Vore is Magic

Chapters

Anthrovoreology
A Gastronomic Investigation
Behemoth > Big
Only Heroes Do That

Anthrovoreology

Author's Note

Random Male Human finds himself in Equestria, where his kind is considered mere food. Lyra, Rainbow Dash, and Gilda all have their fun with him in turn, but only one can ultimately eat him, and things don’t end well only for Mr. Random.

Fetish Checklist:

ONE: pet treatment (Lyra to POV human), scat, scat-based depravity/torture, implied weight gain, implied post-vore
TWO: cont. pet treatment, toilet treatment (Rainbow Dash to POV human)
THREE: cont. pet treatment, pseudo-willing soft vore (Gilda/POV human), digestion, pseudo-belly worship (Rainbow Dash to Gilda)
FOUR: multiple/matryoshka vore (accidental Lyra/Bonbon; Lyra/unwilling Gilda; unwilling Lyra/willing Pinkie Pie/unwilling Gilda), partial accidental anal vore (Lyra/????), immobility, digestion, vore tease (Lyra/Rainbow), implied teleportation vore (Lyra/????)

TL:DR: The first half is focused on scat stuff, humiliation, and mind breaking. The second half is about the vore.

Anthrovoreology

Here I am, standing in a torch-lit stone hall, so narrow I’m nervous my shirt might catch fire. How I got here is a conundrum, certainly, but one for another time. I would have almost welcomed the presence of rats; their skittering and chittering could have distracted me from the lone sounds of my breath and footsteps.

Finally... a voice? An “eeeeh” sound comes from before me, and I pause, wondering if I should turn away from the sound or continue towards it. My choice, even before I can make it, doesn’t seem to matter, for it repeats, now closer slightly more defined. “Eeeeehlll.”

Is it shouting?

“Eeeeehlll!”

Hell?!

I turn, intent on escaping from this premonition, but gasp upon seeing what I can only describe as a unicorn with blue fur having been standing silently behind me—this whole time?—and I trip in surprise. Before I can begin to clamber to my feet, the voice finally shouts a clear, “Help me!” just as a flash of light blinds me, I feel something hit me in the chest, then I know no more.

ONE

Sunlight.

Even before I open my eyes, I know something about that light is wrong. I also know that doesn’t even make sense; how the fuck can light be “wrong”? All I can say is that’s what I felt—instinctively—as I came to awareness and saw that red filtering through my eyelids. What else could explain the way my heart leapt into my throat? Nightmares? Vaguely, I recall… running? -and then a flash of light that, for all I remember occurring between now and then, might as well have been the Sun spontaneously appearing over the horizon.

… “Heh.”

“Oh! Are you awake?” Comes a melodious, feminine voice, almost seductive-sounding even as she expresses her shock—and as I express mine: I open my eyes to find this probably unwelcome intruder, for no other lives with me, but I immediately regret that when I’m assaulted by that wrong light. Rubbing my knuckles against my eyes, I turn in the direction of what sounds like clog-bound feet against hardwood flooring, except I have carpet in my bedroom… Where am I?! My fight against the sunlight turns more furious, until I rather embarrassingly remember I can shade my eyes with my hands.

On the other side of the hand-binoculars is… nothing I haven’t seen or heard of outside of myth; I struggle to come up with any classification other than “unicorn”, but nothing comes to me. More bizarrely yet, it’s fur is the color of mint ice cream, it’s mane is similarly colored, but streaked with white, and it’s eyes are the strangest of all: a gold that seems to radiate joy. Again, I know that doesn’t really make sense, but it’s a damn unicorn. What about that makes sense?!

Worse yet, I don’t see any other living thing in the room—which appears to be a rather normal, if plain, bedroom—forcing me to accept that it could only have been the unicorn that spoke. That… actually wouldn’t be the weirdest thing about it—her?—now that I turn back to consider her; that superlative would go to her belly (after her horn, anyway), which is bloated out, which I hope is from pregnancy, because anything else would be too unpleasant to consider. Still, at the sight of what most people I know would consider a blessing, I can’t help that jolt once again hitting my heart as I take in that bulge, and I take a hand away from my face to pat my chest.

I want to consider I’m dreaming, but something in my brain shoves back in an almost physical way, and I swoon. “Oh! Are you okay?” No doubt about it now: That was the unicorn’s lips moving, and I don’t mean like Mr. Ed, either, but moving in proper human-voice-making ways, like rounding the lips for the word “you” in a way no horse ever would be able to do. -which mentions nothing about how she smiles so widely (how did I just now notice that?); there’s concern in her eyes, but she’s still smiling… at me?

While I consider the fact I’m really, in-real-life, for real, physically in a room with a physically real unicorn, she trots up to me. Somehow, I shake off the thought as my eyes are drawn once more to that belly, bouncing gently side-to-side with each step, groaning oh-so quietly, but obvious in the silence between the unicorns footsteps (hoofsteps?). I’m almost sure human pregnancies don’t look or sound like that… but what do I know about unicorns, right? Besides the fact they talk.

“What do I know”? Where had I even been before this? What had I been doing? Again, as I try to think, something in my brain seems to push back, and the harder I think, the thing matches my strength. Soon enough I just give up, coming back to… the physical world to see the unicorn had put a hoof to my forehead and an ear to my bare chest. Apparently, while I’m ignorant of unicorn biology, this unicorn isn’t ignorant of human biology. Hopefully.

“I’m not tired, just…-”—my slowed brain struggles to explain—“-um, just waking up, and… confused.” That’s when I latch onto the idea of asking questions to get information, then I won’t be confused any more. I’m a genius. “Where am I, and how did I get here? -and who are you?” The unicorn, however, ignores everything I say and continues to listen at various points on my chest; even laying on her belly, she has to lean down a bit, since I’m sitting on the floor, and if I were standing, I estimate we’d be around the same size, heightwise. I roll my eyes at the dismissal, then immediately feel bad about thinking such a thing when she might just be focused on my health and diligent in her work. Somehow, I don’t think the saying, “look a gift horse in the mouth” was ever meant to be applied this literally.

Just then, the universe decides to throw irony in my face by way of the unicorn moving the hoof from my forehead to my jaw and ordering, “say, ‘ahhh.’” I roll my eyes and consider insisting I’m not sick, but she’s already pulled my jaws open, and I figure just complying with this simple examination will be faster.

I open wide. “Ahhhhh.” The unicorn, meanwhile, tilts her head this way and that, taking her sweet time in checking every little crevice in my mouth; I wonder if I should be grateful or annoyed by her thoroughness. I settle on hoping for the former, because if she’s so detail-oriented, she might already know how I ended up here.

After what seems like an age, she pulls back. “Well, it doesn’t seem like you’re sick,” she says as she steps back; at least she seems to have some concept of “personal space”.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “I could have told you that. Oh, wait, I already did! Now, are you going to answer my questions? Like, ‘Where the hell am I?’” Admittedly exasperated by her uncooperative attitude, I wave my arms sarcastically around

That finally gets a reaction out of her; unfortunately, it’s no what I was hoping for. Her neutral mild concern is overwritten with a glare, and she stomps forward and hits me on the nose—not enough to bleed, but enough to bruise, certainly. Before I even completely process what just happened, she sternly enunciates, “You will not use that word or that tone if you want to stay inside.”

Now dazed and confused, I can’t do more than stare as I consider what she just said, but eventually nod: Dad didn’t fail to teach me basic courtesy, after all. “When in another’s home, you follow their rules.” I’m a little indignant about the hitting, but right now I cared more about getting answers; as soon as I can get home, I (hopefully) won’t have to deal with this unicorn ever again.

“Fine! Fine…” I say a little nasally, laying fingers gingerly on my nose, subconsciously needed to be one hundred percent sure it’s intact; my acquiescence makes her back off and smile again, at least. “Could you tell me where I am, who you are, and how I can get to Seattle from here, please?” -and there goes the smile again, only now she merely looks annoyed.

“I will not have any begging in my house, now!” She once again admonishes, waving a hoof threateningly—or at least that’s how it seems to me—and my flinch seems to satisfy her into smiling rather quickly; focusing on this fact alone is what keeps me from rolling my eyes once the shock has worn off.

No begging? Seriously? Maybe this unicorn is some kind of weird control freak? -or a perfectly average control freak, for a unicorn, as if I know! I shrug, and jingle of metal rings into the fallen silence as the unicorn stares rather creepily. Trying to ignore the unicorn now, I look for the source of the jingle, but it doesn’t repeat, and an itch on my neck soon distracts me.

At first, what I idly feel on my neck I think is just a shirt, but I soon realize a few reasons why that can’t be: It’s way too thick and sturdy, I know I’m not wearing any shirt at all, and—most damning of all—as I shift the thing around to get a better scratching angle, that jingle sounds again. I freeze for half a second, then, dreading what I’ll find and hoping beyond hope I’m wrong, I move my hand down to where my collarbones meet… and I suck in a shivering breath when I find a little metal disk on a metal ring attaching to the collar.

“What the fuck is-?! Ow!” I panic, tugging at it, when I’m (predictably) punished by the unicorn; it helps me calm down long enough to think, but not about the unicorn’s order, which she’s now repeating. Right. Belt-like latch! My fingers scrabble around the collar at least three times before it dawns on me this might not be a normal collar. Still somewhat frantic, I spot through an open door what looks like a bathroom counter: Bathroom means mirror! Even for a unicorn, surely!

I shove the unprepared equine to the side, sending her tumbling into a heap with a yelp. I don’t bother to look back as I race for that door that has all my attention—I don’t even realize the stupidity of getting physically aggressive with a unicorn, no matter how many times I’ve seen a dumb drunk get kicked by a horse on the Internet, because I am not a genius after all.

Still running my hand over the yellow-orange collar I can now see, I can’t even gasp in surprise at the fact it’s one impossibly unbroken strip. Out of lack of anything else to do, I idly tug weakly at the steel disk as I lean forward, trying to discern the trick of the collar, but all I see is what’s etched into the tag:

Human II

557 Saddle Lp.

Ponyville, EQ

The next thing I know, I’m forced to almost crack my forehead against the sink by a strong yank by the collar, which is now glowing and connected to the unicorn’s horn by a glowing, ethereal “leash”. My knees, however, are not spared by the genuine ceramic tile, and I gasp as pain jolts up my spine. The unicorn is yelling something, but I’m temporarily deafened by the pain—certain not the shock of unicorn’s power… no. If unicorns exist, why not magic?!

Soon enough, a terrible smell finally distracts me, and as I blink tears of pain away, I see the unicorn now looks distressed and… embarrassed? She’s looking at something behind me, so I—almost feeling now as a slave to instinct—swiftly turn to follow her sight. At first, I think I’m looking at a rather small tub, already filled with a small amount of water, but- … Another breath in renews that rot-ish, earthy scent, and I doubletake, realizing it could only be a toilet, but not quite like any I’ve ever known before. Besides it’s size, I can only describe it as a cross between an Eastern and Western toilet: a porcelain oval bowl, sunk into the floor, and with no visible tank; there is also a lid—I presume to prevent one from falling inside, considering its size—but it has been left open. Also, in the corner of my eyes, I note the actual bathtub appears to be hardly more than a glorified, giant wooden bucket

Here it comes again: A muffled groan, and my eyes widen. I take a quick glance around, but of course there’s no escape—the bathroom only has one door, and the unicorn and her rounded belly completely block that way (even if I was athletic enough to vault over her, I wouldn’t risk falling onto that horn!). Accepting my fate, all I can do is turn and watch and wait, like a moose on the highway.

The groan rises into a grumbling, and I’d swear her belly actually ripples, if only so slightly, from whatever bowel-birthed horrors I don’t even want to try imagining. I don’t have to. The unicorn is soon enough overcome by that which is knocking at her anus, and even as she tucks her tail and scrunches her eyes shut, a hiss, almost too quiet to hear for that unnatural rumbling, escapes.

In spite of the unicorn’s obvious efforts, the leak is all that’s needed to break the dam; her eyes jump from clenched to wide with something like fear as the rumbling is released, bursting from its intestine-prison in a loud, but surprisingly short fpaa!-sound, blowing her tail out, and I’d swear the air there is actually tinted green, but dissipates quickly. I blink in surprise at the anticlimax, but the rumbling soon begins again, and I preemptively clamp my hands over my nose.

I turn back to the unicorn’s face, wishing for some kind of help, but not knowing exactly how to phrase what I need. Then, I notice two things at once: First, she doesn’t appear to be bothered by the smell so much as the force she’s struggling to contain within, and second, her horn is glowing with that mystical light again. I wince, expecting it to connect to the (not “my”!) collar again, but even worse, this time it envelops my entire body! I’m too shocked to do anything for a moment as I’m lifted off the ground as if gravity had decided to say “fuck that,” and leave me behind.

By the time the surprise leaves me enough to try to fight the magical grip, the unicorn has already levitated me over herself and dumped me outside the bathroom, and there I’m left to drop, rubbing my backside and contemplating how much I hate being levitated even after just one experience. The bathroom door, meanwhile, slams shut behind me, and I prepare myself to ignore what unholy sounds I expect to soon issue from that place.

Instead, I brush my finger tips across the collar, and idly toy with the tag as I review what little I’ve learned so far about my situation. Firstly, the unicorn is treating me like I’m not even sapient—my body and thoughts no more worthy of consideration than a dog’s desire to roll in dung. Following that, then it’s no wonder her reaction to my questions were… to not answer; even my words are nothing more than a mimicking parrot to her, if that.

Secondly… the magic: I can’t afford lie to myself on such a critic point and pretend I know anything about the limits of the unicorn’s power. That first spell I’m guessing is some kind of intangible leash, but it could just as well have conjured the collar. So then, while she’s… “distracted”, I should take the chance to test this! After all, being in the presence of one who discounts another creature’s sapience is dangerous! I’m pretty sure back home, for a human, that would be a sign of psychopathy! -or something. Either way, I’m not someone’s pet!

Yes. Everything else can be tackled later; getting out of here and away from that unicorn (if I can!) is my greatest priority.

I stand and take a few steps toward the only other door, each one that goes by without tripping some spell encourages me, so by the time I’m reaching out for the doorknob, I’m nearly ready to run. Then, the unicorn calls out, “Human the Second!” I cringe at the name she’s given me, but more worrying is the collar glows and begins to gently tug me towards the bathroom door; I dug my heels in, grab it, and try to pull back, but I might as well have tried to uproot a redwood with my bare hands. A second of fighting the magic, and I close my eyes and sigh—as long as the unicorn maintains the power to summon me with just my “name”, then I have no hope of escape.

I follow the pull of the collar the rest of the way back to the bathroom door, halting there, wondering what’s about to happen, but collar, as before, doesn’t heed the rest of my body, and it’s indiscriminate pull knocks my forehead against the wood. “Oh, right!” comes her call from inside, and I grimace as the doorknob is encased in magic, and then she opens the gate to Hell.

It’s exactly as bad as I’d dared not imagine, and as it hits my face, I wonder at the wisdom of breathing through my mouth as the bathroom air, which the unicorn has spent the last few minutes contaminating, settles on my tongue—surely this is what it must be like to lick the inside of a sewer pipe, for anything worse than this would be too evil for the Universe to contain! Saliva builds quickly, and it seems to offer my tongue reprieve—creating a barrier enough to block the worst of it—yet I wish not to drool, I must swallow… and, mostly reflexively, I do so, yet when I open my mouth again, it doesn’t seem so bad, making me wonder if my taste buds are being actively killed, or they’re just committing suicide.

The smell isn’t the only thing coming from the unicorn: The heat released from deep within has to have already raised the temperature by five degrees. Silver lining: I’m naked, so no trapped heat. Cloud: I’m naked in the same room as a defecating unicorn. Speaking of the unicorn, she, obviously, is standing over the toilet-hole, standing with her legs wide—probably as wide a possible, considering how they’re shivering from strain—clenching her eyes and teeth, and… The rumbling and rippling of her belly come in waves, peaking and dipping; within a second of staring in shock and perhaps a little morbid fascination, another hiss of a fart escapes, shortly followed by a clump of scat, which joins a few other hard-looking, ball-shaped clumps floating in the water.

Jolted out of the strange trance by the plopping splash, I close my eyes, jerk my head away, then open them wide in surprise of myself, mind mostly blank as I face towards the ceiling at the corner furthest from the toilet. Standing idle, uncertain and anxious about why I would be called here, I tug at the collar, suddenly wondering why it’s stopped tugging about a foot inside the door, but thankful I (particularly my head, and consequently, nose) am not being forced any closer to the source of the sensory assault; even my eyes can offer no distraction, for now I know, indeed, I hadn’t imagined that green cloud accompanying the fart from earlier, for just in the short minutes since I was thrown out, the unicorn had managed to engulf the room with a thin, rancid fog.

“Human.” Great. She seems to have finally remembered that she literally dragged me into her little DIY hell. “I need-!”—A short series of grunts followed by another plop comes from behind me. “I need help.” Her magic surrounded just my hands this time, and I swiveled around and pulled closer; embarrassment and anger rises up at being treated no better than as if I was a child that couldn’t be trusted to not wander too far, but I bit my tongue, restraining it from loosing the expletives I know would earn me no favor, especially in this position.

Speaking of position, while I was balancing being careful not to cut my tongue while inflicting maximum pain, the unicorn had forced me to kneel underneath her chest, and had put my hands under her rounded belly, as if I was holding it like a giant beachball. “Pu-…sh!” The unicorn orders through clenched teeth; her magic surrounds my hands again, forcing them into the mass, but the spell releases as she grunts with the effort of her own pushing from within. I, however, make no move, frozen by another realization: This mare (is it a “mare” if it’s a unicorn?) is not pregnant, like I’ve been assuming.

No, even taking into account the fact she’s a damn unicorn doesn’t explain what I feel. Firstly, the belly is way too soft—too malleable to… contain anything of “substance”. For a second, it feels insane, but now I can come to no conclusion but that this unicorn is literally full of shit. Why? Perhaps because freaking unicorn!

Anyway, I figure it’s in my best interests to comply, and as my shock recedes under the power of logic applied to mythical creatures, I—rather numbly—brace myself against the ground and shove. The unicorn groans as there’s a surge in the amount of plopping and splattering coming from just in front of me, and I can feel the powerful abdominal and intestinal muscles flex and shift and shiver, as well as something else that makes me wonder if the very Universe can read my thoughts and is intent on forcing me to question myself at every turn.

What I speak of is nothing but some hardness within the unicorn’s bowels, and I would bet, by it’s size and shape, that it’s some bone, but what and how? I kneed at the unicorn’s belly idly as I mull it over, only tangentially noticing the decrease in the sounds coming from ahead of me, and the panting now coming from behind. Only after a few seconds, however, does it strike me hard enough that I pull my hands back in fear: Unicorns in traditional mythology were carnivorous… right? -or was it they were (are?!) merely aggressive towards nonvirgins? I suppose I shouldn’t berate myself for not bothering to commit such things to memory—how was I to know it would become so relevant to my life?!

Wait! No matter what’s true, I shouldn’t panic; I’ve been explicitly tagged as a pet, and people don’t eat their pets, and no matter all other differences, this unicorn, from what I’ve seen, is similar enough in human thoughts and emotions to safely assume the same.

… Calm…

“That—huf—wasn’t helping any—huhh—any more anyway.” The unicorn’s voice startles me from my thoughts, and I have a split second to remember I’d stopped shoving against the unicorn’s stomach, which remains quite rounded yet in spite of everything I’ve heard happening on the other side of that bulge, before her magic grips me again and pulls me out from under herself. I stretch my neck as I stand—as the space under the unicorn had been rather limited, so had to bend my head down—and try to go back to ignoring the situation, but she’s not about to allow that. “Let’s try—ng—something else.”

I don’t have to ask or even wonder for long about what else I could do to help in this situation, for even before she finishes, that now-familiar sparkle of light encases my torso and tugs me around to face the portal to Nasal Hell. That little ring of black flesh which now holds my full attention would be most inconspicuous, even considered harmless, without context. Another grunt from the other end of the unicorn, and the deceptively tiny muscle wiggles—I turn my head aside just in time for a blast unicorn methane to hit my ear. “Well?! H-hold it—hrng—open!”

Of course … I didn’t want to admit it before she said it, but of course that would be the only reason a currently-defecating unicorn would introduce me to her anus. For once, however, I seem to be free from her forceful magic, but I wouldn’t bet on if that’s because she’s too focused on forcing “something else”, so I close my eyes, take as deep a breath as my tongue can bare, then whisper to myself “It’s for my own good. I need to stay on her good so she’s more receptive to me proving my sapience.”

With a nod to cement my decision to myself, I turn to face my target—I’d rather do it right the first time, than try without looking and risk doing something the unicorn won’t like—but lean to the side so won’t be directly in the line of fire of what I’m about to release. I pull my hands up tentatively at first, but soon, angry with my own hesitation, slap my hands against both rather-padded cheeks; she let’s out a little whimper, causing me to wince, but nothing happens, so I turn back to my work.

At first, I keep my hands where they landed, still a few inches away from the anus, and pull from there, using nothing but fiction to grip, but a dozen seconds in with nothing happening, and I know I’ll have to do more. Now gritting my teeth and thinking nothing but, I can wash my hands afterwards, over and over, I creep my hands closer to their dark target. By the time the first finger finally touches the bare flesh, my shoulders are so hunched with determination in keeping at this no matter how disgusting it becomes, they’re somewhere in the region of my ears.

Once again, I try to pull with friction alone, but the muscle proves its strength; I know then what I must do, but before I can prepare myself mentally to continue in my quest, another fart is released, and this combined with the force I had been exerting leads most logically to my fingertips slipping suddenly inside—only just barely, but inside still!

Only the shock of it is what keeps my hands there for the first few seconds, then gritting my teeth, focusing on that glorious moment in which this will finally be over, imagining myself snuggling into a bed of the sweetest flowers, I quickly push three more fingers in and pull. Surprisingly, once I actually got the leverage, it was quite easy to open—too easy, so much so I’m quite unprepared for the demons I unleash, which leave their trails on the backs of my hands as they emerge in an eager torrent as the one that imprisoned them so unwillingly now moans with relief.

I’m not really paying attention to that, though, more than that what I had merely suspected before is now proven true by the white of a bone displaying itself as the culprit of trapping the unicorn’s feces, having lodged itself against the ring of muscle so it couldn’t open properly. Yet, if the unicorn’s body couldn’t process bones, would she not know, and then why consume them?… A useless question.

Seemingly finally regaining control of myself, I close my eyes, but this only serves to enhance in my mind the splattering going on beneath me, and unlike my eyes which I can close and my nose which has shut down in self defense, my hearing remains. Not only that, however, my sense of touch calls my attention as well.

The seemingly endless logs sliding across the backs of my hands alone would be enough to make me want to wash them for a year straight, but at least that is happening on the less sensitive backs of the hands. On my much more sensitive fingers is a strange familiarity: The muscled, gently slimy-slippery, restlessly undulating insides of the colon is all too reminiscent of a tongue… if I discount the continuous fighting of the anus.

All I can do to keep myself from focusing too much on any of this is to count the seconds, second by second by agonizing second, until a new sound—splashing—interrupts my concentration, and without checking with me first, my eternally curious ape-brain subconscious opens my eyes, and what I seen then causes once more an ill-advised gasp of surprise. It’s not the urination that shocks me—though its sharp, intruding scent does well enough in that second afterwards—but the actual size of the unicorn’s belly, and by extension the unloaded pile beneath me, which is to say that her stomach is now practically flush with her barrel, leaving no trace of the obscene, pregnant bulge she had minutes ago.

I blink as I realize it’s actually over, taking a second to look into the colon I’m still holding open just to make sure, then quickly remove my hands; the unicorn let’s out a little grunt when her anus suddenly is allowed to return to normal. As the urine continues flowing before me, I look over my brown-streaked hands and contemplate for a millisecond just sticking them under that yellow stream to get them relatively clean as soon as possible, but even as I dismiss the idea as silly, its already trickling to a stop anyway.

Finally, I move my now-shaking legs to step out from behind the unicorn—this seems to draw her attention, and before I know it, I’m once again shoved out of the bathroom with a burst of magic. A moment later, there’s a gurgling whoosh of water moving through pipes and a floor shakes as if there’s a mild earthquake; I stare at the crack under the door, but no water appears, so I guess that loads like that must be normal for the unicorn, if she has a toilet designed to handle them.

Shacking such thoughts away, I glance at my hands before turning around and making once more for the door; there’s no way I’m waiting for her to leave the bathroom to wash her shit off of me. But I’m no savage, I’m careful to turn the doorknob with my clean palms.

Down a short hall, and I come across a dining room almost instantly, and from there run into the kitchen and turn on the faucet to blast full hot, steaming water; of course it hurts, even after I pull my hands out to lather furiously all the way up to my elbow, but I’m not going to stand for anything less. Finally, with a sigh, I slap the valve off, I turn away, putting my hands onto the counter on either side of me; I glance down at the angry, red, clean skin, and make to walk back to the bedroom, but the unicorn is there, standing still in the doorway to the dining room—I can only guess the leash spell told her where I was.

Her expression is only like what I might imagine a human’s expression would be like upon finding out his cats play Mozart while he’s away at work: questioning everything she thinks she knows about how the world is suppose to work—and just like the cats caught in the act because the human had an unexpected day off because of an accident on the highway into town, I’m frozen-unsure in turn.

As it turns out, neither of us have to say or do anything, for with a timing granted by the gods, there’s a metallic click of a bolt lock, a quiet whoosh of a door, hoofsteps, and a slam. “Lyra, I’m home!” The unicorn I assume is named Lyra had turned to the door to the hall since the unlocking of the bolt, now glances back to me, bites her lip, then canters out, presumably to meet this other person; after a moment, I shrug and follow.

The other, who has a somewhat nasally but still feminine voice, is speaking as I enter what I guess is a living room. “Lyra, what have you been eating? I was only gone for-” This other, who surprisingly isn’t a unicorn, but looks rather like a normal equine except the candy-colors, brings a forehoof to her face in a horse-analogue of a facepalm. “What is this? You’ve already replaced it?!”

Lyra again, bites her lip as the other mare stomps the hoof she’d facepalmed with and glares, obviously not about to back down until a satisfactory answer is given. I, meanwhile, don’t bother to hang too much on being called an it—I’ve already gathered how I’m viewed by these people—but I am intrigued by the questioning of Lyra’s diet; perhaps the eating of such volumes is not so normal after all? In fact…

I had no reference to Lyra’s size before, but now with this other, it’s easy to see that she has quite a bit more padding all around; though subtle, if this other mare represents what’s normal for these equines—and I suspect she is at least closer as gathered from her reaction—then just from what I can tell by comparison, Lyra is definitely overweight. There’s a small crease of fat where her neck meets her collar bone, and where the underside of her muzzle meets her neck… as well as where each leg begins—it’s especially noticeable around the middle of her hindlegs, where they take a sudden turn back and then down again. Her wider behind gives the impression of her tail being slightly further up on her back, and it’s raised slightly more by the enhanced circumference, giving better and easier view of things, the thought of which might’ve made me blush if I hadn’t just spent the last few minutes being intimately acquainted with their functions.

Eventually, after Lyra fails to answer for a whole minute. “Forget it! I don’t really care. You still know how to use that leashing spell, right?” Lyra finally moves: nodding. “Good, because I’ve invited Turner and Dinky over for dinner since Derpy’s out of town, and I want you to leash him-”—she points at me—“-somewhere outside while they’re over.”

“-but-” Lyra tries, but the other mare narrows her eyes, which is sufficient to silence her. Lyra keeps glancing at me out of the corner of her eyes; I imagine she’s thinking about what she just saw in the kitchen, and I think I can guess about what she was just about to say—perhaps something in my defense?

Perhaps, if I play the part of a “good dog”, I’ll be allowed to stay inside…

TWO

No such luck. Even though I can still hear the occasional whine from Lyra piercing the walls, for now I’m stuck outside, with a thin but impossibly strong leach of magic connecting me not to any particular thing, but a point in space itself—so I discovered when when I tried to dig at the ground where the other point of the leash is. Now, as the Sun descends into evening, I turn instead to hoping I’ll be let in for the night, after these “Turner and Dinky” people leave; I don’t think I’ll be seeing them, since I’m in the backyard, and only window on this side is to the bedroom.

At least now I’m more than certain I’m no longer on the planet I’ve known for my whole life: This town seems to be nothing but rainbow-colored horses, unicorns, and even pegasi, whose wings seem far too small to fly, and yet they do.

With literally nothing to do, I lay on my back, looking up at the strangely still sky, hands under my head, as I idly imagine getting out of this predicament. I’m starting to wonder about the wisdom of proving my sapience and moving in favor of simply waiting for the chance to escape. After all, these horses have proven themselves very human-like, and what would humans do if they found a sapient dog?… Maybe if Lyra proves herself loyal to me enough to protect me, then… What am I thinking? She can’t even protect me from Bonbon!

… Hmph…

…

That sky is really getting to my nerves, and I can’t tell why!

A breeze picks up, and I shiver as the waving grass tickles my scrotum—if nothing else, just being rendered naked and without access to clothing would be humiliating enough! At least there aren’t many horses about… not that they would be bothered to see me like this. Another breeze, another tickle, another shiver, and this time a twitch from my penis.

I sigh and drum my fingers against my hip, tempted to move them over my crotch and—well! It’s not like anyone would care even if they see me, but still, to do so in public… My face burns as I wonder if I would even be able to finish in such a state, but that wind doesn’t seem to care, as if it were a lover enticing me, and my erection grows slowly up towards my bellybutton, like a methodical mountaineer.

Eventually, with a hiss of annoyance, I sit up and quickly rip at the grass around my crotch; Lyra might get upset at that (or, more likely, Bonbon, come to think of it), but when I let myself fall back, I smile: the wind itself is still a problem, but without it’s grassy, tickling cohort, I can resist. I sigh, and close my eyes.

-And an instant later open them again, staring.

Specifically, I stare at a single, unmoving cloud. I shift so the roof of the home partially blocks the cloud, and I wait. At least five minutes later, and nothing’s happened. Before I can even begin to wonder how and why on this phenomenon, a pegasus flies above me, pushing along another cloud as if the cloud was actually a bag of water instead of a loose collection of vapor. Fucking magic, of course.

This cloud, however, is quite a bit darker than the first one, and I can guess at why the horse is transporting it with the dulled, purposeful look of someone performing a job that they don’t really care for. She leaves it near the white cloud, then takes that one away; as she leaves with it, I look around and realize that as I had been staring at the unmoving cloud, other clouds had been moving in… or rather, they had been moved in. -by pegasi.

One such pegasus, whose mane embodies the spectrum (that can’t be natural!), is working her way towards Lyra’s and Bonbon’s, and therefore making her way over me with rainclouds! I call out, “Hey!”, but I cut myself off, wondering how I could possibly handle this. Considering I’d seen no outrage from anyone at my treatment, I have to assume humans being pets here is normal, and who would listen to a parrot telling it to not do something? Well… “who doesn’t try, already failed”, right?

However, it doesn’t seem as if the pegasus paid much attention to my call—not surprising. “HEY! … uh … RAINBOW-!” Wait. Should I even call these things horses to their face? How would I feel if some alien shouted “hey, human!” a me? Probably at least a little bit offended … but it doesn’t seem to matter, as said rainbow horse has stopped her work anyways, and is now tilting her head, confused.

“What-? H-?” She mutters as she drifts down towards me.

I confirm it’s me by waving, but this just makes her scowl and roll her eyes; before she can leave, I call out again, “Wait! Would you, erm, mind not putting any rain clouds above me?” Saying that sounds so much weirder than I expected, feeling only one step removed from praying to some rain god.

… -and like most gods throughout history, the rainbow-ed one completely ignores me—her only acknowledgment being another eyeroll. I cross my arms, frown, and… shiver; by now, most of the sky has been covered, blocking the already-nearly-set Sun. I can’t let this just happen! The pegasus leaves, then soon returns with more cloud, and I call out again, but this time she doesn’t even turn around. This goes on from three more times until I guess I annoy her enough, and she spins around, raising and shaking a hoof as a human would shake a fist threateningly.

I raise my arms, expecting to be attacked, but then the pegasus glances to each side, huffs, then drops the hoof. After a second, waiting for the bluff, I glance to the side in turn, and see horses still walking along, many now wearing saddles with umbrellas embedded in them in anticipation of rain. Ah, witnesses! Well, if nothing else, it seems I’m protected by animal abuse law.

However, this is likely to be my last chance! Turning skyward, all I find is a quickly fading ribbon of rainbow, but no rainbow like I’ve known before, starting where the pegasus had been hovering and weaving in drunken way (relatively, for a rainbow, that is) around the corner of the house to the front. I raise an unamused eyebrow as a suspicion of what caused this rainbow comes to me.

Sure enough, there’s a quick, impatient knocking at the front door, then a dozen seconds later, Lyra answers and the rainbow pegasus bursts into what sounds like a rant. I can’t hear the specific words, but I think I can take a good guess at their content; with a sigh, I let my face plop into my hands and shake my head.

So much for playing “good dog”.

With nothing to do but wait for judgement now, I sit and hug my knees, frowning in worry. Would Lyra really punish me on nothing but the rainbow-horse’s word? She slapped me for swearing, but then she had me help her… -blegh, don’t think about it! Either way, she’s proven herself eccentric, by human standards. She also defended me against Bonbon, even though she lost there, I’m guessing she only compromised because they appear to live together, so-… ah! Lyra and the rainbow-one are having a shouting match!

Releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I released my legs and flopped onto the grass; the “excitement” of the encounter is yet holding off the chill for the moment. Now it sounds as if Bonbon has joined the fray, and is rather successful implanting calm order to the dispute; a few seconds later, the front door closes and I prop myself on my elbows just in time to see a quickly fading rainbow lead from the front of the house into the low, gray clouds.

I sigh, lay back, cross my arms, and close my eyes, trying not to think about the fact the rain is probably going to start soon, and hoping to catch at least a nap before it does. Unfortunately, I was far off the mark about that “fact”, as I don’t even get to doze before water hits my face—so I think in that first instant, because the instant later, it’s easy to tell this is no rain, but more a stream, like from a drinking fountain, but… warm!?

In ill-advised haste, I sit up and cry in shock, then sputter as some of the liquid manages to trickle into my mouth. Yes, there’s no doubt now—even if the low light keeps me from seeing the color—that I’m being given a golden shower, and I think I know who and why. Rolling out of the way, I look up, but see nothing but the gray blanket. Well if I can’t see her, she can’t see me, right?

Wrong. A second later, the stream follows me, now hitting my chest. What kind of accuracy must this take, from all the way from the clouds? And she’s a she, how does she aim it?! I stand and run, but in blind indignation at this degrading violation, I forget the leashing spell, and the next thing I know, I’m laying on my back with a sore neck and the back of my head pounding… and a warm liquid flowing over my penis. I try to run again, but just lifting my head brings stars to my vision. Still dizzy, then, I can’t tell for how much longer it lasted as she seemed determined to cover me. I guess they don’t say “need to piss racehorse” for no reason; I grumble at the thought, which sets off a cough, which thankfully the pegasus can’t take advantage of for lack of ammo.

Figuring she’s flown off since she’s made her point, I start wondering whether I should wait for the rain to wash me off, or not risk hypothermia but suffer her stink for who-knows-how-long until Lyra checks on me. Actually, now I think about it, where would I even go? I already know there’s porch to hide under, as for… -a tilt of my head, and I can tell the eaves are quite short—maybe enough to cover me, but only if I press myself against the wall.

I quickly decide to move—Lyra wouldn’t leave me out all night, as even Bonbon only wanted me out of the way for the guests, so after they leave-… After rolling my too-tired-of-this-shit self onto my hands and knees to stand, I feel something warm yet again hit me. In the first millisecond, I roll my eyes, wondering where she stores it all, and then I freeze when I realize the warm lump on my back is solidly staying in place.

