Trixie and the Magic Hands

by SquiggelSquirrel

Rating: mature
Tags: Trixie, Sex, Anthro, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Porn
Length: 6923

Anthro Trixie clop. Nopony else. A spell gone wrong. Magic floating hands doing nasty things. You get the idea.

Anthro Trixie clop. Nopony else. A spell gone wrong. Magic floating hands doing nasty things. You get the idea.

Contains Dubcon, non-sentient assailants, asphyxiation, fisting, anal fisting, spanking, nipple pinching

Published 2015-06-27 16:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-07-06 20:32:56 UTC

The Spell

Author's Note

All feedback greatly appreciated (especially if you're downvoting, I'd love to know why, so that I can improve.) - Squirrel

The Spell

The afternoon air was oppressive; A downpour was long overdue. The weatherponies, with characteristic laziness, had assured the town that they would rectify this, sometime early this afternoon, or possibly this evening. In a field below the grey clouds, a lone figure was hammering a signpost into the earth, with a mallet held floating in the air before them by “the Unfathomable Mystical Energies of the Beyond”. Otherwise known as “a basic levitation spell”.

Of course (thud) the weatherponies didn't give thought to anypony (thud) that they might incon-(swish)-venience. The mallet spun in the air, as it missed the post entirely.

At 5' 11” (180cm), Trixie Lulamoon stood taller than most mares, though the platform hoofboots made up part of that, and her trademark pointed hat only added to her grand stature. A purple, broad-collared cloak swept back dramatically from her shoulders, and her gemstone pendant emphasised her, let's be honest, magnificent breasts, her enchanting blue skin bared by her unbuttoned white shirt.

When the mallet missed the post for the third time, she let out a small (completely understandable) grunt of frustration, stepped forward, and gripped the mallet and post in her purple-gloved hands. As she set her hooves shoulder-width apart, her knee-length skirt rode up slightly, and as she swung the mallet, her glorious silver-blue tail swayed behind her. She most certainly was not (thud) angry at having to cancel her afternoon show — clearly nopony would show up to an open-air performance while a rainstorm loomed. Not that the useless (thud) weatherponies appreciated that. No, anger would be unprofessional, she was merely … annoyed.

Not that they listened to her perfectly valid (thud) complaints. They were to busy spreading malicious (swish, gah!) rumours, just like everypony else, since the Ponyville “incidents” (thud). She wasn't angry at winding up in some poxy (thud) little town on the outskirts of nowhere, either. Nor at the rumours which still (thud) followed here everywhere, or the useless workponies who couldn't get a simple caravan right (swish, squish, aah!).

She dropped the mallet and clutched her left hand in her right, hopping on the spot for a moment before glaring at the signpost. It was probably in far enough by now; She had only set it up as a courtesy, anyway. She smirked slightly at the thought of the locals being dumb enough to stand out in the rain wondering when the show was starting. With a sigh and a glimmer of magic from her horn, she flicked the mallet up off the ground and gently slipped it back into her tool-belt, before turning and striding back towards her … current residence, smoothing down her skirt as she went. Her hand didn't hurt much, anyway.

She was (somewhat) calmer as she reached the door to her cabin. The local mayor had been graceful enough to offer her …reasonable… accommodation while her caravan was fixed, which was only fair, since the crash had been entirely not her fault. As she crossed the threshold, she removed her hat and gloves, by hand, while a steady glow from her horn caused her belt, and the straps on her boots, to unwind themselves. As she stepped out of the boots, she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Why, even a month ago she would have needed to sit down and remove her boots one at a time. Her private studies were making her (already great) magics more powerful than ever, and broadening their use, beyond the show-magic that had always been her speciality.

As she headed to the kitchen, to quench her thirst from performing manual labour in this heat, she glanced over the shelves full of spellbooks. “Not this afternoon”, she decided. She was in no mood to wrestle with the convoluted writings of boring, dusty academics. Why couldn't spellbooks be written by somepony with a sense of presentation, who could actually make the topic interesting?

