Parting Her Thigh-Line

Josh was a man completely apathetic towards the rear-ends that belonged to the ponies that strolled into his place of work. The place being a lingerie store and his job, on regular occasion, measuring equine asses. He held the counter for the most part, taking orders and encouraging window-shoppers to buy now or leave early.

Canterlot wasn't a cheap place to live and certainly not a cheaper place to shop.

But he got payed on comish for every mare or stallion he got to make a custom order. And the best way to get that, he had to get a little hands-on.

It didn't matter who the pony was.

The moment he settled his hands on their hindquarters, they were sold. Their shameless hips pushing back into his front, tails trying to wrap around his waist as he slid the cool and cold measuring tape between trembling thighs.

There were some benefits in not having claws at the end of his fingers, it seemed.

Ponies tended to fall into a sort of flight or fight state around him, wanting to either buck their way free or mount him like a box at the flip of the coin. Him being a new and exciting addition to the talking species gene pool. It might only be because he was taller than most of them, a well-deserved two heads unless a pony felt like rearing up on their back legs but even then, Josh could always stand on his toes to prove a point.

Josh changed up his method depending on how much his fellow employees gossiped about who was coming. Tourists got a hovering hand grazing gently above their skin as he maneuvered the chilly tape around their legs. Richer out-of-towners? A bit of thumb-magic, pressing into their quivering hips as he steadied his customer. Nobles were his favorite. A little pat on their cutie mark and they were buying orders that would keep the shop (and his rent money) in the black for months.

Collar Comfort, his boss, said the whole process of learning one's 'body numbers' were akin to making a stitching a fleeting seam between you and them. One that lasts long enough for them to part with the contents of their wallet and nothing more. That was, in her own special way, calling him a hooker. Well, she didn't exactly hesitate after hiring him to not pick some more 'exotic' species to work her store. Minotaurs and Spinx weren't exactly common in their nation but she managed to stock her employee roster with them.

If he's a hooker, she's his pimp.

But this, the invitation to the royal palace, and this, the fucking clusterfuck that would have them banished to the moon, was far, far out of his pay-grade.

“I'm out.” Josh blurted, breathless and pale at the sight of the massive and horribly bloated cocoon of golden silk taking up half of Princess Celestia's private dress rooms. That's right. Rooms.

Emerald green threads slithered around the gaping slit of an entrance, stripping the few ponies wearing clothing bare and feeding the stolen fabric to it, the cocoon. Josh was lucky to still be wearing his black work slacks and striped collared shirt. Several ponies were trapped into its folds, strung up like decorations as the living string enbounded them to its shell. Josh winced, glancing away as the cocoon played with their bodies and teased the guards attempting to take back the room.

They couldn't incinerate the cocoon with so many hostages that the thing had its disposal. Not to mention, the most important guest that was still inside.

“Collar, I'm taking my vacation days early.” The short and stout mare didn't respond, blankly blinking as the hall was filled with screams. “Collar, let's just go. There's nothing we can do and there's no proof that we were responsible. The door's right there.”