Nine-hundred feet below Thunderlane lay Ponyville in a dusty wild lattice. He was stretching, staring at the few steady moving hues he could see among the several junctions. The weather captain grunted. Thunderlane cracked his joints, turned around and reared his hind-legs at the nearest cloud. He bucked and a powerful bolt of lightning shot out when, accompanied by the harsh roar of thunder. Afterwards he looked and the cloud was the same: a white fluff.
“Huh? that’s not how you make a rain cloud. You wanna compact it — lemme show you.”
The cyan captain flew and retrieved three small clouds and put them in a group. She patted and punched them to a moderately sized puff, somewhat darkened — heavy and thick enough to barely stay afloat, then did a simple jump on the top, causing a drizzle of rain. Thunderlane had slowly scooted away to a cloud platform, still watching, mildly fascinated.
“Not bad huh?” the captain said in a cocky cross-armed stance. “You’ll get better at it, but since you’re new to this just take a chill from rain duty today.”
“Well thanks,” he said.
Something rumbled. Shortly to the east were a collection of the storm clouds gathered in mass and moving over Ponyville.
“They’re starting without me huh?” said the captain, squinting. Thunderlane was on the platform jumbling the contents of his personal bag. He pulled out a camera and his captain sped away to the murky mass.
“Same place tomorrow, Thunder!”
He held the camera up to an eye, focused and clicked.
Having slung the bag over his shoulder, his flight turned to Cloudsdale — currently small and a distant array of bright columns and vaporous cascades. With fair immediacy the events and emotions of the day had all evaporated from thought and memory. His obdurate façade eased into a relaxed manner as he flapped long and languorously, thinking of the next steps. The weekday routine had been pleasantly broken. Now there was more time.
He looked closely at the surroundings while floating through the city. The normality of his house — a white, one floor, five room structure made of clouds and atop another large, sturdy disk cloud — and it being buried deep in the environs center-south Cloudsdale caused some confusion in locating it. The placement was somewhat purposeful, along with a lack of mailing address, as he didn’t want anyone (particularly his parents) to easily find him. There was one distinguishing feature to the house, which were two small dark gray and teal painted stripes on the side. He passed numerous identical houses and became enclosed by hundreds of Cloudsdale structures, above and beside and below him. Eventually he found the distinct mark, smudged and dripping from recent rain and perhaps, he thought, being too distinguishable. He opened the door and peeked inside, making certain it was exactly his, then flew in and closed it.
Inside was a typical layout, a small kitchen to the left, a lounge to the right, and a spacey room in front that connected the house and lead to a hallway. The carpet was light-green, clean; the kitchen items were dully spotless and products lined in neat order. He walked straight ahead into the hall and entered the bedroom.
Here the floor was a darkened grassy green, stained with splatters and littered with discarded paper, cans, shavings and tissues. The walls, which were an initial blue and beige, seemed purposely painted in an occasional dried stain of white or orange fluid in careful linear markings, or rather faintly formed equine figures diverging into smeared scribbles. To the far upper left corner of the room was a bed with one teal sheet neatly laid over the mattress and another half strewn on the floor. In the upper-middle of the room was a wooden desk, rough surfaced, brass linings running through the horizontal center of its front, a lamp to its side and an open spot to scoot a chair in. Atop the desk were stacks of stained papers, printings and bent notebooks. A particular stack reaching at least a foot high lay off to the side — they were photographs and drawings, small and straight. In all the room the desk seemed to be the thing in good order.
Above these stacks were four pictures, four mares in glass and wood frames, one purple — the princess of friendship, one a mulberry, one a pale olive with a carrot cutie mark, and one a light amber and looking astute with rimless glasses and a green collar — the mayor. All these were taken from afar.
The doors were locked, the windows shut and the blinds closed. The room was dark. Thunder trudged to the desk, crunching and cracking strewn fragments of trash with every step. He sat down in a little rigid swivel chair and scooted his hind-legs under the desk. From his bag he pulled out and pasted the picture earlier of his captain, tail flapping above her exterior, and pasted it to those on the wall, then leaned back in his chair and looked over the desk. A minute later he pulled out one of the crooked notebooks and flipped to a random page in the middle.
