Fetish Friday

by Stegtorn

Rating: mature
Tags: Comedy, Queen Chrysalis, Random, Pinkie Pie, Sex, Cheerilee, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Human, Romance, Anon, Second Person, Octavia
Length: 10107

Every Friday, a different ring of hell. Every Friday, a new pit of despair. EVERY FRIDAY, A NEW DEPRAVED FETISH.

What follows is a series of unfortunate comedic and lewd shorts and one-shots released every Friday. Characters, perspectives and universes vary per entry.

The details and 'rules' of these shitty one-shots can be found here, along with an index of each chapters contents for easier browsing. Before each chapter its fetish and contents will be described.

Image is by Dimfann, I'm so sorry for stealing your artwork without shame.

Published 2017-03-10 05:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-04-21 18:35:11 UTC

F#1.1: Weekend at Berry's

Author's Note

Characters used: Anonymous, Berry Punch
Perspective: Second Person, Anonymous/Berry Punch
Fetish: Somnophilia
Type: Clop

F#1.1: Weekend at Berry's

"Hey Berry Punch!" you say joyously, dipping low to give the cute mare a hug. She weasels her way around you and hugs you back, pushing you in the door and out of the rain.

"Jeez you're drenched!"

"Yeah, I know," you answer, shaking off like a dog, "it just started pouring out there!"

She closes the door behind you and suddenly gets deadly serious, "did you bring the stuff?"

You spin around, smiling wryly, from under your suit jacket you reveal a short stubby, rectangular bottle. Her eyes light up and her tongue rolls out, and she squees in excitement.

"I'm sorry hon but I already had a swig on the way here," you add with a laugh, unscrewing the cap and handing the bottle to her.

"Anon you," she grabs it and takes a sip, "you dog!"

She trots further inside to the living room. The atmosphere was relaxed in Berry Punch's cozy home. It's midsummer, but the night is cool because of the rainstorm. Berry has her windows cracked open slightly, a nice cool breeze and the spirit-soothing smell of petrichor. Your muscles come unclenched and you let out a sigh. Nothing like chilling with your good friend Berry Punch on a Friday evening.

"Do we need cups?" she asks from the living room, about to settle on the couch.

"Do we ever?" you reply with a laugh, going to join her. You plop down across from her in a recliner, a short coffee table between you.

She takes a deep pull of the bottle, licks her lips and wipes her mouth before passing it back, "that is some killer whiskey, dude."

"How did your week go?" you ask, pausing before taking a sip from the bottle. It's getting low already!

"Ugh, so badly!"

"Tell me about it, sister. Crushing grapes must be hard work."

She gives you the eyes, you know, the "really?" eyes.

"Anonymous, we're friends for a reason, you now how it can be right? With other ponies some times? They just don't get us," she says softly, eyes low and head hung sadly.

You reply, but its more of a croak than a 'yeah' like you intended.

She stretches out a hoof and pats your hand, then takes the bottle, "I just need someone to comfort me."

You follow after the bottle, coming to her side of the table, cuddling up to her. She laughs cutely, eyes getting misty.

"Oh come on now, fuck those ponies, they're not even worth your time," you say wrapping an arm around her. You run your hand along her flank to comfort her, tickling the fur and brushing it slightly. She nuzzles her snout under your arm and into your pit.

"We should finally do that thing we've been talking about, you know," her big wide eyes pleadingly looking up to you.

You let out a huff, trying to put on an air of thought and consideration. Inside however, the little monkey playing the cymbals in your mind had put down his instrument and got out his cock. You'd been waiting for this for months! Sure Berry Punch was a nice girl and all, and sure you liked the talks you had. But that flank is what you really love.

You squeeze her slightly, the line of plushy fat coating strong muscles underneath. She's springy and warm, sleek coat now all ruffled. A little pinch illicits a cute squeak from her. She quickly tries to hide her embarrassment behind anger, "Anon!" she yelps, hitting your chest with her hoof playfully.

"So, we just gonna get really drunk and do it?" her tone was unsure and apprehensive.

"Well we were gonna get drunk anyway, so let's sweeten the deal."

"Sweeten the deal?" Her eyebrow goes up.

