Dominant Creed

Sip had never imagined having a destiny would be this complex.

Even though he was meant to be a Quiet, he couldn’t actually be that very often. The Quiet only worked a dozen times a year, randomly spread out in a pattern that Ashen had designed to look like there was no pattern to it. And however well he got paid for each of those gigs, with so few of them it would take him an eternity to earn enough to pay for his own for Cirrus. Thirty-five brands, Sleipnir above!

So he was back on the slave floor for more volunteer shifts. Or, as it were, back at Two Fountains Plaza to help auction off a tour group of visiting zebresses. Sip and two other staffers were taking turns unlocking a mare from the line of waiting merchandise and escorting her up to the raised platform on the long side of the plaza, where two auctioneers with bullhorns were hawking them to the assembled crowd.

Some of the zebras barely spoke any Ponish other than the safewords. One of them looked so nervous that Sip found himself ruffling the fuzz on her crest reassuringly while they were waiting in the wings for her time on stage. “It’s all right,” he mumbled, even though she wouldn’t understand.

The filly (it was difficult to tell age with zebras, but he couldn’t think of this one in any other way – younger than him, at least) shied away from his touch and looked at him fearfully, as if she thought it would be the beginning of molesting her then and there. It might have been, of course – she was wearing a silver-studded collar that indicated her consent to be jumped on by any passing dom without warning. Sip wondered if she was getting second thoughts about choosing that.

He had spent two hours earlier in the afternoon in a lecture hall, bearing official witness to how one of the senior den mothers and an interpreter explained to the visitors exactly what they were going into, and then circulated around to everyzebra, taking individual confirmations. Clocktower Zebrica wouldn’t have let them join the trip if they were not subs in good standing there, and of age to make decisions for themselves, but the Society’s belt-and-suspenders approach to consent demanded a cross-check of all that on arrival. Sip certainly appreciated knowing for himself that this filly was merely a good actor, not seriously scared and lost, in a strange country full of ponies she couldn’t understand –

“Going . . . going . . . gone for nine lashes and two!”

This was Sip’s cue to lead his zebra into the center of the stage, between the auctioneers’ lecterns.

“Up next is lot number seventeen. Isn’t this a cutie, brother?”

“Indeed it is, brother. Just look at that collar, too! We will open bids at two brands straight for a five-day contract . . .”

The filly plodded resignedly towards the stocks set into the front edge of the stage, apparently expecting to be locked into them. There wouldn’t be time for that in a simple auction, so Sip yanked her leash to stop her, and instead got her positioned with her rear facing outward, using tugs on the leash and light baps with a crop. He lifted up her tail to present her features to the audience.

As bids began coming in, he let her turn around facing the crowd. She stood looking back and forth in confusion between the auctioneers on each side of her as they exchanged patter.

“– Will this frightened young stripeycow end up at the bordello? Poor thing, she has no idea what’s going on. But I’m sure she’ll take to the language quickly, with all those stallions passing through.”

“I think Madam Crust has different plans for her mouth, brother. She has bid three brands and four – do I see four brands anywhere? Four? Going once . . .” The auctioneer with the mustache held up his gavel. The zebra’s eyes grew wide as she realized what the gathering was for.

“Oh, for pony’s sake!” exclaimed the other one. “Is there not a single sentimental bleeding-heart stripelover left in this crowd?”

Apparently the crowd was fresh out of bleeding hearts.

“Going twice for three brands four . . .”

“Only four brands to save this sweet, slightly shaking striped specimen from a fate worse than honest labor?”

“Gone!” And that was that, and Sip took the filly down backstage and chained her to the three mares that had already been bought by the brothel keeper.

Sip could understand why there weren’t many bidders. These tourists didn’t have anywhere to go home to after a night at the Clocktower; they would be expecting to stay in play round the clock. It made his head spin just to imagine being responsible for that. He was finding it taxing enough to plan his overnight session for Cirrus, spanning less than a day. The more he thought about it, the more little details demanded to be solved. How would she even sleep – locked in a cage or tied up in his bed? He couldn’t do both at once, so he kept changing his mind, and also kept feeling that no matter which of them he chose she would be disappointed that it wasn’t the other one.

When he had helped clean up after the auction, he went to the volunteer office to pick up his assignment for the next day, but found it deserted except for a middle-aged zebress tied to a coat stand in the corner.

“My owner had to go,” she explained in a slight accent when she saw Sip looking around. “To where I do not know.”

There was a sound of a toilet flushing, and a moment later Pencil Note emerged from the back room. “Why, hello, young Silent.” He glanced sharply over towards the zebra. “She hasn’t been uppity, has she? I swear, if those two stallions have pulled my ears once again . . .”

Sip wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond to that. Fortunately Pencil Note didn’t seem to expect an answer, but sat down at his desk and searched through his notes. “I think I’ve got you next time at Bram’s on . . . tomorrow, in fact.” He looked up at Sip. “You’re not overworking yourself, are you?”

“Oh no, I’m just . . . enjoying myself. Having fun, you know. By the way, thanks for setting me up with that other job.”

“Which other job?”

“You know, the Qu-”

“UNFORTUNATELY I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Pencil glanced pointedly towards his zebra. “And probably shouldn’t have.”