Less than a minute later, she slumped onto her bed, the remaining half-glass of water on the table beside her. She was just so frustrated, in more ways than one. What she really wanted was to find a local stallion, strong but silent, with muscles built from years of farm work. Her right hand stroked her outer thigh as she elaborated the fantasy. She could bring him back here, offer him a cool drink, a “private show”…and wind up with him laughing at her. Her hand went back to the bed as she growled in annoyance. There had been a time when she could have her pick of eligible stallions, when they wouldn't dare be indiscreet, when she would never have been left so…unsatisfied.

She raised her hand to the air above her face, staring at her own fingers for a while. Of course, she could “take care of herself”, but it was just so…crude. A mare of her obvious beauty should have no need to do so. The think that such an unrivalled prodigy of magic would have to resort to such…

The words repeated in her head — “prodigy of magic” … “magic” — in barely a heartbeat she was back on her hooves, running a finger over the books on her shelves. Surely the repressed, lonely, nerds who had written these books had devised all sorts of spell for just this occasion. Of course they would be a bunch of desperate perverts who would think of doing just that. So there should be something in here to “help” her, right? It seemed only fair to put such spells to use to help a — temporarily romantically inconvenienced mare with perfectly normal, healthy needs.

The trouble with levitation, with many spells for that matter, is that they needed focus, concentration, a continuous flow of magic. Which meant that, if anything distracted the caster, the spell would end. Which could make for some very frustrating evenings. Not that Trixie had any experience in that regard. Not much experience, anyway. In any case, she needed an autonomous spell — one that, once cast, would run by itself.

Trixie had already skimmed the contents of each book, so she had a rough idea what was in each one, it was just a case of finding a spell that would meet her needs. A moment later she had picked a book off the shelf, and was opening it onto her desk in the corner of the room.
Just what she was looking for…

The Command

“Hearstrings' Magical Servants”, read the title. An autonomous spell to conjure a magical construct, able to understand, and built to obey, basic commands. It would, of course, lack the basic intelligence of a real servant, and it required a considerable amount of magic, but cast correctly it could take on almost any form the caster desired. The section describing it was 10 pages long, full of academic waffle. Basic magic theory, blah blah, Trixie knew that already, a lengthy description of the spell, magical safeguards, how to give instructions (yawn), why did academics need to spend such a long time explaining such simple concepts? Trixie skipped ahead to the actual magic formula, which seemed fairly straightforward. Why, with Trixie's power she could probably summon two such constructs.

She paused for a moment, dwelling on that thought. After some time, though, she decided to start with just one. After all, she could make it any shape — any size — she wanted, right? It wouldn't get tired, or need a break, either. Trixie could hardly help sliding her left hand over her inner thigh as she contemplated the implications.

Once she was confident that she could handle the spell, and that the rest of the pages were just pointless pontification, she closed the book, stood up, and turned towards the centre of the room. She raised her hands theatrically (unnecessary, but she enjoyed the effect), and her horn began to glow fiercely.

An eldritch wind from places unknown swept around the room; Trixie's hair and cape billowed theatrically. Sparks crackled in the air with the acrid smell of lightning. Trixie grinned — she never tired of dramatic magic. The glowing sparks began to collect in the middle of the room, a swirling cluster of light. A blinding flash of white light lit the room for a moment.

This, of course, did not catch Trixie off-guard and did not leave her seeing spots and blinking furiously for several minutes, because she was a professional (and highly skilled) magician. It just happened that, at that same moment she finished the spell, a spec of dust landed in her eye.

A … hand was suspended in mid-air, in the middle of the room. Perhaps “glove” would be more appropriate, as it looked, for all the world, like a white magician's glove, complete with the flared wrist. As trixie stared, the glove slowly rotated in place, drifting seemingly heedless of gravity.

“That's it!?” Trixie sighed, and stared at the glove. Typical. All that effort and the spell turns out to be defective. She prodded the glove with her own finger. It seemed solid enough, though there was some give to it – the sensation of solid rubber. The surface was smooth like silk, though. With an idle thought, Trixie bent over to look at the underside, which turned out to be a flat white surface, with no opening.

“You are my servant?” The glove continue to slowly rotate, giving no other signs of response.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you to respond!” The glove snapped around, palm towards her. The motion was so sudden that Trixie stepped back from reflex. The glove wriggled its fingers for a moment, then became still.