The thoughts came sudden and they were vague, without detail, but a general picture would form and spur him on to a premise. First there was that cute, mature Berry mare, which he’d seen in the passing at least twice. She was far from slim, though not considerable enough to be called fat. He wished he could capture her walk, when she ate, drank and talked and paste them as framed motions, for when she did everything there was that plump and filling rump, jouncing and jiggling each casual step, wobbling with each turn and tilt, placed between flaring hips that seized and set his body afire, streaming the wanton blood to his prick to bring him to a letter or note. He scribbled a fantasy, a note to her, how the day would be hot and the trees would relieve them, on a hillock to sleep restfully next to her, prod her in her sleep and slather her humid hole with a face-full of pillowy, rotund raspberry ass.
That perky little Carrot. She carried a body and manner that gave an earthy feel, not like a farmer, more a very healthy gardener — and such a liveliness she displayed. In his picture she carried carrot baskets across her back accentuating the face and flank. He remembered the hips shook side to side, up and down a little while she carried the carrots, quickly walking; a calm countenance and radiant fur; someone he had to capture as she came and went. He believed her plumply perked rear perfect for a spanking — a little taut wobble and a light smack that resounds — her delicate face whimpering and blushed. She could possess a tight cunt and a tight throat; a paltry squeal that could bring him to his ephemeral end. But these were thoughts and with such a reverent one he would oath to exempt from action.
Sweat dripped from his head and onto his neck, soliciting more fury to his written reveries. He looked up briefly to retain an image — the princess, purple and plush, plush in her cheeks like soft feathery-filled fabric. Her face was cute; her mouth was open and wide in a laugh. Happiness was his center point for her, a happy cute and open princess — maybe playful. Yes, they would be playful — play a game, a guard or some underling friend of hers could join.
He shuffled the notes quickly and looked to his captain. She was a taut and tense mare, molded with muscles; had a cocky, domineering attitude and a rather gruff voice. The strength of her legs and thighs could crush him, he thought — the sweat, constantly sweaty; her strong body could lock him, his face in her sweat soaked nethers, lying on a cloud far away, or in the middle of the city.
But what did they matter to him? They weren’t his ambition; it was trash, ejaculated thoughts for temporal concern. He looked to the center of his fivefold set, to the amber beauty, the mayor. She was standing midday in the open on soft trodden dirt, caught in a flirtatious pose and a small smirk. He had encountered her twice before. The first time was an accident, no dialogue. The second time was a failed quest to get her attention, and she'd given his fumbling talk little more than a sneer. But he had watched her from the clouds many times before, speaking to the crowds, entering and exiting the building. This was who mattered, the cream of his orgiastic fantasies. She was a special point for others, a delectable and dainty treat; slender and curved, compact and soft, a healthy and supremely feminine body.
His cum sputtered out, white and voluminous before even starting the text, most of it flying up under his desk top.
This sensation was common — cheap.
He tossed the pen and let out a long sigh before reclining in his swivel chair. He continued staring at the mayors’ picture, thinking. All the clops and all the thoughts resulted to nothing in reality. Something should be done. Such a mare — this mare — must be done. He wasn't spent, and the ponderous reservoir of his desire quickly arose again. A patience and restraint was running out. The lady had an odd grip for him. It was something beyond him, really, and beyond what his pens could express. They were in fragments of his everyday motion as a grotesque sort of muse. He could see her and has seen her sitting in her dull brown swivel chair and wracked with paper, and so sitting enthroned upon a dead enterprise, and the musk coming from somewhere in the tower, and this musk, he thought, of where she lived, or rather the general aura she brought in any long length of time. She was like the tensed teacher down there of those foals, though even more of a trespass for her face had the glimpse of a lost beauty, rather turned to the palatial ruins now overgrown in weeds and silent shoots to give precedence and testimony to a sickness of age, but age was not the exact definition, rather it seemed like something she wrought herself, and in the false gestures and deriding intonations she displayed the dead and modern succubi he had always really been alluding to in his distastes — that synthetic quality of no longer representing a race, rather the movement of the increasingly vortexual disposition of Equestria, and so it seemed the world was displaying — and he could see it, the few surface shards in the sad collapse of a pony. It was was a pony who in her past was made for him, maybe, and now gone — though really it was the present musky and quiet corruption that attracted him. When she was disdainful and begrudgingly jobbed to give in to his alien complaints, requests, or comments there was some wild-eyed fanaticism in her that incongruously looked like the pale blue impression of a darkened vaudeville back-street trying to reflect him, and maddening cold, like a wet December — and he was mad for it. She was in all elusive and represented, almost archetypally, something deeply-rooted — a wonder defying essay, expunging life-like sludge water in a vacuous and somehow beckoning way. Of the age and for the moral commodities of the age and in this way, and others, disgusting, and yet something subtly ancient for any social meaning wasn't enough. Maybe the distillation of his entire female image.