Whoops. Sip knew his job with the Quiet was a secret, but he hadn’t imagined needing to keep it secret from the pony who introduced him to it. He hurried onwards with the thing he had really come to ask.

“Say, there are some bedrooms in the Clocktower for scenes that last all night, right? Do you know how one goes about reserving one of those?”

“Well, there are two ways.” Pencil put down the calendar and adjusted his glasses. “First, you can go to the Membership Services office up in the mansion; they can usually find something for you on the day. But if you have a specific room in mind, you need to go to the guild that maintains that particular room.”

“I’ve been looking at the Admiral Fairweather Memorial Wing . . .”

“Oh? Then you’re in luck, that’s one of ours.” Sip knew this already – in fact he had done a lot of homework on this subject, picking the exact kind of room he wanted for his date. He could easily have looked up the booking procedure too, but asking Pencil Note had felt like a good way to point out, without being blatant, that he now had a sub who would do overnight scenes with him. It was a bit of a letdown that he didn’t even remark on that implication.

Pencil Note was up from his chair and waving a hoof for Sip to follow him into an adjoining office. “It’s Mistress S in here who handles it. Hey Swish, young Silent here would like to book one of the Fairweather suites.”

“Uh huh,” replied the mare in the next office, not looking away from her paperwork. If Pencil Note had first reminded Sip of a tax accountant, Mistress S was just as unmistakably a librarian. She even wore her mane in a bun. “When for?”

“Next Tuesday,” said Sip. “Until Wednesday morning, that is.”

Now Mistress S turned around, looking at Sip over her reading glasses as if she was doubting this would-be patron was even literate. “Sweetie, you need to book at least three weeks in advance.”

“Oh.”

After what felt like an eternity, Pencil Note spoke up. “Come on now, Silent is one of our most dependable volunteers. And I know you have those little lists . . .”

Mistress S rolled her eyes. “Very well then. But only because my colleague vouches for you.” She opened a filing cabinet and took out a ledger. “It is all full up on Tuesday,” she said authoritatively without even opening it. “But there’s a waiting list, and I can put you on it. If it doesn’t open up, you’ll have to take whatever Central assigns for you”.

“Don’t worry,” said Pencil Note reassuringly after they had returned to his office. “She’s always complaining about cancellations. So, you’ve gotten yourself a mare collared?”

So he had noticed after all!

“Yes. I mean, not collared collared,” Sip had to admit. “She’s still wearing red.”

“Good, good. There’s no need to rush; take the time to get to know her properly before you make a commitment.”

Sip knew Pencil meant well, so he nodded in agreement and didn’t press the matter. But he already knew Cirrus well enough to be sure she was who he was made for. He would wait, yes – but until she was ready to take his collar.

* * *

When The Day came, he managed to wait for almost an hour before he went into the livery stable to pick up George. He paused for a moment in the corridor outside the stable room to get fully into character. Inside, some of the subs were talking animatedly. Suddenly he heard one of them say something that sounded exactly like “– it was The Quiet!”

That was interesting. Sip inched closer to the doorway, to hear more of the conversation without interrupting it.

“They walked right past me,” continued the same voice in an excited half-whisper. “Or glided, or floated, whatever it is they do. And then they turns to the mare next door – I thought my hour had come, I tell you – and they don’t say a word but she pings her bell once and off they go. Like she knew it’s no good even trying to resist.”

“I knew her! Sunny Leaf, the one they took!” said a different voice, apparently holding back sobs. “She was always so nice. And now she’s . . . she’s –”

“It’s not like she’s dead,” replied a third mare. “Sometimes they come back.”

“Sometimes! But if they do, they’re – they’re different. Everypony says that.”

“Such is life, though. At least we have some breathing space now. They never show up again until you’ve forgotten to worry about them.”

“Says you. One of my watersports instructors said there was a week once where –”

“Gee Molly, how many instructors does it take to teach you how to get peed on?”

“It’s not just that! Sometimes you have to aim yours too. And –”

Sip decided that was as much as he cared to hear. He slipped on his dominant’s mask and stepped into the stable.

The four mares in the stalls closest to the door hastily shut up when he came in. George was standing in a stall by herself a bit further in, looking somewhat forlorn away from the gossipers. Sip wondered if she had trouble fitting in among the stable subs. It had been her own idea to start the scene here, but perhaps he ought to begin looking for an alternative? Or had he waited too long to pick her up? But she brightened up when she saw him.

He had a wonderful opening line prepared, but when he reached the gate to her stall he found himself blanking out on it completely. He stood there staring at her stupidly. She smiled back. To hay with it, he thought, and said nothing while he opened the gate and grabbed the lead rope hanging from her collar. With a tiny nod she followed him out of the stable.

It felt strange to begin the scene like this, without even saying hi. But in a weird way it also felt right, both of them slipping into their roles like they’d known each other forever. He liked that. Perhaps someday he could try making it through a whole scene to the climax without any words.

On the way out he took her aside to the tack room at the front of the stable. She had been wearing just her collar and cuffs while she waited for him, and even though for a long scene he shouldn’t keep her too tightly wrapped up, he figured he ought to get some kit on her to keep her reminded of her place – otherwise what would be the point? Still without a word he put a plain bridle on her head. She continued the silence while he pulled a pair of burlap wing covers around her wings. He could feel her muscles twitch a bit as he tied the drawstrings around the wing roots. The bags would let her flex all of the joints and feathers in the wings but not spread them out.

