It's the last day before the weekend, and you walk through the doors of Canterlot High and out into the sun. It's a gorgeous day, and being cramped in that building for the last few hours almost felt worse than usual today. As you amble across the campus, a sight in the corner of your eye stops you; that pink-haired girl is once again standing by the statue in the center of the front lawn, handing out fliers.
Ever since freshman year, you always thought she was cute. The white tank top and short, butterfly-print skirt she wore highlighted her best features: a perky pair of breasts and a pair of slender, sexy legs. She always took to that spot every day after class, as far back as you can remember; you'd walk across the front lawn, and there she'd be, calling out to people and handing out fliers. You don't even know what those fliers are for; you'd always kept your focus on her and her alone every time you saw her there. You'd thought occasionally to walk up to her and ask what they're for, thinking it would be the perfect icebreaker to lead to another meeting, but you hadn't quite mustered the courage yet.
That, and she doesn't seem to be interested in you.
At least, that's the impression you get. Every time she spots you in the halls, in class, out by that statue, or anywhere else in school, she'd act strangely. You'd catch her eye in class, and she'd turn away. In the cafeteria, if she'd seen you passing by her table, she'd hide her face in her long, wavy, powder-pink hair. If she'd been hanging out in the hall talking to her friends, and had seen you then, she'd risk getting peculiar looks from the other girls and block your view of her face with a book or a folder. Because of all these peculiar actions, you're not even sure what color her eyes are. It may be your imagination, but if you didn't know any better, it was as if she was trying to avoid you.
Or, maybe she's just shy. It's hard for you to tell.
Nevertheless, seeing her here today makes your curiosity finally get the better of you. You want to approach her, to talk to her, to get to know her better, even if it's just for a few minutes. Then, if she really is just a shy girl, then you could help her warm up to you a little more before asking her out. That way, you'll know for sure whether she's trying to avoid you.
You take an opportunity to walk up towards her while she's turned around, so she won't see you coming and freak out. While heading her way, your eyes can't help but wander, and you begin to notice that she has a really cute butt, and that her slim thighs are accentuated well by her miniskirt and knee-high boots. You know she has a nice body, and you're fairly certain she has a pretty face. If you were sure she was a nice girl, easy to talk to and get along with, and willing to meet up again, she'd be perfect. You just hope she doesn't slip away from you; you want to talk to her, after all, not scare her.
When you finally reach her at the statue, she still has her back to you, so she hasn't seen you yet. You see her handing fliers out to some passersby, and remember your plan to start conversation. You clear your throat to announce yourself and speak loud and clear:
“Excuse me? Could I get one of those, please?”
The girl jumps slightly, but she turns to you after a brief pause. “Oh!” she responds. “Of course. I'd be glad to—” She stops when she sees you, and her eyes widen as she realizes whom she's speaking to. A faint blush stands out on her yellow cheeks, and she seems frozen where she stands, unable to say or do anything else but stare at you. It is at this point that you finally learn that she has the most beautiful pair of sparkly teal eyes.
After a few seconds, concern starts to wear away at you, and you ask the girl if she's okay.
“Umm . . .” she answers as best she can, “I . . . . umm . . . . yes . . .” Her blush only deepens from there.
You feel your plans for familiarity starting to go south, so you think of a way to make her more comfortable. You remind her that you two share a Poetry class together, and you tell her your name.
“Oh . . . I . . .” she continues to struggle in replying as her eyesight trickles down to the ground, “I'm . . . . Flutter . . . shy . . .” It comes out in such a low whisper, you could just barely catch it.
Now you're starting to worry. At least you know now that she's just naturally timid, but what is it exactly that's making her so nervous? Did you say something wrong? Did you come on too strong? Is it your breath? You remind yourself to pick up a pack of breath mints on the way home before pressing inquiries on the fliers. You ask her what they are for.
Fluttershy glances at the papers in her arms, and shakily explains, “Oh, umm . . . . they're . . . they're for the . . . local animal shelter . . . . I sort of . . . volunteer there . . . .”