She had once come in a dream to see his humors, desires, fetishism laid about and, darkly, gave him a smile indefinable. There was talk and an informality with which they spoke - both sitting submerged in the crypts of his mind.
A vengeance and passionate expulsion was needed, and perhaps a synthesis with himself will be reached through it, though he suspected only something paler, colder and all the more morose to be aroused. It was hours and hours on this, this point before.
But, on this particular scene there came a solid conclusion for himself.
Soon he smiled. He made a decision. He was going to confront her again. She worked at city hall of course; it’s where he got the picture, but hadn’t given a look to where she lived. It’d be easy to find out really, he would just have to wait for her.
Roughly a hundred feet and up hiding on a small white cloud he looked down on the high-noon commotion of Ponyville and could see through the stirring dirt the large and almost ominously dark silhouette of city hall. He squinted, fearing he wouldn’t see her exit, waiting for visibility to improve. She left at five before, but he’d seen her leave at six as well — was it seven? Why would one leave at five or seven? It had to be six or eight. This was sensible. But how would he even tell the time? Wait and wait.
Over the hours he grew stiff and heavy, though the picture, the papers and his loins kept his eyes adept. On occasion he would look out to see the modest entirety of Ponyville. He watched the sun sink by the minute, lower behind distant mountains, fiery orange and faint, the blue shades of rising shadows and gleaming yellow off grassy plains going to a distant pink substance. There came that concept of beauty, familiar and somewhat tenderizing. His perversion did not deter his admiration for this, for the beautiful meanings of a mare. He pined for more than a quick and rough rutting. In all his ambivalence, he would appreciate the mayor.
Of course, he wouldn’t forget to lightly brush and stroke her shuddering physique, absorb the phthalo gaze (and how disgusting it is), her pale complexion, tasting and touching her texture; he would see the grimace on her indelicate face which in turn gives rise to a certain sick delicacy of its own — and the tensing and twitching of her musculature, trying to hide or kick away his carnality from her abandoned treats, then screams and squeals — likely proverbial shrieks while he penetrates, slowly, smoothly and still caressing the tepid mold, clasping in some odd embrace — that is, if she was easy. If she was too much of a trouble new and dormant sparks could surely be lit — what would be inevitable anyways — and as dawn neared all the inscription of paper and torpid shuddered brain-wire would be fulfilled. But still, there was playing. He loved play. He would make the event last long, like a drawn breath of climax.
The doors of city hall opened and he was at attention. A secretary. There were a quite a few of them; plenty of other visitors leaving. No mayor. He laid his chin on his hoof. He’d gotten hard from his thoughts, and felt his stiff self dig into the cloud. Strange, like being wrapped in moist cotton. He’d never fucked a cloud before.
A door opened again. Down and to his grand delight it was the Mayor Mare. Still light and grayish, looking like she was trying and failing to blend into the compounded, trampled dirt. She was tired in the eyes, heavy of step, but stood straight and proud. Thunder bit his lip in thrill and started to lightly flap, pushing the cloud along, still covert, still inserted. He watched her go from the square and take a left on the wide paths into one of the main housing areas of town. Her wavy tail bobbed with her stately steps and as keen as his Pegasus eyes were, he could not see the lewdness beneath it. The round and proper cheeks around it were clear and flexing, and so was the tan and blue ribbon-tied cutie mark.
She stopped at what was assuredly her house, a thin two-story structure in the center of town. He watched her walk in and after some scanning saw a good entrance for later — a window was opened that appeared to lead to a bedroom. Simple, simple, he thought, Ponyville windows were easy to break into — just wooden curtains, four nails set shallow. The driblets of his seminal fluid commingled with the white of the cloud.
