Diary of Sweetie Belle, 19

March 16th
Hello, Diary.

Today was a very productive day. In spite of what I have been assuming, I have worked my way to a gift. It is odd how what seemed obvious every time I returned from the session would leave my mind entirely as soon as I awoke back in the Breaking Network. Regardless, those are very exciting news. My spirits are high, I think I like it this way. The words I write on your pages no longer come as easily, and there is a persistent, nagging feeling that tells me to write things other than ones I should be writing. It is hard to explain, but I can only feel this as a good thing. With no offense implied, of course.

This is considering the fact that all the details that need listing on these pages are no longer tedious to recount. The excess of curiosity in regards to the cocoon in our bedroom has also receded. Its appearance is far more appealing now that it had been developing for a week. Knowing its function has now made it an entirely natural part of the interior. My curiosity as to its purpose is sated. The thought of touching it again is still exhilarating, but my Boyfriend insists I don’t, begging for mercy. Speaking of his adorable self, then.

Honey Pot has finally quit complaining about having to observe my sessions to help me provide better feedback. He has been exceptionally silly today. It almost seems like he is dismayed by my high spirits, or even downtrodden over having learned the result of the session. At least, he is definitely skeptical. According to him, this is a “stage” one passes through, and that he is well acquainted with the fact. He even pointed to the entirety of the past few days, mentioning he underwent a similar change in behavior shortly before our paths were made to converge. It’s a curious piece of trivia. I know he did the same thing I did.

Now that I have sent him off to handle the laundry, I can provide feedback without being disturbed. An immediate thing that I feel the need to point out is that the disturbing sensations at the start of each sessions haven’t…

...

“Ohhh no no no no no no no, not agaaain... “ Sweetie gulped and panted, her eyeballs darting around rapidly - the only bodypart he had any decent control over, that and her lower jaw. Her body had already begun to perspire from the anticipation, plastering her mane to her back. “Nooo…”

The unicorn was restrained to the very brim. Her body was encased in a familiar straitjacket, which lit up with amber strands along the bodily ley lines, signifying that its further, more sinister functions were all operational. On top of that, she was partially inside a pillar of ever so slightly liquid, coalescing, fluctuating matter. The young mare had grown used to that formation. Up through her heels and the back of her head, where her body connected the most with the fluctuating goop, coursed warm, tingly, arcane, alien energies. While they did so, she had her consciousness to herself, and as soon as they faded away, the blurry, numb, pleasant haze of contentment and routine set back in. As of recent days, leaving that haze was not a good thing at all.

Sweetie Belle was far too aware of what was going on with her. Her bared feet were hidden from the rest of the gnarly chamber, submerged entirely within the pillar formation. Her heart raced. The straitjacket bolstered her nerves and fed off the secretions of her body to provide her with evermore weakening effects. Amber-glowing rings orbited her horn, sending light vibrations down its length, ready to consume any magical energy she were to try and channel, and send it back straight down her spine into her nethers. Her mind was clear, as clear as it could be in this captivity, and she knew better than to knock herself out by thinking too much of the wrong thing so that the resultant magical alarm orgasm drained her completely. She tried once already. The fact they continued to place her in this chamber even after the awful things that happened that day...

“Come ooon…” she whined aimlessly, wriggling, scanning her surroundings yet another time. The futility of the situation was all too clear. It was all to clear a week ago, when her behavior apparently warranted her being transferred to this place. The Breaking Room. “Just… get this over with…”

Sweetie was, as always, deceptively comfortable in her dreadful position. Perhaps the arcane straitjacket dealt away with the aches and inconveniences of effectively kneeling in mid-air, or perhaps the changelings simply had an ergonomic way about keeping her like this. Neither was unlikely, the mare knew all too well the extent of their knowledge of pony anatomy and how to influence parts of it.