Trixie stared for a while, then walked slowly around the glove, towards her bed, not taking her eyes off it for a moment. The glove silently turned, the palm following her as she moved. It was … disconcerting. And then some.

Still … Trixie sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating the apparition. Not what she had in mind, exactly, but it might be more enjoyable than her own hands.

She hitched up her skirt, and slid her panties down, past her knees and onto the floor. Leaning back, she spread her legs, presenting herself to the magical glove. Now, How best to phrase the command?

“Uh, come here.” She gestured the empty space just in front of her marehood. The glove remained motionless.

“I command you to come here!”

The glove, if anything, remained even more motionless than before.

Trixie glared at the impudent magical manifestation. Somehow, its motionless white form seemed to be taunting her, understanding her every word yet refusing to give her any satisfaction.

Unless …

“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you; Come here!” Immediately, the glove swooped down into place, stopping silently in the space between her legs, the palm once again towards her face. Trixie frowned; Seemingly, the first “command” she had issue had somehow imprinted this form on the psuedo-mind of the spell. Undoubtedly there was a way to change it, but she didn’t fancy returning to the book in defeat, so she would simply manage with this as it was.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie is feeling … stressed, and tense. She commands you to help her relieve the tension.” She wriggled her hips and gestured downwards as she spoke, to highlight the intended meaning.

For a short time, nothing happened. With rising annoyance, Trixie’s glare snapped back down to the errant enchantment. A small cluster of glowing blue circles was spinning in tiny loops above the glove’s wrist.

Trixie was taken aback for a moment by this new development, then opened her mouth to utter some choice “complaint”. Before she could do so, however, the dots disappeared, and the glove flipped in place before leaping up past her shoulders to somewhere behind her.

Before she could turn to see what the stupid thing was doing now, it set itself down on her shoulder and squeezed, firmly. The sensation made her gasp, as the strong grip forced tension from her tired shoulders. The glove shifted downwards slightly, driving the heel of its palm into her back. Trixie moaned as the massage eased out stresses she hadn’t realised she was carrying, and the glove travelled back up towards her other shoulder. Then across to the back of her neck, and down her spine; Trixie considered lying down to give her magic masseuse better access to her back.

She didn’t want to be deterred, though. She had created the glove for a reason and she would not accept alternatives. She allowed herself several more minutes of back-rubbing, but then set herself to the task of getting what she wanted.

“Stop.” The glove, of course, did not stop. “The Great and Powerful Trixie (mmm), commands you to stop that and come here.” She gestured the space in front of her. On command, the glove stopped what it was doing, and glided around to the space indicated.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you …” She paused, a new problem occurring. With one thing and another, her body no longer seemed interested in her original plans. Perhaps some foreplay was in order. “The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you to fondle her boobs,” she declared, pushing her chest forward to present her ample cleavage to the servant.

The swirling dots appeared again, though only for a moment this time. Then a high-pitched squeak cut the air, and the glove … split. It was as if a superimposed image was sliding off it, before solidifying. Trixie stared at the two gloves, even as they drifted gently onto her breasts and began to rub, and squeeze. It occurred to her that previously, there had been a right hand only; Now there was one of each. It also occurred to her that her shirt and brassiere restricted the effect of the fondling quite a bit.

“Take off my shirt.” As ever, the gloves ignored the improperly-formed command. Trixie went to unbutton the garment herself, but found that, even with it unbuttoned, the gloves made the shirt difficult to remove. “The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you to remove her shirt. And her bra, and skirt while you’re at it — and then resume fondling.”

The gloves did as commanded, with Trixie’s assistance, but she was pleased to note that they did not struggle in the slightest with her bra clasp. Maybe they could manage better than a Stallion — or at least better than some Stallions, she smirked. The feeling of smooth silk on her bare skin, on her exposed nipples, was simply delicious.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you to rub her navel.”
“No, not — ugh.”
“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you, the right hand, to rub her navel while you, the left hand, continues to fondle her breast.”

