The clear, amber drink swirled at the bottom of its glass, catching the dim candlelight and releasing it as diffuse rays of light that painted the tavern’s mahogany bar top. Moments later, the mare holding it aloft tipped it back so that the whiskey flowed into her waiting mouth. As she grimaced and slammed it back upon the table, the trio of ice cubes at the bottom clattered loudly. Her eyes remained glued to the bar the entire time.
“Sour,” she called without hesitation, “whenever you aren’t busy...”
The bartender, who stood deep in conversation with another patron further down the bar, nodded in her direction and excused himself. On the way, he pulled from the shelf a bottle labeled Johnny Trotter. “Enjoy,” he said as he refilled her glass.
With an unenthusiastic grunt, she downed the drink in another gulp and fought back the urge to wince. “Thanks.” She held the glass out meaningfully.
“You’ve been coming in here for a while, now,” he said, taking the cue and topping it off. “I won’t tell you how to live your life, but I’ve seen enough ponies drown themselves in liquor to know that that path never ends well.”
For the first time, she raised her gaze from the table. “Just keep my drink full, Sour—that’s all I want right now, not advice.”
“Have it your way,” Sour said with a shrug. He stared at her for another moment before returning to the other patrons and his conversation down the bar.
Once more, Octavia swirled her glass idly. The refracted light danced mesmerizingly on the bar’s surface until she lifted the drink and sipped at it. This time, she easily suppressed the need to shudder at the taste; she shook her head and turned her attention to the rest of the room.
Whoever had built the old tavern clearly had an interest in seafaring, if the decorations’ theme was any indication. Coiled ropes hung on the walls, along with a number of ship’s wheels and oars. The score of tables were in fact barrels, some even bearing painted wooden parrots. The floorboards even creaked with every step, although this may have had more to do with the building’s age than anything else.
Octavia took another sip of her drink and set it down. She watched Sour as he talked, noticed when he waved his hooves excitedly, how his eyes lit up whenever a customer called for a drink, the way he smiled as he darted to-and-fro and generally enjoyed his jo—
Whatever, she thought, forcing her eyes back down to her whiskey. If he likes what he does, good for him. She brought the glass to her lips and drank deeply. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened as she felt someone’s gaze fall upon her. Her head whipped around in search of the culprit.
After a moment of seeking, Octavia’s eyes finally reached the far corner, where a white unicorn mare with a pale, pink mane sat and stared right back at her. Their eyes met, and it was all Octavia could do to suppress a shudder. The mare winked lewdly and blew an exaggerated kiss.
Octavia scowled and slowly turned back to her drink. “Let her stare,” she muttered, hunching forward. She could still feel the mare watching her, almost as though it was something physical brushing up against her skin. This time she couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine.
Suddenly, the tavern’s doors burst open and a group of seven boisterous ponies spilled in. One of them twisted his head around, breaking out into a grin when his eyes landed on Octavia. “There she is!” he said. He pushed his way between the numerous empty tables, followed closely by his friends. “Octavia, hey!”
Forcing the strange mare in the corner from her mind, she groaned loudly and rolled her eyes. “Hello, Nocturne,” she said without enthusiasm. “What are you doing here?”
He dropped onto the stool beside her and leaned on the counter. “I’m taking the entire section out for drinks at that new place downtown,” he said. A good-natured smile brightened his face. “Someone told me you come here every night, so I thought I’d stop in and see if you changed your mind about coming along.”
“No, thanks,” Octavia said, tossing back her drink in one abrupt motion. She glanced down the bar at where Sour had stood just only minutes earlier, but he had disappeared in the meantime.
A frown creased Nocturne’s brow for a moment, but but it vanished so quickly that Octavia wondered if it had ever been there in the first place. That was one of the things she disliked most about him—his smiles were almost always forced.
“Don’t be like that!” he said with a laugh, one that Octavia decided was faked. “You never go out with us. Look, if this is about me getting the principal seat—”
“It isn’t.” Octavia’s sharp tone cut like a knife. “I honestly just have no interest in spending time with you or your little cronies. Where either of us sits in our section doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, of course you’d say that,” said one of Nocturne’s friends, a pegasus mare. “Now that you’re not the best, you can’t just act like—”
Nocturne’s head whipped around so that he could glare at the speaker. “That’s enough!” he snarled. Insipid grin once more plastered across his face, he turned back to Octavia. “To be honest, though, she’s got a point—”
Octavia had her mouth open to reply when a pair of legs draped themselves over her shoulders. “I suppose a pony can’t even leave to powder her nose without her lover being set-upon by bullies,” a low, throaty voice said from behind her. Wide-eyed, she twisted her head to see that both the legs and voice belonged to the odd mare who had watched her from the corner.