Despite the futility of looking around, let alone tracking the inhabitants, she did so. It was a place unlike the clean, sterile, tool-filled chambers located all over the compound, starting with her own room and ending with the block they were transported to for group sessions. It appeared to be - or to have once been - or to have been made to look like - a natural cave. A changeling hive sector, to be precise. Her lacking knowledge of the species had grown a fair amount more vast. Bulging sacs and radiant vines littered the uneven, holey surroundings, creating an almost festive display out of the labyrinth of brightly glowing holes and tunnels. One particular thing really came to the forefront this time around. The glow of the cave was definitely no longer strictly amber. The color she had come to associate with her captors had gained an odd tint even on her first stay there, but she had more pressing matters to digest at that time, and the next few days that followed. This time, however, she could surely tell: the luminescence was split evenly between a vibrant amber and an eldritch green.

The changelings shifted from one sac to another, from one odd luminescent shape to another, connected one vine with the other, and so on. All of them were drones: simpler bodied, identical bodies, each of their eyes glowing brightly, working in perfect unison, being orchestrated by a superior changeling. One was indeed present - not a unique occasion, but there were more days when she wasn’t able to find her than when she was. Tough Break.

The changeling that went under that name leaned against a nearby stalagmite, chewing its chitinous lower lip and yawning. A pair of earbuds connected to a music player attached to its belt sat in its ears, and it appeared to be half asleep, if that was indeed a bodily need for its species. Sweetie’s attempts at finding out anything more were already self-defeating and unlikely to work out, this simply cut off that particular path to failure… With all of her conscious mind, though, she really could have done without that thing’s presence there. The sheer abuse she suffered under the coarse, rough, ruthless, foul-mouthed pun—

“Nnnnhhh…” the mare’s loins warmed and moistened at the images coursing through her head. The session had been kickstarted.

Immediately, the pony let out a low, sniffling whine. Her whole body was filled with the tingling, warm energy, invading all over, permeating every string of muscle. It could remotely be described as soothing, in that discomfort became a near impossibility to perceive - but the sheer level of thick, goopy, distinctly artificial smoothening was sickening. Contained in the tough leather straitjacket and unable to even move her head, the mare almost felt how her mane felt softer, gentler, more susceptible, as parts of her lengthy locks had found their way into the pillar. Sweetie knew the feeling incredibly well… it was the state her mind, if not her body, had been conditioned to be in at almost all times. Now she got to feel it be cast away from her every single day. The terrible novelty was yet to wear off.

Her moan had more than a slight undertone of a wail. Even her shoulders were atingle with this wave, and she’d been to this room enough times to know what was to come. Sweetie’s desperate attempts at conjuring up things to take her away from the anticipation only resulted in her being on the verge of orgasm when the preliminary stage took into action. Tough Break lifted an arm lazily and manifested a wrist-watch out of amber energy, which she then, with a yawn, set a timer on. It was a bunch of clicks, so this must have been about fifteen minutes.

To her it always felt like too long - a persistent feature across her stays in the Breaking Room.

“Fuuuck meee, why’re you always screaming in the saaame daaamn tooone, aaagh!” the changeling groaned, clawing at her chitinous mug and spitting down, her spittle absorbing itself into the oozing pillar Sweetie Belle was attached to. “How the shit isn’t your ass-mark a battery? How many filters do they put your voice through when you sing? Fuckin’ shitty-ass songbird. Yeah, you’re a dodo.”

Tough Break’s rant was a way to splice things up for the changeling in question. Sweetie had more urgent things to deal with. Her body was an electrical conduit. The compound was a monumental, gargantuan, colossal energy structure, outputting and inputting untold measures of changeling power, and this must have been the conduit that lead to its very core. All the things these creatures created and manipulated were based entirely in feelings and sensations, so it wasn’t lethal electricity. It was the raw essence of that which they fed on.