“Mmm.” It didn’t matter, she noted, if she sat down or lay back, the gloves simply moved with her, continuing their groping. “The Great and Powerful Trixie commands the right hand to rub her thigh.” The glove did as commanded. “Ah! Th-the Great and Powerful Trixie commands the left hand to gently pinch her nipple.” To her surprise, the glove seemed to know exactly how firm to be. They were imbued with her own magic, so she supposed it made sense.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie commands you — uhg.” She sat up suddenly. It was infuriating that these gloves seemed to understand so precisely what her body was wanting, yet wouldn’t give her anything without the mindlessly correct instruction.

“Why does this have to be so damned awkward!? Just use your initiative! GET ME OFF!!”

She slumped back and sighed in exasperation. Of course, they wouldn’t obey, since it wasn’t a properly formed—

She looked back at the Gloves. They had stopped touching her, and were floating midair.
The swirling blue dots had appeared again.

The Attack

The blue dots swirled in place, as Trixie stared. Had they actually interpreted her outburst as a command? Did that mean — Trixie bit her lip nervously — they were preparing to "Get her off", even now calculating the exact touch needed to most effectively bring her pleasure.

This spell might not be so bad after all. Trixie leaned back on the bed, angling her breast and hips to give the gloves the best possible angle, preparing her body for…

What, exactly? The dots had been swirling for a little while now, and it occurred to Trixie that “use your initiative” might not be the best command to give to a mindless, pseudo-intelligent spell. The damn thing was probably broken.

In fact, yes, she was increasingly convinced that she would have to dispel the whole thing and cast it all over again — and the first casting had taken quite a bit of magic out of her. Maybe she should just call it a night, and try again some other time. The spell had worked, after all, and even a genius such as herself couldn't be expected to achieve perfection first try. She sighed, and sat upright, preparing to lift herself from the edge of the bed and stand up.

With a tiny “ping”, the dots disappeared. The sound made Trixie look up, and the next thing she knew, she had been slammed back into the mattress, hooves flying up into the air, a crushing pressure against her neck. Reflex kicked in before she could think, and soon she was struggling to pull one of the gloves away from her throat, where it seemed intent on throttling her.

Blood was rushing to her head, but she could clearly hear the high pitched squeaking as the gloves split again, two more grabbing her wrists and forcing her arms back down onto the bed beside her. She gave out a strangled cry, as her hooves flailed wildly, kicking the air.

“S-Stop!” She forced herself to gasp a lungful of air. “TheGreatAndPowerFullTrixieComma—mmn-umph!” Silky, rubbery-solid fingers forced themselves into her mouth, pushing her teeth aside and pressing down on her tongue. She bit down, hard, but the magical construct was tough, and there was no feeling that her teeth had accomplished anything at all. Her horn flared fiercely as she poured her magic into a brute-force counterspell, but powerful fingers gripped her horn, encircling it, driving her head backwards, and blocking the magic with dizzying feedback.

Even as she thrashed and squirmed, vainly struggling against the unyielding grip of the gloves, two more caught her legs at the back of the knees, forcing them up high into the air, and spreading them apart. Yet it wasn't until yet another glove firmly ran a single, silken finger, from her waist, over her clitoris, and down the full length of her marehood, that understanding dawned in a small corner of her mind.

The gloves, at least, were not trying to kill her. Her breathing was being restricted, but not prevented. Blood was rushing to her head as the sensation triggered instinctive panic, yet the glove was not using all its strength, by a long way. Apparently, the spell had simply decided that being forced onto her back, restrained, and asphyxiated, would be the most effective way for her to “get off”.

That thought didn't help much. She yelled angrily into the fingers that were even now stroking her tongue; She twisted against the hands on her wrists, and kicked the air helplessly, as the finger stroked back up along the the length of her pussy, before making small circles on her clit. It didn't help matters that her treacherous loins were sending waves of pleasure up through her abdomen at every touch.

The fingers continued to tease her pussy, spreading her lips and circling the opening. There was little she could do about it; Her buttocks had slipped down over the edge of the bed, but the gloves holding her meant she could neither pull away nor push onto the disobedient digits (not that she would do so, if she could). Each motion of the fingers sent out tiny ripples of sensation, and she found herself wishing that if they wouldn't stop, they would at least get on with it already.

