You know, had you asked me two weeks ago whether I thought swapping genitals with my husband was a good idea, I would have told you yes. I mean, we’ve done some kinky shit in our day; not everyone can say they’ve ‘christened’ each and every one of the surfaces in their house, can they? So we thought, “Why not?” Adding this to our kinky bucket list is just the salty frosting on the metaphorical whore cake that is our marriage.
Too much? Sorry about that.
Anyway, about my privates: The deed had been done, though the method as to how it happened is something I’m not completely knowledgeable of. I never was that good at magic, myself, so I couldn’t go into too many specifics of thaumic equations, mana reserves, and all that nonsense--That’s more the Princess’ gig than mine. Anyway--
“Great!” I thought. I always wondered what it would be like to have a dick, and a strap-on or feeldoe doesn’t really cut it when I’m giving my stallion a good seeing-to--no tactile feedback, you know? There’s only so much magic can do in the fake-flesh department, So what is the first thing I do when I get mine?
I drop a fucking brick on it.
Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Mare gets newfound penile powers, and the first thing she does is pummel it into oblivion. It wasn’t as if I particularly wanted that to happen. I had already known that the swap was going to happen at some point throughout the day, though I wasn’t sure as to when, so I went about my day as usual. We had been remodeling our front garden, and I was halfway through placing a stepping stone when it happened. I was sitting down, magic flickered out, and boom! Fortunately for my husband, he was only watering some plants, so he just got sprayed with the hose a bit.
As for myself? You see, I’m no stranger to pain--having two foals of my own has made sure of that. But even the birth of my two beloved Fuck Trophies hadn’t left my pudenda in such a painful predicament. I’ve had a few bumps against my formerly...concave bits--It’s inevitable at some point or another, but nothing I’ve ever done had prepared me for the sensitivity testicles possess. I will never kick a stallion in their balls again for as long as I live, I swear it.
I eventually got over it. After the initial shock and subsequent blackout had subsided, I was able to shamble my way back to the house.. A few pain pills, a quick vomit, and a thimble of tears returned me to my formerly composed self, and I was able to get on with my life, thank Celestia.
Speaking of that prick, whoever in charge of logistics when giving me my new meat thermometer forgot to take the rest of my lady bits with them on their way out. That, coupled with me only being halfway done with my heat cycle meant that I was mentally up a tree by the end of the first week. My ovaries were at war with my testicles, and my body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to impregnate, or be impregnated. Imagine having to sit through a board meeting when your insides are performing a Schrodinger equation on themselves. It’s not easy.
Let me ask you something. You’re a mare. You’ve had heats. You know what winking is. It’s involuntary, and it just happens sometimes. Now, riddle me this: How does one take an involuntary reaction, and perform it with equipment not designed for such a motion? Well, I was able to learn that day! It wasn’t pleasant. Have you ever tried turning a tube inside out? It feels as uncomfortable as it sounds.
On the subject of needs; I don’t get it. How do you go through your entire life while being horny? I knew we joke that colts always have sex on their brains, but good gracious! I can’t go two seconds without nature deciding it’s time for an Irish Toothache. It doesn’t matter where I am; the store, the office, the middle of class, in town, nowhere is safe. I know sometimes these happen out of nowhere--I’ve seen ‘em, you’ve seen ‘em, It’s a natural part of life, but this is ridiculous! I know it’s customary to ignore a whyboner if it happens in polite company, but there’s a difference between a few times daily and near constantly! There’s only so many times one can think about their dead grandma before your mind proves that Freud was right. Luna forbid I accidentally pop one while walking by the schoolhouse; I don’t think I’d ever be able to look Cheerilee in the eyes again. I even got hard when looking at the neighbor’s dog. I raised that fucking dog!, now I have to add zoophilia and incest to my roster of shame? I’m not having it.
I’m done. I want my vag back. The sex was fun for a while, but I’m tired of having these oversized plums. I can’t walk without them banging against my legs, and I can’t sit down anywhere without worrying about whether I’d sit on one by accident and pop it or something. That can happen, right? I probably have permanent bruising right now, and surprisingly enough, I’m not into that sort of thing. I’d rather not want to only have two desires run through my head at all times; hump it, or fuck it--it’s exhausting. I almost killed a pony over a bag of carrots. Seriously not cool.
You can have your Freaky Friday body swapping fortune cookie bullshit back, because I don’t want it anymore. I’m going to come back here in two days, and you have two choices: Either Mr. John and the Twins are sent packing, or we’ll see how well your body will do for tempering these urges. Your choice.
Author's Note
I'm sorry.
