Aphrodite’s Dance
Admiral Biscuit
You hadn't really planned to go to the party, but Phil had insisted it would be good for you to get away from books for a little bit and cut loose, and you were getting a bit blurry-eyed from studying.
Plus, there was essentially free beer. Oh sure, there was theoretically a cover charge, but since you’d come to the party late, nobody was actually bothering to collect it.
Two minutes past waking in the door, you had a Solo cup full of beer in one hand, a plate in the other, and you were mingling. Whether by luck or design, the music was loud enough to render smalltalk practically useless, so you waded into the press of people, smiling whenever you passed someone you knew.
You lost Phil in the crowd of dancers pretty quick. Dancing, you decide, was really a rather grandiose description of what was actually going on: it was more a crowd of drunks who had never actually learned to dance grinding and dry-humping, and for a moment you consider leaving. Surely having one beer and some stale snacks fulfilled your social obligation for the week, and sooner or later you were going to have to do your homework.
But you don't leave. You move around the edge of the crowd, and you tell yourself that it’s like a shark searching for prey but really it’s more like a minnow trying to blend in with the school well enough to avoid being gobbled up.
On the other side of the dancers is a quieter room, and it doesn't take you too long to find a corner that's far enough out of the way that you can drink your beer in peace. You try to ignore the couples in the room who are making out and concentrate on your beer instead, although since it's a cheap American beer, it's actually not really worth that much of your time.
This really isn’t your kind of party, and you’re debating whether you ought to track down Phil and apologize for leaving early, or if it’s even worth the bother—he probably won’t notice you’re gone, anyway—when you spot him.
He'd found a chair in the corner, on the opposite side of the room, and he's got a half-finished beer next to him and a neglected plate of food beside it. He's kind of looking around as if he's seeking a way out but can't quite remember where it is, a look which is all too familiar to you.
You finish the last dregs of your beer, and head across the room.
He's an exchange student, and he's from Ponyville. He tells you his name is Meadow Song, and that he doesn't really know anyone here, because he got dragged along and then he lost his friend somewhere in the crush of bodies and now he's not sure if he should stay or go home alone.
That's a story you know all too well.
They say opposites attract, but it's been your experience that that's not true at all. Like seeks like, that's what your brother said, and it's true. Without really thinking about it, you squat down next to his chair, your arm almost pressing against his furry forelimb, and the two of you together start to pour out your life stories, interrupted only by occasional trips to get more beer.
You hadn't planned to hook up at the party; but in some ways there's a natural progression of events, and before too long you discover that you're holding his hoof, and then the next time that you get more drinks, you wind up sharing the seat.
Later, you can't remember who had the courage to ask to leave the party together, but by mutual consent you wind up choosing your room as a destination. It’s closer than his, so it's logical, and maybe it's an illusion, but some vague impulse tells you that you'll be more in control of the developing situation if you go to your room rather than his.
The walk back passes in a blur. You've still got your Solo cup in one hand, although you can’t remember why you bothered to bring it with you. Your other trails along his neck, brushing lightly against his soft coat and coarser mane.
Ponies don't wear clothes; everyone knows that, and one advantage to it is that his interest isn't ambiguous. He's not erect, but he's come out some—you think you remember that was called dropping, but you're not really sure. And he's slightly embarrassed by it, which is really cute. He keeps trying to shift around so that his dick isn't obvious, but now that you've seen it you can't not notice it.
You have to fumble a little bit for your key, and when you do he sidles just a little bit, maybe to block your view or maybe to help keep the hallway clear.
When you get inside, you offer him a drink and he accepts a glass of water. You haven't got any straws for him, but once he sits down he's able to hold the glass between his forehooves. Both of you realize at the same moment that in so doing, he's pretty much put all of himself on display, and you turn away, your face burning, and make the excuse that you need to use the bathroom.
You splash a little bit of cold water on your face, then wipe it off and check yourself in the mirror. Then you go back out, figuring that you've given him enough time to get himself under control.