He stepped back from her to take stock of the result. Somehow she sensed he wanted to see her in motion and started walking about in the room while he had still to come up with an order. She pirouetted around at the far end and walked back past him, swishing her tail provocatively from side to side, head held high and proud.

She was beautiful.

But he had a scene to run, plans and reservations to follow through with. “George,” he said with a sigh, pouring all his regret at breaking their magical silence into sounding disappointed, “is that how a slave walks? You’re strutting like you think you own yourself.”

She let her head fall down, and her ears, and her easy smile. “I’m sorry, Master,” she said tonelessly. But for a fraction of a second, so short that he almost missed it, there was a small expectant grin and a jitter of her tail.

So now it was on. “We’ve been over this in training,” he said patiently. “Humility. A slave’s head doesn’t go above her withers, unless she’s told to.”

She nodded and lowered her head a bit further in front of her body.

“But you seem to have trouble remembering. So we’re going to do a special exercise to help you with that.” Kneeling down in front of her, he strapped a pair of magically charged martingale boxes to her forecannons, and then tied strings between the trigger levers and her bridle. He pulled on one of the strings to demonstrate how the box would emit a piercing whistle if she raised her head too high. “When this happens, you will stand still with your tail tucked aside and await punishment.”

“Yes, Master.” She nodded again carefully.

He clipped a leash to her collar and led her out on a walk through the dungeon.

She made it almost all the way up the main avenue and back again before the first time she forgot. They had stopped to admire a gangbang in progress when somepony at the other side of the scrum started jeering loudly, and she instinctively raised her head to see what was up.

The alarm whistles sounded. Most of the audience to the gangbang turned around to look at George and Sip. George quickly put her head back down and closed her eyes as if to shut out the staring ponies, blushing deeply.

Sip himself was keenly aware of the onlookers as he walked around to George’s hind end, drawing his cane. Stay calm, it’s just a crowd. Things like this happen in the Clocktower all the time. When he took aim at her buttocks he noticed how her marehood was damp already. She must be more excited than she was letting on. He realized it would be her first time getting spanked in full public view too.

He swung at her once and she gave a surprised grunt when the cane connected. She staggered forward by a hoofwidth but then stood there waiting for another hit, breathing quickly. There was a low whistle from the audience, somepony appreciating her composure. Sip hoped she noticed.

One stroke was enough, though. He picked up the leash again and led her onwards while the crowd turned their attention back to the gangbang.

The next time the whistle sounded, he did not see what had distracted her; she was already waiting with her head down and tail up when he turned around to look at her. There were not many ponies around to watch her being caned this time, so it was a bit anticlimactic. He was beginning to worry that he was relying too much on that cane, ever since their first scene and he still didn’t have a lot of ways to punish her. Was he getting stale already, a one-trick pony? He’d need to get around to talking to her about other tools soon.

When she earned her third stroke, they had just emerged from an alley leading off from the slave pits. He had glanced back to be sure she was following him, when suddenly her head bobbed gently upwards, only just enough to trigger the whistle, and he could have sworn it looked like she was doing it on purpose. But the next instant she was looking surprised and mortified like she ought to, throwing her head down and getting into position. Or perhaps astonished at what she’d just done?

The slave pits were busy enough that not everypony in sight dropped what they were doing when the whistle sounded, but there were still a fair number of ponies looking on curiously. Sip felt a mischievous impulse to let George wait for her stroke – that’ll teach her to misbehave deliberately to get punishment! – so he tried to make a bit of a show out of producing the cane and swinging it about in the air before taking aim. He wasn’t much of an entertainer, but he managed to keep about a third of the audience with him until George gave up on waiting and opened an eye to find out what was going on.

The moment she started turning her head he swung the cane, a bit harder than he had intended to. She jumped straight up with a yelp, wing bags fluffing up as she tried to spread her wings for balance. She barely managed to stay upright when she landed.

A few of the onlookers chuckled loudly at her reaction. Sip felt angry at them, and at himself. He hadn’t meant to make her that surprised. She found her balance again and waited miserably for a fourth stroke – the whistles had gone off again when she jumped – but he couldn’t bring himself to continue. It had been his fault that he waited long enough for the alarm boxes to reset.

For a few moments he wanted to call off everything. But that would have been abandoning her in mid-scene, and he was supposed to be in charge. Make a decision and own it. He lowered the cane and instead walked up and hugged her lightly, patting her mane encouragingly. “Let’s just continue,” he whispered. He waited for long enough for her to make a tiny nod against his foreleg before he let go of her and grabbed the leash instead to lead her off.

The crowd had dispersed as quickly as it formed. It was getting near dinner time.

Sip had chosen the restaurant with some care. There were, of course, plenty of places in the Clocktower where a dom could take his sub out to eat. But in many of them, that meant the sub remaining chained under the table, or at least waiting meekly at the feet of her master or mistress. Not that there was anything wrong with that – Sip suspected Cirrus would have found it perfectly satisfactory. But, selfish as it was, he would be damned if he took the mare of his life out for dinner for the first time and then didn’t get to talk to her properly. So here they were, in a pretty fancy place with white cloths and silver candlesticks on the tables, where the subs were sitting at those tables.