This intrigues you somewhat. She must really like animals, so this does indeed give you something to talk about. You tell her how cool you think that is, and you add that you have a dog at home.
This seems to stoke Fluttershy's interest; immediately, her personality almost completely reverses. “Really?” she replies, finally looking up at you with a smile. Her smile makes you smile—she does have a pretty face. You nod and say your dog's name, Naomi, and that she's a Labrador. “Awww, I'll bet she's so sweet!” she says, looking more excited by the second.
You glance back down at the fliers in Fluttershy's hands, and you feel almost sad to break away from a subject that was so engaging for her. You hope she'll still be more open as you ask her where the animal shelter is.
The question seems to take her by surprise. “Oh,” she replies, less excited now, but not as meek as before, “um, well, it's just down the street from here, and around the corner. So, it's not far.”
This is the meeting you've been hoping for. You aren't opposed to caring for animals, and even if you were, you can handle a day of volunteering if it means spending time with a cutie like Fluttershy. You reach down and slip one flier off the stack in her hands, and you tell her you'll be there tomorrow, as soon as they open.
Fluttershy gasps and looks at you in a sort of awe. “R-really?” she asks, seemingly unable to believe her ears. “Y-you will?” You nod and smile, and she returns your smile, accentuated by an even deeper blush. “Oh, that's so sweet of you. Thank you so much.”
You say that it's no problem, and add with a shrug that you're free tomorrow, and it might be fun to help out with animals. You're certainly open to the idea, even more so now that you know you'd be working with her. You take a quick minute to eye her up and down; her hands are behind her back, her knees are pressed together, her head is pointed down, and she's looking up at you with that same timid grin. At that moment, there is no prettier sight in the world to you.
“I'll see you tomorrow.”
Fluttershy brushes a lock of pink hair behind her ear. “You, too,” she replies timidly and gives a cute wave. “Bye.”
You wave back, say good-bye, and you continue on your way back home. You look over the flier, then take one quick glance back to Fluttershy, and you catch her staring at you long after you've left. She sees that she's been caught, and turns away, her hands still clinging together behind her.
Pretty face, nice little body, and a real sweetheart—you conclude that she's pretty much perfect. If only she weren't so shy, you think to yourself, you'd have a really great relationship with her right off the bat. But this slight impediment means it will just take a little longer for her to warm up to you, that's all. Once you spend the day hanging out with her, doing what she loves to do, you'll get to know each other a lot better, and she won't be as clumsy or anxious around you.
Besides, you remember hearing from several different sources that shy people tend to have different personalities when they are in their comfort zone. You saw it for yourself when you started talking about your dog; she lit up like a Christmas tree when you mentioned it. Who knows? Maybe, if you two do end up dating, she could be a totally different person: strong, self-assured, sexually confident, maybe even willing to take some risks for the thrill of the relationship. It's entirely possible.
She may be as meek as a mouse now, but if you play your cards right, you might just unleash a sexy, passionate lynx once you're alone together . . . .
You walk through the doors of the animal shelter on Saturday, on time, as you promised. Once you get everything settled at the front desk, you are guided to the kennel in the back. Inside, you see a brightly-lit room with stainless-white flooring and cute paw print designs painted on the upper walls and ceiling. Along the walls is a series of compartments, roomy and designed for comfort, in which many different breeds of dogs are settled in. It seems they all have food and water, and are either eating or taking an after-meal snooze. There is one open cage at the far end of the wall, and in the middle of the room is what appears to be an irritable-looking terrier, lying down and refusing to move. Standing next to her, gently tugging on the dog's leash, is Fluttershy, and you feel your heart race—you're so happy to see her.
Once again, she doesn't seem to notice you, so you slip up to her as she tries to coax the dog lying on the floor and growling. You repress the urge to add something too flirty to your greeting (“Hey there, gorgeous” was the first thing that came to mind) and you keep things simple.
“Hi.”
Fluttershy perks up and turns around, and that shy smile you saw on her yesterday returns. “You're here,” she says, crossing her legs as she stands and absently playing with a lock of her hair. “I . . . I was hoping you'd come today . . .”
