Bet You're Too Chicken To Even Try
She was a bitch. Prism Bolt had dealt with worse, but she was still a bitch.
Now, Prism Bolt wasn’t the kind of stallion who just called mares bitches on a whim. Guys who did that were the kind of assholes who recently had their bad behavior bite them right in the ass. jerks who had been denied a roll in the hay because they wore their irritating characters on their sleeves. Usually when Prism was down at the bar with coworkers, and one of said coworkers called a significant other a bitch, Prism would have to swallow down the urge to punch him in the face, complete with a heavy swig of beer to make sure he could mask that swallowing, and then politely remind them that just because something didn’t go his way romance-wise didn’t make the poor girl he was slurring a bitch.
But this chick. This Gilda chick was, in fact, a bitch.
She had come over earlier, see. Knocked on the door– didn’t even say hello when he answered it– and asked if Rainbow Dash was home. She was, but she was still asleep, since it was seven-thirty in the morning. If she wanted to see Rainbow Dash, she would have to visit later. Gilda– he didn’t know her name at the moment– put on a scowl and rolled her eyes. “Well,” she said, “tell her Gilda popped over, and that Dashie needs to get her ass out of bed, cause we’re ‘sposed to work out today.”
Then she just turned around and left. Not even a goodbye, or even a cursory note Prism Bolt was even there. She just walked up and walked away. Now, he didn’t immediately write her off as a bitch, because it was awfully early in the morning, and this wouldn’t have been the first person who had ever gotten angry because his daughter slept in late. It was probably that this Gilda wasn’t a morning person. No, Prism Bolt started suspecting that Gilda may have been, in fact, a bitch when she came over the second time at exactly eight o’clock. He sat down to a big plate of hay bacon and eggs, and was just about to rip into it before hearing the doorbell ring. And then ring again. And then ring yet again.
“Where’s Dashie?” Gilda asked the very moment he opened the door. Prism Bolt told her Dashie was still asleep, and that usually she slept in until about nine thirty at the earliest. Sometimes the poor mare didn’t wake up until about twelve. She spent every afternoon during the past week training, and all evening during the week studying and trying to keep up with school and she really did need the rest. Prism explained this as quickly and as politely as he could, because a griffon on the other side of the door was giving him this smoldering expression of unrelenting anger, and that wasn’t exactly the most encouraging sight. “Get her up soon,” Gilda said, and she left again, without acknowledging Prism Bolt in the slightest.
Now, Prism Bolt still didn’t assume that Gilda was a bitch, although whispers of the word were swimming around inside his head. She was probably still tired, and despite clear frustration with Rainbow Dash, Prism Bolt knew from personal experience that a lazy trainee was a really, really annoying trainee. Sure, Gilda didn’t look a single day past eighteen, but she had the assertiveness and the self-confidence to be a trainer of some kind. Maybe this was the way griffons taught high-level flight. They were a warrior race, and Prism Bolt had no intention of calling a noble, if cranky, young griffon a bitch.
No, he only determined she was a bitch the third time at exactly nine-thirty, when she popped up again, asked about Dashie again and got the exact same response. She growled, pushed past Prism with wings flared open, storming into the house without even a half-assed apology or a too-fast-to-catch-and-say-no-to request for permission. She marched up to the foot of the stairs, digging a claw into the banister, and shouted, “Yo! Dashie! Geddup! C’mon!”
Her voice was loud. It was like jet-powered nails on a chalkboard. Even though Cloudsdale was miles upon miles in the sky, Prism Bolt swore he could feel his ears pop from the sheer volume and the screeching pitch of Gilda’s voice. Even worse, when she didn’t get a response, she let out a loud, avian screech. “Up and at ‘em, dweeb! We’re burning fuckin’ daylight here!”
Prism Bolt heard a groan, and he felt something twist inside of his stomach. It was right then and there that he gave himself a teeny, weeny bit of permission to call Gilda a bitch. When Rainbow Dash appeared at the top of the stairs in an oversized T-shirt, bags under her eyes, muttering things about how she was going and that she would be ready in a few, all he could do was cross his arms, and give Gilda a disapproving look. He was getting the impression that she was not a nice person. She was, most likely, a bitch. Prism Bolt tried to formulate a response, while Gilda tapped her footpaw, looking clearly irritated as poor Dashie sluggishly woke up her limbs and started the morning grind.
“I’m sorry,” Prism Bolt said, carefully choosing every word. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Gilda le Grand,” Gilda said, not even bothering to look at him.
“Well, look, Miss le Grand,” Prism Bolt said, “I dunno what kind of training you guys are doing together, but whatever it is, I’m not sure what you’re trying to get by waking up Rainbow Dash when she’s clearly exhausted, and then getting pissed off when she’s still kinda waking up.”
“I got up at six this morning,” Gilda said. “Earlier you get up, more calories ya burn, Rainbow Dad.”
“That’s not… Whatever. I’ve got a name, y’know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Prism Bolt,” Prism Bolt said, feeling his blood pressure rise a few points. “The name’s Prism Bolt. But you should call me Mister Bolt.”
“Whatever you say, Prissy,” Gilda said, not a hint of irony in her voice, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Prism Bolt resisted the urge to protest, shaking his head.
“How do you know Rainbow Dash?”
“School,” Gilda said, dismissively.
“School. Alright. So are you friends, I hope?” He really didn’t, of course, since Gilda was a bitch, but these were basic “questions a father might ask you to make sure you’re not some kind of creep”. But she wasn’t responding– just staring up at the second floor, with a scowl so deep it had to have been carved into her beak. Kind of surprising she was able to even emote beyond “permanent disapproval” with that short, sharp, daggerlike thing poking out of her face like some kind of armored, bony snout.