The grip on her neck seemed to have loosened, at least — or perhaps it was merely because she was struggling less violently. Blind, unreasoned, panic had settled into short-sighted, loosely planned, panic. Two more hands (how many were there?) gripped her backside, then rubbed their way around her hips, up past her waist, and on to her boobs. There, they groped and tugged her, occasionally flicking over her nipples. The feeling of helplessness affected her more than the touch itself, but the effect was no less stimulating.

She drew breath, and let out — a yell? A moan? Definitely a sound of protest, not pleasure. Definitely. Yet the gloves seemed to respond with renewed intensity. Thumbs and forefingers gripped her nipples, gently rolling them, and the single digit pushed firmly against her vagina. With her back arched, her knees push up and apart, and her arousal providing an abundance of lubrication, it slid in easily, penetrating no more than an inch, yet enough to set off a renewed shudder from her hips up to her shoulders.

Oh stars, she was going to cum. Not right this instance, but there was no denying the feeling welling up inside her. It felt shameful, to realise that these mindless constructs could do such things to her, and that she would actually enjoy it. Yet for all her protests, she could not control her body's reaction. The finger rubbed up and down, in and out. Hands returned to massaging her breasts. A thumb pressed against her clit, and began to rub in sync with the slowly thrusting finger. Even the hand clasping her horn, holding her head back, stroked a thumb over her point, and a pinkie finger stroked the base. Nerve endings not normally made for pleasure nonetheless added to the rising climax.

She moaned, letting her body slip into the rising pleasure, letting it slip into her. She was getting so close now, the hot air and the blood-rush to her brain making her dizzy with pleasure. So close! Her moaning continued, drawn out and higher pitched. The finger in her pussy pushed deeper, and she clenched and unclenched with each thrust. Some small shred of dignity in the back of her mind reassured her; Almost there. They're just trying to get you off; Once you come it will end. Oh Celestia, she wanted to cum. She was right on the edge, right about to…

Another hand came down hard on her butt cheeks, a forceful, open-handed smack, which made her squeal in surprise. The orgasm she had almost reached slipped away, taunting her. She clenched and bucked, trying to recapture the feeling from the finger inside her. The fingers on her breasts responding by pinching her nipples painfully, tugging them upwards. She cried out in angry frustration as finger and thumb continued to stimulate her cunt, her climax denied.

The hand that had smacked her began massaging her backside, so although her climax was rising once again, she new full well what would come next. Sure enough, as she approached the edge for a second time, the hand pulled back, letting loose another pleasure-stuttering slap to her now sensitive cheeks. She tried to brace herself, to ride through it, but her body simply couldn't finish despite her efforts.

Having half a hand in her mouth made her shouting unintelligible, but this did not stop her from incoherently summoning the filthiest curses she knew at this development. The hands were meant to serve her; How dare they bring her so close, only to deny her. Her hooves kicked the air once more, as she chewed furiously on the solid, un-biteable glove-gag which prevented her from ordering these damned things properly.

The finger slid deeper inside her, curling and stroking her inside. Her hips bucked and rolled, dancing to each stroke like a puppet on command. Her throat made a wailing, squealing sound entirely without her brain's approval, a mix of pleasure and despair. She was so close this time, the feeling welling inside her so great, she was certain no amount of spanking would stop this one.

Yes … yes … almost … the spanking hand slid finger and thumb around the base of her tail. No! Not that! Trixie never let anypony yank her —

The hand yanked her tail. Hard. Tears ran down Trixie's cheeks as a third broken, denied orgasm scattered its remains through her body. The assault on her crotch continued unabated, the glove now pressing the base of its thumb against her clit as the finger continued to press against the same area from inside. Waves of confused pleasure washed through a sex organ that no longer knew if it was cumming or going. Her breasts ached as the hands abused them more. Her buttocks ached. Each new thrust was punctuated by a gentle tug on her tail, the unfamiliar sensation eliciting an unbidden squeal from her vocal chords at each pull.

A second digit pushed its way inside her vagina, adding to the intensity. As her fourth attempt at orgasm rose within her, Trixie wept and struggled in despair; She was already certain this, too, would be denied her.

