It was past midnight in Ponyville, and Twilight Sparkle’s hooves moved silently down the upstairs hallway of her library home. It was a familiar set of steps, a journey she’d made more than a few times this month already, and more before that. Had it been nearly a year already since she’d started? How time flew…
Twilight pushed open the door to Spike’s room with only the smallest groan of the door hinges. She paused for a moment, her hoof on wood, and listened intently. Spike’s snoring went on interrupted. Twilight’s nerves relaxed, and she pushed open the door the rest of the way, letting herself into the small room and closing the door silently behind her.
Spike’s window, only the size of a book or so, was positioned perfectly to catch the moonlight as it poured down from the clear night sky. There were a few clouds in the distance, some on either side, like light spatterings of gauze over a plate of glass—but the moon shone through so brilliantly, it’s silvery light became almost blue, like the chill of the darkness reaching out in shivering brilliance to all the world below. Twilight soaked in a moment of the light before walking to the far side of Spike’s bed. The bed was surprisingly spacious for such a small, single occupant. It was big enough that, in fact, a pony could fit comfortably on the unoccupied half with no discomfort.
The rough cotton of the covers was so familiar it sent tingles down Twilight’s skin—and, yes, began the slow trickle of moisture between her legs. She could feel an electricity in the air as she turned slowly, underneath the covers now, until she was directly behind the small, softly-scaled body next to her. Until she was nestled into the whole of his back, his tiny spines rubbing against the soft fur of her chest, the hard of his small back so close to the tingling dampness between her hind legs. Twilight moaned and ground herself forward, pressing her hips into as much of Spike as she could, and letting out a long, hot stream of breath directly on the back of his neck. That was enough to begin to rouse him from sleep. Spike murmured something, clenched his eyes shut, and pulled slightly away from the heat emanating from Twilight’s now-dripping sex.
This was part of the whole game; the whole ritual that Twilight had come to love; that had sunken its dark fabric into her bones, so that every moment of every day was a restraint from her ultimately filthy desire; so that, Celestia, buck yes, she could have exactly what she ached for so wretchedly. Because she had always wanted it, somewhere deep inside her, in some dark, ancient place that made her pussy throb with want every time the little dragon had been close to her, every time she had yearned to do awful things to him as puberty swung through her. And now she was here, and doing so much more than those things, and it was as though the world had no desire to argue against her. Nothing could reproach her for as much as this feeling was worth.
Twilight bit down hard on her lower lip as she pushed into Spike again, utterly irreverent of his mumblings of imminent awakening. A fountain was on between her legs, her fur was slick, her hind legs grinding against each other, so close the tip of his tail could go in and then nothing more. She wanted him to wake up so she could taste the filth of it on her lips, so she could revel in her utter perversion, and then to push him into the darkness with her as she screamed.
“Mhmmm… What is it?” Spike’s words, from the darkness, electric in the moon’s mercury.
“Spike. Wake up, Spike.” Twilight’s words dripped with lust, the unrestrained panting of her need dragging every syllable out of her at the protest of her aching pussy, which wanted Spike inside her forever and immediately.
“Twilight? What time is it? Why do I have to…”
Spike’s sentence trailed into silence as he began to realize what was going on. As he felt Twilight’s dripping slit press against his scales. As the forewarned memory of what was about to happen shook him inside.
“Twilight… do we have to? It hurts, and I don’t—“
“Shhhh…” Twilight pressed a hoof to Spike’s mouth, stilling his lips and silencing him. “Yes, Spike, we have to. You know bad things will happen if we don’t do it. You might get sick, and maybe even die. And I don’t want that. So you have to let me, okay?”
If an observer was poised in the bookish window, riding on one of the many strands of silver thread hanging in the air just outside Spike’s room, they might have seen the tears glint in the corner of Spike’s eye—but only for a second, before he blinked them away.
“Okay,” Spike said, sniffing only slightly.