Still no response. More staring. Prism Bolt sighed, leaning against the bannister, rubbing his temples, trying desperately to relax. He wondered with some incredulity how Rainbow Dash could tolerate bitches like this.
“Look, Miss le Grand,” he began, with some caution. “I’m sorry. I feel like we got off the wrong hoof. Erm, foot, as it were.”
“Footpaw.”
“Right,” Prism Bolt said. “That. Uhm… Look. I can tell you’re a very… Athletically dedicated young lady. But you really should relax.”
Gilda turned towards Prism Bolt. The murderous glare she gave him chilled him to his very core. Something deep inside suggested that Gilda would have been very pretty if she ever bothered to smile, but she wasn’t now., Those sharp-cut, diamond-hewn angles of her face seemed deeply and intimately angry. Her body language was the poised, pounce-ready twitch of a lion– which made sense given her species– and speaking of her body… Well, Prism wasn’t the kind to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. Gilda was built. Not in the excessively bulky, powerful way, but in the incredibly toned and athletic way. She was built like a flyer, which was kinda like a swimmer, but somehow leaner from the waist-up. She was expertly hewn, excess fat burned away by intense exercise and strict diet, by discipline and regimen. Gilda wasn’t the still-getting-there kind of body Prism saw in most high-school mares. She was so toned her six-pack abs seemed to pop out of her abdomen, and she wore a midriff-baring shirt as if trying to show it off.
Clearly, she was. Prism Bolt would have felt very attracted to her were it not for her attitude. He would be very interested in those big, fat thighs that her figure slipped into, aerodynamics meeting attractiveness. He would be fascinated with how those thighs were connected to wide, pear-shaped hips, and how those hips slide up to a modestly-sized but still attractive bust. And he would be enthralled by how that bust had on top of it a face that looked so angry it was about to pop open, and it’s owner was going to strangle the absolute living hell out of Prism Bolt– He suddenly became very aware that he was staring, and who he was staring at, and his previously intrigued libido was suddenly sullied with disgust.
“You eyeballin’ me?!” Gilda muttered, her tone growly and dangerous.
Please, Prism Bolt thought, as if I would. “What would make you think that?”
Gilda didn’t respond, but pointed at her eyes, then pointed at Prism, the universal, cross-cultural signal for I’m watching you, motherfucker, and added up with the rest of her actions as a general message of don’t you fuck with me. Prism let out a small snort, and lamented that such an attractive body had to be attached to such a wasted potential of a face and a person. But before he could think too hard about it, she let out another alien screech that made Prism Bolt wince. It was so loud, he had to check to see if his ears were bleeding.
“What the hell is taking her so long?!” Gilda snapped.
“Dashie’s kinda slow in the morning,” Prism Bolt mumbled, still swirling his pinkie around in his ear canal, thankful that not a single oily drop of blood gushed forth from his broken cochlea. “We’ve only been down here a little bit, Miss le Grand,” Prism Bolt said.
Gilda scowled. “Well, she better hurry the fuck up. And what’s the deal with that ‘Miss le Grand’ shit? You’re creepin’ me out, Prissy.”
“I’m sorry,” Prism Bolt said, swearing that red was starting to flood his vision in places it shouldn’t. “I’m trying to be polite.”
“Well, cut it the fuck out, Prissy. Call me Gilda. Miss le Grand is for my teachers.”
“Sure,” Prism Bolt said. “So long as you stop calling me Prissy. Nopony calls me that.”
“Scuse me?”
Prism Bolt tilted his head, and Gilda’s murderous expression shifted from “I’m going to kill you” to “I’m going to kill you and everyone else on the block." Prism Bolt felt that little twist in his belly go the exact opposite way. Then she started approaching him. She had the surprisingly light, quiet step that he would have expected from Griffon paws, and all of a sudden Prism Bolt felt very, very small. “What the fuck did you just say to me, you little bitch?” Gilda breathed.
“Uhm.”
“Yeah? Uhm? That’s it, huh?" Gilda growled, poking a sharp claw into his chest. "You gonna leave it at that or do ya wanna keep trying to tell me what to do?”
She opened up the rest of her hand, and let her claw trail down his short, her eyes red hot but ice cold all the same. “‘Cause I really don’t like it when people tell me what to do, least of all ponies.”
What a bitch. A potentially dangerous bitch, though. Prism Bolt swallowed down his fear and simply shook his head. “I didn’t mean–”
“Course you didn’t,” Gilda said. “You didn’t mean a thing. And it’s gonna stay that way, hear? That okay with you, Prissy? ‘Cause I’m sure you and I don’t wanna have an issue.”
“Hey, whoa,” Prism Bolt said, putting his hands up. “I don’t want to make you mad or anything. Chill.”
Gilda’s face seemed to go dark, and Prism Bolt swallowed his fear in the face of mortal peril. Luckily, though, her expression softened just a bit, and turned to a scowl. Her fists shook as she looked Prism Bolt in the eyes and let out a grunt. “Fine,” she said. “Be that way.”
“Be what way?”
Gilda grunted, stepping back and laying against the wall. “Nuthin’.”
Bitch.