Sure enough, as the pleasure grew greater, overwhelming her control once again, the tugging grew harder, the nipple pinching more frequent, and another hand joined with yet more spanking. As she approached the edge despite this abuse, even the hand in her pussy pulled out to deliver a stinging, swift, slap to her genitals. As this hand settled into alternating rounds of slapping and penetrating, though, she found that it no longer mattered. This orgasm, built on the remains of those that had failed to cum before, continued to grow despite the pain.

Her body convulsed and her voice screamed as the hands drove her to orgasm, floods of fluids drenching her loins, along with every glove near (or in) that area.

The pressure on her neck eased; Her legs were gently lowered as the torment of her breast and buttocks ground to a halt. She lay still for a while, gasping for breath and allowing the pleasure to wash trough her. She could not say how much time passed before a fearful, quivering thought sprouted through her contentment:

The hand had not left her mouth. She had been able to raise her head, but her horn was still gripped. A hand still rested against her vulva, and others on her knees. It wasn't over yet.

As if sensing that thought, the hands once again tightened their grip on her knees and wrists, while others began moving around to new positions.

No, it certainly wasn't over yet …

The Climax

The gloves pulled and pushed, lifting and twisting Trixie around onto her front. Her horn and mouth were pushed back, forcing her chest up until her nipples were barely touching the mattress. The gloves twisted her arms around behind her, over her cloak, forcing her lower back down into the bed. The gloves from her knees slid down her legs, spread her hooves wide apart, and pushed them in towards the bed until her shins pressed against the frame, her backside up high in the air. With one glove pulling on her tail, there was nothing she could do to leave both her holes anything less than completely exposed.

Gloves rubbed from her hips down to her sides, then up onto her breasts, then off again, pushing her breasts together and then letting them fall apart. Her lower jaw was pulled down, forcing her mouth wide open as fingers fiddled with her tongue. Already she could feel drool welling in the curve of her lower lip, threatening to overflow. A hand began to stroke her pussy, back and forth without penetrating, as another began squeezing her butt cheeks in turn.

She wailed and sobbed, twisting what little she could in their grip, but barely able to move at all. How long did these things plan to torment her? Would she be subject to their abuses until the spell ran out? Could her body even hold out that long? Her mind churned, searching desperately for some way out of this, some ray of hope. Her best chance seemed to be for somepony to hear her cries, to come and save her. If they burst though her door right now they would have an unhindered view of her backside, but even with the prospect of such total humiliation, she would welcome a rescue. Any rescue.

But no rescue was forthcoming; Instead, the gloves were preparing a fresh degradation. As Trixie's fickle loins once again warmed to their touch, sending unwanted shivers through her body, a single finger ran down from the base of her tail, directly onto her anus. There, it began to gently probe, pushing against her closed butthole then rubbing small circles around its edge.

At this intrusion, Trixie screamed and trashed all the harder, straining her arms despite the waves of pain this produced. She had protested at tail-yanking, but anal play was a level beyond. Any stallion who had even dared suggest such a thing with her had been thrown out into the cold. Yet despite her protests, the probing continued, lubricated by the juices from her previous climax.

Two fingers once again found entry into her marehood, sliding in deep even with their first thrust. Bucking against her captors meant her nipples were rubbing against the bedsheets, turning them hard. She could feel the slow build-up of pleasure this scenario — this position — elicited form her. Increasingly, it seemed, she was losing control over her own body.

As the glove continue to slowly finger-fuck her, she rose closer to a climax, moans of arousal once again squeezed from her. The tip of a single digit pushed its way into her arsehole, twisting around and pressing new and alien pleasures upon her. A thumb pressed against her swollen clit, then began slowly rubbing, and she shuddered helplessly as a second orgasm assailed her sanity.

The hands gave her no time to adjust or recover, though, the fingers in her cunt withdrawing only to add a third of their number to the next thrust, which the butt-glove accompanied with a deeper penetration and the pressure of a second fingertip against the edge of her anus. The wedge-shape of three fingers spread her pussy wider, filling her up. With the added sensation of anal fingering she couldn't come down, but only settle into a series of mini-spasms.

