest fur with a low groan of appreciation. He’s not supposed to be enjoying this!

You turn your head to the side and look into the dimly lit cell. Celestia is still there, looking away from you for the first time since you met her. Her eyes are closed, and her ears are limp. “Stop, please!”

Celestia raises a hoof, and with no small amount of self restraint, you see the porcelain mask lift up and away. You get a good look at the stallion’s muscular chest heaving above you.

“I know it’s not what you want, but you must try,” says Celestia.

You refuse to meet eyes with the executioner above you, or with the princess. You stare off into a corner, and hesitate.

You close your eyes tightly, and clench your teeth, covering your face with one hoof, and your freshly created femininity with another. You choke back tears, and obediently press your hooftip against your folds.

You’re a stallion, you think to yourself.

You slide your hoof through the layer of slickness between your hind legs, and you feel your first horrible tingle of pleasure. You part your lips, and oh softly, startled by just how different it feels from what you’re used to. There’s a swift wave of relief as your pent up sexual energy melts into a puddle of pure reward.

You’re not supposed to be enjoying this. You’re a stallion. This isn’t right.

You know your captors will soon demand that you hurry, so you press your hoof into your clit, and flick forcefully. The feeling is so intense that it is as if somepony had pressed a novelty buzzer against your belly. You gasp out, and quiver, shuddering. Too much. Wow. Being a mare feels so intense. You need to slow down.

No! You’re not a mare. You’re a stallion. You focus on the discomfort of that intensity, grinding your hoof into your clit, gritting your teeth and crying out with misery.

“You must not resist the feeling,” says Celestia. “You will never climax if you do not accept it.”

Your hoof finally slows down, and you enter into a steady rhythm of strokes. “Ahh… ahhhh…. oohhhh” You quickly realize that if you focus on the thought of what it felt like to close your thighs around the executioner, and look up at his heaving, muscular chest, the feelings of pleasure intensify. Soon you hardly realize you’re fantasizing about him. Your thoughts swirl of their own accord. You wonder what it would have been like if you let him finish. Maybe a female orgasm is even better?

No! You’re a stallion. Your thoughts turn to Celestia. You imagine your cock returned to you, and using it to get revenge for this whole situation. That’s right! That’s what you should be thinking about! You grit your teeth, and dig up the library of male power fantasies you normally enjoy while rubbing one out.

“She’s resisting,” says Celestia.

There’s a painful feeling in your shoulder. You’re being pressed down into the stones, and your hoof is violently pulled from your pussy. Opening your eyes, the first thing you see is the executioner looming over you. His white mask concealing his features, and his cock over your chest, fully erect. Its dripping tip and flared head points at your face, followed by a mottled shaft, thick and long.

“No! I wasn’t! I swear!”

He’s hard. You imagine he was watching you masturbate and it was turning him on. Does he only see a mare when he looks at you? A mare he wants to fuck? That alone fills you with a sense of violation.

The executioner slides his body down yours, and sinks his hips back down between your thighs. You mash your glistening hoof desperately into the executioner’s chest and close your hind legs, but the rough strong hoofs of your molester press between your thighs, and pry them open. You try to squirm away while he’s distracted by your legs, but he steps on your hair with a forehoof, pinning your mane to the ground painfully. When did it get so long?

You see him reaching a hoof down to grab at his cock, he groans as he reaches over the head and smears his transparent precum in trails down the top of his cock. He leans forward, getting close enough that the white mask touches your nose, and presses forth.

You look back at his eyes miserably, watching him take such great interest in what your eyes look like when you feel yourself start to be penetrated. You want to flail, and shake your hips so forcefully that he has to struggle to find his mark, but you’re exhausted in body and soul, and the final moments of your female virginity pass with a helpless whimper, and no resistance.

Whatever the guard sees, looking into your eyes at this moment, it loves it. He looses a croaking breath, soaked in pleasure and relief as he slides into your slick tunnel. The hole you never had before widens, stretches, and aches.

The feelings of invasion and pain start to give way to a pleasant feeling of fullness. Waves of pleasure flow through your body, egging you on, and insisting that you surrender to them. Distinctly unmasculine tingles flow up around your legs, and over your rump, forcing a sharp inhale and a stiff twitch from your body. As a male, sex felt so urgent. You felt a need to cum, and a deep desire for relief. Sure it felt good, but every surge of pleasure also made your itch for release even stronger. Now, your body feels saturated with a tense relaxation, as wave after wave of satisfaction courses up your body, encouraging you to surrender and let the monster on top of you have his way.

You tense. No. You can’t let these feelings take you over. You scream defiantly. “I am a stallion!”

Your rapist invades you to your depths, then withdraws, and invades you again. You see him adjusting his back and his rear awkwardly until he finds the best position to issue a steady push and pull. He’s slow at first, almost tender.

“I had hoped it would not come to this,” says a voice to your side. “There is nothing else I can do to help you. The only true way to ensure the process is to conceive.”

The body above you arches and shifts into an even more forceful position, speeding his pace immensely. Tension seems to soak through him and he loses all composure, growling and panting lustfully.

Is this why he brought you lunch? Did he know this would happen? Is this all some sick fetish? Did he want to see what you looked like whole before he got to see what you looked like broken?

You wrench your body on the cobbles. “Don’t!” you cry, slamming your hind hooves onto the ground, and pushing, sliding your back up, but only managing to press your face into a blackened corner of the dungeon wall.

“I know it is very hard to see now, but I am not without sympathy. If I could protect my subjects and also spare you this pain, I would do so. I would take your place if I had to.”

The executioner’s hips slap into you now, his belly loudly squashing into your teats with every thrust, a sharp and guttural groan barking from his throat with each push.

You’re a stallion. Stallions don’t get pregnant.