Lust. Need. Ecstasy. All the best, and all the worst. From the Breaking Division lung-burned screech of an unfortunate pony subjected to merciless brushing of untrodden surfaces. From the Masochist Division, the silent moan of a pony strapped from collarbone to heel in tiny vibrators. From the Group Division, a choir of chortles and squeals from confused, blindfolded ponies that lay in a large, coffinous formation, being poked and pronged on their exposed extremities, holding hands together. From the Acclimatization Division, the frightened, angry, confused shrieking of someone deprived of their senses, only just woken up after their kidnapping, to a world of sharp claws on their hogtied, naked body. She was all of them all at once, their bodies, at least.

It was better when she couldn’t comprehend the sheer severity of it and simply suffered. As of a few days ago, the unicorn had begun to figure it out, and it made things no better. The rings orbiting her horn swirled and swapped around, humming and sending shivers down its stem, absorbing the sparks of desperation her body tried to fire off. A few more minutes of this, and she’d be thunderstruck straight into an orgasm - which would then empower her straitjacket, enabling it to maintain this torture longer yet. It was all very simple and straightforward.

Those absorption shocks came faster and faster every day, as it seemed like the horrible overwhelming assault could not be adjusted to. Every single part of her that was molestable felt the abuse of a dozen ponies all at once, with none of it treading her skin. Her sides trembled, her lungs worked overtime, her mouth rarely ever closed, her feet soaked in the substance that the pillar consisted of, her arms rubbed pointlessly against the tough leather they were encased in. As far as she was aware, she was simultaneously in every bondage position conceivable, as well as unbound, and in some particular cases even running. Her upper body weak spots were under a myriad fingers and claws, under a mega-mall’s supply of brushes, under a racing team of spikey wheels, a city of hedgehogs’ worth of prodding spikes.

Early on through her tribulations in this room, she figured, in her newly gained sobriety, something distressing: while earlier on in her stay, her body couldn’t compute the abuse Tough Break piled on her all by herself, now it was quite perfectly capable of discerning the entire facility’s tortures and feeling them all at once. All those days ago, she was confused and afraid, now she knew too much and was terrified. There was no escape from this. It was more than obvious that no pony could ever stay conscious, if not alive, after a single minute of such sensory overload. Her stay always lasted hours. Tough Break explained earlier on that the straitjacket had her bodily parameters mapped into it, and used some of Sweetie’s output to maintain her body, hence the continuous buzzy tingling. Too much information… All of this was too much information, and too much in general.

Her pedal sensations, in particular. They were the upper body squared. How were there so many ways to torture feet? Why, why did they have to be so sensitive that so many fetishists existed, all of which were now being part of her torture? The hapless mare sweated and cried buckets upon buckets, being rehydrated and having the irritations in her eyes and elsewhere be tingled and buzzed out. Small toothbrushes, big toothbrushes, fine bristle toothbrushes, clumped bristle toothbrushes, electric toothbrushes, crystalline electric toothbrushes - on the toe pads, on the toe stems, underneath the toes, at every spot on the arch, everywhere on the heel. Combs, sharp and dull, long and short, buzzy and chilly, hot and electrified, in every single toe hollow, and tracing their horizontals and verticals across the entire sole. Thin, spiky wheels, big, bustling, roller wheels, wheels still applicable for massage, wheels now only fit for torture, two-piece wheels, three-piece wheels, rolling and rumbling over every single inch of her pedal skin at any given moment. On top of them, the richest variety of hairbrushes, ravaging so many feet all at once, their owners shrieking and roaring and squeaking and cackling and wheezing and coughing and not for a second thinking that it could be so much worse. And on top of those, an untold cohort of more inventive measures. Oils - regular slick massage oils, digestible oils that brought tongues and teeth with them, sensitivity heightening oils that somehow upped the ante beyond the mind-wrecking level it was at already, coloration oils for ponies with a feature of appearances, temperature oils for achieving otherwise dangerous sensations of heat or chill, electric oils to make so many victims rattle in their heavy bondage… It went on, and on, and on. Every single pony in this place had a unique approach to them, a unique handler, a unique program, a unique purpose even. Each lived out their own hellish paradise of sexual gratification in defiance of consent or logic. Sweetie Belle was in every single one of them, and all she ever did wrong was insult her captors for using her affinity for both soft and hard stuff to make their jobs easier.