Solidly.

“What the-!” I barely stop myself from shouting the expletive, just in case Lyra might hear, as I stand quickly, arching my back, as if that could help me get the sticky mess off me. “fucking… hell…” I whisper to myself as I feel IT slide down the grove of my spine, then my butt crack, and finally it leaves me with a plop, though I know it must have left some slimy trail. Suddenly in a flurry, I jump away from the lump I now finally smell, fall to the grass and begin rubbing my back into the ground, acting just like the dog that these fairy tale horses think I am.

My cheeks burn and I grimace, but not in pain even as rough soil and small but sharp pebbles dig at my bare skin. Over my heavy breathing, turned hot by embarrassment, and the sound of the rustling grass, I’m sure I’m not imagining giggling from above. Damn that mare! What did I even do that deserves this?!

Once I’m as clean as I think I can get, I roll over to get out of the mess. There, I sigh, then groan I put a palm to my forehead at rub at the headache I can feel coming. What am I going to do about this—what can I do—when I’m forced to act in ways that even Lyra would likely see as something only a nonsapient animal would do?

I’m not given much time to contemplate it, as yet again something hits me with a plop, only this time on my chest. I almost force myself to not react, but even then, simply wallowing in filth yet another thing only an animal could tolerate. With a growl of frustration, I grab two clumps of turf, turn onto my side, and furiously scrub at the offending mass.

In the end, however, all I’m left with is my entire chest and palms streaked with brown and green stains, and I don’t dare to hope my back looks any better. Releasing one last defeated growl, I flop to ground, feeling strangely exhausted—dealing with literal shit will do that, I suppose. At least the sounds of the pegasus’s laughter seems to be fading, along with the sound of wings flapping, off into the distance…

The slam of a door jolts me, and a second later I realize I must have dozed off, my brain seemingly unconcerned with the dirt, grass, and other things. As I yawn and raise myself up, I guess that it hasn’t been even an hour since the rainbow bitch left, as the rain still had yet to start, and I can hear Bonbon saying goodbye to the guests. That must mean here at the back door is-!

“Human! How was your-? She stops as I stand up, and idly, sleepily scratching my chest, I finally remember why, then groan at the feel of something under my fingernails—something I probably never want to be there. When I finally open my eyes and look at her, she’s still frozen mid-step, and her face distorted in disgust; I sigh and only just manage to stop myself from putting my face into my palms.

When I look up again, I barely catch Lyra’s tail going around the corner. A second later, I quiet squeaking sound, then rustling grass, and … she comes back with a hose in that freaky magic of hers.

Really!?

If only I had been on that side of the house, I could have cleaned myself off, but now I just look like a dog that rolled carrion (if blood was green, which, thinking about it, it might be in this universe). Even Lyra doesn’t seem to recognize how willing I am to be cleaned, no matter how much I shiver and clench my teeth against the cold spray that feels like a blanket made of needles being wrapped around me.

Worse, it seems my efforts to appear sapient have been for nothing: Lyra—looking disappointed—returns the hose to the side of the house with a slump to her shoulders and a sigh coming from the corner of her lips. She walks slowly back to the door, not looking at me or addressing me in any way; a second later she throws out a blanket onto the porch, presumably my bed, which I promptly wrap myself in, makeshift-sleepingbag-style.

Inside my slowly warming darkness, I touch the collar. I just have to figure out how to remove it, and from there… well, I’m sure I’ll be able to find home again. I got here, after all, so has to be possible to get back.

THREE

Again, I’m awoken by a slamming door. I hear Lyra saying something, but for now my brain refuses to process it; its slow boot-up busy with things like groaning, wearily peeling back my blanket-cocoon, and squinting into bright late-morning sunshine, painfully waiting for my eyes to adjust. I’m not about to be simply left to waking myself up, however, as an apparently impatient unicorn uses her damnable leash magic to pull me up—at least she uses steady pressure instead of yanking… but I’m not about to thank her for that!

Great; now she’s “talking” to me in that grating babying tone. I don’t even bother to listen any more—what would be the point? She obviously doesn’t expect me to understand, much less respond, and after last night, now I know even if I try it would only be parroting to her. Then, with her leash and calling spells, there’s no escape. So then is it so surprising if I slump after her into the house? At least to her it will only appear as sleepiness, but then I bet she’s never been literally pulled awake. There’s no room for drowsing after such a jarring experience.

I make to sit at the dining table, but a glare from Bonbon is enough to force me to step back and sit with my back against the wall instead. I think I catch something like surprise from her, but a split second later she turns around when Lyra calls out—she has her head in the fridge, looking for something, I guess. At least I’m allowed to zone out, almost dozing until a clack of plastic hits the floor in front of me: a pet food-and-water dish. Hilarious.

The food is nothing but greens that don’t even deserve the word “salad”. With a sigh, I nab up one of the leaves that I’m not even sure will provide me with any value, but my stomach loudly tells me it’s too hungry to care. Idly, I roll the plant between my fingers into a cigarette-shape, grimace, and bit down.

Like paper.

But, for whatever reason, I fight not to spit it out, instead chewing and swallowing as fast as I can. Maybe I can just tide my stomach over for a while on water until I get the chance to raid the fridge? As long as there’s something—anything—in there that’s not green! I drop the half eaten leaf and look at the molded plastic of the double-bowled pet feeder; there’s no way this is going to be graceful.

Just picking the thing up I already slosh water onto the floor and into the leaves (what a loss), but a glance at the horses tell me they’re not looking. Next problem: The rim of the bowl is unreasonably wide, obviously designed for something that drinks with its tongue. Whatever. A little water down my chin and chest is nothing compared to last night. Oh. A leaf slipped into the water… How pathetic.

A few minutes later, I set the thing beside me, belch, and gag at the taste in the back of my throat; that may have been a bit more water than I thought. With nothing to do, and being pretty certain they won’t let me on any furniture after denying me a place at the table, I let myself flop onto my back, ready to rest, but of course the horses are not going to just let that happen—an instant later and I’m being pulled up by the collar. I swear if I make it out of this, I’ll never pull on a dog’s leash again!

Now I’m being led out the front door, and I notice Lyra and Bonbon are wearing what could only be described as saddle bags, but they’re not wearing saddles—which makes sense, as they appear to be the dominant lifeform around here, whereever “here” is.

Even as I hang my head, walking behind my two “owners” trying not to call attention to myself or cause trouble accidentally, I can’t help but admit my curiosity about this “here”. It’s so remarkably similar to my human-ruled home, no matter little sense the details make, like doorknobs and handles on mugs and tea cups. Freaks.

As my eyes rove side-to-side, I catch Lyra glancing back and smiling at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to fathom the why of anything she does unless it means she going to let me go—call me paranoid, but I don’t think her smiling because I’ve become complacent is any sign of that!

Shortly after that, I catch sight of him, and I can no longer feign disinterest in the world: My head rises as my jaw drops. It’s not really him I’m interested in, though, but what’s happening to him, or rather not happening. He’s being treated like he’s an actual sapient being, sitting normally a table outside a restaurant and talking to the waiter. -and he’s a freaking minotaur!

Suddenly, I can’t think any more. I can’t move any more. I feel pulling on my neck, but so distantly, like I got stuck in time halfway through falling asleep. I suppose I must have moved (or been moved), because when I come back to lucidity, the restaurant—and, more importantly, the minotaur—are out of sight.

I raise my arms, stretching my back and shoulders as I look about. I’ve been tied outside of some place called “Dining, Kitchen, And That’s It”, where I’m guessing Lyra and Bonbon are shopping. With a groan, I let my arms drop and then let the rest of me follow, flopping into the grass. As I blink, looking up at the bright, now-clear sky, I can’t not see the minotaur in the back of my mind.

We look practically the same! Why would we be treated so differently… Why do the horses not see his human traits as making him (ironically) half-animal?… I suppose it’s a good deal for him, at least, but, damn it horses, how can you not make the leap from minotaur to human?! With a grunt of resigned dejection, I punch the ground.

The little puff of loose dust I kick up settles on my thigh and crotch, and I roughly, ineffectively bush at it. What am I even angry at, besides the unfairness of this? Childish. Shaking my head, I brush my hands together, feeling the coarse dirt fall away. I’m worth hardly more attention than this dirt… except to Lyra, I guess.

What does that really mean for Lyra, though? Am I really “like a dog” here, or is Lyra like one of those rich psychopaths that keep crocodiles and tigers as “pets”? I look around, and now actually paying attention to reactions to me instead of a minotaur, it seems that I must be a more odd sight than I thought. They’re trying to be sneaky about it (maybe because it would be rude to my owner?), but being the object of their attention, it’s pretty much impossible for them to hide from my scrutiny, and the more I watch, the more I don’t like.

Licked lips. Flecks of drool. Disappointed glances shifting from me to whatever that horse is eating. The final nail in the coffin—MY coffin is a somewhat plumper blue mare asking whom I guess is her husband about maybe buying me for dinner! I stumble, standing, pulling at the collar and the magic tether. Indecisive. Even if I somehow got free, what would happen? I can’t help but imagine a lone sheep running into a pack of wolves, and-!

No. Calm. These horses are still somewhat civilized. -not wolves. Being owned by Lyra appears to offer me protection! That’s… all I need. An owner. A perso- A horse that cares and will watch me. I’m stuck here. I was taught to obey another’s rules while in their home, and to obey another’s laws while in their country, but what of being on another planet? Well, why wouldn’t the same logic apply… Yes. Logic.

I am a human. Humans use logic. To submit to the horses means survival. Survival is hope; hope is good. Logic!

Satisfied I sit back down; unfortunately, the ground around here was all trampled by the horses, made bare of grass, leaving nothing but hard, uncomfortable dirt. I stretch out, fall onto my back, and put my hands under my head—just a sunny morning, right? Who cares if it’s across the multiverse in a world where I’m seen like an animal, and even as food? Not me! No more taxes or debt, not expected to hold a job, a freak of an owner who treats me like a pet instead of livestock… The more I think about it, the more I smile and more I can ignore, well, everything! -from the momentary dirt bed I’m sure to be retrieved from soon to the hungry stares from passersby: None of it can affect me!

Smiling, I blink and stare up at the bright unblemished sky… until a cloud floats over me from behind the store roof. I’m only slightly perturbed by this unwelcome arrival until a certain rainbow-patterned annoyance peaks her head from behind the cloud, followed by the face of what appears to be a giant bird (for it’s body is obscured by the cloud), wearing a ridiculous amount of eyeshadow. Great. Didn’t she humiliate me enough last night?! She couldn’t possibly be planning on using me as a toilet where everyone could see it’s her, so I can only imagine she has something planned with that bird, but what?

Before I can really begin to worry upon it, I hear Lyra and Bonbon exit, chatting about dinner plans or something—I’m not really interested, particularly because I’m distracted by the problem literally hanging over my head. What can I do about it, though, in this situation, leashed now once again to Lyra and walking back home? Nothing. Even if I tried to warn her, I already know she wouldn’t listen. Therefore, nothing to worry about…

We take only a few paces and there’s a whooshing from behind us—something big moving fast—and horses yelling in shock; at first I shrug it off as someone running late, until a split second later when I remember what I just saw. Before I can even decide whether it would be worth it to try to tell Lyra, something hits me in the middle of the back, and I can’t believe nothings broken, but I didn’t feel or hear anything besides my lungs deflating.

The tackle sends my flying, tumbling through the air with no sense of direction and no control. Lyra let’s out a cry of surprise, and I imagine she’s getting dragged along by the magic leash. I wait for the “fall” part of the equation, wincing at images of the scrapes I would earn and the grit that would imbed in my skin, but… that doesn’t happen.

When I finally let my imagination fall away and address reality, I find myself gripped tightly within the talon of what must be the giant bird from earlier. Lyra is now outright screaming and I can’t blame her threatening my eardrums—she’s suppose to be the apex predator around here, after all, or so I think until I look around and see we’ve barely cleared the roof the tallest building: only two stories!

I hear an angry growling from above and turn around to finally take in the thing that’s stolen me (it’s hard to call it “kidnapping” when I’m pretty sure I’m lunch either way). I blink until the word comes to me: griffon. Sure. Unicorns, pegasi, minotaurs, and griffons, too. Why not? Lyra pauses her screaming to take a breath, and the griffon shouts down in a gruff, but still feminine, voice, “Hey! Shut up and let the human go unless you want to follow him into my stomach!”

Lyra finally stopped her screaming to yell back, “No way! He’s my dinner, thief!” Lunch. Dinner. Tomayto. Tomahto.

The griffon adjusts her grip on me to shake a talon-fist while growling menacingly—I’m surprised Lyra doesn’t let go, and so, apparently, is the griffon. “Humf… Fine! Then you can eat him after I eat both of you! Makes no difference to me!”

“I’d like to see you try, you overgrown drumstick!” The griffon chuckles rather ominously, then suddenly pulls up into a hover, sending Lyra swinging wildly underneath us, jerking me around by my neck. The griffon helpfully resolves this by lifting me above herself, turning me face down, opening her beak wide, and practically letting me drop in. Sure enough, the strong esophagus and neck muscles, working together, completely stabilize my head!

The Griffon readjusts her grip again, around my thighs and crotch now, and starts shoving me down in combination with heavy swallowing; the contractions feeling as if they’re toeing the brink of dislocating my shoulders. My head slipping now past the neck and into the chest, suddenly my ears are filled with the griffon’s heartbeat, mine instinctively matching it as she paused in swallowing me for the moment; she was trying to yell at Lyra again, I think by the feeling of her throat and tongue on my chest and stomach.

I take the moment to look around, the magic leash providing barely any light, but it’s made to seem unusually amplified by the reflective, slippery, and saliva- and mucus-lined tube—it’s as frictionless as I can imagine anything being, and yet the constriction from all sides combined with her grip from outside, held me quite still in an unexpected display of strength. In fact, even with the thick, sour smell I know is coming from below, where I would continue toward soon, I found myself even more unexpectedly getting aroused.

Then, suddenly, I can’t see. The leash spell was released! I feel what I think is the griffon chuckling at Lyra for a moment, and then what I think is momentum from her flying: straight up, this time, or at least sharply upwards. Soon enough she begins swallowing again, grasping me near my knees for better leverage for faster delivery of myself to her stomach. My belly and my hips pass into her beak before my crown hits what feels at first like a deadend, but of course it’s not, and it’s slowly forced open.

“Rainbow!” The griffon is finally able to (somewhat) talk around my thighs. “You wanted this, now help me!” Ah, just as I’d thought. I think Rainbow-Horse says something back, but it’s harder for me to hear her through the heartbeats and the incessant squelching of esophagus-flesh slipping around my ears.

Whatever the mare said, however, she places her hooves on the soles of my feet and shoves, with the griffon holding my lower legs, continuing to pull in addition to holding my knees steady for Rainbow. Wider and wider… down and down. I shut my eyes tight, but I can’t do anything about my ears getting folded and rather painfully squished. Once over the dome of the forehead, it seems to be easier for them to get me in, or at least I start moving faster—all too soon I’m breathing nothing but stale, acidic air that slowly begins to burn in my nose.

When the valve passes my chin, it snaps shut around my neck, making me gag, then I gag a second time when I inadvertently take in a mouthful of stomach acid, immediately spitting it out and trying to turn as far away from the puddle with my extremely limited movement. I really can’t wait for them to hurry up and get the rest of me shoved in here so I get my head out of this acid.

My shoulders, being squeezed together as I previously noted, don’t present as much trouble as I imagined they would, but now the stomach is already getting a bit cramped, and the stomach, being at least as strong as the esophagus, squeezes, shoving my neck at an awkward angle. I would have cried out if I couldn’t still feel the acid on my lips, so instead I wiggle, hoping to get my body to fall into a more comfortable position, as well as, perhaps, help me get in even faster.

… “My body”? It’s not really “mine” any more, is it? No. Especially now, as Rainbow pulls her hooves away and the griffon closes her beak, then a few more swallows and the only things that exist as far as I’m concerned is saliva, stomach acid, and the muscular sac itself. Its kneading motion helps as more of me enters, forcing me to curl in on myself, until my knees get caught on the narrow “door”. The griffon obviously must feel this: I hear what I think is a squawk, then pounding and coughing, her punching herself in the chest, perhaps? Whatever it is, it’s barely enough to cause a tiny jostling.

“What’s mat- … -lda? - … swallow- … -human?” I’m pretty sure Rainbow is laughing at the griffon’s predicament.

The pounding and coughing stops. “I think his legs are stuck!”

More laughing, louder. “That’s- … -eat- … -not- … -first!”

“Shut up…” The griffon grumbles, as if embarrassed, but I have no idea by what. “I’ve never eaten human before.”

“Alright, I have an idea.” Hearing Rainbow so clearly now, I imagine she’s gotten closer, and for why, I learn a second later. First, I feel myself lifted slightly—Rainbow holding me up?—then suddenly I’m shaken violently up-down, left-right, and which way!

“Rain-urp-bow! You’re gon’na-urp make me throw him up!” The jostling increases, and I can’t tell if it’s Rainbow-Ass shaking the griffon’s stomach harder or the griffon trying to fend her off. Either way, after a few quick painful twists and turns, my knees pop in, and, being forced into a fetal position, the rest of the legs follow.

A few pats on the griffon’s stomach hit the back of my head. “Ha! I wouldn’t worry about that, Gilda. If you could barely get him in there, how’re you gon’na get him out?” Laughing, and more “patting” of the griffon’s—Gilda’s?—stomach. Under the barrage, the big sac contracts and shifts around me, which results in getting me completely coated in liquids I don’t want to think about.

Then, my prison/tomb shifts more dramatically: Gilda moving to push Rainbow away, I’m guessing by what she says. “Serio-hic-ly, Dash! Ooo…” The hiccup jostles me about even more, and now I’m being gently squeezed from all sides—Gilda hugging her stomach, perhaps? More hiccups, of course, accompanied by swaying that suggests Gilda walking; either way, every tiny movement seems to cause the deceptively small amount of acids to splash about and run burning rivulets crisscrossing over my skin.

This leads to the obvious inevitable, so when the pain finally hits my crotch too hard, my hands instinctively jerk down, which leads to the next inevitable of causing the stomach to bounce around even worse. The pressure comes back that suggests Gilda is hugging her stomach.

“Ha! Have- … -da? You- … -get- … -out, silly.” I wait, but nothing seems to be changing. Nothing now except the griffon’s breathing, heartbeat, and squelching, gurgling guts. Then, another thumping? Is Gilda being attacked? She’s not more or saying anything…

“Uuuurrrrrrrrp!” It’s like an earthquake, but on a miniature, personal scale; the shaking “world” seems to force all else into the background, where it might as well not exist, then, with the thing over as quickly and suddenly as it started, it takes a moment for me to readjust. Everything is just as I expected, once I can think again: normal and as before, except now the stomach completely encases me, almost shrinkwrap-like, but with the accumulating acids, it might as well be.

I think Gilda and Rainbow are talking again, but I can’t concentrate on anything but my face, shoved as it is against the stomach wall. No matter which way I turn my head, twisting my neck to the most painful extremes, I can’t get my mouth or nose away from the deceptively soft, slippery flesh—the way it seems to cling so determinedly, it might as well have been superglued to me.

In one last attempt, I try to pull my hands up to my face, but my legs are being squeezed so tightly, my arms are trapped against my crotch. I only have enough energy—enough air—to pull at them three or four times before I feel the threat of lightheadedness, and only for that split second do I realize it’s truly hopeless, and no one back home will ever know what happened to me. Then, all I can think about is my Purpose being fulfilled; of course I’m sad that I’m here in a thief’s stomach rather than my owner’s, Lyra, but that’s a problem between the two predators; my only concern is making sure I get eaten and nourish someone.

So knowing that I’ve succeeded, I fall asleep with a smile.

“You were right, Dash.” Gilda says as she idly rubs and pats her now-still stomach, sitting with her bulging middle before herself, which is shoving her hindlegs to the side. Rainbow Dash replies in the form of a cheeky grin, putting both forehooves on Gilda’s belly, waiting, discreetly watching Gilda’s face, who now has her eyes half-closed gently in contentment.

Then, just as the pegasus knew would be coming, the stomach suddenly started jerking about, yet just as Gilda cries out—more in panic than pain—it stills again. Rainbow, laughing so hard that she cries and coughs, falls onto her back, wiggling about. “Oh, Celestia! I wish I had a camera! Priceless!”

Gilda, meanwhile, unable to decide whether she should be more hurt or embarrassed, simply lashes out. “What the fuck, Dash!?” The next few minutes, however, is filled with nothing but slowly quieting laughter and one quickly growing glare.

Finally, Rainbow Dash forces herself to take in one long, steadying breath and pull herself up to her hooves. “Uh, heheh, well, his death throe. Duh? I know you’ve hunted before…” Dash tilts her head—she at least does know Gilda has never before eaten anything as big as a human alive, but even this drastic of a reaction she did not expect; internally, she was biting her lip and frantically thinking up ways to make it up to the old friend she hadn’t seen for so long.

Gilda’s growl devolves into a groan, then a sigh and a shake of her head. She raises a foreleg and wiggles her talons, then taps one against the sharp tip of her beak. “I’ve never eaten anything alive. Most griffons don’t, and usually never do. Only ponies do that regularly with whatever innate magic allows them to, and I think even you’d know that…”

She’s waiting for something, and Rainbow knows at least this. “Alright, alright! Sorry!” Rainbow waves her forehooves about as if to air away the antagonistic miasma. “I did know, that’s why I didn’t tell you: because I thought it would be funny. I didn’t think about how it would be at your expense. Sorry.” The pegasus pony falls into a small slump, looking up at the overfilled griffon with as close to puppydog eyes as Dash will allow of herself.

Gilda lets Rainbow wallow for a moment before a loud gurgle followed by a long, bubbly groan makes her wince a look down at her stomach with a little worry, so she shrugs. “Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sleep this off, preferably somewhere that unicorn won’t be able to find me and try to get back at me.”

Trying to stand, Gilda only finds her new freely-swinging weight throwing her off balance—not simply dragging her back down, but nearly pulling her onto her side; she sways as she struggles to regain control. Rainbow Dash, watching intently, puts a forehoof to her muzzle and forces her giggling to quieten. “Um… Need a little help, there?” Though jokes run around her mind, she shoos them away; Rainbow remembers now how Gilda can turn rather self-conscious suddenly sometimes, even when nopony else is around, and so decides not to push her any more right now.

However, her weighed-down companion simply harumphs and begins flapping her wings madly to fight the weight; she manages to stand like this, but a second later she remembers they’re currently standing on a lone cloud. After how much she struggled just to stand, they both know there’s no way she’ll be able to fly in this state, so once again, “Gilda, come on, let me help.”

The griffon glances away, thinks for a single, short moment, rolls her eyes, and finally (so it seems to Dash) says, “Alright. You can fly under me, to carry my stomach on your back, and take me to your place.”

Rainbow Dash barely restrains herself from sighing in relief at the proffering of reconciliation. With a simple, “Great!” she launches herself under the cloud in a tight loop, then bursts through right under Gilda, who squawks out, not just from shock, but from the sudden pressure against her gut. “Well? You got’ta help me help you!” Rainbow chuckles until she catches sight of the talons on both sides of her neck, and she sees in her minds eye how Gilda had wiggled them and said how Griffons usually eat. A thrill runs through her, but she suppresses it easily: Surely, Gilda would never do such a thing to a pony, and even if so, then not to Rainbow Dash herself!

As they now take off together, Rainbow shrugs her shoulders to help settle the weight—still quite solid, but completely still. The flight is easy and slow for Gilda’s sake, so Rainbow’s mind wanders. She reflects upon the human her friend just consumed: He’d seemed to so easily accept that fate, as if he anticipated its inevitability… perhaps even he desired it? Perhaps, then, that’s why humans, as tasty as they are, have to be so rare, practically begging to be eaten! Rainbow snorted: Who could know what went through the mind of a silly human, and ultimately what did it matter? Their soft bodies, completely devoid of even the simplest natural weapon, would be easy prey no matter their own supposed desires.

In good time they arrive at Rainbow’s home; the pegasus allows herself to fall through the cloud that makes her front step, popping up almost instantly to see her friend once more rubbing her now-unsupported stomach. The inside is obviously designed with pegasi in mind, but after visits from friends (usually Pinkie Pie or Twilight), Rainbow had installed a few haphazard stairs, which Gilda, with relief, takes advantage of now.

Walking up, however, presents almost as many problems as flying: Now, at such an angle, Gilda’s belly is stretched taut from the front, tugging at the chest, making it harder to breathe, while behind the skin crinkles and folds in, bouncing more than swaying, threatening to pull her down in a tumble, talon-over-beak. At least, then, the nature of clouds gives them more flexibility than other popular building materials, while losing no ability to hold firm, so instead of her hanging gut slamming painfully into the corner of every step, the cloud simply folds away, resuming shape once Gilda passes.

On the first floor landing, Rainbow intercepts the griffon, though she needn’t have bothered, as Gilda had planned to stop here to catch her breath. “G, I have, uh, only one shower, and only one heated cloud, uhm… so-”. Rainbow fidgets her wings and pinches her lips tightly together.

Gilda huffs out a sigh of part exhaustion, part annoyance—she just wants to get to bed—before answering, “Whatever. Like it’ll be any different from the open showers at camp.”

“Oh, ha haaa… Really?”

Gilda stops for a moment, thinking perhaps that smile of such a size is a mite unwarranted, but shrugs, steps past Rainbow, and rolls her eyes once her face is out of sight. “Yeah. Really.”

While Gilda’s mind is occupied by thoughts of cloud mattresses and blankets and pillows, caressing her, lightening the burden dared upon her, the darer, Rainbow Dash, is instead blushing at the sight of her friend’s behind, the swollen belly below seeming to trigger an attraction of strange, previously unknown sorts inside her.

Rainbow has to pause to recompose herself, and once feeling relatively normal, she enters the bathroom to find Gilda has already helped herself by stepping into the tub, but is now looking up at the dark cloud above, claw thoughtfully tapping her beak and wings rustling with annoyance at the fact the pegasus’s bathroom is too small for a griffon to properly spread her wings.

“Oh! Le’me get that.” Rainbow says, then flies up to the ceiling, biting her lip and half hoping that Gilda doesn’t notice her arousal—the other half hoping she does and is receptive.

The griffon, however, has already sat, and her head is resting on her belly and her eyes closed; even if she had noticed Rainbow’s excitement and was interested in experimenting with her, she simply hasn’t the energy. The pegasus sighs as she lands and begins washing herself, having to force herself from scrubbing over her behind too much in her (yet) platonic friend’s presence, but Gilda dozes on, eyes half closed and lazy, almost dopy smile at the corners of her beak.

When Rainbow is finished washing up and the griffon has still not moved so much as a claw since the shower had started, she pokes her shoulder. “Uh, Gilda?” Rainbow asks with her brows lowered, bemused.

So, Gilda finally raises her head and stifles a yawn. “You know, Dash, I was unsure at first, but I can see why you ponies like to do this. Maybe I’ll do this again, every once in a while.” She says as she looks down her dome of an abdomen, then pats it, causing a small burp to escape.

Rainbow, thankful for the heat of the shower to hide her blush, stutters out, “Uh… S-Sure. Glad you like it… Uh, Need any help?” She grins awkwardly as she holds out the bottle of shampoo.

With a grunt, Gilda raises herself up on her hind legs and tries to reach out, but she falls back on her rump, belly wobbling from the disturbance. Rainbow Dash is so transfixed and surprised by the intensity of her body’s response to this situation, that it takes her a moment to register Gilda having said, “Oof…Yeah.”

As Gilda works suds into the feathers of her head and neck, Rainbow's mind turns elsewhere as she goes through the griffon’s wings, quite unable to stop her eyes from flicking to that bulging stomach every few seconds. Jeez, where is this coming from? I’ve seen Gilda hundreds of times and ponies filled with huge, living meals hundreds of times… Maybe it’s just as Gilda said: I’ve never seen a griffon with a belly as big as this before, so maybe-? Realizing she was finished with the wings, Rainbow shook off that line of thought. Bah! Twi’s the one who would be asking why; I’m just going to enjoy it!… If I can just convince Gilda.

Returning to the present, Rainbow notices that Gilda has finished washing all she could reach, which merely consists of her head, chest, and about the top third of her stomach, yet she seems not troubled with Rainbow taking her time. The pegasus, however, returns to her ministration with fresh vigor, quickly working a lather into Gilda’s back so as to move on to the griffon’s front all the sooner.

Finally! The newfound object of her desire is right before her, with full permission for her to touch. Tentatively, Rainbow begins to rub in small circles, hoping that the steam is enough to explain away her blush; her heart gives a small jump when she looks up and sees Gilda seemingly sneering down at her, but a second later Rainbow realizes it’s just a dopey smile and eyes mostly closed in a pseudo-coma.

Fighting not to bite her lip from the sexual tension, Rainbow’s mind bounces between hurrying up so as not to clue Gilda into her newfound fetish, and going slow and choosing to enjoy it—perhaps even almost hoping Gilda realizes the pegasus’s arousal. Still, she closes her eyes and shivers each time she feels the hard length of an arm or leg mixed amongst the churning soup—imagining what it might be like inside, though of course the awesome Rainbow Dash would never be eaten, to say nothing of allowing herself to be eaten!

Absurd.

Returning to reality after one such subconscious delve, Rainbow finds herself practically on her belly as she “washes” the last of Gilda that she can reach, sitting as she is. Here, Rainbow freezes: How to proceed? Should she simply wake her friend from her “brushie coma”, or additionally ask, in her most casual voice, to stand so she can finish? For after all, Gilda’s in no state to wash her own behind…

The gonging of her doorbell comes to solve her dilemma for her, calling her away and pulling Gilda back to Equestria. Silently cursing, Rainbow mumbles an apology about answering the door in the middle of helping her wash up, her mind still half on the human’s fate.

Rushing to her front door, her speed alone getting her mostly dry, Rainbow’s eyes bug out upon seeing Pinkie Pie, standing on the cloud doorstep as if it’s normal—which it is, for her.

Before Rainbow can gather wits enough to say so much as hello, Pinkie bursts out, “Heya, Dashie! Is Gilda still around?!”

“Uh… Oh! Yeah, she is. Why?” Rainbow bits her lip, hoping against hope for her prospective “alone time” with Gilda to be usurped by the p-word.

“I want to throw her a ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party!”

Rainbow drops her face into a forehoof, not really paying attention or even caring for what Pinkie is rambling on about. Of course. Of course I should have known, especially after Pinkie’s been following us around ever since she saw Gilda, so when we finally stopped to rest-… Ugh!

“-but then I remembered I’ve never met a griffon before, and was- hmm mph mmm-!”

Rainbow shoves the hoof that had just previously been hiding her face into Pinkie’s mouth. “Sounds great, but- uhh… I dun’no if Gilda will be into that. I’ll ask her—she’s in the shower right now—but no promises, alright, Pinkie?” Rainbow gives her a glower and hopes it’s enough to deter the party pony from arguing.

Pinkie jumps back, freeing herself from Rainbow’s hoof. “Gilda might not want to come?! -but-!” Rainbow intensifies her glare. “-but. Party. Friends. Fun…”

Rainbow sighs as Pinkie droops with more and more sorrow at every word, and looks to the sky, begging for Celestia’s aid. “Pinkie, if Gilda doesn’t want to go, she won’t have any fun, and she won’t be in the mood to be making friends, ya see?”

When Rainbow looks back down, she sees Pinkie had sunk into the cloud. “Okay,” is all she says before she drops out of sight.

“Wah! Pinkie!?” Rainbow calls out, and zooms around under the doorstep, only to find no hint Pinkie had ever been there; no hole in the cloud nor a speck of pink to be found.

Once facing her own front door, Rainbow lets out a groan and lets her forehead drop against the doorjamb. Great. If Gilda’s in too good of a mood, she’ll probably want to at least give this party a try. -and even though I didn’t make any promises, if Pinkie ever finds out I didn’t even tell Gilda-… She lefts her head and straightens her back and neck. No! Stupid Rainbow, you shouldn’t think like that! Even thinking of hiding something from a friend when she might enjoy it is just not Loyalty! Besides, it seems like Gilda started enjoying her meal once the surprises were done with, so maybe she’ll be up to trying it again?

Deciding with a determined nod, Rainbow reenters only to find Gilda had finished while she was with Pinkie, and she’s now standing at the top of the stairs, still damp and with a towel draping from her head, down her neck, and onto her back; to Rainbow, this more prominently frames her rounded-out stomach, drawing her eyes all the more and instantly calling forth her blush to return. “So what was that about, Dash?”

“Erm…” Rainbow takes a moment to fight back a last-second doubt. “It was Pinkie, here to invite you to a ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party. -with you as the guest of honor.” She gives her best smile, which here is more of an off-kilter grimace—thankfully, it seems Gilda’s too far away and too busy with drying herself to notice.

After a moment, during which Rainbow flutters up the stairs, Gilda finally says. “A party, huh? Sounds like that could be fun.” Gilda’s eyes wander as she ponders, while Rainbow’s ears perk at the doubt-filled inflection. “Eh, why not at least check it out.” The griffon makes to shrug, but lifting both her forelegs instead causes her to fall onto her stomach. Considering its size, she doesn’t fall far, but the bloated middle flattens slightly and lets out a loud series of gurgling in protest; Gilda frowns and pats it gingerly as if to placate an ornery pet before lifting herself up on all four legs.

As Gilda, wobbling, makes her way down the steps, Rainbow Dash fights the hardest she’s ever had to to not facehoof.

Below Rainbow’s cloud home, Bonbon is having nearly as bad of a time with her partner, though in her case, had failed to restrain her hoof; currently, it’s resting on her muzzle, where she had let it fall, as she and Lyra sat in their living room, Bonbon having done her best to calm the upset unicorn with her favorite treats, and yet…

“How could she not see that human clearly belonged to me?! I had him on a leash! That damned-!”

“Yes, Lyra.” Bonbon’s voice is a mix of soothing and defeated. “So you’ve said three times by now.” Shaking her head, the saner mare looks up again, eyes worn, but offering a sorry smile. “The human’s probably long been turned into unrecognizable mush by now—you’re working yourself up for nothing.” Earning herself a pouty glare for this frank observation, Bonbon takes a second to pray for patience before asking, “Well, instead of just complaining, tell me: What can you do now?”

Unexpectedly, Lyra begins huffing out single, unconnected words; Bonbon sighs, nearly dropping her head in defeat. This had never happened before; usually, it’s so easy to distract the excitable, eccentric unicorn from anything bothering her—which itself is fairly rare! Surely the beacon-collar being lost would be the most upsetting, but Lyra has yet to mention it, so Bonbon wisely has kept silent.

Still, it’s not a matter of replacing the human, either with another or some other meal—Bonbon had suggested that long ago! Neither has Lyra responded to any of her usual distractions, such as a chance meeting with Octavia, and the fellow musician offering her sympathies. All has culminated in Bonbon herself on the verge of hysterics from the frustration.

Until a ring of the doorbell. “I’ll get it!” Bonbon declares in clear desperation, though Lyra is hardly in a state to notice. Snatching open the door with undue ferocity, it’s somewhat fortuitous that the only pony who wouldn’t question such a thing is one who has come calling. “Oh! Pinkie! Ah… Good afternoon. Erm…” Bonbon glances side-to-side, ninety-nine percent certain of this visit’s purpose, and not at all sure of a favorable outcome.