You feel a gentle hoof slide up your neck, and caress your face. He stares into your eyes appreciatively. The hoof slides across your lips next, and you turn away, shutting your eyes tightly. You feel him reach up and push your mane back out of your face, and behind your ear.

A pang of sorrow wells up in your chest, and you sob. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for raping that mare! She was just so beautiful! She—she told me to stop but I couldn’t I—I wouldn’t. I’m sorry! Is that what you wanted to hear?!”

Cold porcelain squeezes between your chin and your chest. The stallion invading your body cuddles fiercely against you, caressing sweetly down your side and over your cutie mark. You grit your teeth and try to wish the pleasure away, along with the pain.

He’s speeding up now. You can tell how much he’s enjoying this, too. That little staccato flutter in his breathing and the sharp spasms in his body are very familiar to you. You know a stallion’s signs. You’ve felt that tide of pleasure where you know the point of no return is in sight. “P—! Pull out! Don’t cum inside me! I’ll do anything! I take it back. I’m not a stallion! I’m not resisting! Celestia, have mercy! Have mercy I’m begging you!”

The executioner draws to a stop, holding himself deeply inside you, and looks to his mistress.

Celestia gently shakes her head at the executioner, who resumes thrusting without hesitation.

“No,” you whine. The word hiccups in your throat. You close your eyes tightly.

The tremulous breathing above you gets faster and faster, and you see a far away look in the eyes above you, sunken down inside their porcelain mask. “No,” you say with disbelief. “No! Pull out now! Don’t do this to me!” You feel him start to tremble and spasm, driving deep inside of you. He releases all his tension with a rumbling groan in your ear, and you feel his cock throbbing in your depths. “Please!” You feel a squirt, then another. “No!” The squirts are so tiny, but you can feel every one.

“No,” you whisper. You look over at Celestia. “He did it. You actually made him do it.”

Celestia stares downward with her mane obscuring her face.

The stallion makes a tremendously satisfied sound, relaxing his heavy body down onto yours, nestling into your neck and panting, cooing softly with his rumbling voice. He embraces you and runs a hoof languidly down your neck, finally becoming still except for his breathing.

Exhausted and weak in the knees, the executioner finally forces himself off of you, standing, and walking over to the ebony box to retrieve the crystal bottle. You cover your face with your foreleg and try to ignore him. If what the princess said is true, there’s nothing you can do now. Even if there was, would you want to? Would you snuff out the life inside you just to become a stallion again?

A gentle pet on your belly rouses you from your thoughts, however. You look down to see the executioner stroking your breasts gently, and you jump. There’s a feeling of pleasure rocketing through your body unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You had no idea it could get this good. Is this what it’s like now that you’re a mare?

The hoof slides down your inner thigh, describing a path around your sex, teasing its pedals. You look down at the source of all this pleasure, and you can see the father of your foal standing proudly, with a slowly softening, still dripping member.

“That feels good,” you hear yourself admit, punctuated by a spasm and a sharp gasp. You shake your head rapidly. No, wait. That shouldn’t feel good. Celestia was right. The pregnancy seems to have made the magic stronger.

You keep watching the source of your pleasure as your feelings of confusion and defeat start to be eclipsed. You try to tell yourself that you’re giving in, and you shouldn’t let your stallionhood go so easily, but it swiftly becomes hard to concentrate. All that misery is comforted by this feeling from your sex.

The part of you that’s still a stallion seems to cry, ever more silently, in fear for its existence. What did Celestia say? Arousal is normal part of the process? Your masculinity fought to survive by flooding you with desire. Is the femininity doing the same thing now?

Soft clicking sounds fill the air as your lover’s hoof gently strokes your clit amidst all the lubrication and mixed juices that drip down your inner stifles and onto your tail.

You’re a mare.

The silent admission sends a shock of pleasure through your body, and you cry out sharply, reaching down to desperately run your hoof down your teat, bucking and arching your back.

You’re a mare. You’re a mare. You’re a mare. You can’t stop thinking about how you’re a mare, it just feels too good.

You feel your pussy starting to clench and pulse now. You might as well be orgasming already by the feeling of pleasure. You wail and writhe on the filthy dungeon floor.

And finally, your masculinity surrenders, unleashing a white hot flash of pleasure. You arch sharply, groaning out a high pitched breath and twitching. You feel your anus and pussy clenching in waves over and over, squeezing down on the soup of cum and feminine lubrication still left inside.

Your world is muffled by the intense feeling traveling through you. You feel the urge to screw up your body and rub your fur against the floor that only moments ago had felt so uncomfortable. You hear yourself making throaty whimpers out of your slack-jawed muzzle, past expression of awe on your face. Funny, if you had guessed, you would have thought you would be a screamer.

The urge to release your ejaculate overpowers you, and you relax your pelvis. The executioner’s bottle is ready to catch the result. He pushes aside your folds, opens your urethra with his hoof, and presses the cold bottle against the opening. Powerful hooves hold onto your hind legs, trying to keep your pelvis as still as possible as the orgasm encourages you to squirm and wiggle and buck your hips.

An oily baby-blue substance issues forth in squirt after squirt, hissing as it reverberates off the bottom of the bottle in shot after shot. Your body isn’t satisfied until it’s squeezed out every last drop. Some of it dribbles down your folds, and over your tail, which is fluttering madly below.

The room has a suspiciously eldritch scent of steel and smoke until the executioner pops a cork onto the bottle.

You collapse backward, and stare up, feeling delightfully at peace for the few sweet moments before your orgasm fully subsides.

You frown and reach down to rub at your abdomen.

“Take as long as you need,” says your sovereign and judge. “When you are ready, you are free to go.”

Celestia nods at the executioner, and they turn to leave you in the dark.

Your back hurts, and your haunches are cold.

Author's Note

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