So they were back to waiting. Rainbow Dash was still going slow. It must have been about ten minutes since she woke up. Now she was taking a drowsy shower, and Prism Bolt had no idea how long she planned to take it. Whatever the case was, Gilda had gone from being actively and aggressively angry to sullen and somewhat pissed. She leaned back against the wall, pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and put one in her mouth. Every single personal training warning bell, siren, and alarm went off in Prism Bolt’s head. Did she have any idea what she was doing to herself? Killing her lungs, killing her cardio, killing her energy, putting on needless weight? He barely restrained himself from reaching forward and slapping it out of her mouth.
“Got a light?”
Prism Bolt narrowed his eyes. “No.” On closer examination, the cigarette wasn’t much of a cigarette, either. It was a long, thin white tube, the kind of thing that was clearly hastily made and then saved for later. Prism Bolt became very concerned that it wasn’t tobacco. Gilda gave him a harsh glare, took the cigarette or whatever it was out of her mouth, and put it back in her pocket, letting out a huff.
“Dweeb,” she muttered, under her breath.
“Bitch,” Prism muttered under his.
“I heard that,” Gilda said, clacking her beak at Prism, nipping the air.
“I heard you, too. So we’re even,” Prism said, his frustrations with this bitch shining through. He felt his gut drop when she suddenly gave him a smile.
“Cool.”
Prism Bolt sighed. “Look, ya know what, it’s gonna be a while for Dashie since she stayed up really late–”
“You want me out, I’m guessin’.”
Prism Bolt looked up at Gilda. She really was built like a Griffonian goddess of war, a modern Andraste, but she certainly didn’t have a goddess' attitude. She was a bitch. A complete and utter bitch. She was treating him like shit and they had only just met. She was so rude and inconsiderate towards Rainbow Dash, Prism Bolt couldn't possibly imagine that they were friends. She dressed like a harlot; combat boots, jeans shorts, midriff-baring shirt, studded gloves, all of that edgy shit. Yes, Prism Bolt knew he should probably get rid of her as soon as he could, and yet, some part of him told him to hold off on it. She was attractive. She was a bombshell, a reusable one that kept blowing up over and over, and there was a primal part of Prism that he didn’t want to ignore. Was he staring again? Could he even tell? She was young, and full of energy, and clearly very strong, she was the kind of lady that Prism had always found attractive, had always found…
“No, I don’t,” Prism Bolt said.
“Why not? I’ve been awful, huh? A real bad girl?”
he blinked at the way she used the phrase, but shook his head. “I was married. You can ask Dash, I’ve dealt with worse.”
“I bet you were a real pussy with the way you dealt with it,” Gilda said with a smirk.
“I prefer the term diplomatic.”
“So a real pussy.”
Prism Bolt rolled his eyes, and chose to ignore her. “You drink coffee, Gilda?”
“What the fuck are you doing? Why are you still being nice to me?”
Prism Bolt sighed. “Because, Gilda, I think I get more out of ponies when I’m nice to them, unlike you, who just pushes all of their buttons until they break under you.”
“That’s not nice, Prissy.”
Something inside of Prism Bolt suddenly shifted. A switch had been switched, a lever pulled, a button pressed. Something angry, dark, and antagonistic rose up inside of him, and he simply gave Gilda a glare, and headed for the kitchen.
“Fuck off.”
She whistled. “Put some milk in that coffee, won’t ya?”
And so here they were. Prism Bolt, doing his best to be nice, doing his best to be a good father, doing his best to be tolerant of Rainbow Dash’s choice of friends. Gilda was being downright antagonistic again for no good reason, smouldering at him from across the counter, but now in a different way. She was glaring at him in a way that Prism Bolt liked in one way and absolutely feared and hated in another. All he could do was sip at his black coffee and just watch her. She was prettier when she was smiling. When she wasn’t saying something nasty. When she had her beak open, and seemed to pour coffee into her maw, and then smacked the softer parts of her beak that must have been the closest thing to lips that she had. She held the coffee mug by the mug, and not by the handle, her grip around it vicelike, as if she was handling a pint, and Prism Bolt felt that one would have been appropriate had it not been morning.
“So.”
Gilda grinned. “This coffee sucks.”
“I’m sorry, my ex-wife did all the coffee shit. I’m no good at it. Dashie says the same thing, just more politely.”
Gilda laughed. It was a scratchy, antagonistic noise that drilled into Prism Bolt’s head as if trying to crack into the vault of his mind. And yet, he didn't mind it. It was more of a punk rocker's cry against the machine than it was the machine itself, as if she was rebelling against the very idea of laughing. The way she was lounging, acting like she didn't care now if he was staring, legs crossed, eyes lidded, one strap of her top down her arm...
She was staring at him. Prism felt his gut squeeze tightly. Why was she staring at him like that?
“Yeah, that sounds like Dashie. She’s too fucking nice,” Gilda said, taking another swig of coffee, probably burning her mouth but too… too Gilda to care. Too angry at the world, and yet desiring it's treasures too much. Crossing her legs back the other way, tilting her head just a bit, her claw lingering as she pulled her shirt back in order.
“Maybe you could learn from her,” Prism Bolt said.
“Nah,” Gilda said. “Ponies don’t fuck with you when you give 'em a little attitude. At least, not like that. They fuck you turned sideways, face against the wall, pounding and punishing y–”
“Okay, okay, too much,” Prism Bolt said. “That’s a line I’m not gonna cross.”
“Why not?” Gilda said, her eyes narrowing, this time with a more lustful gaze. Prism Bolt felt the knot in his gut well up again. “You’ve been staring most of the time I’ve been here. Why not do more than stare?”
Prism almost spat out his coffee, but swallowed it down, looking at her. She was shameless. Mug on the table, elbows together, hands under her chin, eyes sparkling with libido. Yet he could see the fire sparking in them, bright and fearsome, daring him to make a move, to say something. “I..."