When you come back out of the bathroom, he's on his hooves, looking around, his now-empty glass of water on the coffee table. He’s got his head turned partially to the side, examining your collection of CDs, and that's when you discover that you have a mutual interest in music as well.
When you run out of smalltalk, you turn on a movie, but neither of you actually care what it is. You've already lost your shirt—he can't get any more naked than he already is—and you're exploring his body with your hands while he does the same with his muzzle. It's so right, and yet so deliciously forbidden because you know where this is going to go, and so does he. His cock is pulsing against your thigh and it’s almost a shame to ask him to get up so that the two of you can go to your bedroom.
He's not bothering to even make a token attempt to hide his dick anymore; when he gets out of the chair it's in full view, a mottled, throbbing shaft that you can't wait to touch. It seems disproportionately large on him, and yet not something that you can't handle.
As he's climbing into your bed—which he manages with remarkable grace, despite the top of the mattress being chin-level to him—you can't resist running your hand along his barrel and trailing it up and under, not quite close enough to touch his cock, but a definite promise of what's to come.
With another guy, some of the fun of foreplay would be mutual undressing. Meadow Song, of course, has been past that point for most of his life, and you're not sure if he's actually able to participate, so you fumble for the button on your pants, and then you decide that if he wants it bad enough, he'll find a way in.
He's stretched out on his side, his big blue eyes locked on yours. He's checking out your body, and so you suck in your stomach a little bit and strike a pose.
You climb into bed next to him, not caring that he's in the middle. Crowding you is good; that gives you an excuse to get right up next to him. That gives you a reason to reach over him for balance and then it's only natural that your hand goes to his mane next and his oh-so-soft velvety ear. And it lets you press slightly into his erection, just enough that he gives a little instinctive thrust even though you both know it's not quite time for that yet.
You scratch right behind his ear, and he moans softly and then boldly pushes forward and kisses the tip of your nose, and then he moves down just a little bit, and his next kiss is on your lips and his tongue is thrusting forward so you let him in.
He feels around your teeth, his tongue resting briefly on the points of your canines, and you wonder what thoughts are going through his mind. Are you forbidden because you're a predator? Does he like the feeling of danger, even if it's play danger?
Meadow Song hooks a hoof over your shoulder and pulls you towards him, his hot cock urgent against your belly. Your hand is in the small of his back, and you bring it up, against the grain of his fur, to rest on the nape of his neck, then you push him away just a bit, You need some room, some time to think, and maybe he does too.
You break your sloppy kiss and he's panting just a bit. And then you run your hand up his neck, along his cheek, and touch it to his lips and he kisses it gently, almost nervously, like he's afraid he might break it. And then his lips are exploring your hand; you just watch him as he almost goes cross-eyed, studying your fingernails, your knuckles, and your palms. He examines every inch, his breath hot on your skin and his lips so gentle and careful.
You're hot, way too hot, and so you reach down and twist the button on your pants loose with one hand, and he's not looking at that; he's got his eyes and mouth on your other hand so you pull down the zipper and wiggle free of them and the motion finally breaks the spell.
He suddenly notices that there's nothing between him and you but a thin bit of fabric.
This is it; this is the last moment to turn back.
And then he turns his head away from your hand and plants his soft lips right on your stomach and gives you a gentle kiss, almost but not quite touching the elastic of your underwear.
He sticks his head down just a bit further and you see his barrel expand as he takes a breath and holds it and you all of a sudden realize he's getting the scent of your arousal, and it's the hottest thing a lover's ever done.
He turns back to you and his exhale is filled with lust, and your lips join again. Your hand reaches past his forehooves, along the swell of his belly, and then the back of it lightly brushes up against his member. Now that contact is established it only takes a moment to turn your hand and wrap it around his shaft.
He's too thick for your fingers to close completely around him.
Meadow Song flops on his side, lifting a hind leg to give you unrestricted access. It's not a great position for either of you, but it will do to start.
You give him slow, sure strokes, while you explore his cock. It's familiar enough to be comfortable, yet exotic enough to be extremely arousing—there's the ridge of his medial ring, and his glans is broad and flat, and oozing with a slight dribble of pre-cum.