“I didn’t—we weren’t—” Nocturne cleared his throat with a cough. “Sorry, but who are you?”
“I do so hate to repeat myself,” the mare said indignantly. “My good sir, I am sweet Octavia’s dear lover!” She leaned forward and nibbled lightly on Octavia’s ear. “And you are ruining our lovely evening out together.”
Octavia nearly reeled at the way the mare’s delicate teeth oh-so-gently gnawed, but she fortunately managed to maintain her seat.
“In that case, I must apologise,” Nocturne said with a slight bow. He hopped back to his hooves and backed towards the door. “No wonder you didn’t want to go along with us, Octavia. Have a good night—I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow.” Accompanied by his friends, who cast back disbelieving glances at Octavia’s “lover”, he pushed his way out the door and into the cold Canterlot night.
Meanwhile, Octavia had finally managed to overcome her surprise. “Please remove your hooves,” she said, twisting her head and yanking her ear from the mare’s mouth.
The mare slowly unwound herself and slid onto a stool. “Of course, of course,” she said in her seductively deep voice. “‘Twas all for the sake of the act, I assure you.”
“Of course,” Octavia said dryly. She cast her gaze around for Sour, but he had yet to return. “What kind of bartender leaves the bar for this long?”
“Allow me.” A nimbus crackled around the mare’s horn, and the bottle of whiskey behind the bar was caught in her magical aura. The spell upended the bottle over the glass, filling it to the top. “Ah, magnifique. Certainly the master of this establishment won’t mind, hm?”
“What do you want?” Octavia asked as she glared at her drink as though it had become some sort of insect. “A thank you for earlier? And who told you my name?”
“Ohoho, my—temper, temper,” the mare said with a chuckle. “Can you think of anything that might help you improve that mood?” Her eyelids lowered so that she peered at Octavia through long, thick eyelashes. “I know I can.”
“You leaving me alone would be a start.” Pragmatism won out, and Octavia sipped the whiskey. “But something tells me you won’t do that.”
“Ill-tempered and insightful!” The mare clapped her hooves together excitedly. “Interesting! Tell me more about yourself.”
Octavia swallowed another mouthful of liquor. “For one, I don’t thank ponies I don’t know. And you still haven’t told me how you learned my name.”
“Well, you would be 'attractive bow-tie mare' if I hadn’t overheard your friend call you by name,” the mare said. “As for me, I am Fleur-de-Lis, but you have my permission to call me Fleur-de-Lis.”
“Delightful,” Octavia said with a slight scowl, refusing to acknowledge the chuckle that she forced back down her throat. “Glad to meet you, Fleur, but if would be so kind as to leave me—” Fleur bent over backwards to lay her head and upper back upon the bar and stretched her forelegs. “What—what are you doing?”
“Don’t mind me,” Fleur said. She twisted onto her side, propping her head up on her hoof. “I like to stretch from time to time. Please go on.”
“I, ah—what was I saying?” Octavia frowned and scratched the back of her head. “You know what? I don’t care.”
Fleur’s mouth bloomed into a wide smile. “So you won’t mind if I keep you company?”
“It’s not my bar,” Octavia said, turning away. “Sit wherever you want.” Noticing that Sour had reappeared further down the bar, she waved him over.
“Sorry about that,” Sour said with a shrug as he approached, “What can I do for you?”
“I had a refill while you were gone,” Octavia said. She gestured to her mostly full glass. “I hope you don’t mi—”
“I believe I’m the culprit, here,” Fleur said, transitioning into a normal sitting position. “Barkeep, please put sweet Octavia’s drinks for the night on my tab, and I will add to that a glass of your finest wine as well.” She turned a flirtatious smile Octavia’s way.
As Sour left in search of an appropriate vintage, Octavia scowled. “Stop calling me ‘sweet Octavia’,” she growled. “And why pay for my drinks? What are you up to?”