Perhaps to further mess with her, the unicorn’s restless horn finally fired off the last spark needed to send a punishing lightning bolt down into her leaking, soggy crevice. On its way down her spine, setting her nerves further alight, it coalesced with a natural orgasm that had created itself out of the sensations and the sheer cruelty of it all. If the straitjacket didn’t take care of her bodily excretions, there could very well be a small flood in the cave. Obviously, despite the sheer intensity of her climax, the torment continued on.

And with her climax, the room went positively radiant with chthonic green.

“Yeah, this body of yours… a good battery,” the borderline paralyzed, hysterical mare heard Tough Break say - mostly in her head, with a vile echo. “Fine, fuck you, you’re good. You’re a great conductor. Nobody has been this good… Usually, when we shove you fuckers in here, you drive our power down by like half a percent. You’re already boosting us. On toppa the shit we shoved into everyone’s brains thanks to you.”

Sweetie let out a scream so powerful, it sent her down into a gurgle and then instantly into a banshee shriek back again - it drove her silent, forcing the straitjacket to restart her throat and lungs. She didn’t need this, too. This thing would never shut up. It kept blabbering on with its mean-spirited monologues, and more than half of her speeches were composed of various swear words. Like it didn’t care how unbelievably intricate the torture they were putting her through was.

“Even the Princess wasn’t that much of a wet rag, heh, eh. Actually, fuck it, have another one! You’re so much easier to fuckin’ work with! Hoh fuck, alright,” the foul-mouthed changeling said with a spit. Sweetie Belle’s screech rose in intensity as the rings on her horn swirled rapidly, sending an autonomous bolt down her spine, this time courtesy of the changeling who fired an amber bolt at it. As if further punishment wasn’t pointless. “Yeah, that’s for reminding me of that shit! We kept her here for a while. Whore actually tore out of her pillar once. Bitch is tough. Wish I was there, Obscurus won’t talk in detail, have to suck the memories out of the drones… Shit, why can’t you be like that? Come on, be fun! Fuck you, I’m taking it back, you suck even harder now. Huh? Oh yeah, right, all you can do is scream. Sorry, fuckin’ forgot, my bad. Blockhead.”

This particular bit of information confirmed what she assumed previously. It certainly seemed this way, how it felt. Ruthless and effective… More than likely unsafe, but considering that the Breaking Room was perpetually in use, the lack of safety only concerned her sanity. And what of it? It would be rebuilt and replaced. With whatever they wanted. If the amber cocoon sprawling in her bedchamber spoke of anything, they were already experimenting with building and replacing. Oh yes, these thoughts were all there, well-preserved and available - all the dark contemplations lurking in the back of her mind while she went about her day in a blur, unable to concentrate on one thing for more than a few seconds, susceptible and submissive. What were they doing? What was their plan? How much of this could she trust? What was to become of her?

Judging by the fact that the infernal torture of a hundred simultaneous sessions was really the system firing up, she was to be a pony with far greater problems than regular old uncertainty.

“Shiiit, I need to talk to the manifestor guys… I swear, your vocal chords gotta fuckin’ go at some point. Aaa, aaa, aaa! Why’d they make this thing reset THEM as well, ugh,” her insufferable handler complained, rolling its irritably glowing eyes. “It eats your tears, so why doesn’t it eat your screams? Numbheads. I mean look at this place! I dunno if it can even tell if that’s a yes sorta scream or a no sorta scream. That shit’s fucking important, by the way, you screeching cunt. Like, fuck it, not like it matters: you figured it out yet? What this place even is, huh? Right, AAAAAA, sniffle-sniffle-waaah-weeeh-waaah.”