You trail your finger up the underside of cock and then back down, your finger lingering on the smooth patch of flesh between his dick and his balls, and then you stretch down just a little bit more and slide your hand under, lifting them up off his leg.
He responds by leaning his head back in and gently gnawing on your shoulder, the strap of your bra a plaything for his tongue, and he manages to pull it off your shoulder and partway down your arm, but he can’t get it any farther while you’re holding his cock.
If you could magically make your bra disappear, now would be a good time, but you can’t, so you let go of his dick long enough to slide your arm through the shoulder strap, and reach behind your back to unhook the strap.
No guy you'd ever hooked up with could get it one-handed.
Meadow Song moves his head down, gently nosing the cups of your bra free and at first he's not sure what to do with your breasts, until you moan in pleasure when his tongue flicks across your nipple.
He moves a hoof to your hips, gently stroking with the side of his fetlock, and you match his pace with your hand, his stiff cock throbbing in your grasp.
He doesn't protest as you slide down in the bed, even though he's just lost his new favorite playthings. And he doesn't try and shove you down, either—you've had some guys try that. He seems to know that you need a moment.
It doesn't take you long to decide. You're already jacking off a pony, so the next step is perfectly logical; the only question is how best to approach it.
You scoot down just a little bit more, and now all you need to do is pull your hand down just a little bit to line him up with your mouth, until his glans almost touches your lips.
You move your head back slightly, lick your lips, and tentatively reach your tongue out and you're both a little bit surprised when it actually touches hot flesh, You purse your lips slightly and push your head down while stroking your hand up and it's just that easy to start giving a stallion a blowjob.
There's no way all of him's going to fit in your mouth without choking you, but you can take him almost to the medial ring, and now he's giving gentle thrusts with his hips while his hoof lightly strokes your back and teases at your neck. He seems to recognize that your skin is soft, because he doesn’t dig his hoof in at all.
He's salty and tastes just a little bit like hay, but it's not unpleasant, and just as you're finally getting a good rhythm going you feel him tense.
“Um, I'm going to,” he begins, but you already know he's going to; you can feel it in his body and the broken rhythm of his thrusts.
You could probably reach a shirt on the floor if you acted fast, or maybe one of your pillows, but you don't even try.
He thrusts against your hand and between your lips and you let him set his own pace as he finishes. His head bulges in your mouth and a hot flood of cum sprays into your mouth, pulsing against your throat and it's so much more than any man you've ever blown, and it doesn’t stop with just one or two spurts.
You swallow, and then let him out of your mouth, licking around the top of his shaft and his still-swollen glans to get the rest of the cum. As he deflates, you flick a little spot off his belly with your finger.
You slide back up to the head of the bed and pull him into an embrace. He tucks his head against your breastbone, and as his breathing slows you think he might actually fall asleep on you but he doesn't. He kisses your chin and your breasts and then moves his head down until he's pecking at your ribcage, and he's pushing his foreleg between your thighs, gently but insistently
There's almost no way this is going to work with you on your side, so you gingerly slide towards the center of the bed, lightly hip-checking Meadow Song to get him to move.
When you’re more towards the center of the bed, you lie on your back and spread your legs far enough for him to get between them.
Meadow Song noses your breasts again, and then works his way back down your body, his nose and mouth velvet-soft on your flesh. He takes the waistband of your panties in his teeth, tugging at them experimentally, and then his tongue slips under the thin fabric, exploring the sensitive skin there.
He can't quite get far enough, and just as you're about to push your underwear down, he gently runs the back of his hoof up your crotch, and this is the touch you've been waiting all night for.
Meadow Song teases you as he explores, touching his lips to your damp mound in a gentle kiss, then moves down the inside of your thigh.
This can't be a good position for him, especially since he's trying to avoid your body with his hooves. Whether that's out of courtesy or he thinks you're more fragile than you really are, you don't know.
You slide your foot over his rump and tail, deliberately brushing against his balls in what you hope is a hint for him to get a move on.