“Perhaps I just wish to get you drunk so that I may bed you,” Fleur answered. She laid herself out along two stools.
Octavia snorted into her drink. “If that’s it, then you’ll have to catch me in a better mood—and good luck with that.”
“Oh, sweet Octavia—” Fleur laughed at Octavia’s sudden glare “—I may surprise you. Tell me, what do you do for a living?”
The breath caught in Octavia’s throat for a moment. “That’s none of your business,” she said after a moment, then finished her whiskey in a single gulp. Sour chose that moment to return with a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a pair of glasses.
“I do believe I recognize you from one of the Canterlot Symphony’s concerts—a splendid performance, if I recall correctly.” To Sour, Fleur said, “You certainly have keen intuition to bring two glasses. Pour one for my sweet Octavia, if you would be so kind.” A loud pop accompanied the corkscrew’s removal.
“I don’t want any,” Octavia said as she eyed the extra glass. “And stop calling me 'sweet Octavia'.”
Fleur ignored her and motioned for Sour to carry on. “So,” she continued, “you are a professional musician.” Both glasses filled, Sour gave Octavia a pointed glance before he walked further down the bar.
“Why does it matter to you?” Octavia said, more sharply than she meant.
“Call me curious,” Fleur answered. Her magic lifted one of the glasses up so that she could sip at it. “And do try the wine.”
Octavia shot her a glare sideways, but the other mare wasn’t even looking at her. “I already said that I don’t want any.”
“Oh, come now! You can’t expect me to enjoy such a fine drink without sharing it,” she said, pushing the remaining glass Octavia’s way and having another taste of her own.
For a long moment, Octavia sat motionless. Her eyes moved back and forth between the wine and her own empty cup until she finally reached out and accepted Fleur’s offering. “I suppose I can’t,” she mumbled with a scowl.
Fleur chuckled as she reached out to clink their glasses. She took a sip and thoughtfully regarded her drink. “Hmmm…” The white wine swirled slowly in her glass. “Not the worst, I suppose,” she decided, “although far from the best.”
“Really?” Octavia wiped traces of wine from her muzzle on the back of her hoof. “What kind of drinks are you used to?”
“I usually drink only the finest wines, imported from the world over,” Fleur said, arching a delicate eyebrow. “Current selection excepted, of course.”
“Of course,” Octavia said flatly. “Well, it tastes fine to me.”
“Then I am all the closer to my goal.” Chin propped up on her forehooves, Fleur adopted a slight, knowing smile as she stared at her.
Octavia’s vision had misted a bit from the evening’s drinks, but that didn’t keep her from noticing the way Fleur’s mane curled around her neck, perfectly styled, not a hair out of place. Her pearl-white horn sparkled, even in the bar’s dim light. As wondered whether or not the horn would taste like peppermint, she tugged at her bow tie in an attempt to alleviate the sudden heat that she felt.
A buzzing sounded in her ear, and her attention snapped back to reality just in time for her to realize that Fleur had spoken to her. “I’m sorry,” Octavia said, “come again?”
“I asked you if you liked what you saw,” Fleur said, batting her eyelids. “I, for one, would not be against taking this conversation somewhere else, like… perhaps your bed?” She winked.
“Absolutely not,” Octavia said with a barely noticeable slur. “I am a respectable pony, not some kind of-of-of easy date.” She crossed her forelegs and scowled. “It’ll take far more than this to—to woo me.”
Fleur grinned, perfectly white teeth glinting. “If you insist.”
Octavia slammed Fleur up against the wall next to her apartment’s plain wooden door, faces mashed together, drunkenly seeking each other’s mouths with varied success. Octavia moaned softly as she felt Fleur’s hoof gently massage the back of her head.
“Shall we—go in?” Fleur panted between kisses. Octavia nodded and fumbled with the door’s handle, even as Fleur’s tongue slipped into her mouth. After a few seconds she finally managed to get the door open, and the two stumbled inside. Her trembling hoof flailed blindly behind until it found the light switch, bringing the ceiling lamp to life and illuminating the small room. A gray suede couch sat against the wall, right next to a small display case filled with medals and pins, and a simple but well made table sat in front of the couch. Octavia’s cello rested in the corner of the room with a music stand and a stack of books. A few pieces of art decorated the walls, mostly abstract works comprised of cool blues and grays.