As soon as Cirrus took her place, wincing bravely when sitting down on her freshly caned behind, two waiters swept in from the sides and padlocked her forehoof cuffs to short chains attached to the corners of the table. Her wings spread out in surprise – they’d left the wing covers in the cloakroom – and she looked alarmed for a short moment until she saw him looking calmly on. Then she accepted the invasion meekly. He was reminded of teaching her to trust his guidance when she was out walking in a blindfold.

She sat there with her eyes downcast. Perhaps she thought they were still doing humble-posture training. “Lift your head so I can see you properly, my pretty,” he said mildly, somewhere between a command and a permission. She did so with a blush and a shy smile, which grew to a happy grin when Sip smiled back.

One of the waiters was passing out menus, and Sip began reading through his, looking for something that was neither too extravagant nor too cheapskate. He would be paying real play money for the meal – in most of the Society’s eateries the food was free, covered by his membership dues, but here paying for it was part of the story. Ostensibly George was chained to the table because he was putting up his slave as security that he wouldn’t skip out on the bill. He had plenty of money, though, even if he ought to be saving most of it for the Plan.

He selected torretini di carote e fieno with balsamic and sweetpepper relish. The waiter came back with glasses and a pitcher of water. “Ready to order now, sir?”

Sip nodded and pointed to the dish in the menu, not daring to attempt the foreign name.

“And just water and crackers for the pet, I presume?”

He had not realized she wouldn’t be eating food from the same menu as him. She hadn’t even gotten one. Maybe he could just ask for another potion of his order for her. Or would that ruin everything?

The waiter noticed his hesitation. “Or if it’s a special occasion, perhaps I could recommend our rice gruel?”

“That’ll be fine, yes,” he improvised. So much for being prepared.

“One gruel. Would you like a dollop of cum in that?”

Sip glanced over at George. Her eyes had gone wide and she was shaking her head quickly. The waiter was barely acknowledging she was present, however, and clearly expected Sip to answer. It was his job as a dom to make the decisions, of course. But this wasn’t even part of the plan.

“I’m not going to pay extra for that,” he ventured. “There has to be limits.” Hopefully the cum wouldn’t turn out to be complimentary.

“Very well, sir, no cum.” The waiter bowed and left.

Sip turned his attention back to George. “It should be enough for you that I’m getting you that nice gruel in the first place,” he told her, trying to claim back the initiative in the scene.

“Yes, master. Thank you, master.” Perhaps her smile was more amused than grateful, but he didn’t press the matter. She too was doing the best she could.

He had hoped to get into a real conversation, though, like the ones they had in aftercare. How did one start that? Just jump in?

“So, what are your parents doing in Las Pegasus?”

She did blink a few times before she answered, but she didn’t seem angry or disappointed. “It’s their anniversary. They always go for a few days around that. Otherwise Mom doesn’t travel much. So it’s a good thing it’s now so I can get away with staying out a night.”

“Are they very strict?”

“Oh no, no. I mean, they wouldn’t – I’m sure I could have coltfriends if I wanted to.”

Sip noticed she didn’t say she did want a coltfriend. He reminded himself he could still be the dom to give her the Quiet ride of her life without being a coltfriend. And it was her decision anyway. Perhaps she’d come round afterwards.

“It’s just – you know, being a slave and all.” She lifted her hooves up from the table as far as the short chains would allow, looking at them blankly. “I mean no disrespect, sir. But I don’t think it’s what they’d want.”

“I suppose,” agreed Sip. What would his parents think of him being here? Chaining mares to tables. Tying them up and using them. He hoped he’d never find out.

“Master, can I – might this slave please have some water?”

He realized she couldn’t reach the water pitcher with her chained hooves. “You may,” he agreed magnanimously, and poured for her. Her glass was low and wide, almost a bowl, so she could drink without needing to lift it.

It felt oddly naughty to mix real life into the play like this, jumping right from chatting about parents to being master and slave without a blink. There wasn’t anything wrong with that – Sip knew there were couples in the Society who stayed in play all day, every day, and their lives must be full of this. He didn’t think he could do that; he couldn’t get ideas fast enough to be in charge all the time. And he wanted to have time to try to be her friend outside play too. But it was kind of exciting to pretend to be full-time anyway.

Perhaps she was feeling it too. She looked up from her water, smiling. “At least Mom’s not riding me about grandfoals yet. My brother got that hard.” She chuckled.

“There’s always the Breeding Guild,” he suggested jokingly. Even though most of what the Breeders did was make-believe, they also catered to couples who wanted the real thing to happen in the Society’s dungeons.

She grew more serious for a moment. “Maybe I’ll do that one day. But I’d make a terrible mother. And I’ve seen what it does to my brother. Don’t worry, I’m not skipping any of my spells.”

He nodded. One of the few absolute requirements for anypony, mare or stallion, to be active in the society was to go to the thaumiatry center once a month and have a standard set of contraceptive spells cast. Except for collared couples who applied for a waiver.

“But it could be fun to try playing it,” she said – and then abruptly caught herself, dropping her head. “Sorry, master. I didn’t mean to presume –”

Planning future scenes while still being in the middle of one was probably a step too weird. “Perhaps we can, someday,” he agreed. “If you behave.” You’re not in trouble, but I’m still in charge.