Predictably, the bouncing pony throws an envelope up into the air amongst a cloud of confetti; Bonbon closes her eyes and lifts a foreleg to protect her face. A few seconds later, once thinking it safe, she looks up to find the confetti “mysteriously” gone and the envelope resting on her raised hoof. Hoping to avoid questions from Lyra, Bonbon rips open the letter right there with a teeth, and certainly enough finds an invitation to a welcome party for “Gilda the griffon”, and as Bonbon is quite certain only one griffon has come to Ponyville today… No way that’d end well!

Yet, as Bonbon more slowly makes her way back to the living room, she finds a stray thread of optimism. Maybe it was all just a joke? Applejack said that griffon is friends with Rainbow Dash, so it’s not like that’s completely unlikely. Maybe she didn’t even fully eat the human, just stuff part of it into her beak until she was out of sight! Worse comes to worst, it was probably just a misunderstanding, right? Not like I know a whole lot about griffons or griffon culture, but looking at Zecora, even the smallest difference could lead to a huge mistake.

“Who was it?” Lyra asks in a dead, disinterested voice, facing the floor; Bonbon winces, so hurt to hear such a tone from her perpetually upbeat partner.

“Ah… It was Pinkie Pie.” If nothing else, that tone convinces her to do something, anything, to get Lyra back to normal. “She’s throwing a ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party for… Gilda the griffon.” Bonbon still finishes carefully, wearily.

Lyra slowly raises her head, stares at Bonbon with unfocused eyes for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling. “‘Gilda the griffon’, huh? That griffon?” She nearly growls.

“Most… likely?” Bonbon offers in one-hundred percent truth, yet still biting her lip. “Pinkie didn’t really stick around and explain.”

“Oh, okay!” Lyra suddenly smiles—a simple smile—and looks back at Bonbon.

Bonbon tilts her head. “Is that an ‘I-want-to-go-to-the-party okay’, or-…?”

“Yeah! When is it, then?” Lyra seems to finally notice Bonbon’s uncertain, confused expression, at which she giggles and rolls her eyes. “Bonnie, I don’t want to get revenge on the griffon or anything, promise! Just, ooh-” Lyra turns a hoof in small circles in thought. “-maybe I could use a distraction, you know?” She shrugs. “-and maybe I’ll see this Gilda in a different light and even become friends—Who knows!?” At that, Lyra hops up and “bounces” her hips and withers without her hooves leaving the ground.

Staring hard for hints of deception, Bonbon sighs, but lowers her brows in seriousness. “Alright, I’ll trust you with this…” The Earth pony then offers a playful, if somewhat reserved, smile, “-but you might as well calm down for a few hours; the party’s at six.”

“Awww! That long!”

FOUR

Finally, the wait was over: My vengeance is only minutes away!

… Poor Bonnie. I do hate to lie to her, but she doesn’t understand the satisfaction of eating a human after tormenting and breaking it yourself. Most ponies don’t, really, I suppose, but they don’t matter to me as much as Bonnie. Hopefully, I’ll be able to lure the Birdbrain off somewhere so I can eat her in private with nopony the wiser, but if not, I’m sure I can get Bonnie to understand, or at worst, it’ll eventually pass as surely as a bowel movement.

Minutes away… Feet away! There’s Sugarcube Corner! Bonbon smirks good-naturedly at my excitable pronking, but who could blame me? Everypony knows a Pinkie-Party is a great place to feast!

It seems the party is already on the go—expected, since Bonbon (not I!) had lost track of the time. That’d mean more ponies around, which more likely would make it harder to get Gilda somewhere quiet, but-… Wait…

Suddenly, there’s a burst of laughter from inside, nearly covering the sound of one grumbling a growling, then a sound like something big and wet falling. While Bonnie runs ahead, hoping to catch the tailend of the fun, I can’t help but think that that sounds like somepony—or somebirdy—isn’t having as much fun as everyone else. Excellent. -and if she doesn’t recognize me—Why would she after flying off so quickly?—that’d only make it all the easier to get her away and catch her off guard!

Putting the boiling plans on the backburner of my mind, I come to the front door of everypony’s favorite confectionery, where Bonnie is standing just inside, waiting, looking back at me with a quirked brow, probably confused by my sudden lack outward exuberance—as if a mare is expected to not indulge her stomach’s fantasies at any time of day! Stopping inside the door, I give an extra wide smile and add a bounce to my last step, which calls back my favorite indulgent smile to my favorite face.

Luckily, just then, my poor belly voices dissatisfaction over its long-delayed meal, at which Bonnie looks at it with widened eyes before raising a hoof to her muzzle to cover a giggle. “Good thing Pinkie always has that part of a party covered!”

As much as I’d love to joke and make her giggle some more, movement behind her catches my attention, and I tilt my head at the scene. All around there is what appears to be the remains of a cake, with a few ponies sporting sugary garb—not all too unusual for Pinkie Pie—but it’s an event at the far wall that is what caught my attention. The Party Host herself is there, watching and ever-grinning at some white and brown blur spinning beside her.

Soon enough, she reaches out and stops the dizzy victim, revealing the griffon herself, incriminating bloated stomach and all. Of course the human is long gone; the heavily swinging stomach appearing as if an overfilled waterskin, betraying no presence of anything solid inside. Thankfully, Bonnie had followed my line of sight, and I manage to wipe the anger off my face before she turns back to me, somewhat worried—that kind of look she gets when she doesn’t want me to know she’s worried.

Ripping my eyes off the prize, I see the reason for Pinkie’s Whirling Ride is a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-pony. Fool; no one ever wins that with Pinkie at the helm. Gilda says something to Pinkie before turning 180 degrees from the direction Pinkie had faced her—straight towards Bonnie and myself. Good strategy, Birdbrain. I snicker. Bonbon says something then, but I’m too focused on Gilda’s imminent failure. “Huh? In a second.” I murmur back, stalling.

Quickly, ponies start to mutter and glance between each other, confused and worried, as with every step, the blindfolded, angry Gilda gets further from the simple plastic poster. All their worries and my hopes come together into a fateful clump of forgotten cake on the floor, which the griffon becomes acquainted with, talon first.

Now, if she had been on all fours, this probably wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but here her other talon is busy holding out the tail-to-be-pinned. So, instead of simply losing her balance for a split second, she overcompensates and, without her other foreleg to keep steady (to say nothing of the unfamiliar weight of human prey), she shoots herself forward, sliding on the moist glob.

I laugh at her cawing cry of surprise—a single “Ha!”—when, in a slow instant, I realize she’s not stopping. For whatever bird-brained reason, the thief holds tight to the tail, doing nothing to halt herself, so she keeps sliding and sliding… straight towards me!

At first I raise a hoof, intent to get out of the way, but in the next instant, I grin, visited by a more devious idea: A plan to get back what’s owed to me, with a little interest.

I only have so much time!

So, I slightly widen my stance and more firmly plant my hooves, bracing—wishing for an instant that I had the Earth ponies’ strength and connection to the ground. Then I straighten my neck, to create the best point-of-entry, and finally open my mouth wide … wide … wider!

Over the griffon’s cries, the creaking of the muscle and bone of my jaw, and through my quickly mounting excitement, I think I hear a cry of, “Don’t! L-oomph!” but it’s silenced as soon the griffon hits my throat beak-first—had she lifted the blindfold at that last second and saw her fate? No matter, I mentally shrug, then smile as much as I’m able around the mass of feathers; the griffon’s hard landing leaves her lodged deep and firm, with surely no escape from my hunger and vengeance!

Obviously, Birdbrain immediately starts to shove against my face and shoulders, trying to pull herself free, but some quick and easy levitation magic puts an end to that—as if I’m going to let her ever get out of my range again as long as she lives! Trapping her forelegs and wings to her side and lifting her hindlegs, tucking them against her stomach, leaves her looking (or so I imagine, hardly able to see more than her behind and madly whipping tail) most pear-shaped.

Then, lifting her to a slight angle, I give her the first of what is sure to be many hard, strong swallows; inside my esophagus, I feel a bit more wiggling than I’d expect from just the griffons head and neck, but again shrug off the oddity—I can ask questions once my mouth has handed-off Birdbrain to my stomach.

So it went, gulp after gulp, the front half of the griffon entering steadily, offering no particular challenge to my practiced gullet. Yet considering such, that odd sensation moving ever deeper inside still niggles me, drawing my mind from my still-visible meal to, perhaps, another doomed one: Yes, I grow more certain that some poor pony had been shoved in before the griffon, but who it may be escapes me—I’m sure that nopony had been standing between myself and my self-delivering meal when had opened up to receive her, so who could possibly be so foolish?

My swallowing becomes weaker and less frequent and my magic cuts off as a certain possibility comes and slowly convinces me; Birdbrain begins fighting again, but with her forelegs now tucked tightly into my cheeks, the front half of her wings pressed against the roof of my mouth, and her hindlegs far more suited to moving forward than backward, she remains just as helpless before me as ever.

Further inside me, it seems the question of who may soon be answered, as feel then more wiggling in a more open space. When the tip of their hooves reach the far side of my stomach, they try to shove themselves back up; I would have shook my head at that if I could. It seems the mystery meal is entering hind-first, so I return to focusing on eating again, so to help the pony free their head from my esophagus, so then once I hear their voice, I can recognize them all the sooner, though the absence on one certain voice nearby convinces me more with ever inch the griffon that disappears.

Tighter and tighter, I feel the hooves inside pushing at my stomach harder with each shove of peristalsis, now so much I’m sure those hooves are quite visible somewhere on my abdomen—yet if they know me at all, that is, if they were from Ponyville, they should know how practiced my belly is in containing large, fidgety foods—at least as large as most ponies, anyway, which is all that really matters concerning their fate.

Just as I reach the end of Birdbrain’s chest, I feel the pony’s shoulders pop past the valve of my stomach’s entrance, and the rest of them practically slides in without so much work from my body, as they all but flop into my favorite sac of acid, which bounces slightly from the sudden weight. In the next instant is the cry I expected, “Lyra! Get-! -Me-! -Out!” yet it comes in Bonnie’s voice as she kicks with such frantic ferocity she makes me stumble away from the door I’d been blocking this whole time.

Thankfully, my throat keeps a tight hold on my prey, dragging the griffon’s back half with me, yet in the next instant, she trips on the step, falling towards me—I would’ve cried out in shock as I fall onto my behind, the only thing keeping me from tipping all the way onto my back being Birdbrain herself. Now, my head and neck are being pulled forward, over my Bonbon-filled belly, and after the second kick or punch to my jaw from the still-fighting fillyfriend-turned-meal, I once again use my magic to lift the griffon. This time, and with the open space, I raise her directly above me, forming a straight line from mouth to stomach—How fortuitous! This should help me work over the bloated middle the griffon got from my stolen meal.

I try to keep my focus on Birdbrain, as I’m now only a few gulps away from the most difficult part, but the fighting from Bonbon inside me and the unknown pony underneath me are making themselves quite potent distractions. Bonbon, being a pony, is already bigger than any human I’ve eaten, and her struggling more ferocious—she really should know how that only excites me! Silly food… If she was all, I may have been able to focus, yet the mystery pony had fallen (most “unfortunately”) straight down the middle of my ass, their muzzle stuck in my anus—their attempts to cry for help or mercy or whatever only causing constant stimulation.

What with all three parts of me—front, middle, and end—occupied, I feel I could so easily fall into hazy pleasure… but no! No way am I chancing the possibility of relaxing enough to let the thief go! Besides, the real revenge doesn’t start until Birdbrain is melting away, my body preparing her for use as fuel. So down and down she goes, her hindlegs clawing fruitlessly, causing her stomach to wobble madly about; Birdbrain can’t even see how the fact that she’s shifting her body back and forth so madly is only helping me pack her down and away. Then, when I finally reach the beginning of what is sure to prove the hardest meal I’ve ever eaten, a little extra gnawing drives her further into panic, at which I’d grin if able, even as my jaws are pulled further and further past where they’d ever been.

I think I hear gasps and perhaps a whistle of appreciation as the griffon continues to disappear into me without slowing.

Then, the pitiable one trapped below somehow manages to find a little leverage against my wider-and-weightier-than-average cheeks (but not that much!), getting its forehooves between myself and its chest. Unexpected, but I roll my eyes with barely a pause in swallowing; besides, Birdbrain is also providing some new amusement: Her face has finally popped into my stomach, making her swearing understandable now her beak is no longer restricted by my esophagus. “Who the fuck is trying to eat me!?” Ah. Right. She was blindfolded. “You better stop and cough me back up right now or I’ll claw my own way out, you stupid fool!”

Bonbon, seeming to finally accept my stomach will be her end, stops fighting and says, in that flat, You aren’t going to listen to me, are you? voice, “You’re the stupid fool. Nothing can ‘claw their way out’ of a pony’s stomach; they’re magically toughened up so we can eat pretty much anything safely.”

That makes Gilda pause for a second, which in turn makes me stop for a moment to allow myself a chuckle, though it sounds more like a snort with my mouth completely blocked. This laughing of mine then in its turn, allows my ass-kissing chair the last bit of leverage they need, or so they think: My eyes widen as their forelegs shoot up and lock straight, momentarily actually rising me up, until the next instant, and their hooves slip forward, right into my vagina!

There are twin cries of fearful surprise from inside me, and I swallow hard in shock and pleasure, and as the initial pleasant haze quickly fades, I find the shove had knocked Bonnie a bit, too, as my stomach quickly settles from bouncing about and Bonnie has her hooves out in all directions, as if she could steady her slippery, deadly hammock. The still unknown pony tries to remove her forelegs, but I only close my eyes at the stimulation and, momentarily forgetting everything else, grind into the pony—I only move so slightly, yet this is enough to pop the rest of the pony’s head past my anus.

Naturally, the pony’s panic becomes worse yet, and I shiver from the near-constant jolts of euphoria that the madly jerking hooves spark inside. Even if I’d been able to focus more on Birdbrain, however, I worry I may yet need to concede defeat—I’m now mere inches from the peak of the griffon’s stuffed middle, but the strain is showing as, with great difficulty, I force myself to swallow, but it seems to have no effect.

I close my eyes, preparing to strain my throat one more time before giving up, but just as I pep myself, I feel something—somepony’s hooves—rubbing my neck, making me realize just how obscenely bloated it must look right now. I would have said something if I could; thankfully, Gilda seemed to be on the same line of thought (though probably for different reasons!), “Hey! Who is that?! Quit touching me, freaky pervert dweeb!”

At the insult, the hooves retreat with a flinch, but in the next second they return, now pushing and rubbing in some kind of clumsy, novice massage—all the same, the taut muscles partially slacken, drawing some of my attention from my groin and stomach (where Birdbrain now has enough of her neck free from my esophagus to thrash her head about, constantly smacking Bonnie around).

Instantly, when the hooves leave me again, the pleasure from my impromptu twin-hoofing shoots through me with a vengeance, making me moan; at that, the griffon cries out, “Sicko! The lot of ya’ are all sickos! Get off’a me and get me out’ta here!”

“So, I’m a ‘sicko’, am I, Gilda?” comes Rainbow Dash’s voice, and her face suddenly appears over Birdbrain’s backside, on which she seems to be standing, though her weight is so negligible alongside the stuffed griffon, I hadn’t noticed her landing there. From there, she give me a familiar naughty, prank-ish smirk, though it might just be a little bit more mean-spirited this time!… -and is she also blushing?

“Rainbow Dash!?” Birdbrain pauses her thrashing, apparently from surprise. “Help! Get me out! This freak is eating me, and I bet all those other freaks are getting off on this! That damned cake must’ve been a trap! Gaaaaah!”

As Gilda wails away, Rainbow Dash flops onto her griffon-cushion, rolling her eyes; meanwhile, it seems the pony under me has lost the will or strength to fight any longer. When the thief finally runs out of air, Rainbow cuts in before she can refill her lungs. “You’re the doofus that destroyed the cake and sent it everywhere, just because of some prank candles, Gilda! It’s like you can’t take a joke anymore… in other words: Lame!”

“Huff… huff…” Birdbrain gasps. “It’s those… jokes that were… lame! Never-ending candles… is like… hatchling-level stuff!” A pause; with nothing seeming to happen anytime soon, I give another experimental swallow, taking in another fraction of an inch, making Rainbow’s perch wobble slightly and Birdbrain squawks in frightened shock. “Well!? Are you going to help me or just lay there on my ass!?”

“Uhmmm…” Rainbow taps one of Birdbrain’s buttcheeks in faux contemplation, then snickers as she slaps it playfully. “Neither!”

“What?!” Birdbrain screeches, and for once I have to agree with her: What could Rainbow be planning next? I swallow, somewhat nervous, but out of plain necessity: Even with my magic hold, my neck is getting tired and my throat muscles are going tight and stiff again. Wait. If Gilda asked about either helping her or doing nothing, and Rainbow said neither, does that mean she’s going to help me? Then- No! Wait!

If I’d been paying attention, I would have seen Rainbow fly up a few pony-lengths, narrow her eyes and stick her tongue out in concentration, then finally shoot down, straight towards me—or rather, straight towards the behind of the fat prey currently filling up everything between my mouth and stomach. As is, however, I barely have time for my eyes to widen with alarm, nevermind trying to wave her off or even bracing for impact.

“Ha ha!” The crazy pegasus cries out just before slamming, forehooves-first, into Birdbrain, sending visible shockwaves through her overfilled gut and causing her to scream out in obvious pain.

“Urglrp!” At the same time, I swallow and do my best to mumble-shout my displeasure for Rainbow’s so-called help, narrowing my eyes as if to clear my meaning, yet Rainbow doesn’t even bother to look me in the face before kicking off and flying back up. After rolling my eyes at the expected recklessness, I take notice of my progress on Birdbrain, and find I’ve actually gotten a good number of inches in that one gulp—Well, I suppose Rainbow’s strategy isn’t that bad! I can take a few more hits like that, then never try to eat anything this big again!

Except it’s not just me and Gilda here; as Rainbow lines up her next dive, the yet-to-be-known pony comes back to life. “Hmmphff!” I first guess they had to take an extra second for the shock to wear off, as they couldn’t have seen the hit coming, but these new movements seem more… methodical? -calculated? -intentional? Either way, they’re certainly less… panicky, and more like that of somepony with a plan.

“Oooh… What was that?” I can barely hear Bonbon’s moaned question over Birdbrain’s extended screams of anger and fear. Still, can barely see anything besides Rainbow, the sky, and my food’s widened flanks, but a little probing—tentative rubbing, really—of my own belly tells me that Bonnie is soon to run out of any space for her to more or less freely move, which is about to fill in all the faster if Rainbow has anything left to say.

Simultaneously, as Rainbow rockets towards me again, I feel a vaguely familiar sensation around my anus; time seems to slow, then, as I realize that this whole time I’ve missed the fact my unwilling seat is actually a unicorn!… -and I have a rather bad feeling what this spell is for. Even with this sudden comprehension, however, I know I can do nothing: I can’t signal to Rainbow Dash to stop, and if I moved, Rainbow would just hit me instead of Gilda, possibly undoing all of this work on turning her into my food.

I close my eyes and brace.

The spell hits the instant before Rainbow Dash: An explosion (which most thankfully doesn’t hurt!) goes off, launching me upwards, leaving the bomber behind as their head slips from my anus with an impressive pop! Naturally, this leaves me flying, Birdbrain-ass-first, into the charging pegasus racer—not a very gentle recipe of physics.

I see Rainbow Dash gasp and squeeze her eyes shut in the split second before she disappears beyond the horizon of the griffon’s behind. She connects in, perhaps, her hardest landing yet, and I’m hit with the strangest sensation I’ve never heard of: It’s nothing like swallowing or eating in anyway; I’m not so much consuming Birdbrain as I am being stuffed by her.

Though my eyes I wide open in shock, I don’t really register just how fast Birdbrain’s backside disappears past my lips until my stretched-out jaws are freed and all but snap shut around Rainbow’s hooves. “Hey!” she calls out, but I’ve no intention of taking her as well; I let her fly away just before I hit the ground, the unicorn having apparently escaped, though I wouldn’t have eaten whoever they were, either. I give a last few hard gulps to help Birdbrain along in completely entering my stomach, then finally and simply relax: gasping for long-denied air, flopping on to my side, and lazily blinking my half-lidded eyes.

Having not just strained her jaw and esophagus around a human-stuffed griffon, Rainbow laughs and, in her amused excitement, performs a few tight loop-the-loops above me before landing before my belly, which from where I’m laying, seems to tower above me, and the drum-tight skin reveals every movement of my Earth pony and griffon meals. Urg… Maybe this was a bad idea. Just then, a small disturbance quickly grows, then-!… “Bruaaaap! Ooof!” A few white and brown feathers, and some blue and pink hairs, all covered in saliva, scatter around my muzzle, and I grin and smack my lips, appreciating the last of their flavors that will grace mine (or any) tongue.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Rainbow shout sarcastically while poking my belly, and I think Birdbrain shouts something back, but with less air and far less space, I only catch indistinct mumbling, then a lot of movement for a short time before Birdmeat finds some packet of air where it can talk.

“What the Tartarus, Dash! So you’ve had your fun, alright? Now HELP!”

Rainbow leans onto the spot where what is apparently the griffon’s head is making a small bulge—or at least small compared to “bulge” that is my whole stomach. “As if, Gilda. Even if those pranks were ‘hatchling-level’, your attitude is hatchling-level for getting so mad at ’em!”

“Lyra?” Bonnie tries to interject, but even if I was to think of responding, the oversized drumsticks starts yelling.

“Seriously!?” Birdbrain pokes a talon where Rainbow’s head is leaning against me, but true to magical pony biology, there’s no chance of cutting a way out. “You’re going to hold that against me? I JUST GOT ATE!” She screams, jabbing the talon against Rainbow Dash’s skull, eliciting nothing but an eyeroll from the pegasus. “-and because I got a little annoyed, you’re going to let me get DIGESTED!?”

With a sigh, Rainbow takes a small step back and puts a hoof against the poking talon, pushing back against it. “No, not because you got annoyed.” Now her amusement at the griffon’s fate retreats, and she sounds more accusatory and… disappointed? “This is about the way you were treating Pinkie, especially since she’s the one who put this party together for you. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t deserve it.”

“Wha-… What?” Birdbrain mutters, voice softened from shock, and it stops putting pressure on my poor stomach with its talon.

“Ly-ra?” my candy mare calls out more insistently.

“Pinkie is one of my best friends, White Meat, and I don’t like how you were treating her in there.” Rainbow Dash shrugs, grinning again. “Heck, if you got any worse, I would’ve told Pinkie to go ahead and eat you. Heh heh. Better fat in the flank than a pain in the flank!”

“Lyra!?” Bonnie calls out in her loudest, most worried-sounding tone yet, possibly from Rainbow’s joke, and spurred by my light, polite chuckle.

“Sorry, Sweetie.” I pat what little I can reach on the huge dome my stomach has become, and though it’s hard to tell, I think I pat the griffon’s behind instead of any part of Bonnie—and with that I cause myself to let out a small belch. “-but you know you shouldn’t have gotten between me and my food. After all, that’s why I was about to eat the griffon in the first place, and you knew that, didn’t you?”

“No!” She yells, once again pounding futily against my stomach walls, only accomplishing in making me let out another little burp. “I’m sorry! Please let me out!”

“Ouch!” Birdbrain exclaims. “Hey! Watch where you’re flailing those hooves, dweeb, before I eat you next!”

With that, Bonbon and Birdbrain fall into some argument, at which I give an indifferent shrug before turning to what’s going on around me, letting whatever’s going on inside me to fall into the background—who would bother to care what happens to a hayburger once you’re done eating it?

“-then I told her I’d ask you to eat her anyway!” I hear Rainbow telling Pinkie Pie after I tune-out my meals’ arguing.

“Oooo, I should do that!” Pinkie says excitedly—which is to say, in her normal voice—as she bounces in place next to Rainbow Dash. “Hee hee! Remember I said I never met a griffon before? That means I’ve never eaten a griffon, either!” She suddenly stops hopping for a second to tap her chin in thought. “At least I don’t think so, and not on purpose.”

Rainbow chuckles before saying, “Oh, Pinkie, you’re so random! I mean, Lyra already ate Gilda! Didn’t you see her do that just now?”

Pinkie rolls her eyes playfully and gives a lazy, dismissive wave of a hoof. “Pffff! As if that’s a problem. Just Watch!”

At that, Rainbow abruptly stops laughing, taking a step back, face twisted in concerned confusion. “Huh? Are you… sure?” She asks just as Pinkie zooms up to my face as fast as teleportation, then wrenches my jaws open.

The silly pony pays no heed to her friend’s question as she plunges right into my throat, forehooves first as if diving into a pool—technically, it could be said that that’s what’s happening, if swimming pools were designed to melt ponies in preparation for turning them into fat.

I can only guess it’s the mysterious power of the Pink One that keeps me from closing my mouth around her and relaxes my throat for her ease-of-entrance. With zero effort (or will) on my part, Pinkie slides herself on in, kicking off with her hindlegs, then wiggling as rapidly as plucked rubber band. All this happens in less than a second—or seems so to me—and by the time I think of doing something to stop the mad mare, only the tips of her hindhooves are visible beyond my nose, but in the next fraction of a second, they too disappear before I can even think of using any kind of magic against her.

Once she’s out of sight, I regain control of myself; my jaws close with a snap and I reflexively swallow at the feeling of something—Pinkie’s hooves—deep in the back of my throat. Half panicked, half bewildered, I raise my hooves to my neck as if needing proof that, yes, a pony did just volunteer to be my third course.

Indeed, those twin bulges tracking all the way through my neck feel like two legs!

“Hey! Watch it back there!” Birdbrain yells as, I imagine, Pinkie’s face (notably including her mouth) comes in contact with griffon flanks. “Fuckin’… Alright, who did the fat freak eat this time!”

Pinkie giggles, then answers cheerily, “Me! Though she didn’t so much as eat me than I fed myself to her!” Speaking of being fed, as fast as she flew past my lips, she certainly seems to be taking her sweet time to get through my esophagus and into my stomach; I swallow hard to try to get her along, but the ripple running down my strong, well-practiced tube of muscle might as well have been the fluttering of a Breezy’s wings for all she moves or even reacts at all.

“Oh. You.” Birdbrain grumbles, “Dweeb-est of the dwee- Are you licking me!?” The griffon shifts, perhaps trying to get some distance from the slice-short-of-a-full-pie Pie, but I’m already more full—my stomach more stretched out—than I’ve ever been.

“Hmmm…” is Pinkie’s only response, “It’s kind’a hard to tell under the stomach acid-y taste, but I think I see why Lyra would want to eat you!”

“What are you talking-? Gah?! Is that-?! No!” The griffon screeches and thrashes as Pinkie goes on the move again, and though it’s hard to feel what’s going on through all the “bulk” of everything in my stomach, it’s not hard to guess what’s happening now. “Not again! Are you-? Is this seriously-? Fuck it! You know what? Fuck it! Fine! I! Give! Up! You stupid, crazy ponies win! -but I hope you all choke to death on the next griffon you try to eat! Ugh… Fucking… Flip-flopping…”

I chuckle, now no longer paying much mind to whatever’s going on inside; I hadn’t been there to see the final look of defeat and resignation on the human’s face, to say nothing of feeling him lose the will to fight inside me, making this admission of the griffon all the sweeter. I sigh and lick my lips in appreciation, but there I’m mildly shocked by a taste like… pastry. Well, at least Pinkie left me that for all this… Pinkie-ness.

“Yay! I finished her, Dashie! Now-!… uhmmm… Now I-…” I feel her shifting about, probably trying to turn herself around, the silly, naïve girl; Rainbow seems to be thinking along the same lines as she facehoofs. “Dashie! I can’t get out!”

“Pinkie, you… goof.” Rainbow says as she shakes her head, skipping over all the adjectives I sense she wanted to add to that. “Have you ever seen or even heard of anything escaping from a pony’s belly unless that pony lets it happen? -and you heard what Lyra just said about why she ate Gilda, right?” A second after she asks that, Rainbow jerks her head back slightly as if shocked by static, then looks up at the sky and bites her lip.

Huh. Did she want to eat Gilda or Pinkie? -both?… Weirdo. All these Element Bearers must be insane.

“-but Dashie,” she whimpers, “I’m gon’na get all melted-up! -like a real pie!”

Rainbow pats my stomach, where I guess she had spotted Pinkie’s head. “Well, that’s your own fault. I mean seriously, Pinkie: How did you think trying to steal Lyra’s meal out of her own stomach was going to end?”

To induce another belch, I pat my belly, recalling attention to me. “-besides, maybe now everypony will take me and my food seriously. Letting you go would not just be letting a thief go free—you—but set a bad precedent for me.”

A whimper. “-but I didn’t mean it. I thought Dashie-!… -she-.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I shrug and shake my head. “Gilda wasn’t hers to give away in the first place, especially after I claimed her. Now, be a good pie and settle down and digest!” I say, poking with firm authority where I think some part of Pinkie is—which is basically my whole ballooned middle, minus the small part Bonbon takes up. “-and you better not be too fattening…” I grumble, to Rainbow’s amusement.

Considering “middles”, though Pinkie falls still and silent, that doesn’t help me much. Though I manage to get my forehooves under me and heave with all my unicorn-pathetic strength, my stomach is simply too big for me to reach the ground with my hindlegs and too heavy for me to drag one inch, nevermind all the way home and into bed. I huff as I look around, if with little hope; by now it seems the novelty of a griffon-eating pony has worn off, and me and my now-loudly gurgling, grumbling stomach are treated with as little interest as a fountain—except perhaps a nervous gulp or sidestep or drop of sweat. Is a hungry mare not allowed to have a principle or two when it comes to prey!

“Need a little help there?” Oh. How had I failed to notice Rainbow Dash still here, even if she’s now hovering above me?

“Huh?… Sure.” How exactly is one suppose to act towards an Element Bearer after eating one of their own, even if Rainbow had just acted so dismissive of Pinkie’s fate? “If you could just get me home and into bed, I’ll be, uh, fine from there.” Not so much “just”, I suppose, but if I were to choose anypony to help, Rainbow Dash would at least make the top three.

“Okay! Now… hmm…” She taps a hoof to her chin as she looks me over, back-and-forth.

What could there possibly be to contemplate of moving a pony-blob? Strategy?! I roll my eyes before letting my head fall and there I prepare to doze—even if Rainbow can’t decide between push or pull and plain gives up, it’s hardly any loss of mine.

Maybe the food coma’s already getting to me, because when Rainbow grabs my forehooves and begins to drag me along, I giggle and I find it hard to stop—and though my eyes remain shut, I wouldn’t be surprised to find Rainbow smirking at my predicament if I could’ve been bothered to look up. So on and on we go like this, leaving what I imagine to be quite the furrow.

A few times we hit some uneven part of the road or Rainbow Dash gives a particularly strong tug, either of which causes my now-quite-busy belly bobbing and sloshing slightly, my stomach acids having gone into overproduction time to engulf my two meals. All of that is inconsequential to us reaching my front door, and there Rainbow releases her grip on my to contemplate the comparatively narrow portal—if the portal it’s being compared to is my gullet, that is. I look up when we stop moving. “Oh… hngmmm… just pull me and I’ll do my, uh, ‘best’ back here to squeeze my belly in.”

“… Okay. It’s your door,” Rainbow mutters uncertainly, but does as told, opening the door before grabbing my forehooves again.

“No. Wait… Ahhh… Take my shoulders this time.” I instruct, and after a shrug I lean my head and neck up as far as my stomach allows to help her get a good grip. From this new position, I then take my own middle-turned-waterballoon between my forelegs, squeezing and pulling up. The doorframe creaks and my belly growls and burbles its displeasure, but we manage steady progress. As the widest of my belly passes, I hear its loudest gurgle yet, and my eyes widen in fearful anticipation… but all that comes up is my longest and similarly-yet-loudest burp. With the last air out of the way, the rest of my stomach all but pops in.

From there, I give Rainbow directions to the bedroom, and she dutifully finishes her task. Guess “loyalty” is stronger than I thought! -as long as we’re not talking about food, of course. One more door-squeeze a short moment later, and I’m laying next to my bed—Well, Bonnie, at least you get one last rest in the bed! I chuckle quietly at the thought as Rainbow switches tactics and begins to try to push my side to roll me onto the bed.

However, all Rainbow manages is pushing herself into my rapidly softening stomach, causing everything inside to mix and slosh about. One last shift of her grip, and Rainbow nearly turns herself into a pancake with my weight, but her next and last heave sees me finally on the bed, though the mass of liquid inside tugs me slightly (if not so gently) back-and-forth a few times before the waves settle down. All of this leaves me laying on my back, my stomach now somewhat flattens itself, spreading off to either side of me.

“Whfwew! That was a little harder than I thought! Dun’no how Shy deals with it…” Rainbows plops her behind to the floor, leaning back onto the edge of the bed, head falling to rest on my enwidened middle. She hums as she relaxes there, and I also doze, ready to sleep off the four-times multiplied meal.

I feel more than hear Rainbow giggle, then turn her head to put an ear against my belly—not that she’d really need bother with that to hear every grumble and splash! Soon after, she gets up, and I sigh in anticipation of sleep, assuming Rainbow had gotten bored enough to leave, what with her being rather a hummingbird of a pegasus pony and all, yet with a short flutter of wings, she drops herself onto my stomach instead! I gasp and my eyes snap wide, seeing her laying there, facing me and on her belly, but a second later narrow—I can see how my meals have made a veritable bed of my belly, but that doesn’t mean I’m accepting tenants!

“Aww. Come’on. I helped you, didn’t I?” She gives me a look that I’m sure she thinks is placating, but appears more smug than anything else to me; she seems to catch on to my thoughts quickly. “Alright, look at it this way: If you don’t let me rest here, I’ll raid your fridge.” She pats the front-top area of my stomach, and the small disturbance ripples inside me, briefly rising the volume of the sounds of business. “Either way, you don’t seem in any shape to stop me!” The pest guffaws at her own joke, flopping onto her back and kicking about, causing my belly to wobble underneath her.

With a shine of magic, I take hold of those legs and she instantly stops laughing. “Jeez… Alright! I’ll just leave,” she grumbles, pouting her defeat, but I’m not done. Maintaining my grip, I slide her down my stomach, towards me, opening my mouth once more—though I con no longer see her from this angle, I’m still satisfied by the resulting sounds of distress. “Huh? Hey! Wha!? No! Stopstopstop! Nooooooooooooooooo-!”

Her cry of no continues until I close my lips around her head and lick all over her face—I go at her like this for about a minute before releasing her; she instantly pulls back her absolutely drenched face, so much so that a few strands of saliva still bridge her head to my mouth. “Aaagh! Pthah! Guh! Blthch!” She sputters and gags on her disgust, wiggling, obviously wanting to wipe my spittle off, but I yet keep my hold on her legs—instead, all her struggling does is cause the little saliva-bridges to break and whip around her head.

I let her go on uninterrupted for a minute or two, but I really could use some sleep—a lick to her chin stops her as fast and absolute as the ground stops her after a failed aerobatic trick. However, just as I grin my victory, I pause at an odd observation: Maybe—No, it must be… right?—it’s just a trick of some reflection off the saliva-mask, but Rainbow almost seems to be… blushing? … -or…? Maybe not. After all, why else would somepony risk being so “close” to Fluttershy? I mean, really! Could I-? Would she-? I shake the questions off in favor of an actual answer: “Alright,” I whisper in my coyest voice—the one Bonnie loved so much—“You can sleep over… -if!-…-you promise me breakfast-. -in-. -bed.” To finish the implication, I levitate her back to where she’d planned to sleep, and pat the upper (as far “upper” as I can reach) sides of my belly, causing her to bounce slightly, in time with the extra glorp sounds also caused by my little teasing act.