He chuckled a little nervously. "I dunno. You’d prolly cut my throat or something. You’ve got the vibe of some kind of psycho killer.”
Gilda laughed, loudly, and Prism Bolt almost checked to see if his ears were bleeding again. “No shit? Holy fuck, thanks, man, that’s what I needed to know!”
“You want ponies to fear you?”
Gilda grinned. “I sure as hell do. Cause when ponies fear you, they respect you. They respect you, they treat you good. They treat you good, you don’t get beat up. I haven’t ever gotten beat, Prissy. Ya know why? Nopony wants to fuck with me that way. Sure, so what if they’re afraid of me? Anypony who’s a pussy bitch who can’t handle my vibe is a fucking waste of space, anyhow. I only let the toughest and the strongest even think about touching me. Licking me. Fucking me. Bending me over sideways and just fuckin’ pounding me in the motherfuckin’ earth. Makin’ me scar my fuckin’ throat with how hard I’m screamin’ and making me cum so hard I’m movin’ around like I’m drunk for fucking hours. Treating me like how I deserve. Treating me like a bitch. You gotta have balls, Prissy, and quite frankly, I ain’t too sure you’ve got ‘em.”
“...Well.”
Prism Bolt took a sip of his coffee.
“That was enlightening.”
Gilda giggled. “Now ya know what ya gotta do the cross the line.”
“I wonder why you’re giving me a chance to get to know you.”
“I was thinkin’ the same thing except opposite.”
Prism gave Gilda a curious eyebrow, and she only responded with the flutter of lidded eyes and a daredevil grin. She shifted in her chair, putting her elbows on the counter, propping up her chin with her claws as she licked her lips and flicked her wings. “Want me to be nice and tell ya why?”
Prism grunted. “You’re not nice.”
“Not all the time. I can be. I can be really nice, but only if ya treat me right. Ya gotta treat me like a griffon, not like some pussy-ass pegasus.”
Prism raised an eyebrow. “So you basically want me to be an asshole.”
“Well, I’m a bitch, you said so yourself,” Gilda said. “And I think that there's a real mean son of a bitch in that thick skull of yours you don't want me to see. But you heard what I said...”
She grinned, licking her beak. "Only the toughest and the strongest. And the toughest and the strongest don't take shit from a gal like me."
Now, Prism Bolt figured that he wasn’t an asshole for various reasons. His divorce had less to do with him and, hell, barely had to do with his ex-wife despite his moaning to the contrary, and more had to do with the fact that while they were perfectly fine ponies separately, their worst qualities came out and became intolerable while around one another. And despite his assholery sometimes manifesting itself in, say, punching in the face a coworker who called his overworked, stressed-as-hell and somewhat clingy girlfriend a bitch, Prism Bolt had a fairly decent track record of good behavior (and was very, very lucky that the unlucky son of a bitch that he had punched knew he deserved it and chose not to press charges). Yet, Prism Bolt knew he had tendencies to be a bit… Well, he let himself get angry sometimes. But he usually manifested it into disappointment, not resentment, not into true hatred. He used anger productively.
Gilda was just sitting there, taking small sips of coffee now. Her head was tilted, and her breasts hung just a bit below her arched back, her wings splayed out a bit as she gave Prism a dirty smile. He was taken aback a bit. This wasn’t the same bird that had marched into his house and demanded that his daughter wake up, and proceeded to bitch him out. Not at all. This was somebody far more deadly than that. Prism Bolt worked with a stallion who liked to refer to girls like this as dames– master manipulators, capable of getting anything they wanted by changing their attitude.
Prism smiled back, the smallest one he could muster. She was dangerous, and he loved danger. How could he refuse?
Prism Bolt stepped around the table, getting behind Gilda’s back. Her posture was incredible. Healthy, straight spine, with just enough curve to give her some lunging power Big, broad brown wings, the tips of her feathers fading to an almost black grey, like the edges of a burning book. Even when folded up against her body, or just barely open to flap irritably, they were big, long, magnificent things; built for cruising and for rapid descents. Prism felt his own wings give a small twitch. They were smaller, sure, fine-tuned for rapid acceleration– the Germane racecar to Gilda’s muscle car– typical pegasus wing build. Those big, strong wings of hers gave her an even more exotic mystique, made him wonder if he was going to be able to do what he was about to do.
“You’re totally sure about this,” he said, pulling off his shirt, and throwing it behind his back. It was more of a statement than a question. Gilda turned around, her head tilted, raising an eyebrow and putting on a scowl.
“Sure about what?”
“Getting rutted by your best friend's dad.”
“Please,” Gilda scoffed, “Whatever pussy shit you could pull off prolly ain’t even close to what somepony would call ru–”
Prism made his move. His hooves were silent against the tiles, but swift, and soon he had grabbed ahold of Gilda’s neck, and forced her against the counter. She let out a squawk, splaying her wings, smacking her mug of coffee across the kitchen and making it shatter against the cupboard. She struggled, oh how she struggled; Prism could just feel the raw strength behind every single writhing spasm, her claws grabbing at his wrist and trying to pry him off, digging into his skin and scratching him. But Prism Bolt held firm, letting out a grunt, giving her a bit of slack before slamming her against the counter again. He held her neck outwards, away from him, tilting his head as she let go of his arm to try and grab his neck, or worse yet get her claws in his face and start to gouge out his eyes. He had heard horror stories from his old man, see, about the third Griffon War, and the fate that many a blinded veteran of that conflict had to endure when grappling griffons, and somehow that ancient bit of wisdom stuck in his brain as he slammed Gilda against the counter once more.