Obviously, Sweetie Belle was occupied by the bodily processes of pulsating all over in sensational agony, of sweating buckets, of feeling tickled, ravaged, and tickle-ravaged to the last inches of her sweat and synapse-soaked hairs, and of vibrating, wriggling and trembling like an ant trying to escape from a pitcher plant’s maw. The well-aimed magical mechanism that kept her consciousness aloft took care of making her pay attention. The closer she got to reverting to a miserable sack of orgasming flesh, the more acute it would make her think. This place? What about it? She tried to give it thought in the limp hours she had off, however much she could muster of it under the influence of the submissive daze put upon her and her Boyfriend’s persistent hushes, cuddles, massages and other such uncooperative niceties. It was different, yes. So what of it?

“It’s not really a ‘room’. Kind of more of a ‘Breaking Network’. All of what we’ve got here runs cause we’ve got this spot over here. Y’know, it’s funny. Our Queen is so much better than what we had before, the previous generations should go blow themselves… But this right here? Something the stupid old bugfaced bimbo puked out, yeah,” Tough Break explained unhelpfully, pointing at the pulsating bulges - most of them green. “Think of yourself. You’re like, slightly better than normal. You can dig more things than other ponies do, that’s useful. You’reee… eh, kind of attractive I guess, if what the fucks at Acclimatization say is right. You got useful connections. You also got a very, bluh, what’s the word… malleable physiology, yeah. Your size fits most, or something. So you’re like juuust there enough for us to actually give a shit and notice you and go through all the fuckin’ trouble of giving you all this attention. So it’s something similar to this with our whole operation. Putting it into simple terms so your stupid head will get it, until we fix it with some smarts.”

The mare didn’t like where that was going. Tough Break was rarely this talkative. Most days she would just chatter with other changelings via telepathy (that was what the nubs were for, according to Honey), be forced to take notes of how some of the bulging synapse shapes behaved at different times, or pull a drone away from work to spend some time using it as a punching and kicking bag. Sometimes multiple at once. The one other time she talked this much was when she went into detail about how Sweetie’s poor Honey himself handled being in this place. She hoped that that Bi—

“Oh, yeah, wow, good thought, for once. Thanks, Drone 85, good thing somebody’s listening in on this garbage in your brick of a head. So, like, to illustrate my whole freaking point…” Tough Break clicked her chitinous fingers, and an image of a pillar similar to Sweetie’s arose in front of the tormented mare - ever so slightly blurry and muddy, but otherwise a three-dimensional representation. A slightly tubby, horribly ragged, demented-looking stallion, who, instead of a straitjacket, had a neck and back harness feed life into him as his stretched out body was being ravaged. Otherwise, completely naked. The unicorn’s eyes began to really test the limits of the jacket’s refueling ability, and her horn sent another orgasmic punishment shock down her suffering body. “...there you go. That ain’t your vein. This’d beee… chamber five, right below us. Cause the old bitch-queen had the technology, but we made it fuckin’ work! She had the right idea… Break you down to your base loves and desires, like you get any more basic… And just keep you suspended here forever, feeding into our hive pool. Of course, she was fuckin’ stupid and only made a few veins. About, uh… eleven.”

Honey Pot and Sweetie Belle’s eyes locked together, to no effect. This must have happened months ago. As if the revelations chewed up and force-fed into her brain weren’t bad enough. Now she got to see what he was like until they found him his purpose as a handler. He was doing as well as she was doing. Or, rather, as well as she would be doing in a bit: the terrifying claw-like appendages hugging, scratching along his body hadn’t showed up for her yet. She was intimately familiar with those constructs herself, remotely controlled limbs, created out of liquified desperation and suffering, the merest touch of which felt even more real than the horribly lifelike sensations forced upon her at the current moment. They were a profound mixture of green and amber, much like the picture in front of her… the mixing of colors made sense now.