She nodded, with a look of relief.

Then a pair of waiters arrived with their plates.

After dinner he took her to a blowing alley for dessert. It wasn’t far from the restaurant, but looked a great deal seedier – a narrow storefront with a single door under a painted sign that said MAMA ROSA’S CREAMERY in faded letters.

Inside was a long room where about a dozen collared and blindfolded stallions were strapped to standing racks, in a rearing position so their bellies faced the room, their forehooves and heads locked into stocks far above Sip and George’s heads. Some had their cocks out, hanging into the air in front of them. A poster near the front pronounced them to be “Fresh colts from Clocktower Equestria West EVERY DAY! Ask the staff to see contracts and dietary certificates.”

Mama Rosa herself was a pegasus mare that Sip remembered as one of the fellow visitors on his first tour of the Society. She wore a black peaked cap and a battered old flight jacket that had been modified with a lot of straps and buckles. Most of the straps hung loose except the few that were buckled haphazardly across her chest and sides. Her heavy-duty horseshoes made booming clacks against the floor planks when she walked.

“Get ’em out, you mules!” she barked as soon as Sip and George entered. “There are customers waiting!” She went down past the line of stallions, whacking those who were not ready with a nasty-looking crop until they all had full erections sticking out in front of them. The smell of musk and precum, never completely absent in the Clocktower, was palpable.

George had stopped right inside the door, trying to take in the scene without raising her head higher than proper. Sip turned to her, tugging lightly on her leash. “You know how they say a good slave can recognize her master by the taste of his cum?”

She nodded slowly, already guessing where this was going.

“You can’t do that yet, because you don’t know what to compare to. To repair that, you will now suck each of these cocks, and take careful note of the variation.”

She looked up and down the room, blushing. “Yes, master.” He could hear from the slight quaver in her voice and her quickening breath that the idea was exciting to her. He hoped.

He bapped her rump lightly to start her moving towards the first of the stallions. As she walked, he ran a hoof through her tail in the gesture he thought of as reminding her she could still safeword out if he had misunderstood her completely. But she didn’t.

The stallion in the rack must have realized he was first even though he couldn’t see, for his cock started twitching and grew half a hoof longer as George stepped towards him. She stopped for a moment barely a head in front of the waving phallus and looked back very briefly at Sip with a nervous grin. He caught up with her and put a hoof supportively around her back, to reassure her he approved. She took a deep breath and slid her mouth around the tip of the stallion’s cock.

It was not as painful to watch George blow another stallion as he had feared. He remembered himself being more or less in the stallion’s position, after their last session, and did feel just a bit envious. On the other hoof, it was still his scene. She was doing this for him, not for the anonymous stallion. And he was the one controlling her, creating an experience for her. He could work with this.

It didn’t seem to take long before the stallion went off, thrashing against the straps of the rack, and waving George around at the end of his cock, up and down and in and out, while she made gagging noises and fought not to spill the cum. She waited until he stopped ejaculating, and pulled back with a smack. She looked back to Sip for instructions, trails of semen slowly rolling down her chin.

“Don’t swallow, honey, it’s just a tasting” said Mama Rosa, who had appeared from the back of the room to place a bucket with some water in it in front of George. “Give it a good swirl around, then spit out here.” Sip nodded his assent, and she did her best to follow the instructions, depositing a mouthful of glop in the bucket. Mama Rosa produced a bowl of fresh water with lemon wedges floating in it and told her to rinse well before the next course.

As George moved down the line of stallions, Sip slowly let his supportive touches spiral from her back in towards naughtier parts. First it was merely petting her sides, nuzzing at her cutie mark, then he moved down under her body to squeeze and grope at her teats, then finally back and up towards her marehood, which by now was glistening wet and pulsated slowly with anticipation. Sip was getting pretty full and hard himself from that sight, but laboriously forced himself to hold back and stick to his plan. The third stallion from the end, that was when he would mount her while she sucked, so she’d get the taken-from-both-ends experience she had hinted at last time. And afterwards there would still be two stallions for her to blow, so it wouldn’t be a big climax, just casually being used by her master while she was carrying out orders. Oh, yes! He could hardly wait.

But before she reached that point, about two thirds down the line, she froze briefly after she’d rinsed her mouth, looked back at him with a small worried frown, and stated quietly: “Staircase.”

The slow-down safeword! Sip could feel his entire wonderful plan come apart – but that couldn’t be helped. She was the one who mattered. Was her problem with the blowjobs or to his own groping at the other end? He wasn’t sure. Better play it safe.

When he made up his mind, George was already looking away from him again. In a way, ‘staircase’ was the most difficult of the safewords to react to; it meant he had to keep the scene going, and adjust on the fly how he ran it. “We don’t have all night for this, slave,” he said gruffly. “We need to stop the exercise now, but you will be punished later for delaying.”

She hung her head. “This slave apologizes, master.”

There was still the matter of his own quite stiff erection. He told himself the safeword was just for dialing down the scene, not for stopping it completely. It might be enough simply to jump to the finale. He led George all the way to the back end of the room where a few of the racks did not have any stallion in them. Sip climbed onto one of them himself so his cock hung out in front of George. “Suck,” he commanded.