A powder-blue pony was flying towards him from above. Thunderlane retained his position.
"Thunder!"
"Flitter."
"What're you doing? You weren't at work today and we were kicking in another storm in Galloping Gorge."
"Eh, not up to it. I had some things to do myself."
"Well, after missing the Hurricane and all the captain's starting to get mad at you."
"Yeah." Thunder looked at the surrounding area for a few outstanding objects to remember, and trying to soften himself.
"But what're you doing?" she said.
"Huh? Chillin' is all." He looked at her. A lot of the colts saw her as a wild kind of hot. Something was too plain about her, but still natural.
"You worked night-guard in the city before right?"
"Well my sister did."
"You think I could borrow some stuff?" He was flaccid and stood up. "Safety and all. I'm planning on flying tonight."
Time passes. Tonight, he'd decided, yes, tonight. He picked up one of the stained rags in his room and slimily wiped the sweat from his face. It was almost dark, almost time for him to leave. He didn’t need much cover in the night, he already had an all-black coat and Ponyville had primitive lights. Still, he put on a pair of reflector flying goggles, making anyone unable to see his gold eyes should they glow or reflect, then a black flying mask to hide his cyan-green mane, and black short-pants to hide his tail. He grinned while he put the shorts on. The tightness of it would only make the relief of unleashing his large and attentive friend greater.
It would be easy, really, he thought, it was only Ponyville. What would raping the mayor really do? Would she tell? They couldn’t find him, they wouldn’t; they hadn’t yet.
The fantasies traversed and embellished his thoughts so much that he was at the brink of confusing them for memory, and he soon began to relish these 'memories'. He imagined he'd done the act three times — with the haughty seamstress in Manehatten, the prissy lacquer marketer from Fillydelphia, and the young filly by the river stamping amidst the Everfree. They were the best bouts of lechery he’d ever experienced. He hadn’t heard a thing from them. He was never seen. Their reactions were nothing. He thought of the mayors reaction afterwards; perhaps she would be just as contemptibly stolid, maybe cry a little, or be angered, begrudgingly accepting it. Something would be affected, violated, though bitterly to Thunder he saw himself only adding his stain to the pile. He thought back to the carrot mare, considered only someone like the mayor deserved it anyway.
Over to his table-stand he grabbed the mayor's picture. He saw his reflection in the glass frame, his mouth open and his eyes doting. Gripping the table, he laughed, then bit his tongue and tensed his body in excitation. He was despicable, he thought, but he loved his appetite, and tonight would be a worthwhile venture — obviously it would be the fondest of his pursuits. No more waiting. It was time to fulfill.
It was terrifying and the dark of things seemed to collapse gradually around him. As he exited he willed his forward movement into a numb blur. His determination and the elusive hatred guided him through the wide gap of black to the town below, lighted sparsely in one spot and another with a sallow lamplight like a dripping candle ready to die.
She was cringing at the hoofsteps as they echoed through the hall. Years and years past and the interior of city hall had become unbearably bland. The building was utter junk from the start and had only gotten worse her last term — the floors were mucky, the ceiling cracked and falling, the floors dented, splinters stuck from the wall, much equipment wasn't to a pony's size, the chairs were broke, and there was yet to be a lunch hall. Something like the Mayor of Ponyville' could only be incessant and inane anyways. And what right had the council to make her work this late at night?
She sat at her desk, applying her brow-line glasses. She felt the metalwork of the clock move, and move.
Papers were shuffled and signed, ink pens cracked, drawers and cabinets opened and pains lingering. The clock — it was twelve.
An hour or more passed. Just one more paper to sign — a document for eye-patch emergency insurance. She rolled her eyes; the council and their power-hungry outsider president Colgate had already gone behind her back and approved these kinds of papers, and her job was reduced merely to making these things publicly official. The bitch needed that bright calcified smile whipped off.
The pen was put to paper when a faint swoosh came outside in the corridor, then a few hoofsteps sounded. She listened. There was more clamor, a door opening and closing, and another one, closer and closer.