“She probably wanted to stick the Princesses in there, and the unicorn stud as well, and his sister’s friends I guess. After that, every other pony’d be up for misuse. See, narrow thinking. Didn’t want to bother with making shit any better, she stopped at ‘good enough’. That’s not us. The Breaking Network has hundreds of freakin’ veins! We stick the ponies that aren’t good enough to be used anywhere else in here. Four hours of break a day and they’re fine. We have so much excess energy, our lot will live a billion years off of you blockheads alone! She had the right ideas, but she was stupid, narrow, dumb, and didn’t know what to do with them. We take it and make it better. You fuckin’ get me?”

By herself, she sure didn’t, but the influence of this place mercilessly shoved the realizations down her throat. Even as her body said hello to the orgasmic-cringe-inducing hug of the crawly, metamorphous appendages, conclusions were sped along in her mind. Even as Sweetie came close to unhinging her lower jaw, forced into a horrible scream as the limbs really took hold on all the important parts: the armpits, the breasts, the thighs, the genitals, the back, and, with entirely too much attention, the feet, one small claw wrapping around each toe; every single one of these oozed and exerted concentrated punishment, something beyond the realm of ‘torturous tickling’, ‘suffersome sensations’ and ‘omnipresent overdrive’, each touch of a desperation-forged pincer or a pleasure-borne suction pad striking an eldritch mixture of feelings tuned specifically for each of her sensitive parts to assault her with forced pleasurement. Even if she had done so, the pain would have been negligible, an insignificant backdrop to all else her body was going through - and the damage would be fixed almost before it would be inflicted…

None of this stopped her from thinking, comprehending. Spoon-fed such teasing information, the kind she would so desperately want to release elsewhere, but never would, thus making submission all the more appetizing. What these changelings were planning was very serious. The old ones were, well… evidently not anywhere near as serious, judging by the sound defeat delivered onto them all those years ago. What were they planning? They talked of taking over the world as if it was below them. This power… all this torture. A whole planet of nothing but synaptic aberrations feasting on the raw, steaming lust being forced out of their food-slaves, and they spat on it. Tough Break certainly did, for one. Her maddeningly irritating habit of covering all near her in hissy spittle had to have widened the green-and-amber pillar of torment by about an entire inch in radius.

“We’ll make you get it, dummy. The hell sorta good are you to us if you don’t understand what you’re doing here? It’s do or die, Sweetie Dumb-bell, you gotta prove to us that we need your… puh-‘personality’. Collaborators gotta know what they’re doing. Honeybums can write you a fuckin’ essay on any topic if you get him up in the middle of the night. I know, I’ve been there, done that,” the grinning chitinous Bitch-whore-slut-jerk drew out with a teasing, slurping hiss, her disgusting, glowing amber tongue poking out as she spoke. The fire of pointless infuriation burned within Sweetie’s core, and its hot embers did a very good job of both bolstering her thinking, and heating up her orgasms. She was at her tenth. “You want me to shut up, yeeeah? You wanna just hang here and get groped and teased and cum a thousand billion times and shit? Well give us a REASON. The fuck do you think I’m wasting my time with you for? Every day? Six hours a fucking go? Y’see, the blurry dumbifier we put on you when you’re outta here, you’re not gonna be much use when you’re out there in the field. And we need you out there in the fuckin’ field, the Queen wants you, anyway. Your energy output shits and whistles, we can force them into anyone now, we got the numbers. Sooo, here’s the million years in endless torture hell question, little missy…”

It must have been about an hour since the ordeal began. The appendages have gone into their prime. They browsed her body, having shaped themselves accordingly, to fit into the tight passages the straitjacket left for them. It was all tight leather - if it was leather at all - but its material allowed them to be felt as if there was naught but thin air to protect the mare, defenseless enough as she was. The poor stallion projected in front of her suffered an arguably worse fate, devoured almost entirely by a bulging, beehive-like cocoon, which left only the tip of his snout and a different tip entirely, to be exposed to the world. The rest of his body’s torment could only be gauged by the intense glowing and the surprisingly noticeable attempts at thrashing on his part. She had already learned not to put much effort into thrashing. There was a lot of subtle learning going on in her head. Now it had to include this vile information as well.