With an exaggerated sigh Fleur collapsed forward onto the couch, foreleg still hooked around Octavia’s back to bring her tumbling along. Their lips met once more in a passionate kiss, tongues darting around each other. The couch, a house-warming gift from her parents years ago, creaked under their weight as their bodies writhed against each other.
They pulled apart and, smile faintly playing around her lips, Fleur swiveled so that she sat on top, straddling the other mare’s waist. A demure Octavia pulled her forelegs in and wriggled in drunken happiness. Her stomach felt pleasantly warm, and a filmy haze filled her vision, blurring the features of everything except for that wonderfully gorgeous unicorn that loomed over her. As she accepted another of Fleur’s kisses, this one more tender, her ears relaxed and she sighed.
Suddenly, Octavia felt a chill run down her spine. She felt her attention drawn to her cello, polished surface glistening in the bright light. Her eyes opened and she glanced over at it. It was almost as if the instrument gazed back, watching her, staring at her, daring her to forget about it. She pulled away and twisted out from underneath Fleur, earning her a surprised squeak.
“I need a drink,” Octavia said as she hopped off the couch, ignoring both the cello and Fleur’s confused expression. In the apartment’s small kitchen, she found the light switch much more easily. “Would you like something?” She glanced back over her shoulder.
Fleur winked slowly, face once more inscrutable. “I would love something.” She had lain herself out on the couch and propped her head up on a hoof. Her other forehoof ran suggestively up and down her thigh. “Something and a drink, too, if you don’t mind.” She chuckled softly.
“Cute,” Octavia said in a flat voice. She rummaged in a cupboard for a second and drew out a pair of glasses, then pulled a bottle of wine from her cooler. After grabbing a corkscrew, she trotted back out and motioned for Fleur to move aside.
“Sweet Octavia, were you prepared for this?” Fleur asked, eying the wine. She folded her legs up, making room. “You devious mare, you!”
Octavia snorted as she twisted the corkscrew into the cork. “Because having a bottle of wine on hoof makes me a sexual deviant.” With a loud pop, the cork came free, and Octavia filled both glasses liberally. “And stop calling me ‘sweet Octavia’”.
“It’s what I do,” Fleur said. She winked again and accepted one of the glasses. “Also, I do approve of your art choices.” As she sipped at the wine, her hoof waved carelessly at the paintings on the walls.
“They’re nothing special,” Octavia said, taking a drink of her own. “I just like soothing colors, is all.”
Fleur snuggled up against Octavia’s side. “Well, I do love a pony with good taste.” She leaned in and licked Octavia’s cheek, drawing forth a shudder. “And you taste like—” She smacked her lips thoughtfully “—chocolate.”
Octavia dry-swallowed, then drained her glass in a single gulp. “I doubt that,” she said, placing it on the table.
“Say what you will,” Fleur teased. As she finished her own drink, she rubbed a hoof in circles on Octavia’s chest. “But you taste like chocolate.”
“You can’t be ser—” Octavia’s words were swallowed up by Fleur’s mouth as she pushed forward and kissed her passionately. Eyes wide, Octavia stiffened for a moment, then her posture melted and she wrapped Fleur in her forelegs. They pursued each other’s tongues hungrily for a moment before Octavia once more felt her attention being pulled elsewhere. She broke the kiss and twisted in place, affecting interest in her wine glass.
Fleur frowned at her. “Is something the matter?” She blew a puff of air onto her hoof and tested the scent. “Does my breath smell?”
“No, you’re fine,” Octavia said as she reached up and undid her bow-tie, flipping it over the back of the couch. It slowly drifted down to lie in a crumpled-up pile on the floor.
“Then…” Leaning forward, Fleur took one of Octavia’s ears between her teeth, nibbling lightly.
A shudder wracked Octavia’s body and her mouth spread into a goofy smile. Taking the cue, Fleur pushed forward and ran a hoof up and down the other mare’s leg. She sucked on the quivering ear, drawing forth a tension-filled moan.
“‘oo ‘ike ‘at?” she said through her full mouth.
“Oh, Celestia, yes,” Octavia breathed.
Fleur grinned and gave the ear a light tug before releasing it to lay one kiss, then another and another on Octavia’s cheek. However, in spite of both the attention and her own desire to return the gestures, Octavia’s thoughts couldn’t help but return to her instrument propped up in the corner.