Out from a little pocket in your jacket you pluck a mini ziplock of white pills.

"What's that?"

"Magic Rohypnol."

Her eyes light up, "oh boy! Are we really going to do this?" she wiggles in her seat clops her hooves together. "I feel so naughty just thinking about it."

"Ah, but who will drug who?"

She scrunches up her nose in thought, "I have always wanted to be the date rapist."

"Same," you reply suavely. (Although, is suave date rapist somewhat of a oxymoron?)

You take another chug of alcohol, the harsh taste sliding down your tongue quickly. "What about a game to decide?"

She turns her head quizzically, and you tell her to fetch two cups, ones that weren't clear. She comes back soon enough. You return to your side of the table and sit their smugly, hands folded together. After hoofing you your cup she nestles her fat flank onto the couch.

"So? First one to drink themselves under the table gets fondled?"

"Better!" you declare, motioning for her to spin around. She does, shoving her face into the seat of the couch.

Deftly you pour whiskey until the two cups are half full, and then plant the roofie. "Done," you say, looking up just in time to catch a peek at her rear, which she graciously reveals by swishing her tail to the side. She gives you a cheeky, blushing smile before covering herself and sitting down proper.

"Hmm, so which one is it?" she says, looking down at the two cups.

"And so it begins! And it'll end when you decided which cup you want, and we both drink."

She's confused at first but smiles, "easy."

"How so?"

"I know you, Anonymous, simple and straightforward, you placed the drugged cup right in front of me, thinking me to expect a trick."

You fake a slip of your poker face, luring her into a deeper trap. She reaches over confidently and takes your cup, and you take hers. The two of you drink at once, both smiling.

"See?" she says, but her expression quickly changes and she looks down to her cup in contemplation.

You stand and loom over her, mischievous grin on your face.

"But how?"

"They were both poisoned, I spent the last few weeks building up an immunity to magic roofies." Which is not the truth at all.

"Huh?" she says listlessly, falling over slightly, "w-why is it working so fast?"

"It's magic, Berry, duh."

"B-buuuh," she groans, heavy eyes blinking shut.

"I don't gotta explain shit," you whisper, brushing her mane out of her eyes and stroking her neck.

After another minute she's completely out of it. You cackle madly to yourself, throwing your head back with joy just as a strike of lightening lights up the room. You pick her up, and boy is she heavy, and toss her on the table, tummy-up. Her tail flops down and her legs lazily hang off the edges of the table.

You lean over her like a monster in an old horror film, the helpless damsel in your clutches. The lustful warmth in your chest surges as you press your crotch against hers, kissing her chest and cheek. With one hand you fondle her small breasts, and the other you run through the inside of her thigh. Her leg twitches slightly, causing a magazine to fall off the table.

You trace the outside of her horse pussy with your digits, going around slowly in circles until you feel her start to get wet. Her clit winks weakly once, pressing against the palm of your hand as you place your index and middle finger into her passage. You gently space out her interior, rotating your hand back and forth as much as your wrist would allow. She lets out a croaking moan, rear hoof gently patting against your leg in pleasure.

A grin creeps across your face, and you begin thrusting your fingers into her depth with more vigor, occasionally stopping to spread her as best you could, savoring the tightness and her shivering contractions around your fingers. She lolls her head back and fidgets again, breathing more labored now.

You pull out, sitting back on the couch behind you. What will you do next? Mouth-fuck? Good ol' missionary for the sole purpose of date rape? Plucking off your shoes and socks, you toss them behind you, and then you slide off your pants and discard your suit jacket. The sweet smell of warmed grapes, Berry's musk, and the earthy smell of the rain hits your nostrils, an odd but satisfying mix. Naturally, Berry's essence and her splayed out form before you caused quite the primal response. Unleashing the beast, you grip your cock at its base a position it just before her dripping entrance.

"Hello, my name is Anon Y. Mous. I have not ejaculated in three months. Prepare to be fucked."

With a deep inhale, you slowly push into her, guiding yourself (seeing as she couldn't) as deep into her as you could. With shuddering pleasure she greets you, unconsciously, with a teasing squeeze of your erect penis. You exhale roughly, hot breath washing over her exposed stomach.