Was someone looking for her? She thought it strange someone else would be in the halls this late. It was admittedly ominous.
The hoofsteps got louder. The slamming was only a door over. The mayor remained upright, her fore-hooves on the tabletop.
In seconds appeared in front of her doorway an all-black Pegasus lacking any hair or tail, his goggles brightly reflecting the yellow lamplight. She fixedly stared, seeing the Pegasus with a growing smile, and fell back in bewilderment slowly into her chair again .
“I knew it! Here — it had to be it!” said Thunderlane, breathing fiercely.
He froze a second, he’d spoke. Not only that, but there was light, light nearby.
Quickly he took flight at the small lamp on the mayors' desk. He hit it, and the object flew, cracked; a heavy gasp.
The moon was waxing and pale and gave a minor glimmer on the floor of the room. Only the sound of breath. The mayor leaned flat against a wall near the window. Thunder could vaguely see her contour. She retreated back in the dark and Thunder jumped and spread his wings again. Guessing where she was, he flew the direction of her run and hit her bluntly on the side.
There was an airy yelp and Thunder felt fur and cloth beneath him. He was struggling and dragging her along the floor, still flapping, to a position in front of the window. Here the upper half of her was visible in the discreet grey-light, and he still in the dark, physically indistinguishable aside, possibly, from his goggles.
He held an entire foreleg to her chest with as much weight as he could. He slipped down his lower wear and freed himself, whispering and heaving while the mayor stared at the darkness looking almost flat, with a little panic and scowling, as if in offense.
Stomach to stomach, chest to chest, he had lain atop her. All her dull fur and flesh was ready to caress prickly and intimate under him in some devouring kiss of totality. What could possibly this entail? It was certainly not tenderness, not the cruel lust but in a small moment a panging fury, like fast waves thumping inside his self.
He was pushed up — kicked back by the mayor. Thunder stumbled and fell. He couldn't see anything save the pallid panel on the floor in front of him. There was a racing figure darting like a maddened shade, the scene becoming something subterranean — limited with an undefined density of things. The attempt was at an end but he could somehow still escape, maybe recapitulate.
He got up. But being close enough to see him fair, Mayor threw a stapler at his head. The impact disoriented Thunder as he aimlessly ran for a decision, causing him to slam into the office table, tipping over. The hard objects of the desk stabbed and grazed his torso as he seemed to slide across it.
He stared up. She was running away, leaving him for shame and recollection.
In seconds he was pounced upon. He thought a few ribs may have cracked as the mayor landed, sitting down hard on his chest.
Lost of breath, stuttering and coughing — he felt a tightening around his fore-hooves. He lifted his front-legs, finding the strain around them became tighter. It couldn't be the mayor, she wasn’t strong enough to hold him down, neither could she use magic. His neck wouldn't angle for him to see down his body. Above him still sat her with the hazed expression of fury.
Mayor grabbed his black mask and ripped it off with the goggles. Her faced twinged almost imperceptibly. Thunder couldn’t know how visible he was to her, being black, though the mayor seemed to be surveying his face. She lifted her chin with a neutral manner and started a small bounce on his chest, making him cough and heave. Thunder was kicking and jerking to no effect. He feared the reprimand of death.
There was wetness — cool to the air and musky. The mayor exhaled.
The mayor was straight and proper about this. The small fur of his chest tickled her nethers as she slid herself forward onto his face. She pervaded Thunder, had made him hers. There was a rocking of her hips almost in a jolting motion over his face. A trickle of white fluid went down Thunder’s cheek and dripped on the table.
Thunder had no feeling, the situation had swerved and eddied into something unimaginable, but he knew the scene and in an instinct, maybe for reprieve before death he stuck his tongue out and made a lick at the miasmic, pulsing heat. The piquant mare fluid flicked from the tip of the tongue into his mouth and rolled down the back of it. The mayor murmured what to him was like a sneer and slid faster, smearing the juice into his fur and easing friction. Thunder huffed for air, twitching his hind-legs.
Mayor stopped and lifted up. She centered herself above his snout. It was a slow movement down to engulfing Thunder’s muzzle. Down she went; Thunder watched, felt the heat, damp and smoothness of her snatch, stretching to to encompass most of it. There was the blur of her crotch between his eyes. Slick, a powerful scent, taking all faculty of his self for a moment. The taste was savory and bitter every attempt he made opening his mouth.