The rack was surprisingly comfortable to lean against, but he couldn’t see much up here, with his head almost up against the ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, concentrating on how her muzzle and lips felt as she probed around his flare and began to slowly slide down around it. He felt vaguely guilty, like he was abandoning her to navigate the scene herself, while he just – . . . no, that was wrong! Just enjoy. He was the dom after all; he was allowed to –

Ah! She was beginning to use her tongue for real, in a way he didn’t think he had noticed before Had she already gotten that much experience from blowing those other stallions? It felt good. Relax, enjoy. He caught himself attempting to thrust into her, but the bars of the rack were in the way. No matter. It was for her, and she was doing well. Warm and wet and supple around him, humming against his cock – happy to please her master?

He felt he ought to hold back, to let her savor her part longer. But the rack offered him as little opportunity to delay the proceedings as to hurry them along. That was what it was built to do, of course. He had a sudden fantasy out of nowhere of Mama Rosa reaching up and strapping him to the rack, along with her other stallions. In his imagination she then donned a strapon and took to fucking George from behind while she was still blowing Sip. For some reason that thought was what pushed him over the edge, and he came helplessly, squirting the lust he had been building up all day into George’s mouth.

It took him a few moments afterwards to realize that he was not really strapped down, and that George had let go of his cock. He wanted to keep leaning on the rack, relaxing while he caught his breath, but it was his job to take charge again now, to be there for her. He forced himself to start climbing down from the rack. Mama Rosa was nowhere to be seen – ah yes, there she was, up by the register near the door, eyeing them skeptically.

George stood below him with her cheeks bulging, looking up. He paused his climb for a moment. “You may swallow this time,” he allowed, nodding graciously.

Swallowing hadn’t become easier for her since their last time, but by the time he was down on the floor she had managed, and was panting a bit, catching her breath. He could see some moisture in the corners of her eyes, but they seemed to be smiling. He ruffled her mane approvingly. “Well done, slave.” On impulse he segued the ruffle into a hug, pulling both forelegs around her. “Good girl.” She leaned into him.

Sip borrowed a blindfold from Mama Rosa, for George to wear on the way to their room for the night. That was something he already knew she liked, something that could save the day if his fancier ideas fell flat.

To be honest, it was also because he didn’t know exactly where they were going. Mistress S had explained he would only learn on the day itself whether he had gotten his waitlisted spot in the Admiral Fairweather wing. If not, he would need to go to the central concierge desk at the entrance to the dungeons to find out where he had been assigned a replacement room. With George blindfolded, she wouldn’t need to know the walk was him scrambling around to save his plan. It was only as they left the blowing alley that it struck him that he could also have gone and checked earlier in the evening, before he picked up George. So much for his masterly planning skills.

He looked back to check how she was holding up. She was smiling quietly – good. Perhaps she was walking a bit more unsteadily than she usually did? He wasn’t sure how exhausting the program thus far would have been, but she had safeworded back there. He decided he’d better take the direct route, rather than make a trip out of it.

A few days earlier he had walked past the Admiral Fairweather lobby, just to be sure he knew how to find out if he’d been lucky. It turned out to be hard to miss: Right by the entrance was a big board where the names of each suite’s occupants were posted. A few of them were on little hoof-written paper stickers; those must be ponies from the waiting list who had been given a room at the last moment. Unfortunately, today the board had no paper stickers on it. Sip stopped in front of it, staring blankly while he allowed himself a quiet sigh before turning away to continue towards the concierge desk. Cirrus would never need to know he had had better plans than whatever they ended up with.

At the last moment his eyes caught something on the name board. Down in one corner, one of the polished brass rectangles had engraved on it in big bold letters: “master Silent PRIDE”, and below that in smaller writing, “+ 1 slave”. He had almost missed it because he didn’t even bother to read the board before giving up! He cursed silently at himself while he stomped across the lobby and up the stairs to the right level with George in tow.

It was a pretty nice room he had gotten, with a window overlooking a small stockyard. He took the blindfold off of George as soon as they were inside. She looked around the room with interest. Suddenly her eyes went wide and she kept looking back and forth between Sip and the room. “Wow,” she breathed.

Sip followed her gaze and saw that the bedspread on the princess-sized bed in the middle of the room was decorated with a gold and orange silk appliqué forming a giant pony-sized weaver’s knot design.

If it had been somewhere else, Sip would have been floored. But this was the Clocktower, and he already knew some parts of the Society could be rather in-your-face about how the magical field permeating the dungeons (supposedly fueled by the “devotion” expressed between doms and subs doing BDSM – Sip didn’t know exactly how; that was unicorn business) allowed feats that would be wondrous marvels of thaumic prowess anywhere else in Equestria. Manifesting bedclothes adorned with his cutie mark, just for the sake of this one night, and done in hours after the spot in the calendar had opened up for him? Pssh. Stranger things happened here regularly. Besides, they hadn’t gotten the colors of the knot right.

So he didn’t make any sign of sharing George’s amazement, but instead smirked nonchalantly and motioned for her to follow him into the slave training room adjoining the bedroom. That training room was why he had wanted the Admiral Fairweather wing in particular; most of the other overnight rooms didn’t have them. It wasn’t very large, but it did have the usual selection of toys. That meant they could continue the review of all the toys he had cut short at their last session.