She tilts her head with a question on her lips, likely struggling for phrasing, for only two or three seconds, idly wiping her face, before—Yes! There!—she indeed now blushes so obviously even poor, naïve Twilight Sparkle would look away in embarrassment. Eventually, she mumbles something vaguely affirmative-sounding before turning and laying down with her back facing me—not that this helps her hide from me in any way, considering it’s me she laying upon!

Every tiny movement, particularly of note being all the little tentative touches, prods, and caresses, makes it hard for me not to giggle, but in its own weird, worshipful way, it is nice, I suppose. So then, with a long, sleepy sigh, I let myself fall slowly into Luna’s embrace, guided by Rainbow’s gentle, reverent hooves and graced by the ballad of a huge-but-satisfying meal being digested.

…

A punch or collision of sorts is what wakes me. My own cry of “Oof!” is nearly simultaneous with Rainbow Dash’s “Hu-?-Whah!” as she slips off of me and falls to the floor.

It’s now night, and quite dark, with no way for me to tell how long had passed, except for the fact my belly had shrunk considerably, my meals having relinquished much bulk to my flanks and hips. This, however, only makes it all the more clear, and yet more curious, as to what disturbed our sleep: A madly moving mass within, kicking and punching and whatnot with all its limbs. In fact, it feels like-!

“Oh.” I whisper, glancing at Rainbow as she sits up, rubbing her head, staring at my belly, blush returning slowly. “So, uh, that’s where the collar went. Of course. Well… Great. Urgh… How did I forget about it?” How am I going to get it out?

A Gastronomic Investigation

Author's Note

Fan Sequel of:
The Equestrian Gastronomic Society
by:
MighyShockwave

After Luna is eaten by Prince Pharynx at a vorish nightclub, her sister begins to ferociously investigate the “mysterious” disappearance. Eventually, her inquiries lead her to The Equestrian Gastronomic Society: a very secretive club, considering that all the supposed patrons who Celestia’s intel is sure had been there on that night refused to say anything, even under pressure of the Sun Princess’s own questioning. Now, she is about to unwittingly look into this club, and worse: by herself.

Fetish Checklist:

ONE: implied vore in background
TWO: background oral vore, post-vore/weight gain taunting
THREE: pred vs. prey battle/hunt, oral vore x2
FOUR: mostly-implied digestion, vore threats & promises

A Gastronomic Investigation

ONE

As I step trough the doorway, I let my eyes close gently and I sigh quietly, letting go of my frustration with the bouncers—surely, they were simply doing their job trying to maintain the exclusivity of this “Society”. Sure enough, the next pony in line must not have the password, grumbling and cursing.

Until… the bouncers trade looks just as they had with me, then presented the complaining pony with a green “guest” lapel. Curious. Does all it really take to get in is persistence in the face of denial? I snort and give a tiny shake of my head to dislodge the question; let the club play whatever game it wants—as long as I am let in, that is all that matters.

I take the long, winding hallway, which I imagine is designed to hide the actual establishment from view of the street, following the other green lapel-ed pony: a vaguely familiar, rather “chubby” mare that makes me think of Manehatten for some reason. I slow down to reach up and fiddle with my own lapel: Of course, I can imagine the green is nothing but terribly clashing against the amethyst and gold of my regalia-

Silly thing to care about right now!

A Pegasus stallion with a red lapel passes by me as I come back to myself. His eyes are wide and his mouth gaping slightly as he unabashedly stares, and when his eyes flicker to my neck, and the lapel, he audibly gasps, then his wide eyes turn… strange—almost lustful, but not quite right—and he licks his lips and raises his head high as he quickly looks me up and down.

In the end, he sighs and shakes his head.

A strange sense of premonition tickles the back of my mind, but I shrug it off. What Bad Fate could befall me here, in this Canterlot nightclub?

Except this is where my sister had last been seen…

A Unicorn couple, both with blue lapels, is now walking by me. Both also stare at me with a strange look of some desire, but then they sigh as if in disappointment when they notice my green lapel. All these colors obviously mean something—a topic for later investigation, perhaps; my curiosity is being undeniably coaxed, but my sister comes first.

Finally, I step though the next doorway into what must be the club itself, which at first glance appears little different from any other nightclub scene: lights flashing, ponies dancing with abandon, and music with a strong presence of bass (but with something additional in the sound I can’t pin down, let alone identify). Before I can fully take it in, another pony scoots around me from the hall, and I swiftly step to the side, apologizing. “So sorry. I was lost in my mind for a moment.”

“Oh, no trouble for-. Huh? Princess Celestia?!” A Unicorn stallion of neon green and orange coloration, with shocking violet eyes, performs a double-take. His darker shaded, chubbier companion looks me over with eyes narrowed—cagey.

“Indeed,” I confirm as if this needed confirmation.

His wide eyes rove over me, then are caught by my lapel, at which he purses his lips and the look in his eyes turns to considering… something. I notice him wearing a red lapel—I really wish I knew what that means, as another stray itch of premonition comes brushing past.

Eventually, he seems to settle on a simple, polite, “Well, I hope you enjoy your time here, Princess,” and with a light bow, weaves into the dancing crowd.

Again, I regard that crowd, and only slowly does its oddity percolate into my consciousness, for it is such an oddity, I never would have imagined such a place within my capital: While not all, the vast majority of the ponies here have bellies that bulge obscenely! Is this some kind of fat fetish club? I know, at least conceptually, that such a lust exists, but I suppose I subconsciously assumed it would be more a private act… then again, there are such things as exhibitionists and voyeurs as well, I suppose.

Is this really a place my dear sister patroned? Did she really desire-…? Suddenly, I blush hard as a most risque thought dances into my head with moves more manic than the ponies before me. Attempting to be discrete as possible, I use my wings to rub at my own rump, rounded (rather nicely) by literally countless cakes over equally numerous days. Did she-?… I’ll have to ask her.

Slowly, trying to take the time to drive the heat away from my face, I step around the dance floor. I notice, at least, that all those with bulging stomachs are wearing red lapels: One mystery solved, it seems. So what does the blue lapel-?

Focus, Celestia.

With the loud music and the busy dancing, I easily determine I won’t be getting much, if anything, from anypony there. In fact, that’s when I realize that there are more than ponies here: griffons, hippogryphs, minotaurs, buffalo, and even a few changelings! (At least, there are only a few out of disguise.)

Curiouser and curiouser. No matter all my efforts and the Canterlotians’ token posturings, nonponies remained largely unwelcomed by the nobles and the wishtobes.

I arrive now at what I assume to be some kind of lounge area, full of fancy pillows and seating furniture of practically all kinds. It seems this club wants for no luxury! All manner of big-bellied creatures laze about, many with said bellies being fondled, rubbed, worshipped, and even humped against by others.

A number of those here are ones I had questioned before, and all had denied Luna being here, despite my intel’s certainty this is where she had last been seen entering. When they notice me, a few give guilty or apologetic grins, others jump or look around quickly as if in a panic, and the last few simply stare, unabashed and inscrutable. I instantly and easily dismiss those as sources of information—if they hadn’t talked before, why should they now?

As expected, there is a bar on one wall of the lounge. Now, what are the chances the bartender today is the same as the bartender that worked on the night Luna disappeared? I work my way around pillows, seats, and relaxing (and not-relaxing) creatures toward the bar, doing my best to ignore all the strange looks I get, for the strangest thing of all is the lack of bowing—I never cared or lacked for worship, but to be so suddenly and completely deprived, especially in my own capital, I can’t deny is disconcerting. Why?

The Bartender is a rough-looking Earth Pony stallion, twirling and throwing bottles, cans, and canisters with greater skill than most Canterlotian Unicorns could with their telekinesis. -and that’s with the sizable middle he has to match half the members of the club.

“Excuse me,” I say more as a token gesture than anything as I shove myself between a griffon and a pegasus waiting for their drinks; both of them make the first half of some word of protest before realizing who I am.

The bartender freezes, staring, gaze only flickering once to the green lapel. Finally, he slowly lowers the bottle and canister he’d been juggling to the counter, then leans on an elbow in an assertive, almost aggressive posture.

“Apologies for the interruption, dear barkeep, but I am on business of utmost importance.” He only raises his brow slightly—I take it as invitation enough to continue. “I have come to understand my sister, Princess Luna, was last seen at this… club.”

“Yuh,” he says in a poorly disguised accent. “I see her around here. She’s a bit of a regular. Always some good extra fun when she here. Puttin’ on a good show for everyone.” I blush again, and bite the inside of my cheek, trying to stop myself from imaging what kind of “show” my sister could have possibly performed in a nightclub like this.

Again, and hardest yet: a bothersome niggle of premonition in the back of my mind.

“I’m here to ask you about the night she disappeared, a little over a month ago, on the night of the seventh of May. Were you working then?”

“Yuh, I see her that night, then I don’t see her.” He shrugs. “Nothing weird or worrisome happened as far as I’d seen or known, though.” He stands straight and reaches for the canister, apparently assuming I’m done with him.

I take the drink-mixer into my telekinesis and pull it away from his reach; he tries hard not to glare, failing. “Perhaps you can point me to someone who might have seen something?”

He huffs, and snatches the canister out of my grip anyway. “Take yer pick. Most of the members that are here was here that day, too.”

“Thank you,” I curtly intone as I turn away, nearly running muzzle first into the griffon, who had been standing very close and, judging by his posture, comparing his size to mine. I notice he’s wearing a red lapel, yet his stomach is quite flat, and his muscles toned. Hmm. “So, I assume you heard that. Would you, perhaps, be who I’m looking for?”

He shakes his head and shrugs a wing. “Sorry Princess. I have seen Princess Luna here before, but not that night. I was busy.” As he says that, he, most oddly, rubs his flat stomach. The Pegasus, who I assume is with him, and is wearing a blue lapel, watches that rubbing talon with neigh-lustful eyes, and he blushes when he notices me watching him.

Okay, now this curiosity is going to kill me if I don’t figure it out!

“-and you, my little pony? You wouldn’t happened to have seen anything that might hint to what happened to Luna?”

He jumps as if surprised I should ask him this, then reaches up to his lapel and looks down as if making sure it had not been switched without him noticing. “Uh, no? Of course not?” At my arched brow, he stutters, “I-I-I mean, this is my first time!” He then leans against the griffon and nuzzles into his side. “-and hopefully my last.” He adds with a giggle.

I cannot unarch my brow at that, and instead it shoots further up my forehead. He hopes it’s his last night here? I force myself not to shake my head; more than a thousand years ruling, and still my little ponies can surprise me. I leave the griffon and pony to their mystifying romance and once more consider the lounge.

Most of those fattened creatures have at least one other fawning in some way over their belly, except for one: An undisguised changeling appearing most content to lay across a pillow all alone. She’s on her front with legs splayed in all directions, squishing her middle, causing it to bulge out, mostly to the sides but also a little ways under her tail. As I consider her, she belches, then giggles—already in an agreeable mood, it seems, and perhaps with a little attention to her stomach—a little love… It seems so easy, all I need now is for her to actually have seen something.

As I make my way once more across the lounge, I now catch many mutterings and whisperings of “princess” and “eat”. Are they, perhaps, expecting me to gorge and become like one of the red lapel-ed? Then I’m sorry, but I’ll have to disappoint you, my little subjects. I force my eyes to stay on the changeling, who seems of yet to be unaware of anything but her own pleasure.

“My little changeling, what are you doing all the way back here, all alone?” I partially lower my head and my voice, hoping to keep this conversation at least halfway private.

She has her eyes closed from her pleasure, so I don’t think she realizes it is I speaking. She giggles and reaches one forehoof down to rub her bulged-out middle. “Not alone, just yet.” Again, a giggle, now accompanied by a big grin. It doesn’t last: She finally looks up at me and the smile and lazily content eyes disappear into open-mouthed, wide-eyed surprise. “Oh?! I was wondering if I’d ever see you here, what-with Princess Luna visiting so often before. Did she give you the pa-?… Oh.” She stops her own question when she notices my lapel, staring at it.

“Actually, my sister is why I’m here.” She blushes, no doubt thinking of that as some incestuous innuendo. “You may not have been aware of this news, back at the hive, but Princess Luna has gone missing as of a month ago—May seventh, specifically.” She nods, whether to indicate understanding or that she already knows doesn’t matter. “The last time she was seen was entering this nightclub. You wouldn’t happened to have been here that day, would you?”

Nodding, she sits up; her belly, now freed, flows out, reshaping as if like a waterballoon, and doing so with a great sloshing sound, followed by a loud groan, heralding an equally loud belch. …That is definitely not fat, but then-… what? -a stuffing fetish club? Before I can think on it further, the changeling mare answers, “Apologies, Princess. urp. Yes, I was here May seventh. Lucky for you, I’m sure everyone who was there would remember. That was a-” She pauses, blushing and fighting back a giggle. “That was an especially fun night!”

I also can’t help but blush, finding myself seeing my cake binges in a novel, lewd way for the second time this night. “-and my sister, did she participate in this… ‘fun’?”

“Oh, she was the fun itself!” She licks her lips and begins rubbing her stomach. “She always was. So much, that I’d be sad everytime I heard that I missed one of her ‘shows’.”

She continues rubbing around and around her stomach, that now groans from the exertion of its overtaxed digestion. I purse my lips, quickly deciding I have to go for it before I lose all nerve—she might appear to be agreeable, but her answers always seem to be merely fluttering around the information I actually want. She must know something, yet she teases me! If only I weren’t so focused on improving pony-changeling relations… “Would you mind if I-…?” I say, already reaching out a hoof without invitation to join in, rubbing counterpoint to her motions.

“Oh!” I feel her shiver, then relax under my touch; her hoof slowly lowers away, leaving mine to its devices. From there, she lets herself tilt until the weight of her middle shifts and shoves her down onto her back—she lets it. Her belly wobbles up and down as it slightly flattens and spreads out once more, with much gurgling and glorping that heats my face, as well as forcing up another belch. How strange that otherwise normal, everyday sounds could be turned so erotic by such a simple thing as a change of venue! Too, the task I had taken only fuel the fire of my face. While it may be more unusual to rub another’s belly than one’s own, to desire such a comfort after a large meal is still normal outside of this maddening club, no?!

Under my hooves, the changeling’s stomach feels like what I imagine a beachball filled with some thick, creamy liquid might be like. The thing that captures my attention most is the size of it: just about as large as a beachball, as well! What could she have eaten so much of?… -and-… -and where did she get it? The bar doesn’t seem to be offering meals, and I see nowhere that could serve food, as well, there are no servers with plates—certainly, I would have noticed them quickly if there were and they had been carrying such giant servings!—and finally, despite being veritably surrounded by similarly bloated stomachs, I don’t see anycreature actually eating…

Stronger yet more, that premonition gusts around the back of my neck.

Shaking off the irrelevant, if intriguing, realization, I redouble my belly-rubbing efforts, taking off my shoes for a gentler effect. She (and now I realize I don’t know her name) sighs and I feel her abdomen muscles relax further. Her flesh and her meal squish under my ministrations, folding around my hooves in every indentation. Every so often I can feel her stomach rumble, muscles struggling to knead its food, though it’s far too overfull to perform any proper job—and this, I realize, is what I and the other “worshipers” are for.

The changeling begins to make little murmurings of pleasure, which soon I see are her working her voice back up to speed from her utter relaxation. “So, Mightiest, Regal Princess Celestia-” I sputter at the ridiculous title, but she doesn’t give me time to object. “-are you enjoying yourself down here in our Society?”I can now spot her eyes have opened ever so slightly, showing off a glittering sliver of glee.

“Well…” My hooves slow their work as I take time to consider my position: I can already see the tabloid headlines for next week, although the big, serious morning papers aren’t likely to take it as so much one bit’s worth. No… No worries. It’ll be forgotten once this leads me to Luna, anyway, if not before. “Well, I can hardly lie to a changeling about it; I’m sure you already know the answer, but to put it simply-…” I lower myself, practically laying my front half onto her stomach, turning my forehooves around to “hug” it, then I drawing its squishy, near-malleable form against my chest as I let my head rest on it, turned to the side so one ear is against that belly. “I’m sorry to say that in over a thousand years, it’s only now I even come to find this is a thing that can be enjoyed.” As much as I’m going for buttering her up, I stop myself short of praise, lest the discord between my words and actual feelings become too much for her to ignore.

She giggles (mission accomplished), causing my pillow to bounce up and down, with much splashing and sloshing from within. “Mm-hm. I know… -Though, I’m curious, what would you think if you found out the changeling you’re snuggling right now is full of mostly-digested pony?”

My brows rise first at the instinctive shock of the claim, then pull together with confusion when I go back over her sentence; I raise my head then to look down at her to find her eyes now opened fully, with something now behind her no-longer-simple pleasure—something, some emotion, she’s purposefully hiding with all her changeling-skill, no doubt. “I- Excuse me, but I must have misheard over the sounds of your stomach and the music, but… it sounded like you said you had eaten a pony? Did you mean, perhaps, an entire pony’s worth of love?” Even before I finish that last question, though, it doesn’t sound quite right.

Now she lets out not so much a giggle anymore than an outright laugh; I do my best to keep my annoyance off my expression, as ineffective as that undoubtably is against changelings. “Oh, no, no!… Sorry, Princess, but no, that isn’t what I meant. I really was referring to a real, living pony.” She takes one of my now-still hooves into her own and pushes it hard into her very soft middle. “Well, not so much that ‘living’ part, anymore!”

I gasp, but little else. After over a thousand years alive, it consider myself rather difficult to surprise, yet here I sit, looking down at a changeling who just claimed to have eaten one of my subjects! Nothing could have prepared me—I have no possible response, so still I sit, unaware as to the warning of a rumbling within that gut. Her next and loudest-yet belch catches me so off guard, I don’t even flinch, at least not until something wet slaps my face a sticks there. Moving slow, as if in a trance, I remove the object that the changeling had just burped up onto my face without so much a glance of apology, and… it is a partially melted blue lapel, soaked in what I can only assume is changeling chyme.

Only my thousand years could have afforded me the control with which I now rein my anger as I lean onto her stomach and press the ruined lapel against her cheek. “You have one minute to explain before I send you to the Sun.”

She opens her mouth, but a different voice—a stallion’s voice—comes from behind me instead. “Why don’t you let me, Princess.” It’s the green-and-orange unicorn from before… but no longer, as he then, with a flash of fire, reveals himself as King Thorax.

TWO

“Fine. If you think you can, take her place.” I stand straight and mighty, tossing the blue lapel at him; he catches it only inches away from his face. With that moment of distraction, I take a quick look over all the nearby ponies and easily enough spot Thorax’s darker companion from earlier. He obviously notices me noticing him and tries to turn away, but I raise my voice. “-and Prince Pharynx as well? Why don’t you join us?”

The still-disguised changeling shares a quick look with his king, and said king beckons him to follow. With a frown fully displaying his reluctance and displeasure, Pharynx drops the disguise and follows us to a couch fit for three. Thorax jumps onto one end and gestures to the middle seat, but with a snort of disbelief at the poor tactic, I take the other end instead. Predictably enough, the King sighs at this, but instead of taking the middle himself, as I’d expect, he allows Pharynx to sit between us—though I suppose his shorter stature will be easier to talk over than if it were the other way and Pharynx had something to say.

It’s now I notice that Pharynx’s fat wasn’t just a part of his disguise, but the thickness of his abdomen and hips are impossible to mistake—Has he also eaten a pony? How long have changelings been doing this?! No answer appears forthcoming once the two decidedly otherwise uncomfortable changelings settle in their seats. “Well?” I prompt, “You have already wasted fifteen seconds of your one minute.”

The King waves his forehooves in a placating manner—what would be placating if I were an infant. “Princess Celestia, please, just try to follow me and think this through with me.” He speaks with an ever-so-slightly higher pitch to his voice: begging—he’s caught and he knows it. “Do you really think we, changelings, would do this—do anything—if it hurt ponies?” I know that brow-arch too well, having used it on all my countless personal students; he’s trying to lead me on with questions to which he thinks there is only one logical answer.

As if he could beat me at that game! Still, I’d rather jump to the punch than join his squaredance. “Then, praytell, what other purpose but pain and death could consuming my citizens serve them?”

Thorax sighs and looks down at the ruined lapel he still holds; he turns it about in his magic for a few seconds before looking back up at me. “Princess, I have a good idea why you might be here, but you’re so focused on finding her that you’ve failed to consider the place you’re investigating. I was never a very good spy, but even I still know that’s a major failure.” Pharynx nods, though whether at his brother’s admission of amateurity or the point on my own failure is difficult to tell.

I narrow my eyes in disbelief and impatience. What does this “place” have to do with either the carnivorous changelings or Luna’s disappearance?! Still, I sense I’ll get no further with them if I don’t at least make a show of trying to determine what the Gastronomic Society actually is beyond “fetish nightclub”.

I start with the bar, considering it a spot more likely where ponies (and others) might meet more spontaneously and … begin to “enjoy” each other in whatever way that means here, and thusly reveal the club’s purpose. My eyes fall upon the griffon and pegasus I encountered there: Both have a few empty glasses before them now—their cheeks perpetually red—and the world seems to have dropped away for them, nothing disturbing them from staring into each other’s eyes, not even a bumbling drunk Earth pony mare bouncing off the griffon’s behind.

Voyeur is one of the very few things I never considered I might be during my long life, yet here I force myself not to look away as the two lean toward each other, as if for a kiss. They do, but only the shortest peck—enough to heat my face and make me realize I’m no longer fighting to keep watching—then… The stallion removes his lapel and places it on the counter, and I realize why a second before the griffon begins to open his beak wider and wider.

Now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from staring, mouth agape, as the pegasus stands up on his stool and places his forehooves into the beak. From there, he ever-so-slowly pushes himself foreward, into the throat of the griffon, who sits so perfectly still and patient as if ponies feeding themselves to him is the most normal, everyday thing in the world!

Pharynx realizes I’m regaining my faculties even before I do, and as I take in a breath to shout, he puts a hoof gently on the side of my neck. “Princess, look again,” he says as he points at the pegasus, and now, as his entire front half has disappeared into the griffon, there’s much less of him to see… making it much easier to realize what Pharynx is trying to point out to me: The stallion’s desire.

I consider it rather natural I should be at a loss for words, but all around me, every creature either cheers the griffon/stallion pair on or simply outright ignores the consumption of one of their own going on right next to them! I, slowly and disbelievingly, turn back to the changeling royals. “What… is this place? What is going on? -and… Why?”

Prince Pharynx chuckles and smacks his belly fat. “This ‘place’ is where ponies can embrace their proper role in the world as food!” I pull away slightly, but frown—even through the haze of shock, I do recognize I’ve seen plenty of ponies with full stomachs as well; his meaning, at least, is clear enough. “As for why? It’s simple-…” He sits back and spreads his hindlegs, then lowers his hoof from his stomach to his crotch—I quickly avert my eyes, and he chuckles again. “-they enjoy it, obviously.”

“Yes, brother. Thank you.” Thorax has a hoof to his temple and slowly shakes his head. “Well, Princess, this is, basically, how this place can exist at all, you see. A club like this could hardly survive if it got a reputation for its patrons being eaten against their will, of course.” He smiles, as if inviting me to understand this madness.

“Right. ‘Of course’, King Thorax.” Snarky as I might say it, how can I deny the pegasus feeding himself to a griffon I just witnessed, and his arousal over it? Perhaps something in the drinks here influence-? No. He had expressed his desire for this to be his “last night” before he had anything to drink, I just hadn’t yet known what he truly meant! “Very well. I suppose I cannot deny what you say. If you would, explain a bit more about this club, then.” Thorax’s recent insult of my investigation must have touched deeper that I realized. Still, it does indeed help me understand a little bit more: My sister must have been one of those who ate others—How else could she have attended multiple times?!—but there might be some nuance to this operation that can yet make this trip less of a waste of time.

He grins widely—happy I had come around to his line of thinking?—before a tiny, quick bow of his head (Pharynx, meanwhile, snorts and lets his shoulders sag at how easily I had forgotten his risque taunt). “I’d already planned it, Princess. It all, ultimately, hinges on these,” he says as he taps his red lapel; I raise my brow, and he anticipates my questions. “The red designate, as we call them here, ‘predators’ or ‘preds’, and the blue designates ‘prey’. I assume you can guess at what those mean in the Society?” I nod at the half-question. “The third critical piece that keeps this club running smoothly, naturally, is consent. Only reds are allowed to eat others; only blues are allowed to be eaten, and that can only happen when both parties agree to it.”

I look down, idly noting I’d forgotten to retrieve my shoes, snort, then sigh; my thoughts are all ajumble, each one demanding examination, only to be shoved away by some other idea before I can even begin to consider it. “It sounds like it should be so simple, when you put it like that-…” I look up, eyes roving over the lounge, noting the griffon from before is now rubbing his bulging, wiggly middle with both talons. “…-and yet, I still find it hard to believe my Luna actually does eat ponies, and enjoys it!”

Pharynx lets out a single, “ha!”, drawing my attention like an explosion, but he shuts up (even if he doesn’t stop smiling) at the frown Thorax shoots at him—the King then gives me an awkward, apologetic grin. “Well, that’s just how things go on the average night-to-night activities. There are still some more rules, they’re just not relevant as often.” All of a sudden, his eyes narrow, his muscles tense subtly, and he licks at his chitinous lips. “Like the green lapel, that means the rules don’t apply to you.” It isn’t a simply general-you, but specifically myself he’s referring to, I surmise.

I inwardly shake my head at Thorax’s odd posture, and outwardly shrug my shoulders. “Good, because I’m not here to eat anyone or get eaten. I’m here to search for clues on my sister’s disappearance.” For some reason, Thorax looks disarmed by this, eyes wide with awkward disbelief and leaning so far back it seems he should fall over the hoofrest.

The Prince, however, lets out a full-on belly laugh, hugging his middle, and now Thorax’s admonishing look is not enough. Finally, he calms down enough to say, “Oh, yeah, about your sister.” Finally!! I perk my ears. “She didn’t eat anypony, or anycreature, actually, but I can tell you she definitely enjoyed her time in here, and now she’s enjoying her time in here!” I’m confused for only the split second after his words and before he smacks his fat abdomen once more: Pharynx is confessing to eating and digesting Luna!

THREE

Growling, I jump forward, grabbing Pharynx in my forelegs and pulling him to the floor with me, landing on him. His smirk and lack of surprise throughout my attack alerts me too late that this is what he wanted me to do, and a split second later, I find out why: A wetness on my forehead draws my attention, and look up just in time to see Thorax withdrawing the last foot-worth of tongue back into his mouth. A quick hoof to my horn reveals what I suspected—and feared—a magic suppression ring. So this is how they overpowered you, sister?

-And if I needed any more confirmation, somecreature shouted, “It’s another princess hunt!!” Followed by cheers and shouts of bets—at least some have faith in my ability!

Pharynx seems to have expected me to be more distracted by the shout than I am, and attempts to snare me in his tongue. Barely in time, I stick out a forehoof to intercept it, and rapidly loop it around the tongue, catching it. This, instead, catches Pharynx by surprise, allowing me to easily pull him up with me as I stand, bringing him into a straight jab with my other forehoof right onto his nose. His tongue loosens, and I throw the now-limp natural-lasso at his face, against which it splats wetly, blinding him in addition to his current disorientation.

Thorax, meanwhile, has stood up on the couch, ready to leap onto my back, but I spot him just in time and shuffle to the side. As he recalibrates his jump, I shove Pharynx toward him, who falls into the King’s legs, tripping him, and they both fall to the floor, tangled together.

Before they can recover, I grab Thorax by one of his antlers and pull his head up to face me. “What is the meaning of this, changeling?!” I shout, dangerously close (for Thorax’s ears) to the Traditional Royal Canterlot Voice.

He licks his lips again before answering. “The meaning, is this,” he says, reaching up a disentangled leg to tap at my neck—my lapel—with a warning growl from me. “When I said the rules don’t apply to green, I didn’t mean you don’t participate, but that you’re considered ‘free game’, which means I don’t need your consent to eat you. Also, you didn’t get here by accident. I know nopony told you about this place as Luna’s last whereabouts except your intel, or rather, my intel planted in your intel.”

Then, from underneath Thorax, Pharynx’s tongue shoots out and wraps around my forelegs, and with that he pulls my legs from under me; I would’ve hit the ground without some quick wing-work. This time, Pharynx allows his tongue to be pulled out rather than getting himself pulled up bodily once more, and Thorax takes my preoccupation with his brother’s tongue to jump for me, mouth wide with obvious purpose. I dive and lower my head, intent on forcing Thorax to fall back by threatening to impale him on my horn, but I’m too slow, and one of his hooves connects with the side of my head, and I tumble to the floor, though I recover with an awkward roll. I end up facing away from the changelings, and Pharynx now uses his tongue to pull my legs backwards. I’m not quick enough this time to catch myself from hitting the floor chest-first, but from this rear-up position, I see my out: with a hindhoof, I stomp on the tongue, and with a yelp, Pharynx releases me and reels his tongue back in, though he leaves his mouth open to rub the abused muscle. Thorax dives for me again, but now unrestrained, I whip around and aim my horn, crouched and ready to strike right for the chest; with eyes wide, he frantically buzzes his wings and flies back to his brother’s side.

In the moment of reprieve, I notice the cheers and jeers of the crowd—and there’s more of the latter, still. “Now listen here, Changeling King, because this is your last chance: Remove the ring and relinquish your brother to Equestrian custody, and you may receive leniency, otherwise prepare to burn in the Sun!”

His response is to shoot out his tongue—unfortunate, but not unexpected. Instead of trying to dodge or intercept this time, I run forward, and Thorax is unprepared to begin wrapping me up when it connects; I allow it to loop around my neck and forelegs once each before I bite down on it and pull back. Thorax, having seen me do this to Pharynx, allows his tongue to go with me—just as I wanted! Pharynx, perhaps expecting me to be too busy to notice, had been silently repositioning himself, but with a leap, flap, spin, and dive at speeds to awe the Wonder Bolts, I wrap his own brother’s tongue around his neck and barrel. With that, I release the tongue to say, “I hope you remember you chose this, King, because I think it might surprise you to hear that, while my sister was physically stronger than me, I still never lost a single spar.” I smirk at the expected surprise on their faces.

“That… doesn’t make any sense,” Pharynx eventually says, his fearful eyes rapidly shifting between me, Thorax’s tongue, and Thorax himself. “You move the Sun, and-”

“Think of it like this:” I interrupt with a chuckle, “There are two Earth pony sisters working on a rock farm. One spends all day pushing around house-sized boulders, and the other only kicks around apple-sized rocks. At the end of the day, who is more exhausted?”

The two changeling royals share a long look before Pharynx mumbles, “Brother…?” To which Thorax gives a tiny nod. Then, with a flash of fire, Pharynx transforms into his previous pony form—a smaller form—and slips out from the loops of tongue. I try to regain control by flying back for distance, but Thorax has greater control over his tongue than I expected: While I had been gloating and flaunting my apparent tactical advantage, Thorax had snuck out enough length of tongue to snare my wings as well!

With a short victorious laugh (earning a chorus of cheers), he finally begins to pull me in; I fight for as long as I can with only my two hindlegs to stand on, but Pharynx, with another flash, returns to changeling form and fires out his tongue at the only limbs yet unrestrained by changeling tongue. Seeing only one choice to remain in the game, I hop over the tongue, barely missing stepping on it once more, which is enough to convince Pharynx to retreat. However, with no traction, Thorax’s pull begins in earnest, and with that, I cannot regain enough stability to stop it once I land, and am forced to take step after frantic step to maintain any degree of control. Around me, I can hear the crowd laughing at my predicament, and the gamblers eagerly boasting plans for their anticipated winnings—or moaning, as if already defeated.

Eyes narrowed with building determination, I steel my legs and lean back at an extreme angle, and in response, Thorax begins increasing the tension on his tongue—I do my best to keep a worried frown on my face, even as he does exactly what I want. With a signal from Thorax, Pharynx rushes around to my back, then charges, intent on ramming me right into his brother’s mouth. Waiting until the last millisecond, I bend down… then leap forward. Pharynx’s shove connects, but barely registers against my already incredible velocity from Thorax’s pull, and he stumbles. “Haven’t thought this one through, have you!” I shout as I realign myself to aim straight into Thorax’s mouth, hindhooves first.

The King panics and leaps to the side, but he forgets to loosen his tongue, and merely pulls me along, though now slightly off center: even worse for him than before. My left hindhoof connects first, striking the corner where jaw and skull meet, and with a crack I feel something give, even through my shoe, though given Thorax merely lets out a small grunt of pain, I suspect it’s merely dislocated, not broken. Still, with such momentum this barely slows me, and I continue inward, only finally stopping when his lips touch my bellybutton.

We fall to the floor, Thorax taking the worst of the blow, and in his daze his tongue falls slack. Now, with both changelings out for the tiny moment, I make my move. Pulling my forehooves from the tongue-snare, I reach into my petral and pull out my secret, last resort weapon: a magic suppression ring of my own! Without hesitation, I slam it onto Thorax’s horn; it doesn’t quite fit his changeling-shaped horn, but the force I apply wedges it nicely into place—with some pain, judging by how he smacks at the floor with a forehoof, as if tapping out of a fight, while his eyes tear up.

To insure my escape, I punch his antlers, one then the other, causing him to screw up his eyes, and with a monumental effort, I stuff my forehooves into Thorax’s mouth and shove his jaw as far open as possible—with one dislocated joint, he doesn’t really stand a chance. To wild, disbelieving gasps and cheers, I pull by rear half from Thorax’s esophagus, finally falling free with a wet, squelching pop! Seeing Pharynx standing, I flip myself up into a cartwheel instead of simply standing, one hindleg tucked in. As I fall back, my extended leg strikes the Prince’s horn, cracking, but not breaking it, then a short second later, I kick out the tucked leg, striking Pharynx’s throat, and a spiderweb of cracks appear in the chestplate. I leap back from between the changelings, ready to continue my defense, but both are still recovering. Thorax is working his jaw, pushing it around between his forehooves, while Pharynx first puts a hoof to his chest, where a few cracks had connected and caused bits of chitin to chip off, then the hoof moves to his horn, where little jets of green flame occasionally shoot from the cracks.

“How-? You said you were weaker than Luna,” Pharynx grumbles, “She didn’t do half as much damage as this!” All around, the crowd is now nothing but confused murmurs and unsure glances; even the DJ had lowered the music volume, though most of the dancing creatures continue, apparently not noticing.

I smirk as I casually turn around and return to the couch, taking the middle seat. “I lied. I thought you changelings would be able to appreciate a tactic like that.” My giggle goes unshared, so I shrug. “Well, now that things are a little bit more fair,” I say while tapping the suppression ring on my horn, “I thought I might offer the two of you ex-royals one last chance to negotiate your surrender.” Pharynx glares at me for a moment before stepping towards his brother, who still looks a little wobbly on his hooves. “Oh, and unless you want to hurt Thorax, I wouldn’t try to remove that ring. It’s specially enchanted so only I can put it on or off.” The Prince snorts, considers the ring for a moment, then transforms into me and attempts to pull it off. He grimaces at his inevitable failure when Thorax yelps, at which I laugh again. “Good try, but since you changelings ‘allied’ with Equestria, I got your magical signature. There’ll be no changeling shenanigans any more, especially once the two of you are gone. The only question now is, ‘How do you want to go?’ You can still have a say, if you want it.” I pat the seats beside me, inviting them to their last chance—which I don’t actually intend to give the sneaking bugs.

The two whisper into each other’s ears, and I’m content to give them as long as they wish; I lean back, spreading my forehooves across the back of the couch lazily. Only about a minute passes before they approach, calmly, and with a pained look on Thorax’s face and a resigned one on Pharynx’s. As they near, however, they both must sense the change in my emotions, and tilt their heads, confused; however, it seems by their absence of fear they don’t know the intent behind my new plan on how to end this night, considering how they so unconcernedly resume their approach. Thorax sits to my right and Pharynx to my left.