The gloves held this position for some time, her mind slowly catching mental balance despite the slow, rhythmic, orgasmic waves washing through her with each thrust. Enough sanity returned that she became aware of the trickle of drool running down her chin, of the ache of her arms, of her drenched her thighs, and battered knees. Some shred of vanity remarked that her mane could only be a greasy mess by now, her cloak likely ruined with sweat, her tail equally so.

Then came a thrust where the fingers did not withdraw, but only held their place. Fingers slid around her nipples, then began pinching them. A glove slipped around her throat, alternately pressing the sides of her neck then releasing them, blood rushing to her head each time. Her tail once again became a toy for twisting and tugging, and though the fingers inside her held her position, she found herself pushing onto them, driving herself to new highs to escape the pain.

The fingers withdrew, then — two, no surely three fingers, thrust into her anus, eliciting a small even wail before they began massaging her insides. Trixie couldn't say if this was pleasure or pain, only that it was intense. The other hand began smacking the flat of her pussy, squeals of pain juddering through her. When they returned to sliding into her sex, though, it felt like something empty inside her had been filled. She eagerly licked and tried to suck on the fingers in her mouth, all dignity forgotten as the intense sensations inside her left no room for any other thought.

This time, though, her cunny had to take more than three fingers. As a forth forced its way into her, she felt knuckles pressing against her vaginal entrance. The sensation was too much, she couldn't take it, even as she desperately wanted to, but the gloves seemed intent on pushing her to, and beyond, her limits. She wailed at the violation, at the unbearable pressure on her opening, but when the glove relaxed, the pleasure of release was beyond anything she had felt before. The glove began to repeat this, pressing hard and then relaxing, over and over, Trixie unable to tell if she was enjoying it or not, but only knowing that it was driving her slowly insane.

On maybe the sixth or seventh thrust, though, something stretched just a little further, or perhaps the pressure was a little greater, and soon Trixie had almost a whole hand slowly thrusting and twisting in her overstretched vag. She felt right on the edge, now, of the hardest orgasm she had ever experienced, yet at the same time, the pain wouldn't allow her to go any further. Just as a sliver of conciousness concluded that she could take no more, it was driven away by the pressure of knuckles against her anus, a fourth finger seeking entrance to her rectum.

Coherent thought was driven from her. Each thrust made her sob. More than anything she wanted to climax, for this to be over, yet the gloves were pushing her still further, to a realm beyond any pleasure, or any pain, she had ever thought possible. She felt certain the gloves were preventing her orgasm, the pressure forcing it to simply build up further and further within her. She spasmed and twitched, floods of fluids drenching her legs and soaking the carpet. The build-up inside her was simply too much; She was certain that when it broke it would crash down on her like a tidal wave, smashing her to bits.

The gloves rode her over and over, her sobs and wails running into one endless cry as her body demanded air from her lungs that they simply didn't have. As the gloves finally pushed past the pain, as the monster orgasm finally began to peak, no part of Trixie's mind was able to take note of what was happening to the gloves. From flared wrist down to fingertips, each glove dissolved into cascading sparks, which flowed down their surface and into her skin, igniting her nerve endings wherever they touched, even as their disintegrating substance removed all pressure and all restraint from her. All Trixie knew was overwhelming sensation driven into her from every direction, inside and out.

With lungs drained of air, muscles tensed to their absolute limits, and her mind assailed by ecstasy and agony beyond belief, her reason was lost to her even before the crashing, thunderous orgasm caused Trixie Lulamoon to pass out cold.

After

A cool breeze across her aching buttocks roused Trixie Lulamoon back to semi-conciousness. She had no idea how much time had passed, but the steady drum-roll of torrential rain on her roof gave her mind something to focus on. After some timelessness, she summoned what resolve she had and dragged herself to a more fully awake frame of mind.

Immediately, she began to regret this. Her body ached all over. Her marehood and arse, tail-base and buttocks all throbbed. Her arms, legs, back and jaw were all stiff. Her nipples were tender and her head pounded. When she tried to move, her aches and pains protested all the more fiercly, but she came to realise just what a mess she was. No part of her body wasn't covered in dried sweat, and most of it was covered in other, partially dry, fluids. Her bedsheets were clammy and her mane was a greasy tangled mess around her head.