Eyes narrowing, Fleur sat up and crossed her forelegs. “Something is clearly wrong,” she said as she sucked on her lower lip, adding when the other mare opened her mouth in protest, “And don’t tell me otherwise.”
“There is—” Octavia’s mouth snapped shut mid-denial, and for a long moment, she sat still before she slid off of the couch. “It—don’t worry about it,” she finally said, sauntering towards the bedroom. “How about we take this somewhere more comfortable?”
“So quickly?” Fleur said as her frown deepened and her back straightened. “Why rush things?”
The pleasant warmth in Octavia’s stomach had quickly changed into bubbling irritation. “It’s not rushing if it’s a one-night stand, is it?”
“But this is the best part!” Fleur whined. “The teasing, the flirting, the bonding—we can’t just end it now!”
“Don’t give me that,” Octavia shot back, almost in a snarl. “You said you wanted sex, so let’s go get it over with.” She nearly quailed at the hurt expression on Fleur’s face, but stubbornness won out and she clenched her jaw. “I just think we would enjoy ourselves more in the bedroom.”
She felt an almost oppressive aura coming from the cello’s direction. It’s in my head, she thought as she rubbed at her eyes. Just calm down. It’s a piece of wood, nothing more— With a start, she realized she had spent the last ten seconds staring at her instrument; unfortunately for her, Fleur had noticed and followed her gaze.
“Is something wrong with your cello?” she asked slowly.
“N-no,” Octavia said as her cheeks burned. “Nothing that I can think of.”
Fleur raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then why were you staring at it like it murdered your family?”
“It just—” Octavia swallowed heavily and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “It just irritates me, is all. I’d rather not even look at it.”
“Why?” Fleur asked. Walking over to Octavia, she draped a leg around her shoulders.
“It shouldn’t matter to you,” she muttered as her head drooped forward.
The leg pulled her closer. “Assume that it does.”
Octavia let out a loud sigh and licked her lips. “It’s silly,” she said, dropping onto her haunches. “As a filly, I loved to play the cello, but now that I’m a career musician, I can’t stand it. There’s nothing fulfilling or even fun about it anymore.” A chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Like I said—silly.”
“Hmm,” Fleur hummed as she took up her wine glass. “Maybe not as silly as you think.” She tipped the glass back and drank deeply.
“What do you mean by that?”
Fleur finished her entire drink in one long swig, ending with an exaggerated sigh. “Sweetest Octavia, I would like you to do something for me.”
“Er—something?” Octavia said as her ears flattened against her head.
“Yes,” Fleur answered. She swayed slightly before continuing. “A favor.”
“I’m doing a lot of things for you already,” Octavia said, forcing a grin onto her face. “I didn’t even plan on letting you in here at all, let alone doing—you know.”
“Just one more concession, then,” Fleur said. After a long moment, Octavia nodded, and Fleur smiled. “I would like you to play for me.”
Octavia stared at her dumbly. “Play?”
“Yes, play,” Fleur said, drawing Octavia’s gaze to the cello.
Octavia scowled deeply and tried to slip out from under Fleur’s leg. “You mean my cello?” she asked. “Right now?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Fleur’s eyes twinkled behind her thick lashes. “Never before has anypony serenaded me, and I would like to experience it at least once.” Her words slurred a bit, but Octavia took no notice.
“Why?” she demanded, unconsciously shrinking away from her instrument. “I’m sure you can find other ponies to do that for you, right? I mean, a cello isn’t even really that romantic of an instrument! You-you could find a violinist, or an oboist, or—or—”
She felt Fleur’s breath on her cheek as the mare leaned in closely. “None of them are you, though,” she said in a throaty voice.
“Is this really necessary?” Octavia stammered, casting about for an excuse. “I mean, most ponies find classical music boring, right?”
“Not if it’s you,” Fleur insisted with a purr. “Please?”
Octavia struggled to find an argument, some way to avoid this, but in her current state, thoughts blending together, nothing came to mind. With a sigh, she slumped forward and freed herself from Fleur’s embrace. “Fine,” she said, “you win.”
“Yay!” Fleur chirped suddenly, clapping her hooves together.
