“Pinkie's Dick” and other Uninvited Thoughts

There are few things more relaxing than curling up with a good book. It’s more than just the contents of the book itself; it’s the entire experience of letting yourself go, adventuring into the world of the book and for a time splitting off from the reality around you. A good book is one that allows you to do this; to divorce yourself from the world, and become completely absorbed in another place or another time.

Twilight knows this better than anypony, having spent perhaps more of her life reading than doing any other task, including sleeping. So it is now, past midnight, yet another book in front of her on her bed, a lamp on the nightstand barely lighting the pages. Only, this time, it’s different. Instead of drifting into the world of the book, the erudite Alicorn is examining the book’s manifestation in her own world.

She runs her hoof across the pages. Feeling the silken texture of the pulped wood against her frog. Watching the paper flatten in a ripple, pushing air out from between the leaves. Hearing the faint rustle of paper on paper and paper on pony.

She bends over and presses her nose against the words, smelling the paper, and the ink, and the little bookshop she’d bought it from. Feeling the supple pages against her snout.

Lifting her head, she observes the faint yellow tinge of the paper, and the thick black letters written on it. Reaching out, she closes the book. Her hoof lingers on the cover, a soft yet stiff wooden coat. It is a rich, light brown, like milk chocolate.

A lick. It tastes of dust, but the good kind; the kind of dust that covers things of great age and hides delicious secrets beneath.

Twilight Sparkle grabs the book, hugging it close to her chest, rubbing it against her fur. Her head bends over to rub her cheek against the other side of the tome. She falls onto her back, her hind legs lifting into the air and revealing a glistening slit between them.

She maneuvers the book down her chest, down her belly, and across her tits, sliding it a few times across her mounds and pressing it in, before moving further, nestling it between her thighs. She gasps at the contact of paper to flesh. The gentle, firm spine works its way between her pussy’s lips, up and down, back and forth, brushing her clitoris as it goes. Her back legs twitch and spasm as she works, her mouth emitting increasingly loud whinnies of pleasure.

Her eyes squeeze shut, allowing a torrent of words to flow across her mind. Scenes from half-remembered novels, old poems, and biology texts swarm around her, echo in her head; each syllable punctuated by a stroke of the tome against her clit. The room, the bed, the whole world falls away, and it’s just Twilight, the words, and the book that holds them, together in a perfect dance.

It isn’t long before she ceases, clamping her hips together around the glorious covers, now splattered with juices. She falls to her side, letting out a final neigh as her partner is thoroughly soaked.

After a while, a thought comes to the exhausted mare, unbidden, but not unwelcome. That… was a good book.