“F-Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck, what– Fuck…”
Prism Bolt used his free hand to slap her across the face. She gasped, the smack still resounding in her head, her eyes wide, surprised… a little bit excited, even. Prism stepped between her legs– no way she was going to close them now. “That was for Dashie. She deserves better friends.”
“What–”
Another slap. This time with the back of his hand, leaving a red mark against Gilda’s feathered cheek, and with enough force to swing head sideways. “That,” he said, “was for me, ‘cause you didn’t even say hello, and just charged in here like you owned the fucking place.”
Gilda gurgled as he squeezed her neck, and leaned in, and Prism could see the dangerous glint in his eyes. “And this,” he said, leaning back to slap her once more, “is just for you, ‘cause you said you wanted to be treated like you deserve.”
He let go of Gilda’s neck, and grabbed both of her wrists, forcing them against the counter, her struggling weaker, but gaining more strength as she caught her breath. “Anything you wanna say?”
Gilda panted, then let out a little chuckle. “D-Damn… Didn’t think you had that in ya…”
“I’m only getting started,” Prism said.
“Good,” Gilda hummed. “Cause far as I’m concerned, this is still some pussy shit.”
Prism Bolt grunted. What a bitch. A spoiled, simpering brat with a superiority complex. Dressed like a tramp and acted like a slut, the kind of evil he couldn’t help but have a thing for, the kind of mare that wouldn’t complain when it hurt. He pushed his hips forward, and bumped the bulge in his shorts against Gilda’s crotch, and let go of one of her wrists to grope her breast. They weren’t ridiculous size, by any means, but they were certainly bigger than a few that he had taken hold of in the past, and he squeezed with so much might that the griffon let out a groan, her hips rolling up a bit against him, and then he squeezed harder still and her beak clamped shut as she let out a pained whimper, her free hand grabbing at his arm again. He noticed he was bleeding now– three long, thin red lines around his arm, stinging in the open air, and it only served to make him squeeze more violently, to push up her shirt and pull at her bra. “You’re gonna take this off,” he muttered.
“And w-why should I?”
Prism growled, and let go of Gilda’s breast, his hand curling into a fist and slamming into her side. She let out a loud squeak, a hiss as all of the air was punched from her lungs in a single blow, her head throwing back against the counter with a thump before she pulled it up again, giving Prism a challenging grin.
“Fuckin’ wuss,” she gasped. “Can’t even hit properly.”
Prism grinned. “I was only trying to wind you, you stupid cunt. If I hit a little lower, you’d be in a hell of a lot of pain.”
Gilda scoffed, writhing a bit, her free claw sliding down her body, running down her side. “Suuuure.”
“I’m a trainer,” Prism grunted. “I work with boxers. know how to hurt people. Don’t make me do it.”
Gilda grinned, reaching back, unclasping her bra, Prism tightening his grip against her wrist and pushing his hips forward, and tightening his fist so hard his arm shook and his bicep popped up. She wanted him to hurt her. She wanted him to prove how “tough” he was. The little birdie inside of his head tweeted and trilled, begged him not to do it, but looking at her face, and seeing how her eyes just seemed to plead with him to do it, he couldn’t deny her. He could never deny somepony who wanted a thrashing a thrashing. Maybe he wasn’t as good a pony as he thought he was.
Maybe it didn’t matter.
His fist moved like a blur. Certainly not a boxer’s speed, but it struck like a scorpion all the same: smashing into Gilda’s side, right underneath her ribs, bashing against muscle, the impact shaking through her organs, hitting like a sledgehammer, and Gilda’s demeanor changed in seconds, her balled-up claws opening, her writhing intensifying again as pain shot through every single inch of her body, her mouth open wide, her uvula quaking as she let out the distinctive cry of a griffon, a mighty roar mixed with a harsh, screeching cry, her back arched as spasms shot through her, and Prism only smiled. Stupid bitch. Didn’t even know how badly he could hurt her. But her wildly swinging claw on her free hand caught him across the chest, and he let out a gasp. Harsh, stinging pain brought him back to his senses from satisfaction. He grabbed her free wrist and forced it back down, leaning down against her again, feeling her squirm, listening to every whimper. He nuzzled against her already-bruised neck.
“Not bad, huh?” he said, voice low, but without a single iota of shame.
Gilda sniffed, and for a moment, Prism wondered if she was crying. But when he looked at her face, all he saw was a hard, red blush, tears in her glassy eyes– not allowed to fall– and a breathless, stupid open mouth.
“Fuckin’ do it again, bitch,” she breathed. “I came so… so damn hard, holy shit, where… where the fuck did you…”
Prism shook his head. “No.”
“N-No what?”
“I’m not a bitch,” Prism said. “You are. Say it.”
Gilda was silent, so Prism slapped her across the face once more. She let out a squeak, shivering. Her legs tried to close and rub together, but her soft thighs only serving to pull Prism up closer. She muttered something under her breath. Prism slapped her again, sparing her his backhand, but hitting her just as hard. “Say it,” he commanded, his eyes steely, emotionless, but still letting a little bit of anger shine through, enough to make Gilda cringe.
“I… I’m a bitch,” Gilda whispered breathlessly.
“Say it fucking louder,” Prism grunted, raising his hand.
Gilda swallowed. “I’m a bitch.”
“Louder.”
“B-But what if Rainbow Dash–”
“She’d have heard by now,” Prism growled, his hand raising higher. “Now say it!”