Within moments, cello in tow, Octavia had pulled a chair into the middle of the room and taken a seat. A bright-faced, if bleary-eyed, Fleur sat before her, gazing expectantly on.
Normally, Octavia would take the time to tune her instrument, but she couldn’t muster the patience to go through the motions. A frightful, now-familiar dead weight settled in her stomach as she realized that she didn’t even know what to play.
“This is stupid,” she said, snorting in disgust and making to stand up. “Why don’t we—”
“Oh, please?” Fleur asked again as she batted her eyelashes. “Do it for me?” Seeing hesitation, she added, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Slowly, Octavia settled back into place, holding Fleur’s gaze the whole time. “Okay,” she finally said with a sharp nod. “What do you want to hear, then?”
“Anything, so long as it’s not depressing,” Fleur answered right away.
“Fine.” Octavia lifted the cello so that it nearly rested against her legs. Her vision swam and she could barely feel anything with her hooves, but nonetheless she placed the bow against the strings. The sooner I start, the sooner I finish, she thought coldly.
However, just as she took a breath and began to draw the bow, Fleur stood and paced around her. She craned her neck to see, but the mare now stood completely behind her and out of sight.
“Ah, what are you doing?” Octavia asked, holding the pose.
Fleur chuckled softly. “Simply finding the best view. Please, do continue.”
Racking this up to the mare’s eccentricity, Octavia shrugged and played the first long note. Fleur had told her not to play anything depressing, but she hadn’t said anything about boring.
Suddenly, a pair of forelegs draped over her shoulders, just like they had back at the bar when Fleur had “saved” her from Nocturne. Octavia once more halted in place and glanced back.
“Can I help you?” she said, trying to play coy but unable to summon the energy required.
A warm muzzle pressed against the nape of her neck. “Don’t stop,” Fleur whispered in her ear.
Octavia swallowed heavily, unused to the position in which she found herself. However, instead of arguing further, she chose to obey Fleur’s request and again drew the bow across the cello’s string. The mellow note warbled sweetly, if slightly out of pitch, before she played the second note, then the third.
The weight of Fleur’s embrace became more comfortable to Octavia as the song continued, then shifted from comfortable to familiar. She did not notice that the music was slowly becoming more and more energetic, nor that her scowl had softened into a more peaceful expression.
Soft lips pressed against her right cheek, and the surprise caused her bow-arm to jolt. A screech marred the smooth melody, but she quickly regained control of herself and continued on. One of Fleur’s hooves reached up to press against Octavia’s cheek and turn her face to the side, where their mouths met in a tender kiss. The music ceased as an unbidden giggled bubbled up in Octavia’s throat.
“I can’t concentrate like this,” she mumbled into Fleur’s hungry mouth.
“Do your best,” Fleur’s muffled voice responded.
Once more, neck beginning to protest this awkward position, Octavia brought the bow up and eased it into the strings, drawing forth a more powerful sound than she had before even as Fleur’s delicate tongue slipped into her mouth. She could taste the remnants of wine on the other mare’s lips
While one well-manicured hoof held her face steady, the other ranged around on Octavia’s stomach and belly, caressing and massaging her in such a way that would have had her wriggling in pleasure if not for the effort required to hold her instrument steady, an effort in which she found herself only partially successful. All the while the music continued, far from perfect but with an undeniable energy.
Good thing I invested in the soundproof suite, Octavia thought idly in regards to her room, which was encompassed in layer after layer of sound-cancelling spells that allowed her to practice at any time without disturbing her neighbors.
Fleur leaned further in, allowing Octavia to relax her neck and move her head into a less uncomfortable angle—or at least that was what Octavia assumed her reasons were. This train of thought only lasted for the instant it took for Fleur to lean in far enough that she could just barely slide a sly hoof down between Octavia’s legs.
If the kiss had caused a stutter in the music, this act threw on the brakes and brought Octavia to a screeching halt; she would never know if the shriek that echoed in the small room came from her mouth or from the cello as the bow skidded across its strings. She twisted her head, cheeks burning.
“Wh-wh-what was that?” she stammered as the hoof caressed her inner thigh. “What are you doing?”
Fleur laughed, a lilting, beautiful noise that nearly had Octavia swooning. “Why, sweet Octavia,” she said, “I merely wish to do my part as your lover for the night. Surely this is nothing new to you, yes?” She ended the question by running her tongue up the other mare’s neck.