You wantonly begin mashing yourself into her, humping vigorously. The entirety of your focus is in your dick, you move and interact with the world through him. And on this journey into the wet, loving hole of Berry Punch you were an explorer on a mission. You thrust with such shuddering confidence that you thought you could drive right into her uterus and lay down the seeds of a mutant satyr spawn.

Skin flush and red, sweat dripping, you almost felt a twinge of embarrassment at your state, but then you look down at the drooling Berry and find no judgement. Perfect! You: entirely alone with her body, her mind drifting gently on the shores of a dream. One no doubt in which she was being reamed by a great ape on some luxurious beach.

If you even have the lucidity to think of it through the pleasure of rampaging her sleeping hole, you might notice how much raggedly you are breathing. The cool breeze of the rainstorm outside tickles your skin, cooling your feverish, pleasured flesh. The stresses of the world melt away as you unleash three months of unbridled sexual fury onto your helpless victim.

Limply she shakes forward, unresistant to your vaginal assault. With the initial outburst wavering now you slow to a pace more your own, the nibble of a building orgasm working its way up your shaft, but you're not done yet. Now you thrust slower, hips jerking slightly of their own accord as you struggle between pacing yourself and enjoying the experience, and letting loose your urges.

Berry Punch groans and turns her head to the side, cunt squeezing against you, clit winking harder now as it pulsed with pleasure. Her sopping puss began to feel more and more like home as you slowly carved out a niche in it with your cock. And now, to decorate with a dashing of paint!

You heave and ho, rocking her boat like a crusty old sailor fucking his one lay on shore-leave. Griping tightly on her rear you use your diamond dick to dig into her fox-hole, pumping so fast she almost couldn't produce enough lubricant for you. Her natural juices spray everywhere, a sticky, dripping splash across your abdomen.

Yowling like a great furry beast ravishing its prey you thrust and shudder one final time, cumming as deeply inside her as possible. No witnesses! No worries! No satyr babies! Your hips jerk weakly, fighting between pleasure and sudden post-orgasmic sensitivity.

"Berry, you succubus," you whisper to yourself, flopping over in her post-coital shivers. Kissing her neck and breathing heavily, you carefully slide yourself out. Half-chub mode is in effect, the radiating glow of muscular release. Stumbling over to her face, you giggle to yourself as you watch her snooze.

"I wonder if—" you plant your softening pole in her mouth, and she latches onto it with her lips, snoring loudly and sending a pleasant spine-tickling vibration up your shaft.

You clean yourself up on her fur, dress, and down what little is left of the whiskey. A good fuck, a good drink, a good storm and to all a good night.

BAD END

Anonymous sits across from you, trying to faze you with his unflinching gaze. You know something he doesn't though, he doesn't know Berry Punch is an expert at distracting ponies!

"You have to pick one eventually," he mutters.

Suddenly you pop up and clap your hooves together, "what's that over there!?" you shout, pointing behind him.

"Where?" he asks, turning his head suddenly. You take this time to make a shuffling noise with your cup, but don't actually switch them.

"Oh, it must have been nothing," you say calmly, laughing.

"Chose, Berry, this battle of wits must come to an end," he says with confidence.

You do casually, selecting your own glass, and he picks his. He grins to himself. And you smile right back on at him.

"Seems you've lost!" he declares, eyes already becoming droopy.

You just shake your head as he starts to slump in his chair. Silly Anon, how could you ever hope to outwit Berry Punch, 5-star drunkard?

With a hoof you claim the little sloshing remains of the whiskey, looking at his now unconscious form splayed out in the chair. The rustle of the leaves outside tickled your ear holes, the pleasant patter of rain a simple drum beat to which they fluttered. With a sultry sigh you plod over to him, shaking your flank a little extra for no one in particular.

He's not awake to enjoy it, but it made you feel sexier. After a quick sip, you set the bottle aside and plunge your face into his crotch, taking a deep inhale of his human musk.

Huh, smells like crushed Smarties.

You unzip his pants with your teeth, exposing his member, a paltry lick and kiss through his boxers and he's already growing in size. With a quick look up you find him grinning like a school boy. With gusto you tug down his boxers and give the shaft a real like, and it wiggles up like a worm in the rain, desperate for more attention.