He gets on his hooves and side-steps across your leg,then drops down on the bed, ducks his head down, and brushes his nose up into your panties, exploring what he can through the fabric.
His tongue presses against the fabric, molding it to your flesh, and he traces his way up your lips and back down again, feeling the hot, wet flesh that's still just out of his reach, until he lifts his head slightly and gets his tongue through a leg-hole.
This must be a challenge he's never faced before, but he's solved it and you grab onto his mane as his tongue finds your clit.
Your other hand pulls your panties aside, giving him full access, and despite your wishes he pulls his head back, no doubt to get a good look.
It's strange to have him examining you like that, but if that's what it takes to get his wonderful lips and tongue back, that's what you're going to do.
He tilts his head a little bit and then he goes down again, and you're guiding him by squeezing and tugging on his mane and you hope that you aren't hurting him but you're getting closer and closer and you just can't let him stop now.
Your muscles start to tense in anticipation, and he pulls back slightly, perhaps worried that he's done something wrong. Maybe mares don’t tense up before they come. “I'm almost there, goddammit,” you hiss through clenched teeth, and he ducks his head back in and reduces your vocabulary to nothing but moans and short, breathless gasps.
When you get your breathing back under control, he's got his head resting on your hip, and you can feel him working his jaw a little bit. You release your deathgrip on his mane and unwrap a few strands of blonde hair that you’d accidentally pulled loose in the throes of passion.
Meadow Song stands back up, rump-first, and puts his hooves on either side of your hips, glancing down at each to be sure he's got secure footing before he moves forward. He's hard again, and when he moves his dick swings against your leg and you want it inside you so badly but you've got to lose your panties first.
His cock slides teasingly across your panties and then he takes another step and it slips up and over, and he lets out a happy snort.
You pull him into you, letting him put his weight on you in what must be as strange a position for him as it is for you, and neither of you hesitates to lock lips.
Working your underwear down is a bit of a trick; he's heavier than he looks and it's hard to get your butt up high enough, but when there's a will there's a way. He probably knows what you're doing but you almost wish he was actually watching, because there's no way a mare could walk a pair of panties down her legs like you are.
Once one leg's free, you kick them up and over, and they wind up landing on his back. Not quite what you had in mind, but good enough.
His cock drags down your belly as he slowly walks back, mindful of putting a hoof down on your leg by mistake. You've got one hand on it, ready to guide it in, and the other is lightly clasped around his foreleg, your fingers teasing at his shaggy fetlock.
You both hesitate and then you take command, sliding his dick down into position, and move it slightly forward, letting his head push past your slick lips and inside.
You give him a reassuring squeeze and let him push until he has to shift his weight, then you slide down on the bed, taking as much of his shaft as you can.
He starts off slow, and once he's got it figured out, he leans down and starts to kiss your breasts and lick your nipples. You're squeezing his fetlock with one hand, and the other alternates between stroking your clit and fondling his cock.
He lasts longer than the first time, driving you to another orgasm well before he finishes, and he's thoughtful enough to wait for you to recover before he resumes his long, steady strokes.
You're disappointed when his tempo finally breaks. He thrusts in all the way and then stops and you can see his tail lift before he comes.
He starts to back out, but you hold him in place with your legs—he probably didn't know you could do that—keeping him in until he finally goes flaccid enough to fall out with a gentle pop.
Meadow Song leans down and kisses your breast, then puts his head down on it and closes his eyes. His tail flicks across your leg and you let him relax for a few minutes until you push him off to the side. It's getting a little hard to breathe; the longer he sits there the heavier he gets.
He's reluctant to break contact with you, but he has to suffer long enough for you to get the blankets up to cover you, and before you lie back down, you run your hand through his mane one more time, and kiss him on the ear.
You put your arm around his barrel, your hand resting on his ruff just above his sheath. You have no idea if ponies actually get morning wood, but if they do, you aren't going to let it go to waste.
Author's Note
Pre-read by Topaz Moon
Story notes (such as they are) HERE.