“Of course not,” Octavia muttered as the heat in her face intensified. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, just barely sliding by her eye. “It’s just been a while, is all.”
“Then do I have your permission to continue?” Fleur said in a purr. A long moment later, after Octavia’s hesitant nod, she added, “And you stopped playing.” Twisting like a snake, she once more pushed in for a kiss as her hoof teased a very different pair of lips.
Octavia brought the trembling bow against her cello’s strings in a valiant attempt to produce some sort—any sort—of music in the midst of such a distracting situation. She found herself only partially successful; the screeching notes were barely recognizable as a concerto that she had learned to play as a filly. Despite the frenetic energy that her playing exhibited, the notes sounded more akin to a strangled turkey than a proper instrument
However, she regarded even that much as an accomplishment when Fleur’s hoof began to rub in earnest, with both increasing tempo and force. What with that and Fleur’s tongue in her mouth demanding attention as well, it started to approach the threshold where she couldn’t process all of the sensations at once. A familiar pressure—one that she had not felt since her college years—began to build up, along with a warmth that blossomed in her stomach and spread out along her limbs.
The fur between her legs was already soaked, but Fleur apparently was not content with just feeling around. Her hoof suddenly played upon one spot in particular, one which made Octavia nearly leap out of her chair. Instead she moaned and greedily sucked at Fleur’s moist mouth in her search for satisfaction, for release.
And all the while, the passionate, accelerating screeching of her cello continued.
At long, long last, after what felt like hours of pleasure, Octavia could take it no longer. She moaned long and loud into the kiss as her body climaxed, her legs nearly kicking out the cello’s endpin in the throes of the greatest orgasm in her recent memory. The tension that had been building for the past few minutes burst forth and excited every inch of her; her coat felt electrified, as though each individual hair stood on end. She had ceased to play her instrument, although this had yet to even register in the face of such ecstasy. Finally, it was over, and she opened her eyes to find herself staring into Fleur’s face as the other mare oh-so-gently kissed her.
Her teeth lightly took hold of Fleur’s lower lip and pulled as she played herself out; the bow’s tip clattered against the ground as the leg holding it relaxed. Goofy smile spread across her face and chest heaving, she barely managed to keep her instrument from toppling forward.
“Thank you,” she said between breathes. Pecking Fleur’s cheek once, she pushed herself onto leaden hooves and leaned her cello and bow against the corner. To her dulled mind’s delight, it didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as it had before, although the prudish side of her was irked that it had taken sexual climax to change that. “I needed that.”
“My pleasure,” Fleur said as she fluffed her mane. “Your playing was beautiful, by the way.”
Octavia raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You can’t be serious. My old teacher would have disowned me if I played like that for her.”
“Yes, but your old teacher never gave you this kind of treatment, did she?” Fleur asked, grinning slyly. “Besides, the fact that you did it for me makes it all the sweeter, sweet Octavia.”
“Don’t call me that,” Octavia said automatically. Suddenly, she reached out and took hold of the other mare’s hoof. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Fleur cocked her head. “Go where?”
“To the bedroom,” Octavia said as she winked lewdly. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t return the favor, did you?”
“Ah,” Fleur said, understanding dawning in her eyes. Bowing her head, she peered out from underneath her thick eyelashes. “I never doubted you for a moment.”
They dashed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them.
Consciousness crashed over Octavia’s peaceful slumber like a tsunami, and with it came the first lance of agony from what she already knew would be a terrible headache. As she lay there in bed with her eyes firmly closed, mouth dry and mind fuzzily trying to get a grip on the sudden shift to wakefulness, she swore that she would never drink another drop of alcohol for the rest of her life.
Someone coughed, and as much as she wanted to simply pretend that she still slept, Octavia forced one of her gummed-up eyes open to examine her surroundings. The other eye quickly followed suit.
Arrayed on top of her dresser, nightstand, and nearly every other surface in the entire bedroom, at least a dozen burnt-out candles stood crookedly, some reduced almost to mere puddles of wax from having been left burning for so long. The room itself was dimly lit by what little sunlight seeped around the curtains that covered the room’s single window.
Another cough and a soft sniffle came from the living room, so the aching Octavia extricated herself from her bed’s sheets and shambled through the door, resembling someone only just recently returned to the living.