I turn to the King first, and put my hoof gently under his chin—he blushes, and I smirk at this. From there, I move my leg ever so slowly around to the back of his neck, and apply the lightest pressure to pull his head toward mine. I purse my lips, as if ready to kiss, and Thorax does the same… until we’re only a few inches apart. Then, his eyes narrow with gleeful intent before he opens his mouth wide—from this position, however, he nor Pharynx can see I still smile. Pharynx’s hooves hit the back of my head, shoving me roughly, muzzle-first, into Thorax’s mouth, but before Thorax can do anything with this, I bite down onto his tongue and simultaneously grab Pharynx by the back of his neck with my left hoof, then, as I pull my head out of Thorax’s mouth, I pull Pharynx’s head into my place, and his temple smacks against his brother’s chin.

When they both cry out in pain, I waste not a millisecond in reaching into Pharynx’s mouth and taking hold of his tongue in my left hoof, and now with both changeling tongues in my grasp, and their owners distracted, I deftly tie them together in a butterfly knot, then, with both ends of the tongues between my teeth and either length of tongue in one hoof each, I pull the knot taut.

“Celeswia, we-!” Thorax yells around his tongue just before I, grabbing hold of the backrest, pull the couch forward with a somewhat awkward leap. Still, the unprepared changelings fall with the couch, and the backrest bangs against the back of both their heads. I step around behind the King, grip his behind, and pull his hind-half up, leaving him in a downward dog-like position—around us, a few spectators misconstrue my intentions, and their lewd encouragements leave it difficult for me to not double in laughter. Afterwards, maybe; first, snack time!

With all the grace and concern of a pig greeting a trough, I open wide—wider than I’ve ever tried, and mildly shock myself at just how wide my jaw can go—and dive, taking in Thorax’s behind entirely in that one motion. He cries out with wordless pain and panic, then again when I stuff him further in with the aid of a swallow; Pharynx, meanwhile, looks on in slack-jawed, wide-eyed, limb-frozen disbelief. Though Thorax’s carapaced form has little give to it (to better enable me in squeezing him past my lips), its glossy surface provides little traction against the pull of my legs and throat, especially once slickened with my saliva.

“P’incess Celwesia, p’ease shtop!” Thorax regains enough wits to plead, though not enough to make any compelling plead. When I answer with another swallow, now taking his butt entirely into my throat, he scrambles for some purchase to halt his descent into me; his flailing hooves find the toppled couch, and he takes a tenuous grip on the upside-down hoof rest. Another tug from my esophagus and tongue inches his grip away. “P’ease! Don’th! Sthop!” He shouts to the ceiling, as if to beseech a god, each word more desperate than the last.

Pathetic. A true ruler should keep their cool at all times, and maintain dignity, even into death. Proof, as if it would be needed now, that I never should have trusted the Changeling Kingdom to Thorax’s rule. “‘Don’t’? Don’t do exactly as you planned to do to me?! ‘Stop’, when you wouldn’t?! Too late!” I berate, or try to—what comes out is mumbling akin to if I didn’t even have a mouth with which to speak, only a trachea and nose. Still, the king-turned-food gets my meaning when I tug him off the couch with my hooves and give his body my strongest, longest, deepest gulp yet.

“Phtha’inxsh, helshp!” He reaches out to his brother, who ignores Thorax in favor of trying to work out the knot—if I could I would grin and tease his vain desperation, for I know that knot is too tight to undo with bare hooves, as even I wouldn’t be able to untie the tongue in my current condition, if I wanted to. With another swallow, my lips pass over Thorax’s midsection, and he pulls at Pharynx by reeling in his own tongue; getting pulled towards me a few inches, Pharynx glares at his brother. The Prince then tries loosening the grip of his tongue, to let it be reeled out, but this only allows Thorax to pull the knot away from Pharynx.

Another gulp, and now the majority of Thorax’s torso have disappeared into me, and his hindhooves give one last wave goodbye as they slip into my cheeks. Now, I have to angle my head down as his front half slumps from my jaws, with only his chin and forehooves far enough to lay partially on the floor. “P-Pthincess, you mithunderthtand! Phtha’inxsh wash joking! -making a pthank! Wphe thon’t know about Luna!” Even if I had half a mind to grant him a chance, his whimpering, pleading tone gives away his lies; each falsehood from him heralds another swallow from me, and now the backs of his shoulders are pressing against my front teeth.

As Thorax’s rear exits from the bottom of my impossibly bulging neck and enters into my chest, making far less noticeable an imprint, he hangs freely from my mouth, panting and limp, whether from exhaustion or resignation, I know or care not. After swinging my head forward and back a few times to build momentum, I straighten out my head, neck, and body, sitting and looking toward the ceiling in one smooth, quick motion. This has the unintended result of jerking Pharynx towards me by his and his brother’s tongues, which ends up with the Prince hitting the floor chest-first with an “oof!” Immediately after, his chin smacks down, causing him to bite his own tongue with what I can only imagine is enough force to knock him out from the pain, since he loses consciousness shortly after, in the middle of an ear-piercing screech.

This is enough to shock Thorax back into life. “Phtha’inxsh, no! Wake’sh’up! You cthan still ethcape! Phtha’inxsh!” He repeatedly shouts out to his unresponsive accomplice, impotently reaching out toward him with his forehooves. With so much of him in my esophagus, as well as I having straightened myself out into a mockery of a waterslide, I can feel each pulse of peristalsis pull Thorax in and down, not even an inch at a time… As much as I’d love to extend his torture, I figure I should continue to Pharynx as soon as possible, and so begin swallowing again.

When he’s forced to look away from Pharynx by his head entering my mouth, he sighs. “Pthincess, pthlease don’t eat mfy b’other. What everth you do to mfe, don’t… eat… himf… p’ease!” He barely gets out the last few words as the back of his jaw passes through my lips, pinching his mouth closed. Again, my own mouth amazes me when I break Thorax’s would-be-bothersome antlers with one mighty chomp, and from within my now and finally closed mouth, his shout of pain muffled by two closed mouths.

A few more swallows later, and the last of Thorax leaves my neck and soon drops into my stomach, even causing it to bounce slightly when I feel the oddest (or at least, oddest so far this night) sensation of his head popping through. Allowing myself a breather before moving on to Pharynx, I lower my head to my now-hanging stomach’s level, give it a little experimental nudge with my nose—which jolts me with a strangely pleasure, and I barely suppress a shiver and moan—and say to my changeling-turned-food. “I think you’ve misjudged me, Thorax. No matter what happened this night, I would have eaten, and will eat, Pharynx for eating my sister. However, then you had to go and try to eat me in turn. Maybe if you restrained yourself, by now you’d be rubbing my stomach, helping me digest Pharynx instead. Goodbye, King,” I growl out the last word before lifting my head away.

“Looks… like my brother is demoted from ‘Thorax’ to ‘Abdomen’,” Pharynx jokes in a flat tone, as if stating a simple observation, then he chuckles similarly humorlessly; he’s pulled his tongue to the corner of his mouth to speak easier. Taking that tongue into my own grip, I jerk him forward, and punch his antlers, breaking them off—he winces, and even lets out a tiny whimper. “Hey, Princess, no need to be so rough, okay? I lost, fair and square, and even I know it. I’m not fighting anymore, see?”

I stand still, letting him come to believe I actually trust him. “If you do, indeed, have an ounce of honor, Prince Pharynx, then step forward and feed yourself to me.” For the tiniest moment, his eyes widen slightly, giving me the probably first look at his actual emotions this whole night—perhaps he dared to dream that by acting mollified, he could escape his proper punishment?

Pharynx glances around, and my attention, too, is momentarily returned to our audience: The shock of my win must have worn off while Thorax “distracted” me, and now there are a number of creatures exchanging money and returning to their previous activities, except a few who don’t yet believe the action to be over—for whichever “action” each hopes to see. Himself seeing so many having dismissed the hunt to over, Pharynx hesitates (perhaps the crowd had provided the changeling some “emotional support” before?), but ultimately stands and takes those last few steps to stand before me, noses nearly touching. Now as we are, in the relative calm, I can tell that, indeed, even if Pharynx would be insane enough to lie about eating Luna, he hadn’t; I can think of no other explanation for this amount of growth in so little a time.

He leans forward the tiniest bit, so that when he whispers, I can just barely feel his chitin brush my fur. “I can sense what you think about me now, Celestia, but I swear on my shell I’m not lying about your sister. She’s still in there, she loves it, and you can join her—you can be together again.” In spite of my desire for justice, my lips shiver, and for a moment I do consider it. Soul-absorbing wouldn’t be the oddest power I’d heard of changelings possessing, and even beyond them, I wouldn’t put it past the world to house a few such beings. -And if—if—it is true, then eternal bliss would be right up the changelings’ alley, to produce all the more love…

The hesitation, that inner-debate, is almost all Pharynx needs. I blink away the vision of forever-joy with my sister just in time to see the slick, phosphorescent flesh of changeling gum and throat before he lunges. I twist my head to the side, and he clamps down on the side of my face, but by twisting back, I catch his muzzle against my horn, and he’s forced off. Dazed from this impact, as well as still not yet recovered from the abuse of his antlers, he hunches over in pain, gripping his head.

With no more fanfare or other acknowledgment, I force his head back up with a relatively weak punch (more of an “abrupt shove”) under the jaw, then drop my open, waiting muzzle over his. With his nose in the back of my throat, through my own flesh I can hear him mutter, “By the Queen’s crown-,” just before my first swallow, cutting off his curse, binding his muzzle within my esophagus. Unlike his brother’s begging and struggling, this profanity is all Pharynx offers in way of resistance—Perhaps in recognition how all Thorax’s efforts concluded in pure futility?

In spite of my apparent successful revenge, I can not shake off a significant sense of disappointment. Laying so slack as my lips engulf his head, neck, shoulders, and chest in turn, Pharynx is far too accepting of his execution-by-Alicorn-stomach. More than for this he goes down with notable ease, as he follows his larger brother, putting slightly less strain on my esophagus, diameter-wise. Even that small difference is enough for my peristalsis to gain exponentially greater traction, so that I’m sure even if he put up the fight I’d been expecting, he would still be going down faster.

Faster, indeed. It seems in a mere flash, and all that remains is his hindhooves, placid on my tongue. I close my mouth without fanfare, as if this was another bite of cake, and swallow. Still, as I gasp from the effort of just eating two beings, larger than myself all together, and put a hoof to the bulge of Pharynx, as if to make sure he’s gone for good… but I am not satisfied still. Not for hunger—it feels as if I’ve eaten enough to hibernate for a century!—but for a niggling in the back of my brain, very familiar to earlier this evening, but still “new”.

With a jolt, I look to the corner where the first changeling I spoke to had lain: She’s not there, nor anywhere as I turn my head swiftly about—not that that, of course, means much for changelings. A distraction in the form of my own now-very-wiggly-middle appears; Pharynx has just now fully entered my stomach, and it seems the two are repositioning themselves—trying to find some semblance of solace in their dank, gastric tomb. With a grunt of discomfort, my legs fall half-involuntarily from under me, although with two changeling royals “cushioning” my underside, I don’t fall far. Half in effort to still my roiling prey and half in effort to soothe my tummy, I pinch the bulge of brothers between all four legs, and if my lungs have had it in them, I would have gasped, for I had not until that moment truly grasped the literal, physical, and dietary enormity of my deed. How my legs squish to previously-thought impossible depth into my own belly!

FOUR

Then, a sudden burst of sound: cheering and groaning, in equal measure. It seems I was not the only one who needed so long to process what happened—what I had done. As the initial commotion wears out, voices emerge, some with generic praise or disappointment, but most are in line with a singular topic. “Can she do that? They were wearing red!” “Yeah, but those rules don’t apply to greens.” “The consent rule doesn’t apply to greens.” “Exactly, so she can eat them even though they didn’t consent!” “You know what I meant!” “Does it matter? Who’s going to stop her or throw her out!?”

Dismissing the argument from my mind with a smirk of agreement to that last comment, I focus on standing—something that, all of a sudden, requires far more focus than I never imagined I would need to employ. I’ve barely raised myself a couple inches when a savior manifests: a Royal Guard, though obviously off-duty and out of his armor, his dyed fur and mane are also too obvious.

“Allow me, Princess.” He bows, and without waiting for my permission, or any response at all, he promptly sprints around behind me, then there begins to shove and wiggle himself under my ballooned middle, taking off me more weight than I even realized has been pulling on my spine. “Just… direct me… Your Highness… and I… willwalkwithyou!” he rushes out the last phrase with a grunt of effort, and I can already feel him, too, beginning to falter under the mass of changeling.

“To the bar,” I say without hesitation, both to spare him every second possible from collateral spine injury, and myself from primary spine injury. We make our way with relative speed, helped by the fact the crowd has mostly dispersed, now “the show” is over, as well as those between us and the bar swiftly getting out of my way (no matter how they might have to awkwardly lug their own distended stomach along with them in their haste).

With it quite impossible to take a seat upon a stool, I settle between two of them, only now recognizing just how distantly spaced they are compared to most bars, and then realizing a split second later that my current use of this space must be its exact purpose. I also find that, in my current condition, sitting has become a relative state, as my impromptu changeling dinner is making it impossible for me to keep all four hooves on the floor in the “proper” or “usual” way. Instead, my spine is forced to go near-vertical, making me feel as if I’m about to fall back—which I’m sure I would without my firmly anchoring belly—and my forelegs are left in a somewhat awkward position of having nowhere to really go except to rest on the top of said belly!

As my off-duty guard takes a seat on the stool to my right, I say, “Thank you. If I might inquire your name?” The bartender steps before us, looking quite angry, but I pointedly ignore him, even as he fake-coughs for attention.

The guard glaces at the bartender, but follows my cue after another second of nonreaction from me. “Of course, Princess,” he says with a shaky bow; he maintains posture for only two or three seconds more before slumping onto the counter. “I am Crude Point, Your Highness.” I take note of his Cutie Mark: a sword being thrust through a broken shield.

“Crude Point-” he turns onto his side to look at me without having to lift his head. “-first I must tell you it would be pointless to rush or panic, but so I don’t forget, know that we will need to put out a warrant for Pharynx’s arrest.” He reacts with an expected raised brow, and even more expected glance toward my stomach; he opens his mouth, but I cut in with an explanation. “To put it simply, there is reason enough for me to suspect that who I just ate may not have been the real Pharynx.” I glance towards my stomach, but if the potentially fake Pharynx hears, he doesn’t react.

Crude blinks from bemusement, but quickly accepts this with a shrug and, “Of course, Princess. If you believe it, I believe it. It’s not like it could… hurt,” he says the last word slowly while staring at my belly, distracted or mesmerized by the slowly shifting bulges—and I quickly shift my hunch to the latter when Crude’s sideways orientation against the bar allows me to spot the blue lapel so blaringly shining from his chest—though perhaps I only think of it that way now, knowing its significance?

Some long seconds later (too many?), he catches my stare, and looks down at himself, instantly blushing profusely and beginning to toy with the lapel when he realizes—or thinks he realizes—what I “must” be thinking. His gaze shifts from the lapel to my stomach and back a few times before he suddenly blushes profusely and turns his body to face the counter again, bringing his knees up against his own belly, as if to hide-

… Oh.

-And just like that, “what I ‘must’ be thinking” adjusts so dramatically, I have no chance to respond to what he “must” be thinking before the bartender finally loses his patience and slams a hoof on the counter. “What do you think you’re doing, Princess Celestia?” he demands with a volume just on the other side from shouting in affront.

With pursed lips, and my guard now staring at me as if waiting (or hoping?) for some direction, I slowly turn my head from Crude to the bartender. “I’m having a pleasant, illuminating conversation with one of my Royal Guard. Nothing more.” I allow him a split second to open his mouth with some no-doubt indignant phrase readied, but I continue, “No more, I’ve deduced, than what you witnessed on the seventh of May: ‘nothing weird or worrisome’. That is how you described my sister being eaten and digested—in essence, killed—no?”

The bartender’s tightly closed lips waver, barely restraining a rageful tirade; I smirk at this, and in turn his brows tighten and, though I can’t be sure under the distorting lights of the nightclub, a bead of sweat forms there. Perhaps looking for a distraction, he considers Crude Point, his eyes flicking to the lapel—and so he believes he’s found his out. “I’m sure you’ve been told by now how this place works, at its base, at least, so you should know that those patrons of mine wearing red are the only ones who can eat others.”

I think he expects me to chase the red herring and argue over the points of the green lapel marking me as exempt from the rules, but of course not; I’m far more interested in that “patrons of mine” comment—in so many words: Got’chya! “Oh? -And who can say that? Who can impose that? You?”

The sophomorically shrewd bartender/now-revealed-owner narrows his eyes further, again obviously thinking he knows what I’m getting at, he skips the argument forward to where he believes he’ll have some chance. “Your sister knew what she was getting into, and she finally got herself ‘gotten’, alright? She purposefully chose to wear the green lapel, even though she knew the password and knew what that lapel meant, and that’s not my fault.”

I pretend to consider the point, looking down at my belly and idly poking at the now mostly still bulges; inside, I’m already celebrating and, oddly enough, looking forward to another meal. “Perhaps she did or didn’t; I don’t care about the particulars of that anymore, now that… proper justice on those responsible has been carried out.” I make it a point to lick my lips and give my stomach a particularly vigorous rub and hug—this has the most felicitous incidence of dislodging a massive belch (truly the loudest and longest I’ve ever produced!), adding to the implied intimidation; I continue, however, as if sitting at a normal dinner table, having been disrupted by no more than a politely quiet reflex of the diaphragm. “Now, though, I’m more concerned with all the other ponies and creatures who were so generously granted entry with the green lapel. If I’m wrong, please call out this hunch for what it is, but after what I just experienced, I’m guessing that none of them ever knew what was going to be done to them any more than I did. More than that is that you not only knew this, but must have created the system in the first place.” I do my best to lean forward aggressively, nearly laying on my monstrous beanbag-of-a-stomach to do so—I narrow my eyes to ensure my intention isn’t lost in leviathan-to-pony translation. “So, how close to the truth am I?”

The answer I receive is a huff though his nose that could be mistaken for annoyance. I turn to Crude. “If I could bother you off-duty, I left a few on-duty guards waiting out of sight outside. Please, give them the usual signal and bring them down here. If the bouncers complain, go ahead and tell them what I did.” I grin at how the two “tough” ponies would react in my imagination—but going up there myself in this condition would be far too much trouble for such a simple amusement.

Crude reacts immediately with a salute, which… unveils his other salute. “No trouble at all, of course, Princess!” and without further ado, leaps from the stool and lands into a swift trot—I can’t help how his swaying erection captures my eye. At least I know he would certainly accept any advance from me! What am I thinking!!! Perhaps this is what eating a changeling does to you: All the “love energy” in their body is released into you, and-

Doing my best to slyly shake off the thoughts, aided by Crude’s disappearance into the crowd, I then turn back to the bartender. “What? Nothing to say in your defense?” Though I maintain a professionally passive smile, I casually and confidently lay my chin onto a forehoof, with the elbow sinking into my belly.

He draws he shoulders up defensively, determinedly meeting my eyes, keeping his own from so much as flicking toward the implied destiny. “I stand by everything I’ve said and done. I know you’ll find by your own laws not a lick of it was illegal, or even close to toeing the line. I’m not worried.” The way he’s breathing now reminds me of Twilight: struggling to keep posture.

“Oh? Not even the littlest bit? Not even worried about something such as, oh, me returning here in the future, taking the green lapel again, and eating you next?” I tilt my head a few degrees and narrow my eyes subtly. “I thought you would have figured out by now that there’s only one possible end for you once I found the truth, or…” I tilt my head to the other side. “… -or, perhaps you considered that potentiality, but it was overridden by how confident you were that Thorax would be able to—hmm—‘prevent’ that?”

He’s good, but not good enough: The tiniest widening of his pupils is enough confirmation for me. Thankfully, my on-duty guards march in just then, preventing me from bothering with further banter—though not without, of course, a final smirk and quip, “I hope to see you for dinner sometime soon.” Then I turn to Night Knife and Star Wings (Bat Ponies from my sister’s Night Guard) with the carefully passive—only lightly disgusted by the situation—expression of a proper princess. “Night, Star, arrest this bartender on suspicions for involvement in Luna’s disappearance and conspiracy against the crown.”

Both their eyes widen at the accusations, possibly also in consideration to who is being accused, and can see that point: A nightclub bartender, conspiring against the crown? Nevertheless, the duo is ever dutiful and step around the bar and swiftly apply hoofcuffs; the bartender remains still and expressionless as he lets them do this, and walks without hesitation when Star orders, “Move out!”

As the bartender is marched away, the crowd’s attention is quickly gathered, much to the Bat Ponies’ trepidation, but their unease is unwarranted, for their brisk exit is unimpeded. With the owner gone, the DJ is the first to look around in abandoned confusion, and announces, “Well, if this means I’m not getting paid, I’m out’ta here!” and so she is.

This seems to break what spell had held the patrons, and they all begin to murmur and wander with uncertainty. “Does this mean they’re getting shut down?” “Should we leave” “Do we have to leave?” “So, do you want to continue this at your place?” are the most common questions, and I concern myself not with them. I close my eyes to focus; of course this place will have to be held by the crown for the investigation, then auctioned after the bartender’s “mysterious escape and subsequent disappearance”, except-…

“Princess?” I peek to the side to find Crude Point, saluting awkwardly—and not from his underbelly—with his head tilted with… worry? I open my mouth just as Crude speaks, “I have- ah! sorry, Your Highness.” I motion for him to go ahead. “Er, I was saying that I have taken the liberty of going through the club, and I found no creatures wearing the green lapel who, well, I would have warned away.” He salutes again, then retakes his seat when I nod.

“Very good, Sir Point-”—he blushes—“as I was, in fact, just now thinking about such.” Now reminded, I pull the lapel off and slap it, with some unnecessary force, onto the stool opposite Crude Point (as I’m currently unable to reach the bar). “-And of the bouncers?”

He laughs. “As you predicted, Princess. They wanted to stop the Night Guards, but after I told them of what you did, they stood still as statues for a minute, then looked at each other and bolted in different directions!” and we share the laugh that follows.

As the merriment wears off, I once more consider Crude Point, though now with a wistful sigh. “The Royal Guard could always use more with such instinct and discretion as yours.” I nod, smiling genuinely in what feels like far too long, meeting his eyes… for far too long.

He stares back, and I can watch as he builds his daring behind his eyes. “P-Princess, if I may be so bold-” He chokes, and looks down, toying with the blue lapel, whether absentmindedly or out of some desperate nonverbal hint.

Suddenly, a daring steals over me in turn: Fuck “wistful”! I let out a light laugh—interrupted by a tiny burp—before responding. “-But of course, Crude Point! If it’s all the same for you, however, I would rather contact Princess Twilight first, so she might remove this ring, before we retire for the evening together.” He nearly falls off his stool from the shock of my forwardness, so I add with a more playful grin, “Then, in the morning, we can discuss… breakfast in bed.” I finish with a lusty whisper.

Behemoth > Big

Author's Note

Done for the VorePone's Discord artjam, OC potluck

Behemoth, a huge changeling, and his smaller brother, Amaz, wander Equestria after rejecting Thorax. On this day, their meandering brings them to Ponyville, where Amaz finds themselves a hearty meal.

Fetish Checklist:

ONE: semi-macro (Behemoth), facesitting, scat & watersports, humiliation (Behemoth/Amaz)

TWO: [N/A]

THREE: suddenly gay, suddenly sub, semi-willing/implied mild mind control (Big Mac), frotting (Moth/Mac), semi-hyper urethra play & cock-fucking (Mac/Moth), spitroasting (Moth/Mac/Amaz), slight cum inflation (Mac)

FOUR: oral vore (Moth/Mac, Amaz), playful sub-shaming (Amaz/Mac), melty digestion (Mac)

Behemoth > Big

Zephyrus Scary

ONE

Anypony—Anycreature (even a changeling) would find it a normal scene: a traveling stallion (his appearance unimportant, for he is not long for this world) dragging his wagon down a road through the woods. Slowly, on this day, the woods turn to farmland, although it is a very subtle change, for the farm the stallion comes upon is an orchard—apple, to be specific. Looking over this sign of civilization, his eyes darting more suspiciously than the apparent situation would call for, he pauses, his hoofsteps now leaving the sounds of nature, yet present, to dominate the ears.

“Well, here we are,” the stallion announces to the thin air, before he turns away from the orchard to pull the wagon through the woods yet on the opposite side of the road; the woods are thin with trees wide apart enough to admit the wagon without trouble, but it’s hardly an easy ride.

“Ooof!” comes a voice from the wagon. “‘Here we are’, where?” it—he demands.

The stallion lets out a long-suffering sigh. “If I knew, I’d’ve said that instead of ‘here’, not that you need to know in the first place, Skullbrain.”

All of a sudden, the wagon was entirely engulfed int green flames, and the stallions eyes widened. A split second later, and flames seem to extinguish themselves, only now in the wagon’s place is a giant changeling. Before the stallion could react, the shafts on his sides, which had become the changeling’s forelegs, grabs him, flips him onto his back, then shoves him underneath the monster, and the beast’s huge behind coming down on his head cuts off his yet-wordless scream.

Sitting there, apparently alone for his tail covers the stallion’s rear half, the changeling looks most satisfied with himself, eyes narrowed from joy as a rumble like boulders—a chuckle—comes from deep within.

Even those ponies who had been in Canterlot for the invaded wedding would have some trouble processing the idea this is suppose to be a changeling. Even sitting as he is, the tip of his horn threatens to break through the canopy, and even as huge as his jaws are, Celestia herself wouldn’t be able use her horn to tickle under his chin. The thickness of his legs match, and in a few cases, surpass, the circumference of the trees around him. -And under his bouncing, laughing belly is the grand evidence of his maleness: Even in its current flaccid state, its length simply cannot be contained by the sheath, which, defeated long ago, has bunched up in thick rolls at his crotch. Behind this would hang his testicles, though now they lay on the ground, barely fitting between his hind legs, each the size of a pony’s head—perhaps a bit larger.

His name, suitably, is Behemoth.

Another flare of green flashes, barely, from beneath the changeling’s tail, and a couple of black, holed hindlegs kick at the hairs, only, unknowingly to the “stallion”, getting their strands caught in the holes. Muffled shouting comes, though the larger changeling ignores it, closing his eyes completely now as he hums contentedly.

Once satisfied his little(r) brother’s slight has been payed, he stands, but the now-revealed second changeling, Amaz, is dragged up by the tail-hair in his legs. Worse: his muzzle has found itself shoved into Behemoth’s anus, a fact that had not escaped Behemoth. Placing forehooves onto Behemoth’s buttocks, Amaz attempts to push himself free, and although Behemoth flexes his anus to hold him, the donut of muscle is simply too large to keep a grip on something as small as a muzzle—the ring being so wide that a pony’s hoof would not be able to completely cover it—although the tail is still strong enough to hold him upside down

“Stupid Chitinrot, you- oof!” Amaz makes to scold his brother, but Behemoth flicks his tail, swinging Amaz around and causing his face to smack against Behemoth’s thigh. “Clumsy ‘Moth, we’re still too close to the road! Your fat ass is gon’na get us caught!!” Struggling with his hooves caught in Behemoth’s tail for a few seconds, he punches his brother in the gaskins, though with the thick armor-like chitin of the giant, Behemoth wouldn’t even be able to tell he’s being hit without Amaz’s grunts of effort and clapping of chitin-to-chitin.

Behemoth rolls his eyes at his brother’s “Amaz-antics” (he’s far from the cleverest or wittiest changeling), but decides he must heed his warning of potentially being spotted by ponies or other creatures—even those candy-fied betrayers… He’s never gotten the chance yet, but it would be very satisfying if he could eventually find out if his stomach no longer identifies them as “changeling”, and thusly melted the neon dung beetles, just like it digests the ponies/prey they’ve befriended.

Only a few steps further in to the forest, and a rumbling comes from within: One of the many disadvantages of inanimate disguises is how it tends to mess with the changeling’s metabolism. However, with his size, even transforming into a properly-sized Celestia would take great strain and unreasonable amounts of love-energy, and even in these more accepting days, a dragon still attracts too much attention, so he’s left with few options.

With Amaz still kindled, and thick chitin muffling the sound, the yet trapped smaller changeling is quite unaware of his brother’s state until Behemoth pauses in his step, lifts a hindleg a few inches, and releases a fog-horn-worthy fart.

“Gah!” Amaz shouts nasally, having put both forehooves to his muzzle, “You better not-… just-… Don’t!” He growls, with both his threats and Behemoth’s to-be infractions terribly implied. Not that the changeling would let those “infractions” fall where they may—particularly if he himself is a potential target, so with a buzz of his wings, Amaz swings himself up by his legs, and uses his sword-like changeling horn to cut Behemoth’s tail, freeing himself.

An ominous chuckle from Behemoth is cut as short as his tail, but to his fortune his shock releases another fart he’d been holding, which blasts Amaz right in his face as he swings past. “Hey!” he grumbles, wagging what little tail he now has, which is so short he can no longer see it around his butt when twisting his head back; before, it would have easily covered his anus with both length and volume to spare, and now it’s left as little more than a toothbrush moustache.

Whipping around with a slap—or what would be a slap to somecreature his own size—Behemoth knocks the pest Amaz has made of himself into a tree, and from there he promptly flops to the root-ridden ground with a pained groan. Dazed, Amaz doesn’t even realize Behemoth rear end looming over him as the giant squats, though even if he did, he couldn’t have escaped with his hindlegs still tied together.

The anus yawns, revealing neon green innards, glowing dimly, and a pony’s skull, facing outward with a grin as if it has been waiting to be released—and released it is. As it begin to slide out with grunt from Behemoth, Amaz flops to the side as he struggles with the hair-turned-bolas, and thus though he dodges the skull itself, the coil of scat that follows flops onto him with a minimal, targeted swing of Behemoth’s hips.

Instantly, the heavy, brown semi-solid, about as wide as a pony’s torso, shoves Amaz into the dirt; under its own weight, it squishes itself into the crevices of his chitin and the holes of his legs, and Amaz even the tiniest of movements not only helps the stinking mass work its way deeper, but compacts along that way. Not that he’ll have much choice soon if he wants to dig himself out instead of suffocating to death.

Of course the beast has ample space in his bowels, sufficient to hold enough scat to completely cover his mouthy brother and then some—probably even two Amaz-es and then some more if he was completely full. As is, he runs his sloppy brown snake up and down, extra thorough. All to soon for Behemoth, it’s over, for such is the drawback of such a wide anus, and at the end is a hipbone, its holes blocked up with harder, dried, compacted crap. A few hard pushes later, and a blast of gas helps finally launch it out, and it flies into the tree hard enough to knock a few still-green, healthy leaves loose. After this, only a few tiny clumps are left to tumble out so effortlessly, Behemoth doesn’t notice them.

When his anus relaxes and closes, Behemoth lets out a sigh that’s like a gust no single pegasus could produce alone. Turning around, he takes a moment to admire the sculpture his digestive system made out of a couple of ponies, with a little help from his brother. Although as it is now, anyone but Behemoth himself wouldn’t be able to tell, as the coils yet collapsing into an amorphous mass yield no hint of the smaller changeling they contain.

In an almost calculated-seeming way, he waits a few moments, and when his internal countdown hits zero, he rears up and puts his forehooves onto the trunk—his skull breaking branches in the way with no acknowledgment from him, no matter their thickness—and his weight bowing the tree down dangerously. Then shifting his weight to one forehoof, he reaches down with the other to grip his penis and aim it over the pile, roughly where Amaz’s head had disappeared.

Sure enough, a mere second after Behemoth lets his stream (really more of a small waterfall) flow, cracks form around an emerging sharp black spire of a changeling horn. A changeling head, barely discernable under the crown and veil of shit, is soon revealed as piss melts the muck away. When this, too, finally ends, an unamused Amaz tentatively opens one eye, only to quickly snap it shut when Behemoth dribbles out a few last drops with a flick of his dick.

Finally, only when Behemoth then steps back and drops to all fours, does Amaz once more open his eyes and then shake himself off like a dog—Behemoth doesn’t seem to mind any droplets of pee flecks of his own crap flying all over, including onto himself. “Well,” Amaz sighs and he climbs-swims out of the pile, “At least I didn’t have to spend a day going through you with all of this this time, but…” now relatively free, Amaz seems to slump with another sigh, but it’s truly a crouch, and with a buzzing leap, he uppercuts Behemoth square on the jaw, and Behemoth only moves an inch, maybe two. “-that doesn’t explain why you did that anyway!!” He screams, and hovering before his brother’s face, Amaz grips Behemoth’s muzzle and attempts to shake it, as if to scold him.

“Can fix that,” Behemoth rumbles, and he pulls Amaz’s thoughtlessly placed forehooves with his tongue. With a wordless screech, Amaz immediately pulls back, but Behemoth already has his fangs hooked into the holes of Amaz’s legs, holding him most effectively. Buzzing around randomly, madly, like a fly in a web, Amaz, in his panic, attempts to kick at Behemoth’s face, but a split second later his thoughts catch up and with a yelp, he practically yanks his own misplaces limbs away lest they be caught next.

Sucking his brother further in, until Behemoth is “kissing” Amaz’s chest, he spits him onto his waste. Amaz, already still mostly covered in poop, is mostly thankful his brother was just joking.

“Alright, alright,” Amaz mutters as he once more makes his way out the localized swamp, “Just hel- just find me some water,” he corrects himself with a grimace—he’d almost said “help me”, like one of those fruitbugs. A few flashes from Behemoth’s horn later, and he point some way, deeper into the forest; this geographical spell is one out of the little magic Behemoth and his ilk excel at, for given their limited transformation abilities, only being able to quickly survey the landscape can hide them from non-changeling eyes in an emergency. Looking back as he follows Behemoth, Amaz looks worriedly at the road still—if barely—visible, and mutters, “Let’s… just hope anycreature who might spot this mistakes it for manticore scat or something.”

TWO

Though of course he would never voice it, let alone anywhere Behemoth might hear, Amaz finds the sensation of recently being washed clean of poop oddly refreshing, like flipping the pillow to the cool side on a sweltering night. It is this that makes him smile as he flops onto the riverbank, buzzing and fanning out his wings to help the Sun dry them, and as he shifts around to find the perfect position, little rivulets of water, once trapped, dribble from the cracks between the plates of his chitin, which will soon evaporate, keeping him cool, as changelings don’t sweat. Nearby, Behemoth naps in the shade of a copse, for only the shadow of the four closely clustered trees is large enough to contain him.

A half hour later, and he stands, rolling his shoulders and generally looking ready for action. “So, ‘Moth, you got any good ambush points?”

The bigger brother rumbles out what must be some nonverbal affirmative, though one could only tell by his nod. He points and says, “That way there’s a small cliff. I can drop from above.” Looking, Amaz could indeed see hints of this cliff through the foliage—it’s hard to judge from here, but it seems “small cliff”, according to Behemoth, is about 25 feet high.

“A cliff? -And you’ll jump ‘em from above?” Amaz laughs. “You’re makin’ this too easy for me, ‘Moth! What fun is the lure if it’s as easy as ‘Little Dim Bulb fell down the well again’?” He then chuckles with a shake of his head, only half joking—“easy” means he could potentially lure many ponies at once, and every cubic foot of Behemoth’s stomach filled with pony means one less cubic foot that could be filled with Amaz instead.

-But only half; still, the predator in him, which all proper changelings have, yearns for a real hunt, like the chaos of Canterlot he wished he had seen. How the veterans’ tales ignited grubs’ imaginations!