The sound of the tears being swallowed made Twilight’s pussy throb. Now.
“Okay,” Twilight said. “So get on your back and let me get to work.” She said it with a smile and a bit of a laugh in her voice—as though that made everything alright.
Spike feigned a smile as best he could, figuring the relative darkness would let him let in glimmers of the hatred of this process, not accounting for the moonlight which made it utterly and horrificily visible. And which, upon seeing, made Twilight nearly cum before anything had touched her. Before she had coaxed Spike’s tiny, immature dick into relative hardness and slid its one or two inches barely inside her. Until she had done that and cum instantly, cum so hard her back ached for hours afterwards, cum so hard her pussy gushed, literally gushed, like a pouring of water, of whatever juice inside her came out when her body achieved the kind of bliss she felt when she did it, fully, utterly and completely, when she robbed Spike the dragon of his tiny, hopeful innocence every time, every single time it happened stripping him of the belief that this strange and uncomfortable and misery-inducing thing he loathed but did out of obligation to some invisible consequence Twilight had invented, and out of obligation to Twilight herself, because she so obviously enjoyed it, despite the supposedly medical nature of the procedure; and of course, Spike could tell, he could tell with every damned millisecond of his agony that what was happening was wrong, utterly and completely, that because Twilight had assured him that everything between them in this way must be kept secret, that if Princess Celestia or anypony else knew that Twilight was helping Spike in this way, he could be taken away, never to see Twilight or his friends or Ponyville ever again. And so he knew as the nightmares came to him, even on the nights Twilight didn’t, that no matter how much he hated it, Twilight was doing something inescapably awful, and enjoying it beyond any capacity to be described. And that made everything more awful than Spike could possibly imagine.
Twilight was poised above Spike now, the dripping slavour of her pussy’s hot throbbing almost physically tangible even to Spike even with a distance of three or four inches. But even as Twilight lowered her hips towards Spike’s cock, she could see he wasn’t hard. Of course he wasn’t. Because the agony of waiting was part of her pleasure. No matter how bad she wanted it, she had to be reminded through the chore of coaxing him that what she was doing was the worst deed she could possibly imagine committing. That of all the trusts she could break, the most sacred of bonds lain out before her, severing this one was the most vile. That it was a miracle her cutie-mark didn’t blacken instantly for even thinking of the thing—let alone bathing in it like a fountain of sick, black oil on a regular basis.
There was a tangible proximity of tears in Spike’s quavering voice as he groaned with Twilight’s approaching mouth—not a groan that said he resented her, but merely that he loathed the process—that he was young, and immature, and his hormones had not prepared him for anything he was experiencing, and he had no desire for any of it, it felt strange and alien and his body betrayed him in seemingly enjoying it. A noise that he might make as he pulled away from a shot at the dentist, if he could feel the dentist’s hardness pressed against his back.
Unfortunately, Twilight’s mouth took no notice of Spike’s self-muffled protest. She dived in and took his tiny, tiny masculinity between her lips and began sucking, loudly and messily, spilling saliva everywhere, coating Spike’s tiny dragon cock and balls in her slutty, disgusting spit, and lubing him up unnecessarily for the quivering demand of her cunt that was to come as soon as he was hard enough.
Despite himself, Spike let out a muffled moan—a high-pitched whine, almost, along with a slight movement of his hips.
With the first shiver of growth on the tip of her tongue, Twilight smiled, then resumed her sucking. She used every trick she had learned from years of fantasizing—years of consuming whatever representations of sex she could get, spending hours in her bedroom as a teenager doing nothing but touching herself to new and filthier porn every minute of every day she could, until her entire bedroom reeked of sex so badly that no matter how hard she cleaned, her brother asked her “What’s that smell?” when he came in to say hello, and oh Celestia her brother, she had wanted him like nothing else, even more than Spike, and yet even somehow she had held herself back, wanting him every night, rubbing herself raw and screaming until her throat bled into a pillow as she came and came and came against the wall to his bedroom, begging him with every ounce of magic in her soul to hear her and know and come to her room and fuck her until she died of bliss, which would be the instant her brother’s cock slid inside her. She had considered killing herself as she left for Ponyville, because she knew then her opportunity to have him was over, unless she returned on some business and utterly abused her powers, manipulated him or made the experience absolutely non-consensual, relatively as she was now doing. So that was it then—even that had not blackened her soul enough. And yet here she was, with the first bit of an underage dragon boy’s precum leaking out onto her lower lip. With his two inches as hard as they could get.