“...do you get any of this? I am clearing your stupid head as MUCH as I can. Don’t you fuckin’ fail me, I want Handler of the Cycle.”

Not unexpectedly, all the mare’s body allowed her to do was cry and scream and weep and wheeze and moan and squeal and chirp and gasp and then moan some more. Originally claw-like tendrilous formations, they were now a variety of shapes, each occupying its own territory, spreading downwards into other formations like parts of a spider’s web. Incredibly narrow, buzzy strands sucked up between her ribs and her bound up arms, into the underarms. Made of the stuff of raw sex and desperation, they transferred not only an insufferable, fuzzy, pokey, invasive scratch with each subtle movement, but also imbued the slightest swing with a wave of alarm going through the overworked body.

“Come on. I don’t want to have to make a new personality for you! I’ll make Honey do it, and he’ll make you some quirky goody-two-shoes who’ll not even catch us any good prey without courting it for a fuckin’ month.” Tough Break tapped her half-materialized steel-heeled boot on the cave floor. “Fuck! Should have re-written him.”

An amber star-studded belt of inconsistently bumpy, bubbling, orange-red substance covered up her abdomen, with a singular outstretching suction almost hooking up to her navel. The mare’s soft, sensitive tummy, subjected to a sea of padded pokings, made beyond insufferable by the raw intensity that the lust-borne synaptic texture of the belt brought with it - and the single rotating string that cast its probing lance into the navel. Not bothering to manifest beyond the inch needed to affect her borderline-submerged back, rotating pads springing from the liquid energy pillar took up very specific spots on her back, glowing green or amber at random. The elusive, borderline unscannable locations on the pony’s back that could cause them to screech in hilarity or moan in pleasure or fall limp in relaxation, all discovered and serviced persistently.

“Do it. Don’t you fucking fail me, you know what happens if you do. You and your shitty boyfriend, you’ll LIVE here. We’ll hook you up together, and this’ll get twice as bad. Two mumble-fucks, never apart. Come on! Think something, you dummy!”

In the meantime on the plane of things that worried Sweetie Belle, there was no need for the back-abuse pads to stand out, however - the changeling energies had formed a vest to cover her back and front, slipping it over her chest and back despite the unbreakeable gesture of crossed arms. Her breasts, subjected to a tantalizing, electric massage, borderline groped, nearly giving out milk on instinct; the pads on her back, fitting perfectly into prepared holes, their rotation causing the amber vest to light up with a green web, covering the entire area with a travelling, stimulating tingle. A scarf-like holey substance glowed around her neck, causing the mare’s head to attempt shaking rabidly, to no avail. A consistent, unchaseable, untraceable tickly, teasing feeling, a fingerpad ran along her neck, a fluffy touch on the underside of her chin, tingly pokes everywhere.

“Our cause! You fuckin’ want in or what? You behave well. You do what you’re told. You find good ponies, brickheads like you. You get them over here.” Tough Break spoke slowly, condescendingly, drawing out syllables, as if talking to a small child. “Because we don’t want nobodies. Even you’re not a fuckin’ nobody! Want good ones! You find good ones. We kept you near ponies so much, you WILL be able to find them for us. Special ones. You’ll be like Honey. You freaking get that?”

Her thighs, encased in what could pass for fashionable arcane shorts - one legging amber, the other green, the centers of their glows being her inner thighs. The subtleties of the ways of changelings old and new were palpable, one legging being more overall torturously scratchy and probey while the other dug in deep and forever, both making perfect use of her envy-worthy legs, which only got softer and better shaped with time spent there. Her feet could as well have had shoes custom-made from this stuff of nightmares, a pair of leathery high heels in resemblance. The thick sole and long heel established connection with the pool at the bottom of the pillar, allowing for the stuff of nightmares to course through it as if through water pipes - making perfect contact with her smoothened up, highly sensitive, and expectedly on-edge soles, which could be forgiven for their status, as their owner was perfectly sure that they were being abused in a myriad ways all at once, which held very true for her nervous perception.