“I’m a bitch! I’m a bitch! I’m a total fucking bitch!”
He slapped her anyways. He couldn’t help himself at this point. Every single time he hit Gilda, every single time his hand smacked against her face, she’d let out a submissive little squeak. She’d roll her hips up against him, and she’d shudder and let out a grunt or, if he was lucky, a groan of pain. Her cheeks were stained bright red with more than blush now. She was a mess. Panting wildly, smelling of excitement, sweat staining the collar of her pulled-up shirt, her breasts rolling up and down with the rising and falling of her breathless chest. The two of them looked one another in the eyes as Prism’s hand trailed up her side, making her groan and shudder as he ran it up against that already bruised spot beneath her ribs. Prism knew he could let go of her other wrist now, so he ran both his hands down both her sides, reached down, and finally give that plump ass she had a harsh grope, making her shiver.
“I’ve earned this,” he said. “You’re lucky I wasn’t rougher with you.”
Gilda let out a chuckle, shaking her head. “I guess… I guess you just… barely pass…”
“Don’t push me.”
Gilda shivered, putting one of her claws in her mouth, and Prism saw that she was doing it with every one, sucking off the small drops of blood that she had managed to claw off, and Prism felt the warm, damp, maroon fluid drip down his chest. It stained his fur down to his pecs, the wounds stinging dreadfully, and a shiver coursed through his spine. “I bet you want me to,” she breathed. “You want me to push every single one of your fuckin’ little buttons. You like getting scratched up, huh? Ya want me to give ya more? Give ya fuckin’ souvenir of that time you plowed some griffon bitch so hard she pissed all over the floors?”
“Don’t do that,” Prism Bolt said, staring her in the eyes. “I don’t wanna clean up after you.”
Gilda grinned. “Sure ya don’t?”
“Really sure,” Prism grunted.
“Fine.”
They looked each other in the eyes, and Prism shuddered. There was something predatory in Gilda’s eyes, but it was the kind of look you saw in a warrior defeated mano a mano, the respectul glare of a dominated opponent, the one that invited further humiliation but no loss of respect, the look of somepony that knew that they had lost. Prism’s hands slipped up her body, and gently massaged her breasts, making her shake, but eliciting no further response. Her eyes slowly burned with a bit of fire, as if she expected more. He only chuckled, tweaking her nipples, then giving them a squeeze, making her hum, her back arching up to his touch. His fingers slowly twisted, her beak shutting more and more tightly, her eyes squeezing shut, until he started pulling. She began to pant like a horny dog, her hips rolling up, and Prism knew he couldn’t wait anymore. He had to fuck her, he just had to. Nothing could stop him now.
He let go, letting her relax, hands trailing back down her body. The fur was soft to the touch, but short enough that he could feel every single contour of her smooth, chiseled flesh, feel every smooth muscle in her six-pack, feel her hips start to push out, until he got to her shorts. He swallowed. Shaky hands opened her belt, pulled it open, pulled it off and put it on the table beside her, a smile coming to his face. “For later,” he murmured, undoing the button of her pants, focusing on what he was doing now, the zipper coming down fast, Gilda letting out a grunt as she wriggled her hips and gave him a glare.
“Prism?” Gilda whimpered.
“What?” he hissed.
“D-Dashie’s still in the shower?”
Prism blinked. Was she? His ears perked up, and caught the telltale squeal of running pipes above his head. She was. But for how long? They had to have been doing this for like… Ten minutes, maybe. Maybe even more. Why hadn’t she come out yet? Even if she was drowsy, she wouldn’t have taken this long… Would she?
Prism shrugged. He shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“What if she–”
Prism Bolt put a hand over her mouth, growling, holding her beak shut. “Shut up. I said it doesn’t matter, so it doesn’t matter. Got it?”
Gilda looked up into his eyes, still blushing, whimpering as she nodded her head in his grasp. But as he let go, a tantalizing little smirk came across her lips, and she cocked her head to the side. “Just speed the fuck up, would ya? Unless you wanna get caught by your darling daughter...”
Prism blinked, looking up at her, and briefly entertained the idea of slapping her again, before realizing she was right. He did have to speed up. He couldn’t afford to be sensual. He didn’t have the time. He gave her rear a small pinch, before slipping his fingers into her shorts– snatching the waistband of her panties in the same move– and then pulled down, stepping out of her legs as he slid her soaked garments off of her. The smell of feline arousal filled the air, sickly sweet, cinnamony, and it was enough to send shudders down Prism’s spine. He left her pants on one of her ankles, and quickly stepped forward again, keeping her from closing her legs and forcing him out, his thumbs pushing down the front of his shorts and letting his length bounce out.
Now, Prism Bolt was pretty proud of his pecker, all things considered. It wasn’t the biggest in the world, and he had no doubts that some girls had experienced longer, but he had a bit of a reputation for being thick. As his length slid against Gilda’s slick, puffy pussy lips, that little satisfied grunt she gave added a little bit of fuel to the ego train. “Break’s over,” he grunted. “How flexible do you think you are?”
Gilda hummed. “Depends on what ya wanna do.”
“This.”
Prism’s hand found Gilda’s right ankle, and he pulled it up over his shoulder, the strain causing Gilda to grunt. He turned her inadvertently on her side, one of her now-free wings flapping free and swinging back of forth, bringing cool air over their sweaty bodies. His length now poked at Gilda’s pussy, and he had complete access to everything below the waist, and a good view of most anything above as Gilda turned her torso to face him a little bit more. “Ya good?” Prism said.