The two split up, Behemoth towards the cliff to prepare, and Amaz back where they had come. His short journey to the road and into the village gives him no trouble. He still believes neither would his lure give him even twice as much trouble as this, but still he puts off the choosing of his prey for a few reasons: Firstly, his sense of fun for the hunt—finding somepony just might provide some hint of hassle, of chaos, of danger remains irresistible. Secondly, is the potential of running into a pastel traitor and testing Behemoth’s stomach acids on them. -And finally, just the simple pleasure of walking amongst prey, disguised and completely unsuspected, even after the existence of changelings has been so long revealed, still comes with its own sense of pranksterly glee—such stupid creatures!

However, an alien disquiet, source unknown, creeps upon Amaz, slowing his trot and dampening his delight. Only when he comes across an odd rainbow reflection on the ground, causing him to look up for its source, does he realize, or at least comes halfway to understanding: There above the otherwise innocuous town is a giant diamond-like palace of sorts, as if a mis-teleport from the Crystal Empire had left it stranded here in the unsuspecting middle-of-nowhere.

Doing his best to hide his dismay, Amaz forces himself to keep walking and searching, even as he thinks to himself, I’ve got a really, really bad feeling about this place!

Shortly, his wandering brings him to a more open, busy area—some kind of open-air market, it seems. His heartbeat yet troubled, as if he needs to be constantly reminded of the all too likely predicament he’s gotten into, Amaz slows, settling on determining his target here. Nothing really leaps out at him; each pony as blandly unmemorable as the rest, until he crosses a certain stand selling a familiar, popular fruit, which has an orchard very close indeed to Behemoth’s ambush.

-But this isn’t what really attracts Amaz’s attention, no; this is purely attributed to the supposed farmer himself, and it’s easy to guess why. This pony is the third such creature he’s actually had to tilt his head up to look in the eye since adulthood, the first two being Queen Chrysalis and Behemoth—a non-queen pony (for he has no horn or wings) with such size would naturally be expectedly surprising.

Amaz stare is acknowledge with an extra-long glance and small, friendly sort of smile, causing Amaz to guess this pony must be used to such reactions, especially from out-of-towners. The thought helps knock him out of his stupor, and he makes to slip away, to watch and wait for the moment he’s alone—the moment to strike. However, his distraction leaves him woefully unaware of other ponies, and as he turns, he catches sight of yet another pony, though this time for very different reasons: This orange pony currently walking up to the large pony’s stand is unmistakable.

“Applejack?!” Amaz yelps, then immediately dives behinds a convenient stack of boxes some other pony is currently unpacking for their own stand.

The Element of Honesty, not recognizing the voice but also not one to be rude to a stranger, turns around with a, “Yah?” No one around answers her acknowledgment, and she quirks her brow as she waits a dozen seconds for anycreature to reveal themselves. Then, huffing for the bother, Applejack turns back and relieves her brother from tending the stand.

From behind the boxes, Amaz’s training helps him overhear their plans for the big stallion to return to the orchard, and even as he hyperventilates his shocked panic away, his changeling subconscious forms a strategy.

THREE

In a seemingly peaceful forest, on top of a cliff, a tree appearing like any other tree stands, except, perhaps, for its unusual size in both height and width. A curious squirrel, having lived on this cliff its whole (if short) life, approaches this tree, which it has never seen before. Climbing tentatively up it, pausing every few inches to sniff around, it eventually comes across a huge knot that had opened up into a veritable cavern of a hole (at least to a squirrel).

Peeking into this hole, it jumps when green fire suddenly flares up all around it, and before the squirrel can even process it is, in fact, not being burned alive, the “floor” falls out from beneath it, letting the squirrel fall into and down a wet tube.

Outside, anycreature who might have witnessed this would not have even noticed the tree-turned-giant changeling swallowing, so easy does the tiny snack slide into his gullet. Behemoth, bored, stretches as he starts to wonder where Amaz is and what seems to be taking so long—but he only wonders, for a proper changeling would never do something so empathetic (more like “pathetic”) as worry for his brother.

Just as he feels the last struggles of the squirrel die away, and he begins to conjure the image of the tree once more to pass the time, Behemoth’s huge predator’s ears catches the sound of hooves on the lightly-grassed ground of the forest floor below. Thus, he quickly switches tacks and transforms into a boulder instead, sitting somewhat precariously on the edge; with his magic he holds himself there, and though this is draining, he won’t have to cast this for long.

“Just- this way! Almost- there!” comes the gasping voice of Amaz’s usual Earth stallion disguise. Their crunching hoofsteps quickly draw closer, and though he can’t see by his ill-thought orientation, Behemoth is certain he only hears two, one having to be Amaz, which means only one prey… Behemoth quickly decides he’ll have to punish Amaz some more for this!

With a quick glance up, Amaz instantly spots the boulder that must be Behemoth. “Right here!” he shouts back at the large red-furred stallion following him.

Big Mac also looks up, but sees nothing notable, except perhaps a huge stone leaning precariously over the edge of the cliff, but no pony in danger, except perhaps Amaz himself, standing practically right under it. “Where is he?” he asks as he trots cautiously closer to the unknown stallion who had led him here to help his equally-unknown friend—something about this is starting to seem seriously wrong to Big McIntosh.

He’s not given much time to contemplate on this ephemeral danger before it strikes, for this is not how a changeling works: A few falling pebbles and flakes of soil is all the warning Big Mac gets before the yet-disguised Behemoth begins to fall toward him.

Instinctively, Big Mac makes to rescue Amaz from under the falling “boulder”, but he, with a strange grin, dodges him and shoves him just hard enough to bounce him towards to cliff. Big Mac makes to brace himself for the potentially fatal impact, but a flash of intense green light makes him look up, and he gapes at the impossibly huge creature- changeling now looking right at him, and those would-be blank eye are staring into him with unmistakably evil intention.

-But in that split second wherein Big McIntosh earnestly believes he’s witnessing his death falling towards him, this is not what concerns him—this is not what occupies his mind. His legs grow weak, and only somecreature with a special eye for colors—such as a changeling—could notice his blush as Big Mac lets himself bounce off the wall that is the cliff, at which his hooves properly lose all pretense of stability and leave him to plop onto his rear. Again, none of this concerns Big Mac in those few milliseconds, as his eyes have locked onto something that he not only never thought he’d ever see, but the very concept always seemed so remote that the idea itself never entered his mind in all his years: A cock larger than his own.

How that neon green sign of masculinity flaps beneath the giant falling changeling! Only further highlighted—as if such a beauty needs it—as it slaps against the equally large testicles behind it! Finally, as if in slow motion to Big Mac, all are beat this way and that by the turbulence created by Behemoth’s very inelegant, nonaerodynamic body.

At first, Behemoth would have been most happy to scoop his prey up, little different than a kingfisher’s dive, but this sudden waft of sexual desire makes him open his wings sooner. A second later, and this pony’s quickly growing intensity only makes Behemoth more sure of his new course of action as he holds out all his legs to land right above their strange catch.

For all his life—for all too long—ever since his sexuality blossomed, Big Mac had never considered he would ever be smaller and weaker than any potential partner; the concept so distant, his subconscious had long dismissed it before he could consciously examine, imagine, and perhaps enjoy the possibilities. Never had the concept of “playing submissive” enter his mind, not any more than the idea of being a professional weightlifter ever enter Rarity’s—the notion simply too remote from anything either of them have ever experienced in those regards.

Now all of these repressed ideas, that Big Mac had never even known he’s been repressing, flood through him with such force, the speed at which his erection grows is almost painful. With daring fueled by this extremely attractive novelty, which is only made moreso by its abrupt presentation, McIntosh leans forward toward Behemoth’s crotch, where his cock and balls are yet to settle from their dramatic and brutal landing. The large pony intends to stop just before touching, but when Behemoth pulls in his legs to adjust his stance, widened for his landing, he inadvertently swings his cock into Big Mac’s muzzle.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Big Mac darts out his tongue, and even the harsh bitterness of changeling flesh cannot stop the pleasurable jolt that makes him jump and gasp. This near-ritual acceptance of newly discovered desires seems enough to finally re-widen Big McIntosh’s awareness of the situation he finds himself in.

-And first, he takes in a deep, long breath as he realizes where he’s sitting: right under the huge changeling’s torso. He’d been long aware of his own size, of how most grown ponies could walk underneath his belly with a simple crouch. Mac had never given much thought to this: how it must look to those other, smaller ponies—he’d never thought of them this way before, but only ever thought of himself as “bigger” while they were “normal”, but cannot think of them like this any longer, not when he is the one being made to feel small.

This size of his: it had always presented another problem, and again it is a problem is so unexpectedly experiencing from the other side. Always, with mare, he has been simply too “Big”, and it would never matter how much he or the mare might want it, simple physics would not allow any infraction, even one so small as permit her vagina to accept just a few more inches of his cock. No solution came to him before now, when this changeling appeared and now presents to him with the other side of the coin that Big Mac had never considered to even exist: What if she didn’t need to stretch, but he did? Surely, he could handle it; he is “Big”.

Now standing, having rolled to the side to dodge his brother, Amaz giggles at the sight of the goggled stallion—anycreature who doesn’t know Behemoth might have assumed he cast some beguilement on the unsuspecting pony, but this is far beyond him. (For a changeling like Behemoth, after all, the amount of love energy needed to just to live is such magnitudes larger, that any natural magical skill he might have otherwise had is greatly dampened.) Content to merely watch, at least for now, Amaz sits and grins, slowly morphing from simply amused to lecherous as his cock pokes from its sheath.

Seeing no reaction (let alone any negative sign) beyond the cock before him pumping slightly larger, Big Mac is emboldened to give Behemoth another lick, longer and firmer, from the medial ring and up until Mac’s nose hits the changeling’s crotch. The breath he takes just then sends his mind tumbling with so many deviant desires, all running over each other into a near-meaningless blur, McIntosh only barely catches himself from falling.

Having tucked in his head to look under himself and witness this, Behemoth chuckles, and from Mac’s perspectives, it’s almost the roof a very small house is threatening to be ripped away by a tornado. Changeling pheromones are already naturally enthralling to a mild extent on most other creatures, and many changeling spells take advantage of this, but never had Behemoth heard of a pony reacting so strongly… Could it really just be pheromones, though? Behemoth doesn’t think so, and if that’s true, that can only make playing with this Food more fun.

Before Big Mac can fully steady himself, Behemoth takes a “small” step forward, pressing his cock against the pony’s face until it flops to the side of Mac’s muzzle, letting the balls in turn swing forward. The malleable skin in the crease between Behemoth’s testicles folds around his prey’s nose, completely enveloping him in pure changeling musk, and for a few intense seconds, Big Mac is lost in this, eyes nearly rolling entirely away into white.

However, when McIntosh regains enough of a grip on himself to pull back, Behemoth only pushes his hips forward in a slow, near-thrusting-like motion to keep Mac’s face right in his crotch. Instinctively then, Big Mac tries again, but pulling his head up at the same time as back, but this only pushes his nose deeply into the folds of Behemoth’s vestigial sheath; a breath of this, and he grunts as his own cock surges in size. Eager, now driven by the near-animalistic compulsion inspired by changeling musk, Big Mac sticks out his tongue once more, but with this lick he pulls back a fold of Behemoth’s sheath into his mouth.

First, his nibbles it, encouraging Behemoth’s already-leg-thick cock to begin to truly grow, each powerful heartbeat causing the smooth flesh to rub up and down Mac’s face and neck. Humming appreciatively of the exotic taste, Big Mac then sucks on sheath, drawing more of it into his mouth, but the half-mouthful Big Mac now holds is hardly more than a sliver to Behemoth—this, however, only makes the taunting sensations all the more intense, drawing his attention into that “tiny” bundle of carnal nerves. When McIntosh then rolls this flesh between his teeth, a thoroughly off-guard Behemoth moans (a sound most comparable to a roar), and his cock jumps in size, now stiff enough to stay on top of Mac’s head—where the pony can now closely hear the immense flow of the giant’s blood: very much like ocean waves.

A few more nibbles drive Behemoth into a semi-involuntary thrust, swinging his wrecking ball-sac into McIntosh’s unsuspecting face. Already sitting with a somewhat precarious lean from Behemoth’s earlier game, the pony gasps while simultaneously gripping something-anything with his teeth to prevent his fall—“something” this time being Behemoth’s sheath. The comparatively malleable, even stretchy flap does nothing to help Big Mac as he tilts back and begins to fall. The strength of his prey’s grip is enough to make Behemoth, the Steadfast Wall of Chitin, to gasp and buck again, more intensely, but with less intent; this pulls his sheath from Big Mac’s mouth, letting it shrink back against his crotch, while leaving the pony to thump ungracefully to the ground, belly-up and thus showing off his fully stiff cock, which though usually most impressive, now seems practically miniscule to the point of uselessness next to the yet-ready Behemoth.

Though Big Mac quickly and easily shakes off the minor disorientation of his fall, the sight above him knocks his senses sideways with a new vertigo, and for a tenth of a second he imagines he must have somehow gotten shrunk, as his sister had once been. Again, reality quickly asserts itself, but Big Mac is left still gawking at the black “roof” that bellows with deep, excited breaths and the green rod, thicker around than one of his own legs, pulsing ever larger still!

Only semi-subconsciously does McIntosh consider his actions before reaching up to grip the green, nearly neck-thick rod between his forelegs; if the changeling really cared, he reasons, it could almost certainly crush him (or squish him, more like) as easily as a rotten apple under a wagon wheel. Big Mac then makes to pull the cock against his chest, but when it throbs—growing at least an inch or two across when it does—the twitch is strong enough to momentarily lift Mac off the ground until a split second later as the pulse passes, only to lift him again before he can process what exactly happened.

Hooking his hindlegs onto Behemoth’s cock is then enough to hold it down, at least for now, as Big Mac can now very immediately feel how stiff the giant yet is. Pulling the changeling cock against his chest and belly—and thusly his own cock—Mac humps against Behemoth’s erection, hot and rubbery. Each shove is punctuated by a huff or grunt, until the massive cock finally reaches full hardness a too short moment later: just enough to pull Mac’s rear a mere inch off the ground, but this still cuts off all traction for his desperation.

Taking a second to chuckle at his prey’s primal ignorance to its situation, Behemoth then lowers himself so Big McIntosh is properly on the ground, letting him continue his humping, but Behemoth continues further until his cock squishes against his own chest and belly. Lowering yet further than this, Behemoth begins to press Mac into the dirt, hard enough that he can once more no longer hump properly, causing the desperate pony to whimper out his submissive displeasure. Pressing harder until McIntosh’s breath is forced from his lungs, Behemoth slowly slides himself forward and back in a pseudo-humping motion, rubbing his cock up and down the pony’s underside. This drags Mac’s cock along with his own, forcing it to turn to either side with each backward motion—too stiff to be turned entirely around.

After a minute of being ground into the dirt, Big Mac recalls how he drove Behemoth’s lust before, and takes a gentle bite of Behemoth’s cock, right on a pulsating vein. The power of the whooshing blood within is immediately evident with the giant’s next heartbeat, strength thrumming between Mac’s lips. A nibble, and hiss comes from far above: a breath sucked between clenched fangs—another nibble, and those teeth could have cleanly sliced a pony into three pieces by pressure alone, so strong and tense are Behemoth’s jaws.

A third nibble, and finally Mac’s impromptu dominant relents, but only just enough for Behemoth to lift himself to the point McIntosh can move again, if only slightly. Now Big Mac takes his turn to hump against Behemoth’s cock once more, though with a sprinkle of nibbling to keep the changeling too bothered to continue grinding into him. Realizing then he no longer needs to keep his grip on Behemoth’s cock, Big Mac adds a new tease: holding his legs firm to the sides of Behemoth’s cock, he uses all four rub up and down, squeezing slightly on the way down, and alternating his movements so as his forelegs rub down, his hindlegs are going up, then vice-versa.

Above, Behemoth can’t help but be surprised and impressed by the fervency of his prey’s administrations. With his cyclical rubbing, Big Mac incidentally pulls himself slowly forward, advancing on the wide glans, which seem to beckon him with every pulse—to counterpoint, Behemoth begins to gyrate his hips, thrusting McIntosh back against the ground a “short” distance of a foot or so with each shove, drawing Mac back towards his crotch.

However, in the ever playful changeling way of tricking prey into thinking they can win, which Behemoth has so little chance to practice, he lets Big Mac pull himself onward, inch-by-inch “climbing” himself between Behemoth’s forelegs, where the head of his cock now waits, readily dribbling—almost drooling, as if it, too, is hungry. Once within reach, Big Mac ferociously licks and gnaws the changeling glans, and Behemoth to returns in kind with harsher thrusts against the pony’s underside, driving precum into his fur, where the thin lime-green color of the lubricant is lost in the bright red.

Soon enough after this begins, McIntosh manages to reach the urethra and begins to tease it with licks and kisses; certainly, as with all things about Behemoth, it is far larger than Big Mac would have expected from anycreature. In fact, it is wide enough for Big Mac to stick his tongue into with no resistance—the slick pre obviously helped with this, but no amount of his own precum would allow any other pony to do the same to Mac’s urethra!

-And now at the head of Behemoth’s cock, Mac begins to pull himself back up, though he struggles somewhat as he doesn’t wish to remove his mouth from attending Behemoth. Even through the haze of pleasure, Behemoth notices McIntosh’s efforts and, wanting to see what this unusual prey has in mind, takes a helpful step back. With hindlegs finally back under himself, Mac gives Behemoth’s urethra one last, deepest kiss before rearing up and onto the cock, which is stiff enough to hold up his front half as securely as an old tree’s thickest branch.

Big Mac, however, had forgotten how Behemoth had been lowering himself this whole time, and now, with a playful chuckle, he stands properly again. With a grunt, mostly of surprise but also for the steel hard glans hitting his soft belly, Big Mac is lifted completely from the ground, forcing him to hug the cock lest he fall of as it wiggles and waves before settling after a moment. Once it does, the pony eagerly begins to shimmy himself forward, and this drives Behemoth wild enough to momentarily forget his fragile toy, and he begins to thrust his hardest yet, in circular motions that “help” Big Mac pull himself toward Behemoth’s crotch.

Only when McIntosh’s own crotch hits Behemoth’s glans does the giant remember himself, but this is exactly where Big Mac wanted to end up. Shoving himself back a few inches until his hips hang off the glans, Mac wiggles his erection around trying to aim it as it slips around over the precum-slickened head of the changeling cock. It takes only a few seconds for his cock hit home and “catch” onto Behemoth’s urethra, but to both of them it felt as if it took too long. Still, the pony pauses here for an equally long-feeling moment before he thrusts, and the large pony and larger changeling moan together.

To the side, Amaz has so far been content to watch and play with himself, cock slipped into one of the holes of a foreleg, but now he sees his opening: their prey’s rear. Even had been in any state to sense or care, he wouldn’t have heard Amaz as he prowls towards him. Then, with accuracy worthy of his predator-hood, Amaz leaps forth with a buzz of his wings, landing right on McIntosh’s back, perfectly jamming his cock into the pony’s unsuspecting anus.

With a yowl cut off by the biting of his own lip, Big Mac arches his back, and his first instinct, to pull away, is blocked by the giant cock he just mounted. Then when he tries to pull back, Amaz thrusts him back forward—in any normal contest of strength, Amaz would have soundly lost, but the height of desire Big Mac had never thought possible has left him with an equally impossible compromise. Quickly enough, Mac’s cock reasserts its control, and now with greater vigor, he thrusts into Behemoth’s urethra, and when he pulls back for another slam, Amaz thrusts in turn.

All of this is too much for the stallion in such a novel, arousing scene, and long before he wants to, he sucks in his deepest breath yet of Behemoth musk as his sac pulls up tight—he tries to hold it off, but the next hump from Amaz, pushing him even firmer against Behemoth cock-head, and a he cums. Behemoth’s cock, yet dribbling pre, now mixes and leaks with a comparatively thin shots of Mac’s semen—so thin, in fact, that without the clues of the pony’s body language, the addition to Behemoth’s own secretions would have been unnoticeable to any third party. Indeed, Behemoth himself seems to barely notice, except for the barely discernible musk to drive him to attempt to hump back against Big Mac, but a completely lack of bearing against anything only leaves his cock waving about.

Still, for their comparative size, Mac is a large specimen of own kind, and the length that his orgasm lasts matches his size. Seemingly without care for this, Amaz pounds him as he cums, the pressure on his prostate holding back his cum for a millisecond with every thrust, making the following release that more satisfying for the stallion-toy. When his plus-sized balls finally hit empty, Mac can do nothing to stop himself from flopping bonelessly onto the cock under him; the only thing that doesn’t fall slack under his exhaustion is his own cock, all to eager to experience more of the changelings’ touch—perhaps only yet so thanks to said-changelings’ pheromones.

Buzzing his wings again, Amaz pulls a very compliant Big McIntosh off his brother’s cock, and the pony doesn’t realize or care when his front-half slips from the glans to hit the dirt with a not-too-pleasant sounding thump.

“My brother’s turn now, pony,” Amaz whispers into Big Mac’s ear as the changeling pulls his head up and back by his mane—still, the tough stallion is not phased by this rough-handling. However, he does pause when he blinks his eyes back into focus to find Behemoth’s cock-head nearly touching his nose, and all of a sudden he’s a lot less certain about the “stretching” he had imagined before. “Don’t look so worried!” Amaz chuckles, “He’s a gentle giant,” and with that he waves his wings more slowly, releasing a spreading pheromones that slightly distort ponies’ perception.

Even without this, however, and even in this lascivious state, Big Mac is honorable enough to wish to reciprocate. So, dutifully, he opens his mouth, and though no matter how notably wider it is than your average pony, it is, as ever, practically nothing next to Behemoth, and Behemoth himself, no matter his doubts, is not about to let this last chance to play with his prey in a way he’s never been able to before.

The glans, expectedly, get caught on Mac’s incisors, and he strains his jaws wider, millimeter-by-millimeter, encouraged by the distortions of Amaz’s pheromones causing him to believe he’s making better progress than is true. Even Amaz gasps and pauses in his humping when he sees his brother’s glans pop past Big Mac’s teeth—from here, their stuck until Behemoth deflates.

With Amaz holding him in place behind and Behemoth forcing himself in from afore, McIntosh finds himself with little to do as the changelings use him—and the thought turns his cock to steel. In tandem, the brothers hump, Amaz providing at least some aid to Behemoth’s advance on Mac’s throat, and after seemingly forever, with dozens of thrusts, the giant cock hits its next bottleneck. The pony does his best to swallow and help, but his tongue is held fast and his jaws too tightly stretched to move much, and as Behemoth moves (seemingly inexorably) into the esophagus, it also is pulled too taut for its peristalsis to pull at the monstrous cock at all.

Outside, anycreature who might have happened upon them then would see the bulge of Behemoth’s cock in Big Mac’s neck, clear enough to see the outline of veins, especially when they slightly swell with his heartbeat. Inside, that heartbeat rushes through McIntosh’s ears and presses against his lips and tongue and everything. -And above, the changelings are oblivious to all other things as their cocks take over, driving them deeper and harder into their toy.

When the giant erection enters his chest, McIntosh instantly knows it as his lungs and heart are slowly compressed, and even has to wonder how this isn’t killing him, Then again, how am I even breathing? Amaz’s pheromones have the answer: changeling magic, obviously. Dimly, Big Mac realizes he’s cumming again, all the tense sensations of being so thoroughly dominated having finally driven his dizzy mind over the edge.

Those last few inches to Big Mac’s stomach are especially arduous, as Behemoth’s breathing gets ragged from both the exhaustion of pushing himself so far in and the pressure in his balls climbing higher, very close to the point he won’t be able to hold it any longer. Thankfully, he hits his target—or the beginning of his target—within a minute, and, with the esophagus before already stretched, the valve is already partly forced open.

At this near-highest of highs, a glob of cum (larger than a mouthful for Big Mac) manages to pass Behemoth’s control before he clamps down again, though this pause and gasp for a few moments from the effort, physical and mental. With more than three-quarters of the giant’s cock inside Mac, he and Amaz find it hard to hold still for Behemoth’s final approach, but they manage close enough until, with an audible if muffled pop, the massive glans breaks through, the sudden move causing a deep ripple through Mac’s entire torso that would have made him gasp if his mouth wasn’t so entirely blocked.

A split second later, and ripple runs through Behemoth in turn, though his is focused far more in the crotch, as massive amounts of cum go flooding through him into Big Mac. Within, the stallion can feel every hot spurt flow through the cock in his throat, all the way down until it hits the opposite side of his stomach with a force like a cannon—each blast is as much as a stallion can produce in a day.

Very quickly, things start to get hot and heavy in a very real way for the trapped pony, as his belly fills with fresh changeling cum—as fresh as it can get, directly from tap to stomach—until he feels like he’s just inhaled a seven course dinner, but Behemoth isn’t done. With his stomach pulling so much of his attention, Big Mac barely notices Amaz when he, too begins to cum his much smaller load into his colon.

Stumbling a mere inch to the side, Mac would have fallen if not for both predators holding him quite firmly, one from outside with hoof and wing, and the other from inside, with “nothing” but his cock. Also inside the stallion, the growing reservoir of goopy cum, disturbed by this minor movement, wobbles around in a slow wave. His stomach fights to release a belch, but the seal Behemoth formed with his glans holds most fast; the desire settles as his attention is drawn to a new development, as he can now feel, against his hindlegs, his belly beginning to bloat, if only slightly.

Not for long. Please, let him stop soon! Big Mac silently begs mercy as Behemoth’s cum shows no sign of slowing, let alone stopping, for he had not thought to consider how a giant like Behemoth would have only the rarest of chances to enjoy something like this. However, not long after this, his body betrays his true passion, precum leaking again as his own glans rubs up against his growing belly. If Mac’s ears hadn’t been so filled with the sound of both blood and cum streaming through the cock in his throat, he might have heard the flesh of his own stomach let off a tiny protesting creak as it inflates beyond anything it ever had to contain, or anything McIntosh imagined it would ever contain. Amaz does hear, though, and gives the tightening bag of cum a playful smack, sending the lake within swirling again with greater ferocity.

Big Mac groans, or at least he tries, when his middle grows large enough to push against his erection, and the vibrations in his throat make Behemoth grunt and arch his back in turn. McIntosh’s legs grow shaky as the weight of cum piles higher and higher on top of his post-orgasm fatigue and continuous erection, but Amaz holds him yet steady.

Finally, Mac can feel and hear the flood in Behemoth’s cock weaken, and when his belly reaches halfway to the ground, it tapers to a trickle—the massive plumbing can’t quite empty itself under its own power. The pony-toy tries to pull himself back and off, but the giant’s glans is too large to dismount just yet. All Mac accomplishes, then, is to jerk himself to the side, and the subsequent agitation of the cum within sloshes his entire ballooned belly side-to-side, forcing him to take awkward sidesteps back and forth until he widens and steadies his stance.

Amaz, already half-dislodged by the unpredictable motions, slips completely off (and out of) Big Mac’s rear, positively laughing his own ass off at this state of their prey. Unaware or unconcerned for this, Mac slowly steps forward, careful not to overly disturb his indignant stomach, and lower him butt to sit, now that Behemoth is softening up enough to be somewhat flexible.

He has to spread out his hindlegs to permit his belly to splay out, and as soon as his ass lands, his eyes roll as the pressure between that belly and ground pushes his overused cock over the edge once more. Only a single, tiny shot manages to squeeze out from under his ample middle as the rest is pressed, unseen, into the dirt by weight of that middle; finally, his lust is satisfied—for the moment. Now with curiosity rising over his libido, Big Mac raises exploratory forehooves to his neck, and even “knowing” the size of the changeling’s cock, having seen it himself and being choked by it the last several minutes, his eyes still widen at just how deformed it truly is. So much, he can perfectly trace over one giant vein, bulging with the blood it’s pumping away from the shrinking member.

-And with his head still relatively immobilized by said cock, all he can do to examine his belly just yet to move those hooves down. The mild cramp-like ache almost makes him feel as if he’d just eaten an entire Apple Family Get-Together Dinner by himself, and the gibbous shape his hooves rove over in disbelief make him reconsider this as worth two Dinners. -one and a half, at least. One imprudent hoof pushes into the barely-contained massive glob, dimpling into the tightly tumescent globe—only the fact Behemoth’s cock had by now deflated just enough to let a belch squeak by offers McIntosh any relief from the transgressive survey of his hoof.

With such an unimaginable mass to occupy his thoughts just as much as it occupies his stomach, Big Mac could have missed the grans finally slipping back up from the valve, if not for the harsh flicking-like sensation that comes from so impossibly deep inside: A place deep enough it seems nothing should be able to touch it. When the very slowly shrinking cock leaves Mac’s throat and esophagus with enough space to move, his first instinct is to swallow, but this is a very near-disaster-level mistake. The rippling, pulling sensation on his cock almost encourages Behemoth to go another round, but after a few long moment in which his cock remains stubbornly stationary, neither growing back nor shrinking away, Behemoth regains control with thoughts of just how much love Mac is filled with. Underneath, Big Mac notices the near miss with a stomach-busting cumshot, and holds himself dutifully still, and then a whimsical image visits Behemoth when he notices McIntosh’s frozen self: If the pony managed to encourage him to cum again, and his stomach was able to handle it, their prey could have made himself too big to eat. Alas.

The withdrawing erection slowly renders Big Mac with little stability, as his ballooned gut pushes him to sit more straight than is natural, and trying to bend forward does nothing to help, only painfully compressing his stomach. To the side, Amaz watches the head of his brother’s cock travel back up the pony’s neck—still distinct and unmistakable, but now much less prominent than before, being half flaccid. With space in his throat seeming to grow by the second, if yet inch-by-inch, Mac begins to gag and cough, trying to speed along to the moment he’ll be freed from the giant’s body.

With a step back and a final tug, Behemoth completely removes his cock from Big Mac, leaving the stallion to spit and hack up the cum the cock had left, like a musky trail of crumbs all the way up, from stomach to mouth. Caught in mild spasms, Mac lets himself flop to the side, but he instantly regrets it when this tosses his stomach about, wobbling forward and back. Groaning, his rubs at his belly with both forehooves, and finally looks down upon it, and his jaw drops: I look like a mare ready to give birth! and a second later, reflecting on the thought makes him blush.

FOUR

“Wonderful appetizer,” Amaz chuckles, drawing the pony’s attention, and he raises up on an elbow to better see the smaller changeling now stalking towards him (although anytime a changeling approaches a pony, it’s a good bet it’s “stalking”, no matter the context). “-but now we want the entrée!”

“What… do yah mean?” He gasps weakly, partially scared of what else these changelings could want from him. Didn’t I just feed ‘em, and willingly? That’s how it works, ain’t it? He opens his mouth to clarify this, but with a leap, Amaz grapples Big Mac’s hindlegs.

Normally, the farm stallion could have bucked Amaz off as easy as he just took the changeling’s cock in his ass—barely even realizing it—but his sexual exhaustion and bloated, heavy belly work too far in Amaz’s favor, and instead the changeling barely notices McIntosh’s movements as efforts of escape. Distracted by the changeling behind him, Mac forgets the far more dangerous literal-Behemoth right in front of him, at least until a hot, moist breath washes over him.

Meanwhile, Behemoth had stepped back to take a few seconds to recover. Though Big Mac had been weakened by his multiple orgasms, Behemoth had also worn himself out more than expected with that orgasm of such intensity he had never experienced before—this, for a half-second, makes him consider keeping their toy alive, but the rumbling in his stomach makes a more compelling case: Death sentence by changeling stomach acid it is, then.

Leaning down into a bow-like pose, Behemoth opens wide, ready instantly, and his breath, a visible steam, washes over his prey, making him freeze. Being a pony of particular size and strength, Big Mac is not one prone to fear, but in this moment, even before he turns around, he feels it more acutely than he’s ever had in life. Only in this moment, for when he then turns around, the green, slimy tunnel, wavering with Behemoth’s breaths, makes his heart skip as it is rend between fear and a familiar fascination—something he’s felt very recently.

Before he can begin to parse this disjunction, the touch of Behemoth’s tongue on his neck, which had snaked toward him without his noticing, makes him flinch. The mildly chill slime that is changeling saliva instantly soaks into his fur, as if digging in with a mind of its own. Even with his front half free of Amaz, Mac can’t bring himself to resist as Behemoth’s thin, long tongue loops around his neck—to the pony, this is less a noose, and much more an invitation to something… greater. Exactly what, he can’t quite identify, but he wants to- must find out.

Gripped by this curiosity more than the tongue itself, he very well may have walked himself into Behemoth’s mouth, but the giant doesn’t care: Once his tongue is secure, he gives his prey a tug, and Big Mac falls limp to let them do what they will. In his mind, he doesn’t believe they would harm him, being such a willing source of food for them; so, when he head flops between the rows of Behemoth’s fangs, nothing but a shiver of pleasurable expectation runs through him.

Then slightly loosening his tongue, Behemoth runs it down Mac’s neck to the front of his shoulders, and tightens his grip again there. Another pull, more gentle now with their prey being so docile, and Mac’s head slides across the wider base of the tongue until his chin hangs off the edge, his muzzle poking barely an inch into the throat. His head blocks a significant portion of light from outside, but this only lets the changeling’s natural, faint bio luminescence shine more enticingly—the folds of shimmering, slick, neon flesh still holds plenty mystery to keep McIntosh’s attention.

The air here, pre-breathed by Behemoth and tainted by his inner-moisture, sits heavy in Big Mac’s lungs, forcing him to breathe deeper and harder, not to mention the dearth of oxygen to starve his brain. When Mac opens his mouth to gasp in a preemptive desperation, the permeating mixture of changeling juices dribble from his lips onto his tongue, stinging him with their bitterness—but it is not a sting that dissuades or repels the pony.

Outside, Behemoth unwraps his tongue to better rewrap it behind Big Mac’s forelegs; he doesn’t trap the pony’s hooves to their sides, for if they wish to fight, then all the more fun for him, but Behemoth has a strong suspicion that this particular prey won’t take advantage of this “gift”. Amaz, also noticing this, gives his brother a quirked brow, but the only response from the giant is a swallow.

This first true gulp echoes inside Mac’s skull, and the force of the throat that now completely circles his head astounds him, and it is only a flicker of thought before he instantly dismisses it, but still the dream of deepthroating the giant lingers, whispering if only I could fit. However, with his head instead of his cock so gripped, the only illumination to Big Mac now is the green glow of all changeling flesh, and this combined with the perpetual motion of the rings of muscle creates quite the psychedelic sight.

Two more swallows, and Big Mac’s head is fully encased in the esophagus proper. The tightness here forces his eyes closed, and his hearing naturally picks up; not that there’s much to hear but wet flesh sliding and sucking against itself, and above this, the rhythm of the giant’s heartbeat. On the other side, his abused cock is pressed between the changeling’s tongue and his own belly, as naught but his hips and hindlegs are left hanging off the edge of Behemoth’s jaws.

Then, with their prey’s destination so guaranteed, Amaz makes to release Big Mac and step back, but he cannot see how his brother’s eyes flash mischievously, elsewise he might have hurried away fast enough to escape. As it is, however, Behemoth darts his tongue through the holes of the smaller changeling’s forelegs, binding him most securely—unless Amaz intends to dismember himself.

“Hey! Behemoth!” is all Amaz manages before his larger brother also binds his muzzle shut. Knowing this means Behemoth has made up his mind, and having made this “trip” far too many times, Amaz does not bother to fight, but grumbles and sighs before closing his eyes—better this, as otherwise has nothing to see except the pony’s ass in front of him, so dimly illuminated.