You smile back and say that you wouldn't miss it; this makes Fluttershy give a quiet giggle. You glance down at the canine malcontent and ask what the problem is.
“Oh, Gretchen doesn't want to go for walkies today,” Fluttershy says with a frown. “Morning walkies are important for her, but I've been having trouble getting her up and moving. Everyone who works at the shelter has trouble with her.” When you suggest to her to just put her back in her cage and try again later today, Fluttershy explains, “Well, I would, but I think it's important for doggies to stay on a schedule. But she didn't even want to leave her room before.” When you give her a curious glance, she replies, “Oh, I don't like to think of them as cages. It sounds so cruel. So I call them bedrooms.” She adds with a smile, “That's really what they are, and it just sounds nicer.”
For some reason, that notion tickles you inside. She really is a decent, wholesome human being. It makes you feel a bit dirty about imagining her to be some kind of repressed harlot yesterday, and you try to keep those thoughts out of your head.
Fluttershy gets down on her knees and gently strokes Gretchen's head. “Oh, please get up, sweetie,” she pleads. “It's just a walk. You like walkies, I know you do. Pretty please? For me?” Gretchen shakes her head to get Fluttershy's hand off, she growls, and she returns to her position, flat on the floor and unmoving. In response, Fluttershy walks, on her knees, around to Gretchen's front and takes the dog's head into her soft hands. “Please, puppy?” she begs again, petting Gretchen again with one hand. "You can have a treat when we come back. Please?”
Gretchen suddenly seems to have an interest in having a different kind of treat. She pulls her head from Fluttershy's hand, snarls, and snaps her jaws at Fluttershy. She pulls her hand back in time, but the dog's teeth sink deep into Fluttershy's right knee.
“OW!” Fluttershy squeals, pushing herself back and landing on her backside. She grabs her knee and moans in pain, and tears start forming in her eyes when she sees a trickle of blood run down her leg. “Gretchen . . .” she mutters, heartbroken, “. . . . how could you . . . ?”
You gasp when you see Gretchen bite Fluttershy, and you urge her back into her cage with sweeping hand gestures and cries of “Shoo! Shoo!” Gretchen sniffs disinterestedly and gets up, seeming glad to go where she wanted to be in the first place.
Fluttershy sniffs as she gets to her feet, “Oh, please, don't be angry at her. She's only a dog—ow!” She tries to walk on her injured leg, but collapses. You catch her just in time, and she holds onto you for support (but not without warmth in her face). You ask her if she's all right, and she nods. You glance down at her leg, and you see two thin stripes of red trickling from her bitten knee into the top of her sock. You pull a tissue from your pocket and clean it off, then have her press it against the wound as you say that it will need to be cleaned. You ask if they keep any kind of disinfectant around.
Fluttershy holds back a sob as she answers, “Um . . . there's a first-aid kit . . . in the supply closet down the hall . . . . it's this way—ow!” She tries to guide you there, but the pain in her knee seems to be too much, and she falters again. She can't take more than a step without doing so.
You start thinking of a way to get to the supply closet. You could try letting Fluttershy lean on you on the way there, but it might take too long, and you feel this injury needs treatment as soon as possible. You could go by yourself and be back in no time, but you think it would be mean to leave her here by herself. With no other option, you put her arm around your shoulders and tell her to hold on; you bend over, put your right arm behind her back and your left behind her legs, and scoop her up into your arms.
“Ooh!” she yelps slightly as you lift her into your arms, and she throws her other arm around you and holds tight. She glances at the ground, then aims her shocked stare at you; her eyes are wide, her mouth is open in a small, perfect “o”, and her face is reddening even more. You can feel her tremble in your arms, so you take the time to reassure her:
“Don't worry. I've got you.”
Fluttershy is breathless, but her eyes never leave you as she mumbles, “. . . . . Oh, my . . .”
You hold Fluttershy tightly as you carry her down the hall. You want to take a quick glance down the front of her shirt, but you resist temptation and press on. The temptation gets worse when you realize that your arm supporting her legs is touching bare skin—her skirt is dangling off her waist beneath her.