Gilda scoffed. “Does it matter?”
Prism nodded. “I’m not gonna fuck a bitch who doesn’t like the way she’s getting fucked. Even if it’s you.”
Gilda snorted. “You punched me in the gut, asshole.”
“You asked for it.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t do it again.”
“Who said I’m not going to?”
Gilda blinked, and looked up at Prism’s eyes, and Prism knew that she was backing down under his steely gaze. She was shivering as warm, hard cockhead pushed against her tight, young pussy lips, and that despite an orgasm or two she was still wet. She was still ready, she was still unsatisfied, and she never would be satisfied until he filled her, he pounded her, he took her like the slut she was and made her all his. She wasn’t going to be satisfied until he made her pay back the wounds on his arm and the scratches on his chest. They still bled all the way down to his waist, oozing slowly, healthily, and stinging in the cold air that breezed across him with every irritated flap of her wings. She opened her mouth to reply, but Prism didn’t give her a chance to respond. He took his head away from her cunt for a mere moment before plunging in, and every word she could have said devolved into a scratchy coo.
“Oh shit.”
Prism chuckled, then his face fell into stupor, and his length twitched inside her. Holy fuck, she was so wet. It was like a running tap of arousal over his cock, washing over it again and again. As he dug further and further, she squeezed and clenched and pulled at the intruder, welcoming it fully, massaging it expertly. Prism knew she was doing it on purpose. There was a smile on her face again, and as Prism slowly pushed further, felt the medial ring pop into her. He knew she was enjoying the hell out of every single inch he was feeding into her, and that he stretching parts of her that she never knew could be stretched.
“Yeah,” he breathed, grabbing her belt, putting it in his right hand, gritting his teeth as he went further until he finally bottomed out, his hips slapping against hers. The sweet scent of her arousal filled his mind, fulfilling some primitive, primal part of him he knew existed. It was the same part that punched uppity stallions in the face, that slammed bitches in the gut, that plowed into sluts without a second thought. His eyes closed as he tilted up his head and started to pull back. It was slow going; with every inch that left her, Gilda’s pussy begged for it back, and Prism actually felt himself pulled back into her with expert contractions of velvet cunt. He resisted the urge to just start pounding her, to start forcing those moans out of her, those grunts and squeaks and squeals.
“Stupid bitch,” he growled. “You really like that, huh?”
The belt finally found it’s use. Once Prism was able to pull his head back to her lips, once he was able to groan from the scent sending shivers down his spine, once he was able to enjoy Gilda’s needy pants, the belt came into play. It swung back a few inches before smacking against Gilda’s plushy ass, the same time that Prism slammed himself forward and buried his length into her dribbling cunt. It forced a squeal from her aching lungs, forced her hips to shudder and her legs to quake. As the pounding started, as the rhythm got going, Prism’s free hand took a hold of Gilda’s raised thigh and gave it a harsh squeeze. He was taking the bitch harsh, violent, and fast. Slaps of flesh against flesh and snaps of belt against ass rang out into the air, every moan, every squawk, every flap of her wings and click of her beak making his cock twitch. The heat and wetness was wrapped so tightly around him and just clenching, never letting him get out any further than just before his medial ring, accelerating his violent pushes back into her, his groans and pants melding with her cries and groans.
She was a bitch– and a slut, too– the wanton kind that took a big, thick equine cock so easily, and yet still treated it like the first time. She still rolled her hips against each rapid thrust, still swore and squeaked with every rough plunge, and gasped and moaned for more with every violent yank backwards. Gilda’s furred bust bounced and rolled with the force of every single perfect, powerful thrust like a pair of balloons in a storm. She reached to feel herself up, squeezing and kneading into one of her breasts with what little control she had left. Her legs twitched and her tunnel squeezing harder, and harder, and the belt came down harder, and harder, and the thrusts coming faster, and faster, and faster.
“Prism,” Gilda gasped.
“What?!”
“Th-The pipes…”
Prism stopped inside of her, putting his free hand over her mouth, holding his breath as he listened close. No pipes. Dashie was done with her shower. He had to be quick. His pounding went from a wrench to a jackhammer, bashing into her over and over, faster and faster, closer and closer. He had to finish, fast. He had to destroy this bitch, fast. Before Rainbow Dash came down. Before she saw them. Before the image of her father destroying some poor girl’s cunt so hard and so fast he was like a hummingbird against her was burned into her mind...
It was indescribable. There were no words they could say to one another, only muttered expletives. Only grunts, moans, pants, gasps. Gilda’s face screwed up in ecstasy, Prism Bolt only barely able to keep his eyes open as he pounded faster, and faster, and faster. His hips were a blur, the slaps like machine gun fire, pap pap pap pap pap papapapapapapap… He abandoned the belt, and went for his hand– his broad, calloused palm slamed against already reddened, sore, stinging flesh. Sometimes it lingered for a squeeze, or to give him some grip as he adjusted himself every so often to keep from slipping out, never once giving up the rhythm. He pulled apart her cheeks after a particularly hard slap, and his middle finger fiddled around her tailhole. The squeak and the swears that were thrown at him sent a shock through his system and caused a huge, evil grin to spread across Prism Bolt’s face. What a fucking slut. Maybe next time she was over, he would just tackle her. He would put her ass up, and pour the coldest, least comfortable lube he could between the cheeks. He would just take her ass for his, remind her that her place was underneath him, rotating her hips and begging, pleading to be fucked like a good girl. But as of right now all he could do was tease, just slip the tip of his finger in and feel both of her holes clench, and feel a fresh wave of girlcum coat his cock.