Ahead of him, Big Mac groans and pants at the over stimulation as his rear half enters Behemoth’s throat, and thus the rippling peristalsis presses and massages his cock; with his huge mouth and wide throat, Behemoth has no trouble handling Mac’s cum-bloating belly. Amaz, with his strong changeling senses well attuned to the state of pony prey, notices his “excitement”, and grimaces, hoping he’s too spent to cum again, lest he get dragged over the streak of semen left behind—even if Behemoth’s stomach acids would effectively “wash” it off, Amaz would really rather not go through any more nastiness than he’s already been through today.

Without knowledge or concern for any of this going on inside him, Behemoth now raises his head high, and if there had been anycreature flying overhead at that moment, the last thing they would have seen before the giant closes his mouth would be Amaz’s hooves slipping behind Behemoth’s tongue. Smacking his lips with a sound like thunder, Behemoth pats the relatively shallow bulge on his neck—from a distance, it would be impossible to notice—before beginning to make his way back to the river, to lie in the shade of the copse again. Besides, his brother will probably appreciate the nearness of running water tomorrow.

If he knew this, Amaz might have borne his fate with greater grace, but all he can think of is wishing Behemoth’s esophagus would get a move on. More still unknown to him, the end is, indeed, coming close. When his nose hits the valve, the jolt of this unexpected change makes Big Mac open his eyes, then quickly squints them to keep the various fluids from getting in them. Right in front of him, close enough to be clear to see despite the conditions and lighting, is the giant knot of muscle that is the valve, almost as large as Big Mac’s head!

It pulses a few times, only opening an inch or so, as the esophagus continues to push onward, squishing his face ever firmer against the valve, his muzzle wedging the hole open. Finally, some tipping point is reached, and with a sudden burst of movement, McIntosh finds his whole head has been squeezed through, and the valve is now around his neck; its strength makes him feel like he choking, but a few panicked gasps soon proves this not quite so.

The large and robust muscles all around move Mac much faster than he’d expect, and with only a few more waves of peristalsis, everything forward from his chest is hanging into Behemoth’s stomach. The first thing Big Mac notices is how much brighter the glow here is. While the stomach walls have the uniform neon glow, the opaque stomach acid gives off a deeper, almost-emerald, sparkling shimmer—the alien beauty so entrances him that, in that moment, he doesn’t realize the very acid he’s admiring has risen to fill about half of the stomach in anticipation of his arrival. As for that “half”, the volume would be enough to fill an average-sized bathtub.

As his own stomach passes forth, nausea washes through him as the valve constricts his ballooned middle, but it passes quickly. Once this enters Behemoth’s stomach, they pass another tipping point, and the rest of McIntosh’s body spills in, Amaz immediately flopping in after, dunking Mac entirely in the acid.

Momentarily disoriented, the stallion scrabbles for some purchase, or at least any thing that can offer a hint of positioning, but all around him is slippery flesh that gives to his touch. Eventually, he finds Amaz, who’s carapace provides what his instincts seek, and he scrabbles for the surface.

Amaz, content to tread acid for the moment, nearly chokes on it when he’s suddenly dunked by Mac’s madly waving hooves. Mostly annoyed, having also endured countless mad, desperate ponies in this very stomach, Amaz maintains his orientation, calculates Mac’s movement, and with one precise strike, knocks Mac across the temple, stunning him for a few seconds. Once he swims himself back over the surface, he quickly reaches down, grabs Big Mac, and pulls him up before he can recover. Then, Amaz slaps him back and forth across his muzzle until Mac hungrily gasps in air.

“I- He- I-,” now the reserved stallion has something to say, he finds his words have left him. “He… ate us!” he finally shouts, as now the changelings’ “enchantment” on him seems to have broken by nearly drowning in the very acids that now threaten to digest him. Amaz merely tilts his head and watches as Mac swims for the stomach wall and, once there, he looks around, head jerking all about frantically until his eyes lock on the valve they just came through.

Amaz’s eventual chuckle attracts his attention away. “Yeah. Duh. Did you seriously think we were just going to let you go after feeding on your lust, or what?” At this, McIntosh can do nothing but blink and stare, until a rumble disturbs the walls and acid, momentarily sending the two morsels bobbling about—a burp, Big Mac realizes when he notices the acid appears a little higher.

“I thought you’d…” Mac looks up in thought and shrugs when he realizes that, even after their pacification, he’d never learned much about changelings. “-you’d erase my memory or… make me think it was a dream.” Mac, with some measure of despair looks sadly down at his likely-to-soon-be-melted hooves—he idly notes how the permeating green of everything washes out his usually bright, unmistakable red into a dull brownish-grey.

Amaz outright belly laughs at this, even having to reach out for the wall to steady himself. “Nah. Everyling who could’ve done something like that went rainbow beetle.” Amaz takes a moment to sigh a few times, getting his lungs back under control, but another giggle leaks out before he adds, “Even if we did, though, this is much more fun, and basically what Behemoth was bred for, too.”

Looking around, Big Mac’s mathematical find quickly confirms Amaz’s words: If his estimations are anywhere close, then this stomach takes up a greater proportion of the giant’s torso than a pony’s would, if sized up to Behemoth’s height. Not that this observation offers anything beyond base science—What does it matter if I’m about to be- if being digested now?

Before depression from this thought can settle in, the stomach is disturbed again. Waves of acid suddenly and violently toss back and forth, sending both pony and changeling tumbling. When everything is relatively settled after a minute or two, Mac notices something odd about the ripples in the flesh of the stomach walls, though it takes him an extra moment to realize that this oddity is the orientation of the folds: the stomach had tilted, or, more accurately, Behemoth is now laying on his side.

Imagining this—that something so simple as laying down could so drastically affect him, Big Mac—makes the stallion’s breath quicken slightly. In spite of the immediate, obvious, fatal peril, Big Mac realizes something else: What act of domination could be more total and savage than digestion? -And isn’t “domination” what I wanted? or at least this is what Big Mac thinks to explain to himself his unexpectedly renewing allure of the giant literally all around him.

Amaz laughs again, but now Big Mac shows no reaction to the other changeling. “Oh, this-… -this!” he shouts to the “heavens” while waving a hoof toward the pony. “Mare, getting eaten is almost going to be worth it to watch you.” With a smirk, he looks Mac up and down, appraisingly, as the pony turns around to face the stomach wall, and then lean into it—the outer layer of the wall gives slightly under Big Mac’s advance, but the muscle just on the other side holds steely firm.

Taking advantage of the back turned to him (a subconscious in all changelings), Amaz swims up to Big Mac and reaches around him—somewhat struggling with the cum-bloaded belly in the way—to find his cock as hard as Amaz expected it to be. “Who knew-…” Amaz grunted as he shoved Mac tighter against the stomach wall, pressing his cock into the folds, “-that was a pony here, all but-…” another shove, and Amaz feels the pony shiver as his back arches slightly, and he looks up to see his eyes squeezed shut and him biting his lip, “-waiting to get eaten by a changeling.”

A third shove prompts another, larger belch from Behemoth, making their little acidic world inside him shake as if from and earthquake—and vibrations drive Mac mad, and his mouth involuntarily to take in rough gasps and let out little squeaks. “Jeez. What’s going on in their?” Behemoth’s voice rumbles around them, and when he pats his middle with a hoof, he unknowingly generates small waves inside himself that send his two prey bobbing—this, in turn, causes Mac’s cock to rub up and down without his, or even Amaz’s, will, and he sucks in a breath through clenched teeth.

Knowing better than to try to answer his brother from inside him, Amaz simply chuckles and mutters to himself, “You wouldn’t believe it if I could tell you, ‘Moth.” Amaz gently places his hooves onto Mac’s unsuspecting withers, then suddenly dunks him under the acids, but just as quickly pulls him back up before the pony’s subconscious can even trigger a response. “Isn’t that right, prey?” The word makes Big Mac, which makes Amaz in turn laugh and smirk. “No… big stallion like yourself? I bet not even you knew you wanted to be turned into a giant changeling’s toy and meal,” he states without a questioning tone.

“N-… -N-Nope,” Big Mac still answers, barely able to gasp out this one word between his body’s desire for stimulation and the stimulation already wracking through him. Laying against the stomach wall then, with head tilted to look back at Amaz with one eye, he adds, “Wish Ah could do this again, somehow.” Somehow, this simple statement (and relatively innocuous out of context) makes Mac blush deeper than he’s yet blushed toady—and thus deeper than in his whole life.

Amaz shrugs before flipping Big Mac around—now, he wouldn’t be able to if the stallion cared to stop him. “Maybe you will. Who knows?” He pulls Mac down slightly, to be more on eye-level, where he can drink in Mac naked surprise at this supposed chance. “Don’t know what happens to absorbed souls, after all. Maybe you’ll be able to relive this whenever you want, at least until Behemoth uses up all the energy you provide him.” This equally naked statement on Mac’s destiny makes him shiver his hardest yet, and his eyes nearly roll over… but something stops him just at the edge.

Amaz seems to know, which he tells with his smirk. “Oop, looks like times running out.” The changeling then reaches down and pulls up one of McIntosh’s hindlegs, which at first seems to be coated with some pearlescent goo, but very quickly Mac realizes this “goo” is actually himself, being digested.

In a scramble, Mac turns to the side and flips himself belly-up, sending Amaz spinning off a foot or so. His entire rear half, which had been sitting all this time in the acid, is now completely covered- no, converted (at least partially) into this goo, even his penis and balls. Desperately rubbing at these, all that comes of this is a greatly dulled sensation of pressure and getting his forehooves caked with this rapidly thinning slime. Looking around himself, Mac also sees how he—the digesting pearlescent goo—is diffusing ever so slowly into the emerald acid bath.

Disregarding Mac’s shock, Amaz swims back to his side, incidentally but also purposefully dissipating bits of the melted pony, sending little globs swirling away. “What? This is what you want.” Amaz insists, putting one hoof onto Mac’s chest to pull himself slightly over the pony without dunking him again.

“E-Eyep,” The stallion confirms once more, and once more reaches his hooves back to his diminished cock; Amaz, however, turns him back to the stomach wall before he can begin masturbating—and potentially ruin his chance of one last orgasm before rubbing his own digesting cock into nothing. Knowing, or at least suspecting, Amaz’s plan, Big Mac thrusts in time with the changeling’s shoving, which is now so violent it seems only one step back from punching.

All this extra vigorous movement makes Behemoth burp yet again, and he complains from above, “I was nearly asleep! What are you doing in there?!” Apparently in retaliation, Behemoth rolls to his other side, sending his meal spinning and twirling with greater disorientation yet—but this only helps, and as the acids (now speckled with countless bits of McIntosh-goop) settle, the changeling’s prey cums its final time.

Although, as he falls back and away from the wall, it’s revealed no actual cum comes from his orgasm, as his cock has been reduced from a spire of masculinity to something more resembling a sapling, and his sac is gone entirely. When the natural high leaves him Mac raises his head to see his hindlegs are also nearly gone, and the rest of him isn’t looking much longer for this world, either.

“Ah… ath… tham,” Big Mac tries to say something—an expression of gratitude? -of condemnation?—but his tongue is too far gone, and though his eyes implore Amaz to understand, his forehead also soon melts and slides over them; a few blinks of Amaz’s eyes later, and the last lump that was Big Mac slips down, losing its definition.

Sighing, Amaz flips onto his back in a similar position Mac had just been in, grinning at what he had done to their prey in his last moments—it would surely enhance the amount of love energy his soul would provide. Curious, Amaz laps up a few bubbles of prey; being pre-digested, it’s as sour as it always is, but the changeling is sure the hint of sweet behind it is, indeed, stronger than usual. Taking up a few more mouthfuls, he forces them down, justifying this “theft” of food from his brother’s very stomach as preemptive retaliation for the retaliation the Behemoth is sure to enact on him in the morning for encouraging an excessively “active” meal. Not that he didn’t always “steal” food this way whenever Behemoth saw fit to give his brother a gastric tour, but this time he’ll be taking more than the fair share he usually measures out.

Buzzing his wings happily, Amaz scoops up another glob of pony, and looking down at it for a moment, he asks, “So, pony, are you in there? Are you enjoying this?” Even if there had been an answer, Amaz would have unceremoniously shoved the digested pony into his mouth all the same.

Only Heroes Do That

Author's Note

(This was a partner artjam from forever ago. To find the art that goes with this story, search “voraciouscutie heroes” on furaffinity.)

(For this one, I personally suggest you skip my usual fetish checklist and go in blind. I feel this one is more fun with some surprises.)

Immediately after being cleansed of evil is when a pony is most at risk of corruption, so when Luna indulges in an old “tradition” that exposes her to this danger, Celestia decides to intervene.

Fetish Checklist:

ONE: implied vore (Luna/[unknown]), mild corruption, aftermath of bone disposal, scheming

TWO: misleading/lying to prey, classroom/lesson setting, teasing cruelty, slow/detailed oral vore (Celestia/Moon Dancer), unwilling to semi-willing prey (via sexual teasing) and back to unwilling, self-stuffing (Cele/cake), mostly-implied beginnings of digestion

THREE: intimate setting, slow/detailed oral vore (Luna/Twilight Sparkle), enthusiastic prey, mid-vore tongue sex, discreet purification, implied endosoma

FOUR: post-digestion weight gain (Cele), appreciating WG, corruption (Daybreaker)

Only Heroes Do That

Zephyrus Scary

ONE:

Immediately after giving Twilight Sparkle her new assignment of studying the magic of friendship in Ponyville, Celestia looks around and notices the absence of the newly restored Luna. Though disappointed (which she did her best to hide for Twilight’s sake), the princess is, all the same, sadly not surprised, for Luna had always been—even since foalhood—reclusive; indeed, a party of this scale should only be expected to drive her away. Neither, however, is Celestia worried, as even in her weak, recently-restored state, no average danger could possibly threaten Luna with so much a scratch, even if that “average” is by Ponyville standards.

Still, Celestia wishes to talk with Luna as soon as possible, as up until now things had been going all too fast for pleasantries, so she leaves Twilight to connect with her newest friends as she herself goes in search to hopefully reconnect with her oldest friend.

Luna, however, has managed to make herself surprisingly difficult to find in a town/crowd full of non-Alicorns, which leaves Celestia both amused and annoyed—and at least the search is eased by the townsponies parting before her. In alleyways and stray shadows, quiet corners and lonely corners of the park: None of the most obvious hiding places yield any hint of Luna’s presence.

Many hours later, long after Celestia has given up her search and reentered the festivities (figuring that Luna will make herself known when she wants, also sure that she will want it eventually), the younger Alicorn reappears at Celestia’s side, almost as if she had teleported, and acting as if nothing had happened—that the hours spent away from a party in her own honor had been something as simple as a mistake in the schedule.

When Celestia shoots Luna a discrete, questioning raised brow, Luna merely responds with a fabricatedly innocent smile. Judging by the still-carefree ponies around them, Celestia is seemingly the only one who catches anything off about Luna, then, and she fights not to show her suspicion with narrowed eyes. There, so she’s sure, Celestia notices the ever-so-slightly pointed teeth in that smile: They’re not even close to the fangs Nightmare Moon had sported, but they’re not quite as flat and square as a normal pony’s teeth should be, either.

Now looking over Luna more closely, Celestia next notices the garland that had been placed around Luna’s neck: In the interim the loop had been broken, and now instead hangs loosely across her withers. Why…? Celestia wonders.

As cover, Celestia sidles up against her sister and nuzzles her. It’s subtle—very subtle so that even Celestia isn’t certain—but she senses a change in Luna since her purification this morning: She feels she had grown about an inch in only a few hours. -and if she isn’t mistaken, How…? Celestia wonders.

No answers are forthcoming.

Not until the next day, anyway.

Back in Canterlot, after raising the Sun, Celestia steps into her bathroom and finds a jumble of bones—unmistakably a pony’s bones—in her toilet. With a resigned sigh and facehoof of disappointment, Celestia near-instantly narrows her mental list of suspects to one: Luna. The stories of Nightmare Moon’s appetite for foals on Nightmare Night are only partially true; both Luna—as herself, before Nightmare Moon—and Celestia had eaten ponies of all ages, and they had done so countless times, whenever they liked, not just Luna, nor on one specific night.

Here she is, a thousand years without a decent meal, let alone a pony-shaped one, and Celestia had failed to anticipate Luna’s hunger? She turned to the bathtub, in which her younger sister now rests in a sea of bubbles, unconcerned—not that this would have elicited any concern… a thousand years ago; now, Celestia had developed a “code”, and she quickly decides that she would have to insist Luna follow it.

“Luna.” Celestia waits until her sister sleepily peeks open an eye, and then asks with an exasperated sigh in the back of her throat, “Who was this?”

Seemingly not catching Celestia’s tone, Luna shrugs and closes her eye as she settles back into her bath. Celestia clears her throat with some authoritative force, causing Luna to frown as she forces herself to sit up, and she rolls her eyes as she turns to Celestia, holding herself up with her legs crossed on the edge of the tub. “I don’t know. Not like I asked.” Luna scoffs at the idea. “Why? Why do you care all of a sudden?”

Celestia takes a short moment, only as much as she dares, to muster her equanimity before stepping forward and sitting calmly beside the tub. “It was not ‘all of a sudden’, Luna. It’s been a thousand years, dozens of generations, and things have changed. -yes, even that.” Celestia preemptively cuts Luna off to answer the obvious question.

Luna then full-on glares at Celestia, and the older sister worriedly but silently notes the odd shape of the pupils; just like her teeth, Luna’s eyes are only the slightest bit misshapen in the slitted-persuasion. “How… could… you?” Luna struggles to speak through her stricken shock. “That was… ours! One of the few things we both were able to enjoy! -together! -and you -what? -you thought you could just change it however you wanted? -without me!?” Her short reproof voiced, Luna seethes from bared, clenched teeth, barely restraining herself from growling.

Keeping her face carefully neutral, Celestia rest a leg on the rim of the tub and lays a hoof gently on Luna’s elbow. “Luna, Equestria can’t just go back a thousand years for your sake. You’ll have to meet today’s ponies halfway. They can’t-”

Suddenly, Luna stands, splashing Celestia, who slips into the tub from the shock. “I’m going to bed,” she announces as she steps out of the tub and wraps a towel around her mane. “I still have a lot of energy to regain after… well, you know what.” Determinedly stone-faced, Luna marches for the door, but just as she reaches it, Celestia calls out.

“I know it’ll be hard, Luna, but know I only want to help you. There are a lot that’s changed, and I think it’ll be easier if you let me teach you, so… tomorrow, or the next day -whenever you’re feeling up to it, please come to me… Promise?” Celestia asks as she looks up at Luna with hopeful desperation.

A few long seconds later, Luna gives a curt nod and promptly leaves before Celestia can say anything more. Celestia stands with a sigh and returns to the toilet, looking down at the bones. She knows Luna won’t be responsive in any sense of the word to changing, at least, this particular behavior. -but—Celestia begins to grin as a scheme forms in her considerable mind—that very stubbornness may yet be turned to destroy itself.

TWO

Finding a volunteer to demonstrate her lesson had not been hard for Celestia, naturally. She did first consider somepony directly employed by herself, such as some Royal Guard or castle staff, but as quickly as the idea came, she as quickly dismissed it, worrying that too agreeable an aid would not produce the necessary result.

Moon Dancer, on the other hoof, has seemingly gone to great lengths to distinguish herself in Celestia’s school… and has proceed to do absolutely nothing with her accreditations—an insult to her most esteemed alumni, at least as Celestia considers it, and Celestia’s “least” is yet of grave import.

Currently, Celestia and Moon Dancer are making their way to Luna’s newly, expediently refurbished bedroom. Luna had, most surprisingly, sent word she was ready to learn the modern day’s practices the morning after their argument, and now is the day after that confirmation. Not so surprising once one thinks on it, however—Celestia (rightly) suspects Luna only has so quickly agreed so as to get it over with.

“Excuse me, but I still don’t really understand what sort of lesson you need me to help with, Princess.” Moon Dancer looks up at Celestia out of the corner of an eye, like a dog expecting to be scolded.

Celestia, for her part, holds her sigh—she had been deflecting and dodging questions on details ever since she had asked for her aid last evening, but Moon Dancer’s insistent inquiries have so far proven the determination she would have needed to graduate in the first place. “I know, Moon Dancer, as I have been deliberately keeping you in the dark so far, but not too much longer; you will know only when I think you have to. All I need you to know now, is that I want you to disagree with me on every point. -during the lesson,” Celestia finishes as means to waylay further interrogation.

No such luck. “Yes, but what do you want me to disagree with, and how? If I at least knew the subject matter, I could prepare some-.”

“-and that, my little pony, is part of the point,” Celestia interrupts. “I do not want you to ‘prepare’ anything. As I’ve said many times, you will understand when it happens. Trust me.” Celestia, with her well-practised mask, grins and winks reassuringly. “Ah! See the moment grow nearer?” she then teases with playful mystery as the pair turn one final corner through the castle’s infinite hallways and the door to Luna’s suite comes into view.

Not satisfied, Moon Dancer whispers and grumbles, which would have cemented her selection in Celestia’s mind if she hadn’t been already. Moon earns no further acknowledgement from Celestia for that last stretch to the door, and when the Princess opens it and allows Moon Dancer to walk ahead of her, she giggles at the reaction: A few steps in, when Moon finally notices who they’ve come to see, she freezes with one leg up, which quickly begins to shake violently. “N-N-N-Nightmare M-M-!!??”

Celestia, ever graceful, steps to Moon Dancer’s side and closes Moon’s mouth with one hoof to her chin. “You mean, ‘Princess Luna’. Don’t call her… that or she might eat you.” Celestia giggles again, which Moon Dancer takes as a comforting jest, rather than the foreshadowing-in-plain-sight that it is, which of course is only further amusing for Celestia. Irony is, indeed delicious!

“P-Princess Luna.” Moon Dancer takes a stumbling bow, at which Luna raises a disinterested brow. “Forgive me, Princess Luna.” Standing, Moon whispers to herself, “I should introduce myself! Right.” With another, slightly more composed bow, she announces, “I’m- My name is Moon Da-.”

In the interim, unnoticed by the flustered Moon Dancer nor amusedly distracted Celestia, Princess Luna has sat up more straight from her once-disinterested slouch, and now interrupts Moon Dancer, “Oh, I didn’t know today’s lesson was going to include an exercise,” and she finishes with an expectant lick of her lips.

All Moon Dancer can get through her brain at this is, “Uhh…”

Shaking her head, Princess Celestia corrects her sister. “No, it’s not here for an exercise, but a demonstration.” When Moon Dancer looks up, confused by Celestia’s phrasing, the elder princess, with a flash of her horn, snaps the door shut and locks it.

Luna narrows her eyes, annoyed but still intrigued; in the next second, she remembers her defiant intent, and rolls her eyes with a huff. “Whatever, but next time I expect you to bring enough for the whole class.” At this, Celestia merely giggles once more, which further annoys Luna, which she uses to further fuel her stubbornness.

Now thoroughly confused, Moon Dancer looks between the two Royal Sisters a few times before mustering the courage to speak in such illustrious company to ask, with a hint of desperate fear in her voice, “Can you please explain what I’m here for, Princess Celestia?”

Said Princess only gives Moon the sparest of glances from the corner of her eyes before returning to Luna. “Well, let us not waste time in getting to the lesson, then.” With a flash from her horn, Celestia summons a freestanding whiteboard, and on it writes, “Consuming Ponies in A.H. 1000”, except written in Ancient Equestrian, so as to yet keep Moon Dancer in the dark.

“Huh? ‘something… ponies’?” Moon Dancer reads out uncertainly. “Uhm, Princess, I’m not really adept at translating Ancient Equestrian, at least not on the fly-…”

Still, the Princess seems determined to ignore her “aid”, now instead focused on Luna, who is at the moment most intent on examining her right forehoof. With a grumble and a smirk, Celestia once more lights her horn, and when the light dissipates, revealed is Luna, now sitting in a schoolchair with an attached desk, and a pad of paper and a pencil on said desk. Luna blinks, mildly shocked, but once this wears off, she bears her assignment with a grinding of her small fangs.

“Good! Now we’re all ready!” Celestia announces with an all too cheery tone; Moon Dancer raises a hoof and opens her mouth to object, but, realizing she’d probably be ignored again, goes back to standing awkwardly and quietly to the side. Turning back to the board, Celestia writes, “1. De-equinizing Your Prey”, still in Ancient Equestrian.

“Huh?” Moon Dancer tilts her head as her focus on the heading, which she has yet to finish translating, is derailed. “One… something… equine?…” Shaking her head, Moon returns to deciphering the heading first. She’s sure she should know that word, yet, oddly, she feels herself encountering some block in her own mind.

Focusing instead on her sister, Celestia coughs when she sees the generously provided notepad still closed, and once Luna disinterestedly looks at her through lidded eyes, Celestia summons a baton and with it slaps the whiteboard a few times, eventually convincing Luna to open her pad and start writing, though with a grumpy-resigned sigh.

“Is it ‘Devou-’?” with a whisper, Moon Dancer renders herself mute by the implication she doesn’t want to believe; with quickly growing dread, she shivers as Celestia, finally, truly begins the lesson.

“When one has selected their prey, the first critical step is to completely de-equinize them. Prey is no longer ‘somepony’, or indeed a pony at all, but merely food: a thing to be used and enjoyed. Don’t think of anything they say or do as equine, for their words are no more than the like of the squealing of a pig, and their actions no more than the sad final struggles of a rabbit with the timberwolf’s teeth already at its neck. Acknowledging the equinity of your prey will make you hesitant and weak.” Noticing Luna is completely tuned out, distractedly doodling, Celestia smirks to herself. Just keep exactly like that, Sister. Perfect.

“Princess Ce-Celestia, what are-?-eep!” Moon Dancer squeaks when Celestia’s horn lights up and levitates the unicorn a few inches off the ground, which has Moon frantically wiggling her legs for any leverage against the inevitable. “Wait! Princess, wait! Please, don’t do this! I graduated from your school! Isn’t there anything else I can-?-Please don’t eat me!” Moon the screeches out when Celestia then pulls her up to her mouth, licks her lips, then licks Moon Dancer’s flank.

With a wistful sigh, as if she were restraining herself from gobbling down Moon Dancer right then and there, Celestia turns back to Luna. “For example, your prey is likely to beg or bargain or, most likely, both. The proper response is to not respond at all—in fact, you shouldn’t even act as if you hear its pleadings.”

As Celestia turns Moon Dancer so her rear faces the Princess’s muzzle, Celestia writes on the board, “2. Play With Your Prey”. “That being said, never feel discouraged from having a little fun—after all, food is meant to be enjoyed, and you should never feel shamed for enjoying whatever you want, however you want, no matter how your prey might feel about it.” Celestia then takes a tighter grip on Moon Dancer’s hindlegs and lifts them towards her mouth; Moon tries to fight, but to hold her prey still, Celestia finds as easy, relatively, as a normal pony would find lifting an apple. “If you’re not sure where to start,” Celestia says to Luna, who is still determinedly ignoring the lesson, “a little physical teasing, such as licking, sucking, and nibbling can go a long way.”

With a lick of her frogs, the whimpering Moon Dancer is once more spurred to speech. “No! No no no no no…” Another lick “Princess Celestia, please, if it’s ‘fun’ you want, I can-… You can u-…-use me however you want, just-” In the middle of Moon’s offer, Celestia wraps her lips around one of Moon’s hindhooves. “-just not like this! Please, not like this!!”

As Celestia sucks on Moon Dancer’s hoof as one might a lollipop, the shock starts to wear off and instead hopelessness creeps up Moon’s mind: She now lets herself hang limp in Celestia’s levitation spell, and her eyes slip shut as she starts to cry silently. Releasing Moon’s hoof, Celestia turns Moon around so they’re face-to-face, and then tuts sympathetically, as a mother might when looking down at a colt who had scraped his knee while rough-housing.

Her heart latching on to this sign of salvation, Moon Dancer allows her eyes to open and her head to lift so she might meet Celestia’s venerably kind eyes once more—instead, she finds herself staring right into Celestia’s wide-open mouth and right down to the deep shadows that cloak her throat (who would ever think the Sun can contain something so dark?), and with a shout, Moon Dancer tries to lift her hooves in a last-ditch defence, but Celestia keeps her forelegs still.

The unicorn’s cry is quickly muffled by Celestia closing her mouth over Moon’s face. Here, Celestia takes her time running her tongue over every inch of her prey’s face, but focusing particularly on the salty streaks of her tears. After nearly a minute of this, Celestia finally releases Moon Dancer with a tiny, wet pop sound, leaving Moon with a face completely and thickly covered in slobber, and causing her to cough and spit in disgust; Moon also tries to wipe the spittle away, but Celestia continues to keep her hooves still.

With an appreciating smack of her lips, Celestia chuckles. “However, if you’re confident enough, I find emotional teasing much more fun. Hope is a particular favorite of mine to toy with, but there so many others—trust, anger, grief, disgust, humiliation, and-”—Celestia interrupts herself with an extremely quick peck to Moon Dancer’s lips, then she turns the unicorn back around so Moon is once more rear-to-face with Celestia. The princess then pulls Moon’s tail to the side to bare her behind, causing Moon to blush, and then without warning Celestia darts forward to give the exposed vagina a brief prod with her tongue, and Moon moans on pure instinct—“-and lust, just to name a few of the most obvious. You’ll have to experiment a lot to find your own favorites.”

The older sister snorts in amusement when she pauses to consider her “student”, who is apparently now finding it harder and harder to distract herself with mere doodling, but still Luna is determinedly staring down at her paper, and her breathing is obviously forcibly even.

With a smack of her lips and click of her tongue, Celestia returns her focus to Moon Dancer as the princess then tightens her telekinetic grip, pinching Moon’s hindlegs together and pulling them out to be in line with her spine, as well as pressing her forelegs tightly against her sides. “Still, all good things must be in moderation, and you would do well to remember that food is always, in the end, nothing but food, thus only ultimately suitable for eating. If you forget this and have too much fun, you are liable to be distracted, and risk letting your prey escape. So, be wary of prey who appear to be enjoying themselves unreasonably much, especially once your intentions are known, lest you be played the fool.”

Finally, Celestia takes Moon Dancer’s hindhooves into her mouth now without intent to merely taste and release them. The saliva from Celestia’s earlier play has partially dried during her instruction, leaving the hooves and ankles flavorless, but this only inspires her to swallow immediately, to once again savor the failed alumni unicorn. If she’s not going to use her specialty training for anything, I might as well take back what I gave her, Celestia justifies to herself as a second swallow renders Moon Dancer’s hindhooves as nothing more than a tiny bump at the top of the Alicorn’s neck—the curve is so slight the only reason anyone would be able to notice it and know what it is is because the majority of the unicorn is still hanging out of Celestia’s mouth, in her telekinesis.

After the third gulp, Celestia takes a pause, now past where she had previous sucked on the hooves, she now lets her tongue once more explore, matting Moon’s coat with saliva and wiggling between the clumps of fur to the especially delectable skin beneath.

“Princ-c-cess-ss-ss,” Moon Dancer whispers between heaving breaths; the horror-driven adrenaline has already run out, leaving her once-tensed muscles exhausted. “I-I-… Y-You… shouldn’t-… Please, not me… Why me…” This, however, is not a real question, at least not for Celestia or even Luna—it is only Moon Dancer’s question to herself as she submits to the fate Celestia had deemed for her, which said princess can feel through the muscles in her legs reluctantly limpening.

After a swallow to test this resignation proves it true, Celestia’s throat rumbles around Moon’s hooves with a chuckle. A sidelong glance over her prey’s tail reveals Luna at last rendered enraptured, one corner of her mouth agape, but she quickly notices Celestia’s eye on her and flips her notebook to a new page with a slam of her hoof. Good. Have to keep making sure Luna remains distracted! Lighting her horn slightly brighter, Celestia casts an intricate telekinesis on the air itself, vibrating it to create soundwaves that perfectly mimic her voice. “With that said, once you have your prey secure in your throat, there’s no need to rush. Everypony has a subtly unique flavor, so you should take the time to enjoy that flavor for as much as it deserves, and a little play along the way to the goal won’t hurt.”

Celestia then snakes her tongue out between her lip and Moon’s legs to thoroughly lick them over in a more visible, demonstration-friendly manner. With a humming of appreciation for the tangy sweetness prickling along the princess’s tongue, Moon Dancer’s fear and sorrow is weakly muted. This, and the plush and the warmth and the strong rippling grip of Celestia’s throat, all together bring an alien quell, and indeed if she could only ignore the obvious and inescapable, Moon then, maybe, could imagine herself receiving Equestria’s most surreal, bizarre massage. Entranced by this faintest repose, Moon Dancer thinks, As sudden as this is, at least it’s peaceful and comfortable, even, and this is, indeed, enough to allow her the tiniest smile.

This is all too soon shattered when the next few gulps culminate in Moon’s rear meeting Celestia’s lips. The quiescently padded butt, with fat gently creased where the raised legs pressed into it, forms a stopper, or would if Celestia could not open her mouth any wider; unfortunately for Moon Dancer, this is not even close to true. In the moment, this does not concern her, as instead her focus is snatched by her clitoris meeting Celestia’s bottom lip, and her derelict cunt alights with misprioritized demand, vulva shivering in vain anticipation.

Celestia barely holds in her laughter as Moon Dancer barely holds in a moan; The princess keeps her composure well, except for eyes that narrow with amusement, but this Moon cannot see, and the alumni shivers as she desperately controls her breathing, letting out a quiet, low wheeze stuttered with interrupted huffs. “Celes-sssstia-aaaa,” Moon Dancer breaths out through clenched teeth, nearly inaudible. I suppose if I could choose how to die, oral sex with the princess, emphasis on oral, is far from the worst! Yes. So, allowing herself to focus only on “the now”, Moon Dancer tests Celestia’s telekinetic grip, and manages to wiggle her hips just enough to flick and rub her clit against the Alicorn’s lip, if only by millimeters in any direction—in fact, the severely restrained movement seems only to contribute to Moon’s arousal, considering how rapidly her labia puffens and moistens.

Now Celestia allows her disportment to be known, and Moon Dancer is jiggled by laughter muffled by her own body; their mirthful shaking causes Celestia’s lip to erratically strike and buff Moon’s now-winking clitoris, rendering the unicorn unable to hold her moan any longer. However, her predator, of course, has no intention to let her enjoy this, and so Celestia widens her jaws and, with a swallow supplemented with a little telekinetic shove, pulls Moon Dancer’s rear between her lips.

The unicorn seems to either not notice this, or no longer care, as she begins to attempt to grind against the tip of Celestia’s tongue, but even as big as the Alicorn is, her lips can still only stretch so wide, and currently they hold quite tight around Moon’s buttocks. Instead, it’s purely for her own selfish entertainment that Celestia then waggles her tongue, lapping up and down Moon Dancer’s labia as if she were toying with a light switch, but the only position here is “on”. When Moon’s clit beckons with a wink, Celestia’s tongue responds by darting in only a fraction of an inch and instantly darting back out. Another wink, and another dart. When her clitoris’s third and then fourth wink earns no reply, Moon Dancer blinks, waking partially from her lustful daze.

Again, Celestia’s horn brightens with her telekinesis-speech spell as she writes: “3. Stay In Control”. “Even when you are playing with your prey in accordance to the second guideline, Luna, you should be careful not to allow your food to dictate or control the type or pace of your games, lest they play with you or, worse, manage to distract you enough to escape.” Luna, expectedly, makes no effort to respond or even acknowledge, but Moon Dancer blinks again as Celestia’s words sink in over a couple of seconds. Her sex-readied, tense muscles relax, and she begins to sigh, believing her playtime with Celestia is over—just as Celestia wants her to believe, but instead Celestia interrupts that sigh by shoving a good few inches of her tongue into Moon Dancer’s now-unprepared pussy, eliciting an “eep!” from the unicorn prey.