"Oh I know," you say in a hushed tone to his sleeping form. You snag your lipstick from underneath a magazine on the table, slowly applying the light red make-up to your pouting lips. Feels strange, dolling yourself up for someone entirely dead to the world.

You plant a wet, lipstick-y kiss right on the head of his cock. With a grin, you think to yourself that he wouldn't really notice if you took his wallet and slipped out for more booze. The liquor store is open late on Fridays. . .

"Au revoir, love, we will meet again when I return, six bottles of high proof alcohol in my hooves," you say as you exit your home, blowing him a kiss.

F#1.2: Pinkie's Pizza Delivery

Author's Note

Characters Used: Anonymous, Pinkie Pie
Perspective: Second Person, Anonymous
Fetish: Futanari
Type: Humor

F#1.2: Pinkie's Pizza Delivery

Day HUNGRY MAN in Equestria. It's F-F-F-FRIDAY NIGHT MOTHERFUCKER and you're feeling a little peckish after work. It's been a long day of hard, tough, mind-numbing paper shuffling and procrastination. Why stress yourself out right at the start of the weekend? Fuck cooking dinner, it's time to order a sweet pizza pie!

Straight to your door, 30 minutes or it's free! How could you go wrong? You ring up Ponimino's, fistful of bits in hand, ready to order a large plain pizza with left beef when your devilish side gets a hold of you. Oh yes, there would be far more than pizza in this order, far more indeed.

"Large Cheese Pizza. 2 Litre bottle of Faygo," you say, teeth chattering in anticipation for your next item.

"And will that be all sire?" the sweet sounding mare asks.

"No, it won't, I'd like to sweeten the deal."

"Sweeten the deal?" she says lowly, barely a whisper.

You huff and puff into the phone, the feedback from your heavy breathing rustling in your own ear.

"Lava cakes," you say, tongue licking your lips in anticipation,"yes, miss, lava cakes. Please and thank you."

"Okay, all together that'll be 21.42, and if it takes more than thirty minutes it's free!"

She hangs up on you, leaving you to rub your hands together in anticipation for your treats.

"Ah! The lava cake," you pronounce lavishly, arms spread wide and voice ringing out in your apartment.

It's been so long since you've treated yourself, and what better way than with the dusty, crusty outer shell and the blazing gooey molten core of the Poni Hut's lava cake. You recline in your favorite chair and flick on the tube, watching with intent the 6 o'clock news.

Ding DONG

"PIZZA MAN!" you shout, jumping up and slamming your shin into the coffee table. Before staggering to the narrow hallway leading to the door, you glance at the clock under the TV. Damn! Only 6:28. Maybe if you wait three minutes. . .

"Hello!" there is a knock at the door, "pizza delivery!"

Your tummy grumbles, it's not gonna make it three minutes. You skedaddle to the door, money (with tip of course, they only make minimum wage after all!) in hand.

"Hey! How are—" you're taken aback due to the strange sight before you.

Standing in the semi-grimy tiled hallway of your apartment complex was none other than Pinkie Pie. Her curl pink locks capped off in a cute blue Ponimino's hat, visor pointed forward. Under the shade of her cap was two wide eyes, snorting nostrils, and worst of all her tongue! Her long, wet tongue lolled out of her mouth, waves of hot breathing washing out of her and rolling down that dripping tongue. The strangest part, perhaps, was the fact that she was standing on two legs, coming up almost to your height. One forehoof rested on the door's frame for support, the other shakily held up a box of pizza.

"Pinkie, what are you doing here?"

"I'm a delivery mare, Anon, and I'm here to deliver to you," Her blue polo uniform looking slightly baggy as it hung over her tummy.

"Wow, okay, guess it's just a night job?"

"Y-yeah," her wide eyes were starting to freak you out.

You attempt to hand her the money, but she just shakes her head, "new policy, you've gotta open up the box and inspect the pizza."

"Huh?"

"Open the box," she pressures, "to make sure it's what your ordered!"

"Well, if it's a new policy. . ."

Your hand descends for the pizza box's lid, apprehension slowing your movement. She was panting heavier now. In the back of your mind you notice you can't see a bag with the lava cakes or soda in it. What is this madness?