“I’m gonna… Rrfh…”
Gilda groaned. “N-Not inside, asshole.”
“Not that,” Prism Bolt growled, his ass-grabbing hand pulling away, and pulling up, and rolling into a fist. Gilda gasped, and squealed, and panted, and looked him in the eye with the only one she had the strength to open. She whispered to him.
“Fuckin’ do it,” she moaned. “Fuckin’ hurt me, M-Mister Bolt, c’mon, make me c-cum one last time, c’mon!”
He smiled. She was a bitch, but Prism Bolt was too polite not to oblige a female who asked to be punished. His fist thrusted forward in tandem with his cock, one burying itself inside of Gilda and smashing against her cervix, and the other bashing into that same spot he had hit her on the left, now on the right. He could see the impact of both ripple through her body. As Gilda let out a hellish roar-cry of a scream, and as her tunnel clenched him so tightly he couldn’t bear to move, and as her body started writhing against him, Prism Bolt let himself go. His balls clenched, his legs quaked, and his left hoof tapped against the tiles. He let out a primal snort, and let himself go.
He had never came so hard in his life. The corners of his vision went dark, a vignette of the writhing, screaming, squealing bitch beneath him all that he could see, all that he could feel, all that he could smell. He came so hard, so fast, so much, he filled her womb like a good breeding stallion should. He felt her legs clench around his waist and his shoulder and pull him in. He felt Gilda’s body disobey her own commands, felt her clench and cum and massage his cock. He felt her beg for every drop of his fertile equine load. And soon, her leg had fallen off of his shoulder, and she had turned onto her back, and he was laying against her, panting, groaning, still cumming. The scent was so strong, so musky and humid and sweet, with just a tinge of rust from the spilled blood, and he was kissing her. At least, he thought he was kissing her, or at least doing the best job he could. His lips wrapped around the tip of the ends of her beak, and his tongue wrapped around hers. His hands now beneath her shoulders as he held her close, and her own hands clawed hard into his back, making him wince.
They were quiet for a long while. Just panting, gasping, groaning. They shook against one another, afterglow settling in, their senses still dulled. The pain was starting to set in. Prism Bolt grit his teeth as his scratches truly started to sting, and Gilda groaned as her punished organs bit back from all the abuse that they had endured.
The kiss, or the close approximation of one, separated. Gilda glared at Prism Bolt, but the murder in her eyes was gone.
“I told ya not to do it inside, you dick.”
Prism Bolt smiled sheepishly, but challenged her glare with one of his own. “Shut up, bitch. If you didn’t want it, you shoulda given me a rubber.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?”
“Relax,” Prism said. “It’s not like we could actually breed or anything. I’m a pony, you’re a griffon.”
“It’s happened,” Gilda said.
“Not often.”
“You’re payin’ for pills.”
Prism Bolt snorted. “Fine.”
He pulled his soft cock out, and pulled up his shorts, giving Gilda a small peck on the beak. “That was fun. Thanks for being a good sport and letting an old stallion give you a good plow.”
“Only did it cause I felt sorry for you,” Gilda growled, biting at his face.
“Sure,” Prism Bolt chuckled, going to the corner of the room to retrieve the rest of their clothes, throwing Gilda’s shirt to her and managing to hit her in the face with it. “I’ll believe that when pigs fly.”
“Well, you’re a pegasus, so does that count?” Gilda spat, pulling on her shirt, glancing towards the doorway, and catching sight of a wide-eyed Rainbow Dash.
She was fully dressed, mane groomed, a hand down in her gym shorts, and a dark blush on her face. And as Prism turned around, he knew exactly what it looked like. A somewhat battered griffon girl, with stallion cum oozing from her well-fucked pussy, smelling of sex and blood; and a scratched-up stallion, blood still oozing from some of his fresher wounds, holding his shirt but with a hoof tilted towards the sink. He was probably just about to start cleaning his scars of passion, his coat stained in places with musky fem juice. And then there was this voyeur, the girl that they had been waiting for the whole time, bright red with embarrassment. A few strings of her juices were still on her fingers, and her body shivered against the doorway.
“Fuckin’ A, dad,” Rainbow said. “Can I have any of my friends over without you plowing their brains out?!”
Prism Bolt grinned, despite himself. “How long were you there this time, Dash?”
Rainbow Dash growled. “Fifteen? I mean, shit, who takes that long to fuck?”
“The best things in life take time, Dashie,” Prism said, chuckling under his breath. “Maybe if you gave it a chance, you’d see.”
“What? No! Eww, Goddess, you’re so gross!” Rainbow Dash shouted, a bit too loudly. “So gross! Celestia, I’m j-just gonna… Head out. Clear my head a little.”
“I’ll be there in a sec, Rainbow,” Gilda said, giving her a shit-eating grin. “Nothin’ like a good workout to distract you from the idea of your dad’s big, hard dick pounding you into the flo–”
“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Rainbow Dash cried. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, Gilda!”
Author's Note
This was a bit too much fun to write. I goddamn love motherfucking swearing.
Also, I don't know why trap music fits Gilda. Maybe it's because it's loud, it's abrasive, and it's gangsta as fuck. Gilda's a G and shit. Yeah.
I hope you fellas enjoyed yet more anthro clop bullshit. Hopefully I can get more done in between papers and projects that I gotta do. Thanks again to my editor, IRpony, for helping me make this slightly less shitty, and to some of the Twenty Great Stories Cabal members for giving me their thoughts and opinions on it as I worked on it.