Just as quickly, Celestia retreats, and instead of blessing the quivering Moon Dancer with any reprieve, she swallows a couple times—Moon’s begging clit slides down Celestia’s tongue, but the princess shows no sign of either noticing or caring. Although, if her lips were not currently stretched around dormant-plumped hips, Celestia would have on what could have been mistaken as her trademark smile, but distorted: no longer benevolent—it would have made anypony- any being quiver, though most wouldn’t be able to guess why.

Luna yawns and lays her head on the desk—it’s awkward, but she is determined in her laziness—yet she keeps her ears perked and directed to Celestia, more than half-expecting her older sister to scold or complain or at least say something, anything. Instead, Celestia silently cheers as Luna, in spite of herself, grows curious, so in response she flattens her ears to dampen sound and begins to meditate, focusing particularly on ignoring sounds.

Unaware of her own part in this silent and enigmatic battle, Moon Dancer arches her back and tries to rub herself against Celestia’s tongue, arousal preempting any concern Moon might have over the fact her humping is only helping Celestia’s gullet claim her rear. The princess, for the moment, loosens her throat to allow Moon Dancer a freer range of motion, but this only helps Moon seal her own doom, and to this end Celestia also releases her telekinesis after tilting her head skyward. The supposed teacher then adds, “With enough skill, you can even manipulate your prey into doing what you want. In fact, by finding and pushing just the right buttons, you might even trick your food into feeding itself to you, which is always particularly satisfying!”

Moon Dancer doesn’t hear this, for her wiggling and consequent slipping has pulled her clit down and off the very back of Celestia’s tongue, leaving her with nothing to rub against—not that she would be able to, with her entire rear now completely restricted behind Celestia’s lips. Still, her puffy vagina is not yet ready to release her own mind enough for Moon to concern herself with anything else just yet, such as trying to escape being ingested by her demigod monarch. With back still arched and eyes clenched shut, Moon Dancer pushes her hooves against Celestia’s jaw, not in an attempt to pull herself from the princess’s esophagus, but in a vain bid for some traction with which to rub herself against Celestia’s throat. Even if she could, another swallow brings the last inch of Moon’s legs into Celestia’s esophagus proper, constricting them together so tightly that Moon’s thighs most effectively seal her vagina away from any touch.

Yet indifferent, Moon makes no effort to remove her forehooves as Celestia slurps them in with her next swallow, rendering herself consumed up to her bellybutton, and still her heated rear misguides her, now convincing her to rub her hindlegs together, which only imparts a tantalizing trace of nirvana to Moon herself, but grants far greater relief to Celestia’s peristalsis. As the rest of Moon Dancer’s rear follows into that gullet, its constriction finally renders her completely incapable of self-frotting, leaving her to shiver, groan, scowl, and pant at the thwarting of her terminal bliss—only the imputed promise of some space within the inevitable stomach grants Moon Dancer a momentary stay of frustration, and thus dread.

As still as Celestia’s tongue is pinned, it cannot help but wiggle in every millimeter of space it finds, which is enough to tickle MoonDancer to (without diminishing arousal) giggle. A few more thick gulps, leaving Moon’s chest half way past Celestia’s lips, rouses enough imminent alarm to intrude on this, and the prey, now with more than half her body inside Celestia, gasps with shock and fright at how far this sexual lure had drawn her in.

By the time Moon Dancer is freed from the strong grip of surprise, Celestia has already swallowed again—if Moon had acted in time, she could have at least put up her futile fight, but now Moon’s hooves have been taken by the unrelinquishing throat of an Alicorn. Again, Celestia would have smiled, now as she feels Moon Dancer tugging her forehooves; just as a show of the strength she so rarely gets to display, Celestia swallows against Moon, timed with her jerking movements.

When Celestia’s lips touch Moon Dancer’s collarbones—the cusp of the easy slope down the shoulders and across the neck—Celestia lets her own neck relax, letting her head fall back down from being tilted up. With this, Moon is touched by a fleeting hope that this is the end of her exciting and scary ride, and it’s time to turn around a go back home. The princess makes no move in either direction, but seems content to pause for a quiet intermission.

Eventually and yet all too soon, as fear begins to prick at the base of her mane, Moon Dancer experimentally shifts her shoulders, but there is no give or leverage to be found—if she is to be released, she reasons, it will be on Celestia’s time. “Princess Celestia-?” Moon rasps out in a whisper, and wets her lips before continuing. “Princess, this is j-just a… demonstration, right?” Moon twists her neck around as best she can to look at Celestia.

However, true to her first rule, Celestia acts as if she were deaf to her prey, even refusing to make eye contact—though not in any overt, direct way, but merely looking at the side of Moon Dancer’s head as if she were, indeed, no difference between herself and a salad. After waiting far too long, another gulp makes Moon groan despairingly as she looks away, forward. With a gulp of her own—hers fearful—Moon Dancer lights her horn, and her aura flashes weakly around Celestia’s muzzle only a few times before swiftly going out; there’s a reason her magic is her last resort, as her talent only lies in theory, not any practical strength, skill, or finesse.

One more swallow, and Celestia’s lips slide up Moon’s shoulders to the base of her neck, and now the princess can feel the unicorn’s mute whimpers vibrating along that neck. “Princess? -Celestia?” She tries again, but when her eyes, darting frantically about, fall on the whiteboard and those damning instructions, Moon clenches her eyes shut and shakes her head in fervent denial. This can’t be! Why would the Princess do this?! -and why me?! Can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t…!

Moon Dancer remains about as animate as one of Celestia’s usual meals, at least until the back of her head contacts Celestia’s nose. At last the denial Moon had been building since Celestia first wrote on the board is demolished, and all at once the sensations of her situation hit her all at once: the sweltering body heat, the slimy saliva and mucus, and the constricting tube all around her—or at least almost—preventing all movement except the inexorable pulling downward, directed only at its own pace. Moon’s eyes bug out wide when Celestia’s jaws widen once more, readying to take in her skull.

The princess’s lips, sucking, creep forward, folding Moon’s ears forward, against her temples, and if she hadn’t been already, the saliva soaking into her mane would have made Moon shiver, only with disgust instead of mortal terror. Is it that Celestia forces herself to slow down as her lips crest Moon Dancer’s skull and begin to fold over her face, or is that just her panic-stricken imagination? Even if she could have voiced this, Celestia would not answer, but as it is, the unicorn no longer has control over herself even to let out one last meep of horrified disbelief.

Celestia’s lips, pinching tightly closed with desperation for respite, force Moon”s glasses against her face, which in turn causes her to flinch instinctively backwards. Feeling now the grip of the throat on the back of her head, Moon’s eyes widen once more, and she tries to force her neck to stretch back outward, but too late: That inch her recoil had given Celestia’s gullet is enough to finish what it had started.

With her glasses providing just enough protection, Moon Dancer cannot stop her own mind from its vain protection as it manically seeks survival. This view is something Moon Dancer never imagined could be seen, let alone would some day—this day—be seen by herself. All she can see outside now is the door; all else is the inside of Celestia’s mouth framing that door. The smooth, soft flesh of the cheeks to either side sharply contrast the ridged, steely roof, and those contrast with the sinuous, robust tongue below. All four sides are separated by the rows of teeth, as sparkly white as should be expected of a princess, and more, even from the back, which so few ponies would ever see—which they should never expect to see.

The penultimate gulp resounds in Moon Dancer’s ears so that she would have flattened them shut if they hadn’t already been forced so. The pinching force of Celestia closing her jaw properly in so long gently shoves Moon Dancer’s head back, and closed lips bind her in darkness—now, even if a suddenly appearing stranger could easily guess Celestia had eaten somepony, Moon Dancer the individual has vanished. Belated hyperventilation gives Moon the wherewithal to wield her voice one last time, but just as she opens her mouth, the back of Celestia’s tongue, heralding a last swallow, rises up and forces her mouth closed—the rippling, ever-clenching esophagus that follows leaves her no opportunity either.

A few more swallows to help speed Moon Dancer along, and the prey finds her hindhooves sliding through a tight but eager ring of muscle into a relatively open space—and if she didn’t already know, the sting of acids that neigh instantly tingle against the frog of her hooves would tell Moon her fate.

Outside, Celestia rubs the bulge of the disappearing bulge of Moon Dancer still in her neck and few times, and then gently presses against the top of the head to encourage her meal along its way. When the last of Moon’s head recedes into the front of Celestia’s chest, she release a long and great gasp of satisfaction. The swelling protuberance of pony in her belly grows slowly at first, and then all of a sudden, with the tip of scales from esophagus to stomach, the rest of the prey formerly known as Moon Dancer suddenly spills into that caustic sac with a visible bounce; inside, this pony suddenly finds herself without her glasses—not that she can even use them here, but still she searches for them instinctively, yet comes up empty-hooved, leaving the only conclusion being that they got caught on the sphincter in some way.

Each individual lump wiggling around Celestia’s belly may be unidentifiable, but if taking in the whole, the fact Celestia has just eaten a pony alive and whole is not just obvious, but undeniable. With a giggle that, like her smile, is familiar and yet all too wrong, Celestia prods the peppy bulges, light and briefly at first, as if experimentally, but soon she’s all but shoving the poor, digestion-condemned prey side-to-side, renewing her giggles as the already-forgotten pony within squims madly to find some snug position. -some final, relative solace.

Suddenly, Celestia stops giggling—her eyes bug out, she straighten up, and her cheeks blow up slightly. A moment later, and the princess has it almost under control, for as she allows herself to relax, a tiny burp escapes the corner of her lips. With a hoof to her muzzle purporting modesty, Celestia presently lights her horn to once more write on the board, “4. Move Prey Around Stomach”. Celestia then makes to speak, but the obstinate burp returns, interrupting, but with a particularly forceful swallow, Celestia restarts. “Once you get your prey down and secured in your stomach, you should move them about as much as you can stand. It will likely be uncomfortable at first, but I strongly advise it to prevent worse indigestion later. That, and you might even come to enjoy it!” Celestia demonstrates with a jerk of her hips that sends her belly astir, bobbing and shifting about, and the princess giggles as she turns to watch this.

The other princess in the room, however, seems to be finding the inside of her eyelids infinitely more compelling, so with a smile that follows a sigh, Celestia steps forward, unnoted but not unnoticed by her supposed student. One hoof on the desk: no reaction. Both forehooves standing on the desk: a curious flick of an ear from one Princess Luna. Two quick steps from the desk to the back of the chair finally prompts Luna to curiously raise her head, and bump right into Celestia’s tummy. More confused than dazed, Luna still leaves herself open long enough for Celestia to lower herself and squish her pony-filled stomach against the side of Luna’s face, also pinning her against the desk.

“The purpose of playing with your food after it’s in your stomach, you will find, is more than just for fun, but to ease the strain on your stomach. The tossing and rubbing motions help your acids soak through your prey’s fur so it can start properly digesting your meal faster and easier. This takes quite a lot of the work off of the stomach muscles themselves, which will result in reduced heartburn and nausea, pressure and aches.

“-but as I’ve said before, the important part of this whole process-” Celestia pauses to press her stomach into Luna’s face, “-is to have fun with your toy.” With a jiggle, Celestia sends the pony inside sloshing around; Luna’s ears are pounded by the incessant splashing, both from Celestia’s jolt and the confused scrambling within as the prey searches for some kind, any kind of purchase or stability. “Even just the tiniest amount of pain, coupled with some disorientation, can concoct a tasteful medley.” A incidental punch from her meal hits the sphincter that would lead back up Celestia’s esophagus, and the princess has to pause to once more hold a burp. “For example, my prey here is putting up a fight that feels wonderful; now, you can’t tell that yourself, but can you hear any screaming or crying?”

Even if her life depended on it, Luna cannot ignore Celestia now, and she has no way to ignore her question—in fact, even if she shoved Celestia off her this moment, she already has her affirmative answer. Seeming to know or at least strongly suspect this, Celestia steps back and off the chair and desk, grinning amicably as if inviting Luna to an innocent card game, rather than callously digesting an unsuspecting pony to teach her… something. With the way Celestia is acting, Luna thinks it’s almost as if Celestia is like a changeling, except feeding off of fun and joy rather than love and affection.

Without segue (or even bothering with Luna’s yet-given answer), Celestia writes once more on the board without turning around, “5. Belch To Remove Prey’s Air.” As Luna is, now drawn into the lesson, expectedly reading this new point, Celestia hits her with the burp she’s been storing since her prey flopped into her stomach. Long and powerful, Luna blinks against the persisting gastric gust as it blows back her mane. Her attention now fully riveted, Luna blushes as she stares at the wobbling rings of muscle that augurs the eternal, absolute, insatiable darkness within the Sun. Almost three full seconds of this go uninterrupted until a quiet gag, which is all the warning Luna gets before a pair of glasses suddenly flies up and out with the veritable gale. When Luna peeks out from her flinch, a mild throbbing in her ear tells her where the glasses landed: One of the arms had caught on the right groove in her tiara, and from there slid into her mane, leaving the actual “glass” of the glasses to lay mostly on her temple, in front of her ear.

As Luna recovers, face still somewhat heated, Celestia smacks her lips and unconcernedly continues the lesson. “Of course, all good things must come to an end, and for food that’s doubly certain. Before your meal gets too rowdy, particularly in the few minutes before it dies, you’ll want to get rid of all that life-giving air that went down with them. Now, as you might have seen before, there were a few times I had to focus on not burping, and this is very common except for the smallest of prey, so this should be as simple as letting it go.” As if scripted, Celestia’s belly bursts with movement. “Of course-again, death throes will still happen, but oxygen-starved kicks are much weaker.”

Now stepping back off the desk, Celestia sits down with a satisfied sigh, and pats her now-sluggishly stirring belly. With a shimmer and barely audible pop, Celestia teleports a cake before herself, then writes, “6. Consume Prey With Other Food”. The princess cuts the cake and takes a large bite from a slice, then swallows before continuing with the lesson. “Now there will inevitably be times where even a whole pony will not be enough to satisfy, or you otherwise find yourself craving something more than either prey or normal food can provide alone.” She takes another bite. “In such cases, you should simply eat whatever you want! After all, you should not let food dictate what other food you eat with it; if your prey complains, ignore it!” Celestia finishes the slice of cake in a third bite, and chuckles, for as the cake now falls into her stomach, the yet-conscious prey within lurches weakly in indignation, trying to wipe off and avoid the splatters of pastry and frosting.

The princess takes a bite from another slice just as a burp—much tinier than before—makes its way up, and this belch sends out crumbs and little flecks of frosting flying onto the floor and Luna’s desk, barely falling short of the younger sister herself; Celestia doesn’t even acknowledge this unprincessly act, and goes on with her dessert without care. After she finishes the second slice, she continues, “-And this, ultimately, is the most important thing to remember:” and now she writes as she takes her third slice, “7. Prey Is Just Food”. “No matter how it pleads or cries or fights, don’t give in, as I know your stomach, like mine, will never fail to digest every morsel you provide it, as long as you don’t willingly and foolishly hold it back. In the end, your prey will be nothing but fat to be used as energy, and waste to be flushed away, so you should have no more concern or attachment to it than anything else that ends that way: just food.”

Another bite, and Celestia has to swallow back a burp as she chews. “Anything more than that makes no sense, so-” When Celestia swallows, she stuffs down the rest of the slice down with it, unchewed, passing down with a notable bulge in her neck, though this was nothing to her—as easy as any adult pony find swallowing a poppy seed. “Never do that,” she pauses to stifle another burp, “Only villains do that.”

With this, she takes the remaining half of the cake and gulps it down nearly whole; a few stray smears of frosting and small clumps of cake stick to her lips, which she quickly takes in with her tongue to send down with the rest. Inside, she can feel the mass of sugar arrive in her stomach, which she pats—nothing happens now but a mute blorp of displaced air—her belly is so full and round that her prey is truly indistinguishable from the cake now, no longer identifiable as anything living (or post-living) from outside.

Celestia giggles a last time before announcing, “Class dismissed!” with volume and formality as if she were telling this to a classroom full of her school’s students. Only the click of the door closing behind the leaving “teacher” finally snaps Luna from her awkward stupor, and she shakes her head before swiftly leaving as well, her pace only just under a proper gallop.

THREE

Immediately after raising the Moon (with her sister’s help), Luna sits near the end of her bed, trying to meditate, but recent events keep intruding, no matter how tightly she squeezes her eyes shut, as if this can block these memories from her consciousness. With an aggravated, growling sigh, she jerks open a drawer in her nightstand, and from it she takes a notebook—the one Celestia had given her for the… lecture.

A quiet click of the latch of her bedroom’s door prompts Luna to stuff the pad barely out of sight, under the blankets, right between her hooves—the little indent would instantly give it away to anypony, even from across the room.

In walks one of the few ponies familiar to Luna in this “future” the younger princess finds herself in: Twilight Sparkle. Not that she is truly that known to the depowered Alicorn, but still more familiar than most. At the party in Ponyville, and subsequent snippets of conversation caught from the Canterlot Castle staff, Luna had heard quite a bit—more than she would expect—about the otherwise-seemingly-normal unicorn, and certainly not the least of these trivia is that she had been taken by Celestia as a personal student when she was a mere filly.

Given the oddities that have marked this day, the to-be reinstated princess is instantly put on guard, no matter the idle, friendly smile on her visitor’s face. “Ah, Twilight Sparkle! You are lucky it is… yourself, elsewise I would have to vaporize you for this unannounced, unauthorized intrusion!” At this, Twilight stops midstep through the doorway, tilting her head and with smile turning awkward.“No, do relax!” Luna chuckles as she waves for Twilight to enter and approach, “‘Tis been an odd day. We could use normal company.”

Inside, however, Luna focuses her suspicion: This visit from Twilight—Celestia’s student—cannot be coincidence after this “odd day”. Stranger, though, is the question of why Celestia would send such an important pony on this particular night? -for certainly her sister—her trickster of a sister—would expect Luna to put her lesson to practice? Certainly. This has to be a test. Perhaps, since Twilight has served her purpose in restoring Luna from Nightmare Moon, Celestia has decided to dispose of her, or at least doesn’t care if Luna disposes of Twilight (metaphorically and literally) for her…?

Ridiculous! Luna frowns but quickly restores her neutral, but not uninviting, expression. Curse you, Celestia! I’m not going to let you control or dictate to me how I have fun! Let’s see how you like what I do to this precious “personal student” of yours! Outwardly, Luna gives Twilight a friendly smile in return to the unicorn’s earlier one. “Welcome and good evening, Fair Twilight Sparkle. I took you for one who would prefer to get up with the morning sun, even discounting your relation with my sister. I seem to be mistaken!”

Twilight laughs lightly before she hops onto the bed, sitting near Luna’s side. “Well, you’re not technically wrong, but my sleep schedule is more nonexistent than anything. Some days I’ll wake up early, others I’ll stay up late. It all depends on when I can find a good breaking point in my studies, really.”

“Indeed?” Luna raises a brow, “We- I suppose I know that feeling from a thousand years ago—two thousand years in actuality—and We- I suspect I will be bothered by my own studies tonight.” The Alicorn taps the hidden notepad, and Twilight only glances down for the shortest of seconds, not surprised by its presence there, for it had not been truly hidden. “We have a lot to do after a thousand years absence, so not to offend my savior, but why is thee here?”

“Oh! Actually partly for that reason: for being… your ‘savior’.” Twilight squirms, smiles, and blushes like a young stallion about to kiss his first mare, but she soon shakes it off, and quite literally as well, like a wet dog. “Also, since I’m in Canterlot to pack up for my move to Ponyville, I kind of thought I wanted to meet the pony I saved. I mean-! -I’d… like to get to know you, inside and out.” At the phrase that would be normal in any other context, Luna scrutinizes the unicorn before her, up and down, but no body language betrays covert intent, and her smile is all too innocent… and ignorant.

With sudden inspiration, Luna pulls out the notebook. “Actually, in that vein, and knowing you are my sister’s student, perhaps you could help me with something?” With implicit invitation from Twilight’s eager nod and widening smile, Luna opens the book, with herself facing Twilight so the unicorn cannot see anything written inside. The Alicorn’s expression instantly falls: Inside, of course, is not a single note from Celestia’s lesson, only the useless doodles she had distracted herself with. The most prominent is in the center, with Celestia and Luna as stickfigures. The Stick-Luna has a big, mad grin and angry eyes, with her head tilted down and her impossibly-long horn impaling the neck of Stick-Celestia, who has her tongue sticking out and ‘X’s for eyes.

“Errr… Ahhh…” Luna vies for time as her eyes dart around the page for any miniscule hint. Think, Luna, think! What did Celly say?! I have to remember so I can do the opposite, to fail on purpose! Teach her that she can’t change me at her own whim… Focus: First, how should I approach a pony I want to eat? She said something about… -about… treating prey as if they are no longer a pony, but just food, right? So I should not think of Twilight Sparkle as food?

“You know what, Twilight? Forget that.” Luna tosses the book, seemingly wanton, but it falls perfectly in the left-open drawer, which the princess harshly slaps shut with an actually haphazard telekinetic burst. “Today has been too long, too weird, and too exhausting. We are left feeling most famished and, we admit… fastidious.”

Twilight has her lips pursed with mild confusion topped by evenly matched curiosity and annoyance, but when Luna finishes her implied request, the unicorn’s ears perk along with her smile. “Oh, I know: You’re saying you don’t know today’s Canterlot very well yet! I can show you all the best restaurants around town, and you can-!” She stands, readying to hop off the bed and leave then and there, but Luna awkwardly puts a hoof on her back to stay her enthusiasm.

“Actually, Twilight, I was thinking more along the lines of…” Luna hesitates, biting her lip with indecision, and instantly internally scolds herself, What’s the matter with you, Luna! How many thousands of ponies have you eaten with hardly a thought!? How many of those names do you remember? None! Go! With a flick of her ear and a tightening in her jaw, Luna forces herself to speak evenly, without pause. “I was hoping if you would allow me to eat you, Twilight Sparkle.”

The solicited mare sits back down rather heavily, and one side of her mouth slips open, as if she were about to question what Luna means, but then she puts a hoof to her lips as she whispers, “‘-allow-’?” Luna cannot tell at first how Twilight is taking this, until the smile hints itself in her eyes. “Oh, my… You really want to eat me? I hoped you would!” Twilight bursts out with an excited little hop before Luna can fully process the rhetorical question. “You know, Celestia has eaten me eight times so far—I’d be honored if you ate me, too! -and even more in the future, again and again, if you’d like! Celestia says I’m ‘tasty’.”

Twilight giggles at the thought of that particular adjective being applied to her by her mentor, Celestia’s name only serves to remind Luna of her original purpose in the scheme this proposal serves. Okay, stage one is a success. Next, Celestia said something about… toying with prey however you want, no matter how they feel about it? So I’ll play in a way that’s fun for Twilight, too. Hesitantly, silently offering Twilight a chance to pull away, Luna leans forward and gives Twilight’s cheek a brief lick, more like a tap with her tongue. When this draws out no less than an encouraging giggle, Luna takes a protracted, slow lick from under Twilight’s chin, up her cheek, behind the eye, across the temple, and finishing just at the peak of her mane. Luna clicks her tongue appreciatively a few times before concluding, “If the rest of you tastes half as good as that, I think I’ll have to take you up on your offer.”

At this praise that may otherwise have been strange, to say the least, Twilight lets out a happy squeak, and leans in against her to-be predator’s side. Luna pauses as she once more considers her next move, while Twilight seems to assume the princess is savoring the moment before the strike. Rule three was… -was about controlling prey, right? Then I’ll let Twilight dictate how she feeds herself to me! “Whenever you’re ready, I am.” Initially, Twilight mistakes Luna’s widening mouth as a yawn, expecting Luna to move in if she’s ready to eat now, but only once her maw is wide enough to fit a pony’s torso does Luna lower her head to Twilight’s level.

For a long dozen seconds, Twilight blinks expectantly as she stares into the back of Luna’s throat, which undulates gently and lazily with her deep, patient breaths—like a calm beach. With each wave of those muscles, the temperature of Twilight’s cheeks rises noticeably, and the heaviness of her breathing deepens and hastens in concert. The enraptured unicorn tilts forward until she falls, but it’s not far until her chin lands on Luna’s tongue with a little splat, then she whispers, letting Luna’s hot, moist breath invade her mouth. “It almost looks like I’m about to fall… right up, into your night sky. So dark and empty… like it wants to… consume… … and you do want to, don’t you?”

To let the princess answer, Twilight pulls back, but only enough so she can look into Luna’s eyes from just over her nose. “Yes-ssss,” she whispers back, and when her tongue rises to make the “s” sound, it brushes against Twilight’s lips; with an unseen grin, Twilight pushes gently back against the tongue, and the not unpleasant surprise of this is what makes Luna extend that “s” sound. “Please, feed me, Twilight Sparkle.” Luna near-begs, dragging the tip of her tongue against the underside of Twilight’s muzzle, as if to drag her inward, and she closes her eyes, both hoping and knowing Twilight will.

Now ready, Twilight pulls back, but only for the shortest moment—to reposition herself. The next thing Luna tastes is hoof: Twilight has sat herself up on her hindlegs and “stepped” forward into Luna’s mouth. The tongue, pressed between jaw and hoof, seems to struggle about, but through her sensitive frogs, Twilight can easily tell how it’s actually trying to guide her in without being overbearing and impatient.

On the already-smooth muscle lubricated with saliva, Twilight releases herself into a controlled, slow slide forward, and as those hooves inch inward, Luna’s cheeks funnel them together until Twilight is forced to pull her left hoof back behind her right. Almost immediately after this, that forward hoof slips off the back of the tongue right into Luna’s throat. The two sit still like this for a few seconds until Twilight chuckles. “Well? Knock, knock. Are you going to let me in? I can’t do everything, Luna.”

Luna makes to reply, but the hoof in her throat only sinks inward a few more millimeters instead, and suddenly she wishes she had at least paid enough attention to learn Celestia’s telekinetic-speech trick. So, with a mental shrug, Luna takes her first swallow of many soon to come; Twilight helps by applying a little pressure from the front, but her predator don’t at all notice the force she exerts.

Soon enough, Luna’s tongue is looping around Twilight’s neck, slithering on like a collar, then back off, only to continue around and circle the other way, all the while applying a gentle pull. Inside, Twilight’s forelegs are half gone, and her muzzle is now scarcely an inch from being claimed by the inexhaustibly rippling gullet before her. There, with her head and mane blocking most light, the few speckles left that trickle between strands of fur and hair shimmer off the slick flesh, almost like winking stars. Twilight boggles at this sight before an unceremonious swallow pulls her face against the shiny, muscular tapestry, forcing her to close her eyes.

With Twilight’s head now fully encased by Luna’s neck, the predatory princess finds she cannot continue like this without standing and kneeling forward, so instead she opts to lift Twilight’s rear half up and over—Luna had noticed Celestia do this to… Star Skipper, or whatever it was, but she easily rationalizes that this technique isn’t critical or exclusive to the specific procedure Celestia had been trying to teach. Inside, Twilight lets outs out a little meep of surprise, and shifts herself to get comfortable again, with the dual purpose of trying to tell Luna not to do something like that again without warning. All the same, she doesn’t necessarily protest this treatment, either with words or vigorous, angry struggling—Luna gets the message, sure enough, but she still cannot communicate this to Twilight.

A dozen or so uneventful swallows later finds most of Twilight’s torso in Luna’s esophagus, and now the tip of the predator’s tongue can finally reach the long-aching vagina of her prey. Just one faint brush against that primed labia is enough to make the expectant clitoris wink with strength enough to push away the considerable tongue of an Alicorn, and with that, the floodgates cannot be closed again against the current, and the veritable torrent, which has been building since Twilight’s journey started, stream and pool under Luna’s tongue.

Remembering how Celestia had toyed with… Star Something’s sex, Luna laps up and down the outer side of Twilight labia in between gulps, no matter how the unicorn’s clitoris invites her inside. Only once most of Twilight’s Cutie Marks are blanketed by Luna’s cheeks does the Alicorn finally hold her prey in place, halting her swallowing, and after a painstakingly anticipating minute, she shoves her tongue roughly in as far as it can go in one motion—which is considerable, for even a depowered Alicorn has enough strength in every inch of her body to match the strongest Earth Pony’s buck.

What Luna doesn’t expect, but really should have, is that Twilight has had experience with this treatment from Celestia, and so she’s earnestly shocked when Twilight endures through the twists and thrusts of her tongue’s assault. However, the mere unicorn is still only familiar with Celestia’s brand, so before Twilight expects it, Luna’s novel play sends her hindlegs jittering and her vagina clenching onto the invading tongue.

The orgasm-induced limpness that now pervades Twilight aids Luna as she then continues consuming her. In a haze, Twilight doesn’t realize she’s yet at the stomach until her hooves and a few inches of each leg are already hanging out the other end of an extra-tight ring. Instinctively, she makes to brace herself, but now her hips are well into Luna’s esophagus, effectively binding her rear legs as securely as the rest of her—the best she can do is wave her hindhooves about.

When her face hits the sphincter, at least, her decent is slowed, but by then Twilight has beaten back her animalistic panic—getting eaten multiple times by a benevolent God-Queen and surviving the experience every time will certainly help with that! All of a sudden, Luna displays her inner self-control, and the ring before Twilight opens wide; with a yelp, she falls through, her entire self slipping out the esophagus and slamming into the bottom of the stomach in seconds.

Outside, Luna unthinkingly lets out a thick belch, but remembers herself in time to cut off after only a quarter of Twilight’s air had escaped, then she swallows down some air to replace what had been released. Rubbing her belly gently, almost motherly, Luna sighs before saying, “Sorry about any rough mare-handling Twilight Sparkle, but we failed to foresee needing to ask for any permission of yours while eating you.”

Luna feels Twilight turn herself about until she’s comfortable. “It’s okay,” she has to not-quite-shout to be heard through Luna’s flesh, plus the fat the Ponyville prey had left behind. “Princess Celestia told me your manners would be a thousand years out of date, and asked me to not hold that against you, and I did promise, so I won’t!”

This unexpected secondary kindness knocks Luna’s emotions tumbling, doubly so considering the reason Luna had eaten Twilight in the first place. Soon enough she shakes it off, however, deciding she can consider this after her rebellion is complete: one thing at a time.

“Although…” At Twilight’s pause, Luna tenses, which the unicorn can feel in the stomach muscles all around her tightening. “Next time, could you slow down? It was… quite the shock when your gastroesophageal sphincter let me through so fast.”

Luna hums in thought and nods as she pats her rounded middle idly—thankfully, Twilight doesn’t mind. “Then we apologize for this as well. We- I am afraid it is an old habit, though, developed back when I would eat many ponies in one meal. I did not care to spend so much time getting just one down, you see, else We would spend all day eating ponies! This… playing is new to me.”

“That’s fine.” From within, Luna can barely feel Twilight patting and rubbing her stomach walls, almost as if consoling her; at the unexpected, strange thought, Luna chuckles, which sends her falling into a true uncontrollable fit of laughter; her quaking abdomen throws and tumbles poor, unsuspecting Twilight around. It takes a good minute for Twilight’s shouting to grip Luna’s attention and pull her conscious self back, after which she’s quick to apologize, but Twilight is quicker. “No need to be sorry for laughing, okay?”

Having to take a moment to mentally cancel her apology, Luna gapes at thin air for a second before answering somewhat breathlessly, “If you say so, Twilight Sparkle. Now, if you-.”

Again, Twilight cuts ahead of her. “Hey, you can just call me Twilight. I think being eaten is intimate enough to be on a first name basis, don’t you?”

The princess tilts her head and rubs her stomach as she considers this. “‘-Being eaten-’… ‘-intimate-’?” Luna whispers so quietly even her prey, inside and so close, cannot hear; eventually, Twilight taps the stomach around her to call Luna’s attention, not knowing she had blown a fuse in her predator’s head. “Ah, We… -I suppose. If you say so, Twilight Sp- Twilight.” Again Luna can feel rubbing from within, and she follows Twilight’s hoof with her own. “Ah, now as I was about to say, since today was so exhausting, I was thinking of going to bed now, if this is okay with you.”

“Of course you can go to bed!” Twilight giggles, though Luna can barely hear it. “Just take care so you don’t digest me in your sleep, or anything.” The Alicorn flicks her ear when she fails to pick out any hint of trepidation in her prey’s tone.

With a snort and smirk, Luna dismisses the pointless question of absent unease that would be unwarranted anyway, then she lays down and slides herself up the bed as she levitates the covers around herself until she has tucked herself in. “I wasn’t planning to, Twilight, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to eat you again!” Then as she closes her eyes, her pupils soften and round out, and her teeth flatten—thus the final remnants of Nightmare Moon are discreetly dispelled.

The next morning, Celestia awakes with a serene smile—she still does not know the final result of her secret test, and thus Twilight’s fate, but her surety carries her heart lightly to the balcony, from which she then raises the Sun, though now in this she does notice Luna’s absence in lowering the Moon with her. Sighing, she turns to begin her morning routine in the bathroom.

All answers just then arrive with a pop of teleportation, leaving a most disheveled Twilight Sparkle sitting before her. The unicorn’s fur, besides being heavily tinted brown in big splotches all over (all over), is soaked through and slicked down with unnamable—and unnamed—fluids. Shivering from the cool morning breeze caressing her wet body, Twilight dutifully reports, “Al-Although I think-k-k my presence makes it obv-vious, Prince-cess I’m happy to rep-p-port that Luna passed with a p-perfect score!” Her kind smile widening most slightly, Celestia nods, sensing Twilight has more to say. “So, with my m-mission done, I… need to…”

“Go ahead, Twilight,” Celestia offers with a light toss of her head toward the door to the ensuite, but before she can even finish the second syllable of this invitation, Twilight has zoomed through the door, and by the time Celestia “finally” finishes her sentence, the splashing of a shower going full blast comes mutely through the walls.

Chuckling, Celestia casts about for a momentary distraction—something with which to entertain herself until her disrupted routine can continue—and she spots a cheval mirror she has yet never used. It hadn’t been her idea, but so, so long ago, Princess Platinum had insisted that any proper royalty needs a mirror like this.

Silly.

At least it can serve her now.

With a grin drawn from the foolishness she is about to enact, and further from the foolishness of thinking it foolish at all, Celestia steps before the mirror. Celestia gasps, and for a split second wonders at what long con Platinum had been playing with this secret funhouse mirror, but then she remembers the pony she had eaten yesterday. Well, at least I remembered before my anus had to “remember” for me! She then chuckles at the image of herself on the toilet, suddenly screaming at the unexpected passing of a skull. Would the Royal Guard burst in then? -and if so, what would they say upon seeing a poop-covered skull under their dear princess’s rear? How long has it been since I digested a pony?

Laughter trickling off, she then turns to the side to properly admire her newly paunch middle (though sadly this will shrink somewhat with her morning relief) and expanded rear. -And why did I stop? -And why is it that only pony prey can produce such wonderful curves? I can scarcely recall now, but I’m sure this is why I started my infamous cake binges: missing this “fuller” figure. Another giggle comes forth at the innuendo.

Standing head-on toward the mirror again, she sits and tilts her head to ponder. Perhaps I could scream anyway to lure the guards in? Celestia blinks and is momentarily distracted by her own eyes, caught off guard by the fetching sharp shape of her pupils. Perhaps I might let them see my scat, obviously containing pony bones? A flash of flame distracts her from her dastard muse, calling her to whip around in a panic, but even a methodical search of all behind her yields no ember or wisp of smoke. When she turns back, Celestia’s eyes again are attracted to her own body, or at least the light playing upon it—for certainly this wonderful faint orange must be a trick of the sky around the rising Sun. A shrug dismisses the curio, and Celestia smirks, catching the sparkle of light off a fang, but she completely disregards this normal aspect of herself. Perhaps… I should eat them if they try to run?