He called clockface, and they began going through whips and paddles.

“So what’s next?” Sip gingerly closed a drawer containing the many parts of an adjustable feather-for-feather wing restraint system, which Cirrus definitely wanted to try someday – in fact she had sounded like she was about to suggest doing it right away. Sip was glad she hadn’t; he was pretty sure he wanted some time to read the instructions carefully before he attempted that.

She turned a page in the toy manual. “Drawer C-4. Twelve-piece farrier play . . .” There was a long pause before she finished, in a smaller voice, “. . . set?”

Sip looked up from the collection of hoof rasps and picks in the next drawer and saw that Cirrus had put the manual down and was glancing worriedly towards the drawer.

“I – I think that’s a hard limit, all of it,” she said. “Sorry.”

Closing the drawer, he walked over and gave her a small hug. “Your limits are your own,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t be sorry for them.”

She nodded against his shoulder. “Know how you can find books with pictures of old-fashioned farrier’s chairs with straps to tie your hooves down? That’s the only situation where I can’t think being strapped down would be kinda hot.”

“It’s alright.” Sip let go of her, making a strong mental note to cross out the ‘farrier play’ page in his ideas file.

“Actually it’s funny,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d need to declare any real limits as long as I make sure not to qualify for a gold or crystal bell.”

He stared at her in confusion. The color of a sub’s safety bell told which levels of the dungeons she was allowed to use. Cirrus would need a crystal bell before she could be taken by the Quiet; those scenes always ended on the Root level.

“Sure, there are some noes in there –” she gestured towards the notebook where Sip had been recording her answers “– but that’s just single things, not, you know, entire kinds of play.”

“I mean,” he said, “why wouldn’t you pass the tests for those bells?”

“Oh.” She smiled. “You don’t really have to take the test unless you want to. It’s far too wild for me what’s going on there. Down in Root there’s something called the Breaking Guild where they’ll be so rough with a sub that she breaks down and can’t even think and forgets who she really is and ends up changed somehow. That sounds pretty scary. I like being me.”

Sip knew about the Breaking Guild – most of Ashen’s customers for the Quiet came from there. But there were also other guilds that could use them; if Cirrus didn’t want breaking he could join one of the other ones. All of them were in Root, though.

“But that’s not the worst,” Cirrus continued. “Have you heard about The Quiet? They’re some kind of super creepy ponies who suddenly appear out of nowhere and pick a random slave and force her with them down to Root. The other subs say They showed up in the slave market last week and took a mare.” She shuddered. “I mean, of course it’s all just a game the Society arranges, and consent and all that, but that’s not kinky, it’s just bullying! So I figure if I stay a silver bell, I won’t have to deal with them and spoil it for everypony else.” She almost spat the last words.

Sip felt dizzy. He almost started to argue against her, she shouldn’t base her opinion on rumors when she hadn’t seen the real Quiet herself. But now they were safeworded and she was setting limits and as the dom he was not supposed to question that. Especially not in a way that would sound like trying to convince her to have different ones. He opened his mouth. He closed it again.

“I guess so,” he eventually managed to mumble. Where should he go from here? Just continue with the next item in the manual?

He noticed she was still visibly agitated after her outburst, so he put a hoof round her again, gave a short squeeze. “Do you want to get back into play?” He would certainly like to get out of continuing this conversation right now.

She drew a deep breath and nodded. “Clockface.”

He put the blindfold back on her before he led her back to the main room and tied her across the bed, with her hind hooves on the floor and forelegs stretched out over the bedspread towards hardpoints on the other side of the frame. As he knelt down to tie her hind hooves in position, he noticed a set of standing stocks stowed neatly under the bed. He pulled them out and guided her hooves down between the notched boards. When he latched them together they gripped her pasterns more rigidly than he could have done with rope. The whole assembly could be bolted to the bedframe if he wanted to be even stricter, but he didn’t bother. She wouldn’t be going anywhere like this.

He sat down on the bed beside her head and began brushing her mane genly between her ears. “Who are you?” he asked softly.

She thought for a short bit. “I am you slave, master, to use and command as you see fit.”

“That is what you are, not who.” He didn’t stop brushing. “Try again.”

“I’m Society Sl–” She stopped herself when he abruptly removed his hoof. “Cirrus? No.” Then she let out a small sigh and he felt her relax beside him, giving in to the role. A blush spread on her face beneath the blindfold. “I am George, master. You named me yourself.”

He bent down and kissed her snout. “Very good. A slave should always know what and who she is. What do you desire most, George?”

“Your, ah, throbbing stallionrod inside me, master.”

“Wrong answer!” He stood up from the bed, making his voice a bit harder. “It might be true, but if so, you’re a very self-centered and ungrateful slave. What you should desire is to serve and please your master. Whether that will involve stallionrods, be they throbbing or otherwise, that is for me to decide. Do you understand that, slave?”

“Yes, master.” The blindfold didn’t hide her smile, but he could hear she was at least trying to sound contrite.

“I will gag you while you receive your punishment for harboring selfish desires. Test your bell.”