You see that Fluttershy's eyes have left your face, but her blush has not left hers. It's just as strong as when you first touched her. One arm still clasps you around your shoulders, but the other hand has slipped off your shoulder and to your chest. You can feel her hand caressing you there, making your skin prickle and your heart race. You hope she can't hear it—after all, this is a thrilling moment for you—but you notice that she has pressed herself very close to you as well, and you can feel her heart, too. It's beating just as fast as yours, if not faster.
You reach the supply closet, and Fluttershy hands you the key from her skirt pocket. You unlock and open the door, and you gently set Fluttershy back on her feet (her arm doesn't leave your shoulder). You step into the closet, a much longer and wider room than you were expecting, and Fluttershy leans on you as she limps by your side. You scan the wall-to-wall shelves, looking through numerous bottles of water, flea and tick medication, dog shampoo, cat hairball formula and other pet needs. Finally, you see a first-aid kit, and you reach for it. You ask Fluttershy to sit down and she does, keeping her knees up, legs together, and arms around and underneath her thighs (to protect her modesty).
You sit next to her with the white box, open it up, and peel off the tissue stuck to Fluttershy's knee. You start with the disinfectant, dampening a cotton ball with it and dabbing it on her injury (she sucks in a pained breath when it makes contact). You ask if she's okay, and she nods. You clean off her whole knee, then you gently slip off her boot, so you can properly bandage her knee; she shifts a bit and takes a more surprised breath when your hands brush against her sock-covered foot. You take some bandages out of the box, roll her sock down a bit (you can catch her blushing even more) and start patching up her knee. Her breathing is getting slightly heavier with each touch of your fingers to her leg, and her face is getting redder by the second, but until the bandages are in place, neither one of you says too much more.
Fluttershy's knee is clean and bandaged, and you help her slip her boot back on (she giggles a bit when your fingers touch her toes). You stand up and help Fluttershy to her feet, and you can feel her hand tremble in yours. Once on her feet, Fluttershy stares deep into your eyes, and there's a long pause in which neither of you moves an inch. You're okay with that, as long as she doesn't start getting nervous.
Finally, Fluttershy stars to speak, “Um . . . that was really nice of you . . . to help me like that . . . you didn't . . . you didn't have to . . .”
You tell her you were glad to, and that she needed help, not just with her injury, but here at the shelter.
Fluttershy looks down sadly. “No one ever wants to come volunteer here. Sometimes, my friends come and help, but . . . not often . . . .” She trails off, crossing her legs as she stands.
Unconsciously, your hand goes to her face, and your lift her chin up so that her eyes meet yours again. You remind her that you're here, and if she needs you, you'll stay.
“Th- . . . thank you . . .” she replies, her blush spreading all the way down to her neck.
“You're welcome.”
There's another long pause, and during this time, you finally notice that Fluttershy's hands have been on your shoulders the whole time. At the same time, you realize that you've had your hand on Fluttershy's waist while the other cradles her face. She slowly smiles at you, and you slowly smile back, and suddenly, you feel your mind work without you once again. You lower your face down to hers, and she lifts her head up to meet you. In moments, your lips touch, and you share a passionate kiss.
Both of your hands are now caressing Fluttershy's hips, and her hands glide all across your shoulders and chest as you keep the connection. Your hands start slowly creeping up her shirt, and you can feel the bare skin of her stomach, ribs and back ripple with goosebumps at your touch. She responds by slipping her hands up your neck and gently touching your face. Soon, the feeling starts to intensify; you hear her moan as her hands move again, this time off your face and down the back of your shirt. Your arms wrap around her hips, one hand planted firmly on her backside. She raises her leg and wraps it around you, and you grab her under her thigh, stroking it up and down and occasionally brushing your fingers to her panties. She digs her fingernails into your back, and you groan in pleasure and pain, answering her with a firm swat to her buttocks. She, too, moans in pleasurable pain.