Mayor enjoyed this, the stretching and constricting keeping Thunder silent and breathless. She looked down to his topazic eyes and grinned. They were busy watching her, up and down.
Muzzlefucking was never a thought to Thunder; that it could be done to this extent was a surprise. There was still no air and the mayor was allowing only a small amount to seep in when she sat up. Fluid was getting in his nostrils. He could see the mare and the indifferent leer in the shadowy outlines of her face.
He found the mayors’ ability by no means entailed natural looseness — her snatch was shut tightly when she sat up and reached the tip of his nose, and the pressure was great when she slid down again. The mayor began moaning, getting used to the movement and picking up speed, but her sounds soon strained and she stopped here.
Thunder was halfway inside her and trying to lift his head. She stared blankly at him, then got up above on all fours again and stepped off the table. Half of Thunder’s face was soaked, his muzzles tiny black fur saturated with white, sticky liquid. He moved his mouth wanting to say something before coughing again then catching his breath. Nothing came.
Drawers opened and closed. Soon something rubbery and round was placed on his mouth and strapped around his face.
“I have a few toys,” said the mayor. “I haven't the good assistant to use them in a while.”
She stepped up on the table again and, turning around, laid herself tribad position with her pussy under his chin, her tail draped over his face. It was still wet and Thunder could feel her winking against the curve of his neck — a soft damp poke.
“I know why you're here,” she said, “I got it.”
Thunder could feel his hind legs being pulled and tied to the table, the body now unnaturally positioned flat on the office desk with a few objects still poking his back. Discomforting but not painful.
“But we’re not going to do this your way.”
Thunder ached hard, twitched, and was in an indistinct embarrassment. The mayor stroked the front end of his shaft.
“The councils' been on my ass lately, you see, regarding the February Festivus and Winter Wrap Up plans, not to mention this constant ‘Friendship Castle’ business.”
She cuffed his balls with her other hoof, giving him some pain, and gyrated easily against the bottom of his chin.
“So there hasn’t been much fun lately — I’m rather pent up.”
Her movements on his upper neck were like brush strokes, quick and smooth. Mayor tightened her grip on his large and throbbing cock, pursing her lips around his tip; she slowly slid it in across her tongue and into the front of her throat. She lifted her head, the hot tongue gliding along its bottom and eliciting warm vibes of pleasure in Thunder. When it was out her tongue went to slathering and massaging the tip, slithering like a soft fire, taking off a pint of precum.
She took it in again, going far deeper — moved back up, the shaft coated in saliva until the tip barely still in. The motion continued; a bobbing of her head, neck, in equal pace to the steady brushing of her cunt.
Thunder was all wringing and flushed — his neck tensing. This was violation. The sick wench was taking him and it was pleasurable, unlike sex as he thought of it — of control and trespass, of rape. It was dark still, and the room was grown long and far and he was lost in an indefinite space of bafflement. Pain behind, pleasure atop. He willed these pleasures gone, imagined he was become some raving ghost sent in the wrong place of time. Any notion he had of the mayors’ fealty, rejection and disgust were destroyed by the degree of the her wantonness. He would devour the moment. Still some boundary could be pierced. He would hurt her. Every possible opportunity.
His hips went upwards, injecting himself into her gullet while she bobbed up. There was no choking, sputtering, other than himself. The mayor stopped.
“There will be none of that.”
Mayor, still cupping his balls with a clasped hoof squeezed them tightly. Thunder stiffened and bit his gag, feeling the bound and swell of pain, making him want to vomit. She released, hearing the air spill through his nose. Bobbling his head with her back hoof, she thought she heard a moan and whimper.
Mayor’s hind-legs wrapped themselves around his neck, pushing his jaw into her taint. Her sucking returned, still slow, full — that stimulating suction, and through minutes of pain and derangement Thunder felt the onset of an orgasm.
She went a little faster. The hot seed spewed into Mayor's mouth and she lifted up, swallowing a mouthful and watching it trickle into the air and onto Thunder’s thighs and crotch. There was a small composure regained in Thunder. It was nothing nerve shattering for him, nothing flying or splattering. Standing up above him again — sliding her cunt a long last time under his chin now properly smeared with herself — she turned round once more.