He set about working her over with a small flogger from the training room, made of a rubbery material that the catalog promised would deliver ‘all of the sting with none of the punch’. That meant he could use it all over her without worrying about breaking anything, and give her rump (better padded but already caned once today) a breather. He began at her hind legs, pausing between strokes to listen for her reactions. They started out as short gasps, somewhat muffled by the gag, but as he slowly progressed towards her front end they became small whimpers and eventually louder moans. She never quite screamed, but by the time he had gotten up to her forehooves, and back to her flanks, she was thrashing desperately in her bonds and kept whimpering for seconds after each stroke. He decided that was as far as he dared push her.

According to his plan this was where he’d mount her, to end the day on a high point. But as it turned out, he found his stallionrod decidedly not throbbing, in fact not even out. He hadn’t really enjoyed punishing her like he usually did, either, just done it to keep following the plan. That’s not kinky, it’s just bullying, it kept echoing in his head.

He would have to skip the sex and move on. “Now you can think about what you’ve done,” he improvised weakly and let himself flop down in the armchair on the other side of the room. This step in the plan was to leave her bound in silence for long enough that she might begin thinking she was supposed to fall asleep like that. Perhaps five minutes?

He desperately needed that time to get his own thoughts in order, too. If Cirrus didn’t even like the idea of the Quiet, how would he ever get to give her the scene with them that was his destiny? She was the one he was meant to give it, wasn’t she? He had been so sure. But the way she’d spoken about them . . . even if he somehow got it fixed so she wouldn’t need Root clearance to be taken by the Quiet, it sounded like she would safeword out immediately anyway. In fact she wouldn’t even get that far; Star Spur had explained that all of the victims had to okay in advance being taken by anypony without warning, and it didn’t sound like Cirrus would ever consent to that.

But if Cirrus wasn’t it, then what would he do? Go back to searching aimlessly for a sub who would eventually be up to it? He vividly remembered how miserable that had made him the last time. On the other hoof, sticking with Cirrus merely because it was the easiest option . . . he didn’t think that was how it was meant to go.

Perhaps, he thought, if he broke secrecy a little and assured her the Quiet would not take just any crystal-belled sub without a prior arrangement, she would change her mind about not taking the tests? – No, that wouldn’t help anything; the crystal bell was only a means to an end, and if she rejected that end anyway, there’d hardly be a point. And – oh merciful Celestia! – what would she think of him if he broke secrecy and she learned he was one of the Quiet she despised? He felt cold all over.

This was leading nowhere. He got up from the chair to release Cirrus for the night. She was lying very still across the bed now, her tail somehow having ended out to the side, stretching almost up to the headboard, so he could see her marehood as he walked towards her. It winked slowly, two trains of darkish fluid running down the inside of her stifles.

Suddenly he found his member was at full mast anyway. Without any thought of preparation or foreplay – in fact without thinking much of anything at all – he jumped her, forcing his cock into that marehood, thrusting, rutting her as desperately as the day he had met her in the cum dumps. It’s nothing, just a sub who wants to be used, and I’m the one using her, what of it? He half expected her to ring ‘staircase’ with her bell like she had that day, but she didn’t, so he kept going, and eventually he came, and that felt about as satisfying as it had done in the cum dumps too.

Only after he flumped down onto her back did he notice she was breathing heavily and shaking faintly in a way he couldn’t remember her doing before. He quickly scampered down off her and the bed and hurried to the other side, her head end. But when he removed her gag and blindfold she was smiling happily, as brilliantly as he had ever seen her.

“Thank you, master,” she breathed.

Just another case of having done something right without really being sure what it was, then. He had enough presence of mind to kiss her forehead in response before he began freeing her legs so he could lead her over to the cage in the corner of the room she would sleep in.

She lay down in the cage with a smile, and he chained her forehooves to the bars and locked the door with one of his personal padlocks. “Goodnight, George”.

She yawned. “Goodnight, master.”

Sip himself turned out the light and climbed into the big master bed. Wrapping himself in the bedding, he tried to sleep. It wasn’t easy.

Cirrus’s breathing over from the cage sounded very loud in the dark room. Occasionally when she stirred and her chains clinked softly, it sounded like a vast avalanche of tumbling metal to him. He’d had his own bedroom since before he could remember – there’d be something to get used to if he ended up with a marefriend.

If! He had a cutie mark and a purpose and a plan, and this mare had made it pretty clear she wouldn’t be part of that plan. Still, he could feel his stomach twist into a knot when he thought he’d had to stop seeing her. To break up? Would it be ‘breaking up’ when they weren’t really a couple anyway? Either way, what would he say to her? Her smile from before, when he took off her blindfold, still hovered before his eyes. He didn’t think she would take it well when he . . . well, whatever it was he would do to her.

On the other hoof, stay with Cirrus while he kept looking for the real mare of his life on the side? That felt even worse. What would he tell her if he found her? Or just stay with her, period, accepting that the dream of his life had been sunk before it ever got going? Everything he had ever been taught told him that couldn’t be the right thing to do.

Eventually he did fall asleep.

You just give her the slip, Sip.
Go on, cast her aside, Pride.
You don’t owe her that trip, Sip.
Just let ’er go free.
It’s time to fold, colt.
Walk towards the doors, horse.
Pick another goal, foal
and start over again.