“Twilight!” Spike’s voice was a writhing pain to match his body movements, following him with every shudder as he twisted and turned on the bed, clearly agonized in some way at the behest of Twilight’s tongue and mouth. “It hurts! Please… please, no more…”
Miraculously, Twilight withdrew her mouth. For many months she had done nothing but this, sucking him hard and then going on and on while touching herself, until Spike screamed and came, his voice cracking as the tiny bit of sperm his miniature testicles produced dribbled out onto Twilight’s tongue, and she sprayed her own girlcum a thousand times more in volume all over Spike’s bed, screaming like a banshee, as though her organs were being wrenched from her, as though she was in some state of proximity to death, a heart attack or just simply dropping dead at the amount of pleasure she was experiencing. But eventually she hadn’t been able to restrain herself any longer, and now the hardness that Spike felt, the uncomfortable pain that throbbed up and down his tiny dick, meant Twilight was about to get on top of him. That she was about to do everything Spike had just remembered, now closer to him than ever.
“Lie still, Spike. This will be over soon.”
‘I know,’ Spike wanted to say. But his throat and mouth couldn’t make the words come out. The sob aching to come out was too strong, and it held them back, at a mercy, with itself.
The worst part of it was feeling the imminence of the entire act—the way what Spike only knew as the part between Twilight’s leg, or really, he knew it as what she called it, when she screamed at him, when she moaned and groaned and writhed and bit her lip until it poured blood all over his chest—the way it approached, and he felt the heat of it, the awful slickness of the walls, the way the part on the outside clung to him, and the part just above was the part that Twilight ground into his stomach until it was dripping wet and sore and raw and his belly ached for days after that. There was the approach, the hesitation of the final millimeter, and then—
Twilight sighed like her soul had been lifted. There was the first bit—the tip—the head—the barrier to her climax. She didn’t wait. Her body moved in a fluid motion downward, the first bit of her pussy devouring Spike’s cock and squeezing it like a tightened fist.
“Twi…light!” Spike cried out as his body jerked, his hips seizing upwards into Twilight’s welcoming pussy.
Twilight felt the thrust into her cunt, the tiny little impression of inches it made, the way Spike’s stomach pressed against her clit. And then she felt it again as his hips spasmed upwards a second time. And then she recognized the look in his eyes as he shut them—as he clenched them tight, and his tiny claws began to shake.
“Are you cumming, Spikey?” Twilight asked. Again, the lust in her voice was unforgiveable—as now was the insistence. The unapologetic want for the utmost of what she should not want. For Spike to answer her in any way in the affirmative.
“Yes! I’m cumming Twilight!” Spike had been trained to say this by Twilight after only a few nights, usually reciting the phrase at the peak of Twilight’s horrifying screaming, as she made the worst of her noises and bucked the hardest, slamming herself sometimes into the bed like an animal had possessed her. At first with just her mouth around him, when her lips dragged out every uncomfortable drop of the white stuff that he knew and hated came out of him—and then now as he was inside her, as the appendage he felt wholly alien from penetrated the mother figure that had nurtured him for so many years, and was now hurting him regularly for her own pleasure, pleasure which he knew was wrong and dirty and damning. But he had to say it. Because otherwise she would make it worse.