“I believe I know one thing we have in common,” said Mayor, leaning down, her spectacles aslant, “the lust is just insatiable.”
A hind hoof was rubbing him. His eyes were shut. A distant clock tocked a few times and he was hard again.
The mayor slightly adjusted her position, pussy ready to fall onto his cock. It was down and quick and quite a shock to Thunder; she initiated a vigorous pace. He saw the light body bounce, the terrible feminine figure with his prick reaming that flexible tight womb as a lecherous and ghastly communion of flesh; too close to her — a blurry motion in the grey glow of moon. This was enjoyable, to his speed, agitating and depraved and so taking a leap into another kind of sickness he went to embrace this scene and thinking still, perhaps, he was really in control. This was her expulsion for and to him. What was control here? There was nothing outside of the body and they had lost themselves long ago. It was one motion. No shame, no fever, anger, but a pure and subterranean kind of love. What a wench.
Thunder thrust his hips as best he could. The full girth was taken as the mayors body dropped. It was was sleek and tight, impressive; too many qualities — feeling wide and virginal — to be normal, . The tempo was as fast as possible from the start; the two moving and moaning, tensing in anticipation of the coming end.
Mayor came first, clenching tightly and squirting, drenching Thunder’s shaft. She got off quickly; sitting opposite from Thunder she masturbated while her hind-hooves stuck out massaging his cock. Thunder came shortly after, this time shooting seed far and high, hitting the mayor.
Mayor quietly laugh and removed her glasses. Through the muddle of the dark her eyes searched him, pellucid indigo and keen, supercilious. She got up.
“So is this—” the mayor turned around, presenting her round and firm posterior, “your favorite part?”
It remained facing him over his length. Like before, she came down. Thunder was already aroused again, even more livid than he thought he'd be when the mayor placed his prick between her two taut cheeks. She clamped, began slowly jerking him, down and up. This was the fantasy of his days and nights, things put to the paper and walls, and it was what he imagined and observed in his revulsion and obsession — not impressive hips, but the cheeks themselves exact to taste, full and filled, fit as two hard cushions, undoubtedly leaving some decent indentation on her chair, and too prim and cultural to be a true earthen, earthen like the robust and forgotten forms he likes to see lying and shoveling in the ground itself.
They moved, down and up, the amber cheeks, giving a shivering fire to Thunder. She leaned back and sat, hotdogging him. Tensing one then the other. Swaying herself back and forth, left to right and clutching muscle, working the cock like a brush. While she worked, Thunder sunk deeper up into the crevasse, fuzzy flank nuzzling his pelvis and accentuated by her sharp gait. No warmth, just heat. Soon a small sample of seed shot into the crevice. Thunder tried moaning to a blank breath.
With a new roughness Mayor rubbed her taint against his perpetually stiffened girth, reveling in the prodding stimulation. In another minute Thunder was again erect, aching. The stallion tried to endure.
Scooting up a little, moving down, aligning his tip to her tailhole. There was mild strain as she commenced insertion, stretching. The farther in the smoother the slide, Thunder lubricated appropriately with his own spilled seed. When mostly inside, she lifted up and began a new gradual, familiar motion.
The jasmine orbs flattening and shaking, pouncing against the groin every few seconds. The Mayor flicked her tail and tickled his chest and chin, inciting some irritance in Thunder that was quick and drowned in the overwhelming hot obscenity of a submissive anal service. The Mayor held her posture while Thunder quivered, body went limp and rigid and continued as if in a cycle. The Mayor noted him.
"Well don't die — you sick fuck."
The pace picked up. The firm and tight bottom now beat his hips like a drum; fleshy slaps and gasps rang out the room. The mayor clutched the edge of the table when she felt the next climax near — tugging and taking almost its entire length. Finally almost in conjunction with Thunder she came, shouting and exhaling to the black space, spilling semen to the edge of the desk beneath while in a wavering, clumsy roar Thunder blasted his spunk up and between that cruelly sanctified part of her and feeling coldly complete in it.