“Come ooon! Drone 69 is gonna explode if he clears your thinkbrain up any freaking harder. Do it, you dumb bitch!” The changeling had switched into a tirade, its voice no longer even appearing rough and raspy, almost unfeminine - it changed completely to its changeling vocalization, speaking in a guttural, clacking, palatalized, insectoid, noisy manner. The insufferable, shlicking clicks echoed through Sweetie’s mind, firing up another orgasm to shoot down her loins, powered by the perverted enjoyment that the unbearable changeling brought her. “This is the last day we’re keeping you here for evaluation! Fucking fuck, every converted subject goes through this! The final allocation! Holy shit, just get it already, get-it-get-it-get-it, I am NOT going to be bottom of the list another year! You hear me, Slutty Bordelle?!”

She certainly did. Worse yet, much worse - the mindboggled unicorn comprehended it, and gave it thought. What else was there to give it to? The torture chased her out there, forced her to think, since as long as there was this to focus on, it was just a tiny bit less horrible to be where she was. Although, no, it wasn’t. Despite the peculiarity of the situation, Sweetie was quite definitely objective in her thoughts on the matter. A simple choice. Give up, and maintain a sense of decency, but be relegated to… this, forever more, a simple creature of little more than sexual input and energetic output. Give in, and sell out to the terrible conspiracy set to do horrendous things to other ponies, and be what she felt obliged to be repulsed at: a betrayer of her own values, an abuser of the people, a part of a malicious system. Separated from the addling influence of the mind-haze of the past days’ resting hours, and locked away from the thoughts of her origin, the young mare was left with the necessary basics to guide her along. The context, the torture, and the raw elements of her innate personality.

“This will feel like spring break after what I’ll do to you if you stay mum. You think this is bad, huh, yeah, you do, huuuh? Pony doesn’t liiike, pony can’t taaake? Pony fucking CAN. But if you keep this shit up, I’m gonna put you and that butthead tub of blubber through alicorn-tier shit.” Tough Break seethed, her head-nubs conjuring up another lightning and unloading it into the thing on the unicorn’s horn. Another searing hot orgasm followed, and yet the heaviness of her thoughts was such that she was only so deterred. “After today, we’ll have what we need to make a body copy of you, anyway - and then we’ll figure it out whose brain to stick in there.You can’t die anyway. And if you’re not gonna work with us? We got enough out of you. May as well drive you fucking crazy. Deeeal?”

There were five hours to go as the changeling continued her tirade. Sweetie Belle finally formulated her answer when three and a half remained. Her battered mind, which would easily have been shattered if not for the artificial support it had been given, reeled and weeped at what went on within it. She almost welcomed the many slaps she received on her cheeks and buttocks, as at least those didn’t come packed with all the things she had been put through. There was no revulsion to it… simply a mental exhaustion.

This was her choice. To give in. Sweetie was too young to be abandoned for the chitinous lookalike that was being brewed in her likeness within her chambers. This turn her life had taken was certainly textbook tragedy, more or less. But she couldn’t let herself be drowned in oblivion.

The oblivion of infinite pleasure that it was to her dual fetishistic core, the mare was too young to abandon other things than receiving pleasure. The young unicorn was meant for more, for indeed she was still young. There were great things she could do.

And this certainly was a great - grand - scheme she had now become fully involved in. Through much manipulation or less… she had.

I am looking very forward to tomorrow. The onset of energy that was promised… After multiple climaxes I had through dear Honey’s help, I can feel it dawning on me. Already the haze was lifting as I described today’s progress. This can be nothing but a good thing. More proof that I have made the right choice during the session.

Much love,
XOXO
Sweetie Belle