By the apartment’s front door, Fleur stood with a hoof frozen on the handle, guilty smile plastered across her face. “So, my sweet Octavia awakens,” she said in a raspy voice, coughing to clear her throat. She dropped her hoof back down to the floor.
“Where were you going?” Octavia had found Fleur’s voice odd, but her own sounded even harsher; she thought momentarily of sand-paper lining her throat before she brushed that thought away and focused on the present.
Fleur shrugged helplessly. “I thought to take my leave,” she said, finally dropping the fake smile. “Honestly, I had hoped you wouldn’t wake for at least another few minutes.”
“Try to be quieter than a manticore next time,” Octavia said with a wooden expression. “Although if you want to leave, I can’t blame you—it was clear from the start that this was a one-night deal.”
“That’s—” Fleur paused mid-sentence, speechless for the first time since Octavia had met her. “That’s surprisingly tolerant of my sweet Octavia.”
Octavia snorted and turned towards the kitchen. “Stop calling me that,” she muttered automatically. “And I’d probably be angrier if my head didn’t hurt so much.” She halted in place, then glanced back. “I do have a question, though.”
“Ask away.”
“Well…” She scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “Do you remember that—that thing, when I played for you, and you—you—”
“Yes,” Fleur said in a deadpan tone that would have made Octavia proud, had she been able to think straight. “I was, in fact, there.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Octavia continued, dropping onto her haunches. “I mean, I appreciate it—it’s been so long since I had fun while playing—but you could have just gone to the bedroom and gotten what you wanted!”
“Ah, I see.” With a bright smile, Fleur slowly strode forward until she stood before Octavia and laid a hoof on her shoulder. “You want to know why I took the time out of my day to help you.”
“Well, technically it was night, but, yes.” Fleur’s mere touch sent a shiver down Octavia’s spine, but she kept herself focused.
Fleur rolled her eyes. “You clearly seemed unhappy, and what fun is it if one of us isn’t in high spirits? Besides, the moment I laid eyes upon your beautiful visage, I thought I saw a little of myself in you.” Her grin widened. “Speaking of which—one for the road?”
“The road? Wha—” Octavia’s sentence was swallowed by Fleur’s hungry mouth as she leaned in for a kiss, passionate, demanding. Then, a moment later, it was over.
“Mmm,” Fleur hummed, trotting back to the door and leaving a stunned Octavia reeling in place. “Chocolate. Yes, I believe that shall do.” Just as she pulled the door open, she glanced around. “Oh, and there’s one more answer to your question…”
Octavia attempted to shake off her daze from the kiss and immediately regretted it as her head felt like it had cracked open. “Y-yes?” she stammered/
“You aren’t the only one dissatisfied with your career. Ta-ta!” And with that, she was gone.
Disappointment warred with Octavia’s headache as she retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen and returned to the living room. Sipping lightly, she glanced at her cello, eyes probing its every feature. The sense of oppression she had felt from it the night before still remained, but not nearly as strongly. She thought back to how playing it with Fleur had felt, how she remembered what it was like to play for a reason other than making a living for herself.
Reaching out a hoof, she plucked one of the strings and smiled. However, just then her head throbbed once more, accompanied by a wave of nausea; water in tow, she shuffled back into her bedroom to sleep the hangover off.
As she clumsily placed the glass on her nightstand, she noticed a corner of something poking out from under her pillow. A moment later she had pulled it free to find that it was some sort of card, nearly three times as large as a normal business card. Her bleary eyes focused on the writing.
Fleur-de-Lis, Model Extraordinaire
A street address was included, along with a number of risque pictures of Fleur modeling in different dresses and lacy lingerie. Octavia couldn’t help but grin, especially when she flipped the card over and read the hoof-written message on the back.
You didn’t think I’d just leave my sweet Octavia forever, did you? Call on me at the given address at your leisure.
She sighed and dropped the card onto her nightstand as well, then collapsed onto her bed. The sheets were so tangled that she didn’t even bother trying to cover herself, instead hugging them like she had embraced Fleur the night before.
“So she’s going to make me go to her, huh?” she muttered, trying to frown but unable to prevent the smile that blossomed on her face. “Does she know how heavy cellos are?”
With the words “sweet Octavia” drifting through her mind, unconsciousness washed over Octavia and carried her into slumber.