“Yes, Spikey, cum for Mommy!” Twilight began to rock her hips repeatedly into spike with significant force, as hard as she could, really, until her clit was slamming against him, until the sloshing of her pussy juices over Spikes tiny member was so audible it sounded like a type of primal percussion, the noise of the primeval ancestors of ponies and dragons as they fucked—replicated in miniature as Twilight twisted even the very nature of love between two sentient beings and used it to get herself off. “Cum for Mommy!” Twilight repeated, her voice shaking deliriously. “Say you’re cumming—say you’re cumming for Mommy.” She said it with insistence. As though consequences were available.
“I’m cumming for you, Mommy!” Spike began to cry as he said it—as the weight of its awfulness bore too much on him, the so often comfortable and familiar word worming its way in to what he knew was absolute darkness. The way he could feel how Twilight loved it so absolutely.
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Cum for Mommy, Spike. Cum for Mommy! Oh, buck, buck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming I’m cumming I’m cumming-all-ov-er-you, buck, yesssss!!!”
Twilight’s words degenerated into primal wailing as her pussy surged, again and again, and the ejaculatory part of her vagina flooded Spike with her marecum, more than she’d believed could ever be inside her before, and still not enough to match the wracking, paralyzing, annihilating pleasure of the way she felt, the amount her body overwhelmed her understanding of consciousness with its capacity for lust and satisfaction. The way how awful it was only made every second of it better—that when she came, she came as though she would die, as though her last second alive would be the Nirvana of the awful bliss she had achieved, and then her soul would depart, fleeing her and leaving a corpse behind as she descended to Tartarus to suffer throughout eternity for her crimes.
Spike sobbed through the whole thing. The way the part between his legs shook and became wet, and was seized and squeezed over and over again by Twilights insides; all of it made Spike wail, and his sobs only decreased in volume as Twilight finally began to come down. This took the better part of three minutes; for a while, Twilight’s carnal euphoria seemed unending. All the while, the noises she made filled Spike’s conscience with dark misery, as though he was hurting her just by being a part of this whole awful ritual. Every grunt and groan that escaped Twilight’s lips as she thrashed atop him sunk into Spike like a rusted dagger, piercing him like the moonlight had pierced the translucent watching point of the window.
When Twilight’s shudders finally stopped, and she managed to steady herself atop Spike’s crotch, his miniature genitals long having since withdrawn, it took a full minute for her to stumble off of him. Her legs shook incessantly, as though she had just relearned how to walk, and she tumbled into the bed beside him like a newborn filly, shuddering and shivering and bucking for no particular reason, sighing into the cold night air with the heat of her breath. This part took three minutes before Twilight had collected herself, and finally managed to sit up, then to stand, then to pull up Spike’s stuffy cotton blanket and wrap him in it in some imitation of motherly affection, despite his wetness and shivering and the scars left inside him that could never be removed.
“There, all better.” Twilight’s voice glimmered as she kissed Spike’s forehead, and she giggled, as though she had told a joke, or just done a friend a funny favour on a dare. “Now you’ll be fine for a little while.”
There was the reminder: this will happen again. I will do this to relieve you of the agony of death. I will do this and demand it remains forbidden to speak of—that the mark I leave on your spirit will be yours to bear alone, until the day grief overwhelms one of us, or perversion overwhelms Twilight alone, or, even worse, both of them, and the miserable resistance of Spike’s innate revulsion gives away, and his innocence dies, never to be rekindled.
“Sleep tight, Spikey. I’ll wash your sheets tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
Twilight smiled before she turned, letting herself out into the hallway and down the hallway into her room within no more than a minute. Then her door closed with a click, and Spike was alone again, lying on his back, cold and covered in fluids that made him feel like death would be a relief from the taint of his body.
And in Twilight’s room, Twilight snuggled into her warm, clean, dry bed, with its fluffy pillows and fancy, puffy comforter blanket, and closed her eyes, window free of moonlight, and sighed contentedly, and drifted off to sleep without so much as a regret for what she had done.
And this continued to happen from time to time, until… Well. That’s another story.