When it had all ceased the only sound apparent was the Mayors panting and the howling of Thunders nostrils. The Mayor stretched back. The collection inside her was warm. She ran a hoof through her mane and sluggishly set herself to the floor. Thunder heard her walk to a corner of the room and come back, laying a lamp on the next to him on the table. The lamp turned on.
"It still works — good.”
The light was broken and dying. It seemed to graze the border of her face, dimly profiling the rest as she looked down on Thunder. Vacantly she stared without glasses at the wretched and bound Pegasus and swam about his own meaningless glare. Thunder blew air around his ball. The mayor poked it, pushed it near the extremity of his mouth and almost making him vomit with her own mouth turning into a wry, nauseated grin.
On her gray mane Thunder marked some peculiar and tiny striping on the forehead and going out until darkening, he could swear it. She shifted her head a little closer to the lamp before going away and the thin hue was lighted upon — pink arches, he saw, and perhaps a single thread of it hanging over her ear. It was clownish, exceeding depraved, an especial farce against the ideal configuration of nature. Pink hair. Pink hair on an already ceramic, beige body. This form had fucked him, and fucking it was a pining. He was burning, violent, and ready to tear into the broad setting with an authority outside of a pony.
“I think I'll tell police,” the mayor said somewhere in the room. "I should."
It was abominating, unreal — and made Thunder ragingly hard again. The mayor was laughing at this.
"Perv. And it's not like they'll believe anything from you."
Damned wench.
"That's why I don't think we're done."
The Mayor came to view again; those minute pink creases as she removed the ballgag. Thunder didn't say anything.
"Go ahead and scream."
The rope on his hind-legs were loose, having been slovenly tied in the moment and battled with. They were ropes of his mind, maybe, and he would slip, break out and now feeling proper in his gall would be ready to dominate without those delays.
"You're not really my kind of colt." She was rubbing his stomach. Silence. "I'm not all that mean though. Maybe I'll fuck to just spite it."
She looked up. It was an err and he kicked his hind-legs out — his fore-arms fought and jerked and slid free. Released, he jumped up, still on the table. There was a space, five steps between them, and the Mayor was awaiting, a little worried and still a pinch of mocking. She was daring him — yet Thunder had no sequence. There was the imitate harlot, young, dripping, frazzled — maybe vulnerable, but not much so. There maybe, it recurred, he looked on himself. The Mayor eased a moment later.
What was the hesitation? What couldn't he do now? He was thinking, seeing this dripping, smug lady and couldn't believe what had transpired. It was ridiculous, all the bravado about it. They were both just perverts, willing to rape in revolt against the unavoidable oncoming order, in an environment or a gender. For a second it was simple — and yet the night, the lust, and his seething bravado about it hadn't turned; her body still represented that corrupted form of things.
The two were still motionless. When Thunder receded back to the words 'fulfill', it was then that, in a dash, Thunder jumped into the fetid union again, knocking the lamp. A lover.
She would straddle him once more and again and again; their bodies would shake and jitter, and soon all straps were loosed and the table discarded for buggering around on the floor in files and pens. The connection was thunderous, lasting for hours, with each position eliciting some new waves of bliss and lubricity. The touching and patting, smacking and thrusting — they were isolated and gratifying some long-held hungers, and as they fed and fed they would not empty until the morning violet shaded the room.
One last slick schlick and the mayor collapse beside the dark Pegasus. For once, the two of them felt spent. A ray of sunlight shone in and reflected from the Mayors’ spectacles a little ways off.
Down the hall in a business march, all laundered and stern, went the intermediary counsel, assigned out of Canterlot for the especial observance of Ponyville. Colgate Minuette and the Cabinet of Assistance were sneering seeing each doorway left inappropriately open. Then, the sharp glint finding the eye of the blue President, it was beheld that even the mayors room was — horrifically — open.
They walked in. Of first note to the suits was the filthy, leaking and possibly unconscious couple in the center surrounded in pens, staples, inks and red-marked sheets.
While they were severally aghast and some vaguely aroused or sickened at the rooms poignant aroma, Colgate stood to a corner and scowled at the ground. Picking up and reading one of the papers, she saw — without mark and overdate — her crumpled Eye-Patch Emergency Document.
"Wench."