Your euphoric connection reaches its apex as you slip your arm under her butt and hoist her up, still gripping her raised thigh in your other hand, and stumble forward and against the back wall of the closet. Fluttershy grunts as her back makes rough contact with the wall, but her lips remain locked with yours. It's a surprise either one of you can still breathe, given how fast your hearts are beating and how much energy you're expending on just this one kiss. Her leg squeezes you tighter, and your hand grips her butt under her skirt. Her nails remain stuck in your shoulders, and you're half-tempted to rip her clothes off right there in the supply closet. The only thing stopping you is the fact that the closet door is open, and both of you could be caught making out at any given time.
That very reason also seems to be fueling the passion and excitement between you two.
Finally, after what feels like hours of kissing and lustful ecstasy, you break away, and both of you start sucking in breath after exhausted breath. Fluttershy's hands pull out of your shirt, and you make sure her skirt separates your hands from her body once again. Her long pink hair is wet with sweat and sticking up in wild patterns all over her head. You feel a few beads of sweat trickle down your face, as well. Her skirt is crooked and her panties are bunched, and you feel almost like your shirt is trying to strangle you; you both finally take a moment to fix yourselves up. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, and Fluttershy smooths out her hair. You tug on your collar to readjust your shirt, and she slips her hands past her skirt to readjust her panties. Both of you are still breathing as if you'd just been drowning, but your breaths start getting softer over time.
At last, you try to speak, exhaustion making your words weak, “We . . . . we should probably . . . get back to work . . . .” You get no answer at first, so you begin to turn and make your way out.
You feel a tug, and you look down to see that Fluttershy has hooked her fingers into the waist of your pants. You look up at her, and see a fiery gleam of desire in her eyes. It's like nothing you've seen before, and it's certainly nothing you expected from a sweet, soft-spoken girl like Fluttershy. She looks as though she's ready for another round.
“Not just yet . . .” she answers breathlessly, and she pulls you by your pants and presses your body back against hers. She wraps her arms around you and presses her breasts against you, making them rub you every time she takes a breath. She grabs one of your arms and puts it around her waist, she takes your other hand and slips it up her skirt, and she stands on her tiptoes and whispers in your ear:
“You're . . . going to love me . . . .”
When she backs off, your eyes widen at her sexual tenacity. But it doesn't distress you at all. In fact, this confirms what you originally hypothesized. Behind closed doors (or more accurately, the half-open closet door), Fluttershy really was a completely different person. She may have found you hard to approach before, but her shyness is now easily explainable. She wouldn't be making out with you this passionately, this easily, if she didn't like you. She was just a little skittish around you before, that's all. But that's all in the past. What you first considered about her was dead-on.
This shy girl really can be a dirty little thing when she wants to be.
You gasp as both her hands slide up your shirt, massaging the bare skin of your stomach and chest. Just before you sink into another exhilarating kiss, the last thing you see (maximizing your thrill) is the sight of Fluttershy's short, butterfly-print skirt slipping off her waist, tumbling down her legs, and hitting the floor at her feet.
Applejack, Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash hang out by the statue in front of school on Monday morning. They see their friend Fluttershy, humming joyously to herself and skipping down the walk to the doors, and they know immediately why.
“Someone got lucky this weekend!” Dash exclaims, nudging Applejack's shoulder.
Applejack nods. “Yep. No denyin' that look, 'specially on Fluttershy. Her face looks brighter'n a summer sunrise.”
“I wonder what he's like!” Pinkie squeals excitedly, referring to Fluttershy's significant other. “What do you girls think? Is he cute? Does he get good grades? Can he sing?”
“Whoa, there, Pinkie,” Applejack calms her, “best to just let her be until she wants to talk. Ain't polite to pry, after all.”
“That's not gonna stop us!” Dash chuckles, just as excited.
Applejack frowns at first, but then starts to assume a smug, sly grin. “Well, long's we're doin' that, I hear the two of you each have a certain fella y'all're tryin' to get. Wanna chat about that? Hmm?”
Pinkie Pie looked surprised for a second, then started blushing and giggling into her hands. Rainbow Dash blushed, too—almost more than Pinkie—but she instead scowled and bit back, “Sh-shut up!”