With all the strength she could muster, she forced limbs of hot lead to rise from their crumpled poses, dragging herself to her hooves. She glanced around the room anxiously, but none of the daemonic gauntlets were to be seen. She spied a half-glass of water on the table beside her, and eagerly gulped down the tepid water.

She discarded her cloak and pendant. Then, after a pause, she began walking towards the bathroom, but quickly amended that to hobbling sideways along the wall towards her bathroom. About half-way there, she stopped to look at herself in the mirror. Blue skin darkened to ugly purple around her throat and thighs, the latter coated with dried-on reddish-brown streaks. Her eyes were red and swollen, overall she looked, if anything, worse than she felt.

She resumed her hobbling, and quickly amended that statement to "almost as bad as she felt".

She paused at the doorway to glare at the book sitting smugly on her desk. "Never again," she silently vowed. Why, if she had the strength she would burn the damned thing right now, if only for the spark of pleasure it would bring her. For the time being, though, she had other concerns.

As she stepped into her bathroom, mentally thanking the architect for giving this tiny cottage a generously sized bath and separate shower, several things caught her attention. Firstly (in order), were the bubbles piled high upon the bathtub already full of water. Second was the steam which hit her, the room filled with the sweet smell of hot water. Third was the open door to the shower, which Trixie had always left shut by habit.

Fourth, was the white glove sitting on the shower's shelf, holding a brush upright.

Trixie stared for a moment, frozen fearfully in place. Slowly, she raised her hand to her nose, guarding her mouth.

"TheGreatAndPowerFullTrixieCommandsYou to NOT attack her."

The glove remained motionless.

"And not to grab her, or stick anything, including yourself, into her mouth, or do anything else to prevent her giving you orders."

"Ok?"

The glove put the brush down, slowly made a thumbs-up gesture, then picked the brush back up. Was it Trixie's imagination, or did it look almost… apologetic?

Trixie stared for a while longer. The gloves… had only been following her orders, right? It wouldn't, couldn't, attack her now that she'd given it a newer command. She wasn't certain she had the strength to dispel it, but…

No. She … she was a professional, skilled magician. On mishap wasn't going to leave her doubting her abilities, or fearing her own magic like some silly schoolfilly. The glove was… definitely… no danger to her, not now.

She took a hesitant, awkward step forwards before a thought occurred. The glove had apparently run the bath for her. She hadn't ordered it to do that, had she? Unless… was this maybe covered by "use your initiative"? That had to be it. The glove was filled with her magic, able to anticipate her needs, able to sense how badly she would want a herbal soak right now.

Had it… "sensed" that she wanted to be half-strangled and violated, too? How far could she trust this thing?

No, she was a professional, skilled magician who was fully in control and had nothing to be scared of. She turned back towards the inviting bathtub, and stepped right up to it before a load tapping caught her attention. The glove was bashing the brush against the wall to call her over.

She started again, at the shower, at the bath, then down at herself. Right. If she went straight into the bath, all this… mess, would be floating around with her. A quick shower first, to clean up, made far more sense.

Swallowing, she stepped into the shower, and turned the water on. The glove rose, and gently began to help her scrub herself clean. She tensed at first, but forced herself to relax, and was rewarded by swift, but skilled, scrubbing. It took five, maybe 10 minutes before she felt ready to bathe, the hot water already doing a great deal to refresh her tired muscles.

At the edge of the bath, she dipped her hand into the water. Too hot. She reached for the tabs, only to find the glove perched there. Undoubtedly, it had decide this temperature would be perfect for her, just as it had apparently decided she would enjoy the merciless abuse she had received earlier.

After some quiet contemplation of this, she withdrew her hand and silently climbed into the bath. The hot water made her gasp and almost drove her to climb out, but as she sank in deeper, pain and agony seemed to leech out of her body, the heat penetrating deeply. She lay for a while, adjusting to the heat. A tiny jingling noise made her look up, and she watched the last glove dissolve in a tiny cloud of sparks, the last of the magic spent.

As she soaked in the heavenly hot tub, a tiny smile played on her lips.

Perhaps she could word her orders more carefully, next time…