You lift it up slowly, light breaking into the dark recesses of the pizza box. You feel like Indiana, trying to replace the idol with the bag of sand! Pinkie's eyes pierce into your soul, you know what emotion they are reflecting at you, lust! Suddenly your arm jerks forward, throwing up the lid of the box and revealing all to god's glowing light.

Your lungs draw in air as your body gets ready to scream in shock, but nothing comes out. There, in the middle of your pizza box, right where the little white pizza table should be, THE HEAD OF PINKIE PIE'S FUTANARI HORSE COCK!

The alien object pulsates with sexual energy, the tip flaring. Strings of cheese goodness are draped around it, it is one with the pizza pie! A small stream of precum dribbles out, and unwanted topping to your Friday night snack!

"This is what you wanted right, Anon?" Pinkie asks, her voice dripping and sticky with wanton lecherous giddy, "a cheesy pizza with extra sausage!"

A ropy shot of cum accidentally squirts out, coating your shirt and face in horse baby goo. Just a simple drop enters your mouth and you recoil in disgust, at first. . .

You swish it in your mouth like a wine-o.

"You've been eating a lot of Pineapple Pizza, haven't you?"

F#2: The Move

Author's Note

Characters used: Anonymous, Spike
Perspective: Second Person, Anonymous
Fetish: Advice
Type: Humor

F#2: The Move

"You been pretty quiet today dude, you alright?" you ask Spike, sipping your milkshake.

Spike toys with his straw, swirling the cherry around in that deep pit of whip cream no one drinks. Then he looks up at you, "w-we're friends, right Anon?"

"Of course man," you reply, leaning in.

"Uh, like, hmm..." Spike rubs the back of his scaly neck.

"Yes?" you encourage, rolling your hand for him to continue. Despite being being older, and physically large, Spike is still a bit socially awkward.

"I don't think I should be telling you this, but me and Rarity are suppose to uh, 'do it' tonight."

"THAT'S AWESOME!" you shout, diving over the table to give your old buddy a slap on the back.

He throws up his hands in shame, covering his face the second he notices everyone else in Sugarcube corner staring.

"Please Anon, this is very personal."

You were too excited to please Anon. This is a great development, you've been waiting for your virginal dragon-bud to finally berry his sword in that ass like King Arthur. No of course not, how is that weird? You're just being supportive! Spike cools off and his cheeks go from Tomato red to a more pinkish hue.

"No, no, not awesome. I have no idea how to do it, Anon," he says softly.

You withdraw back to your side of the table, patting the milkshake you spilled with a napkin. With your off hand you feel your beard under your mask. That chocolate is never coming out of your tie, you think to yourself.

"How much do you know?"

Spike looks left and right, scanning the room. You do as well, noting that most of the ponies still here have turned back to their own devices.

"I know what goes in, and where, and what everything looks like... but I dunno how to make it uh, good."

"Oooooh you don't have any 'moves'?"

He intensely rubs his neck, "y-yeah, those."

At least he has some basic knowledge of how things work. You feel like Rarity wouldn't be the kind of girl to care very much about performance, she seems pretty inexperienced herself. But maybe you could help him out a bit. . .

"I think I might have a few tips for you," you giggle at your pun.

Spike is too nervous to say anything, but he nods his head rapidly and rubs his hands. You pay your tab and lead him out into the Ponyville streets.

"Best we're out of such a public place for this," you say, looking down at the big blotch of chocolate on your red tie.

Son of a bitch, your favorite one too.

"S-so, come on spill it."

"Whoa cowboy, not so fast," you laugh to yourself, "what I'm about to tell you is sensative material."

"Okay," he says softly, looking up at you with innocent puppy eyes.

"You CANNOT repeat this to anyone," you say, waving one finger, and grabbing tightly onto your lapel.

"Of course, Anon!" his voice cracks a little, and he covers his mouth in shame quickly.

"Oy, still gettin' those, eh?"

He blushes.

"But seriously, this is MY move, and it never fails—if you do it right."

He nods rapidly.

"I call it... the 'based Anon Insta-cum reverse spiral midnight clock technique'," you say, waving your hands in an arc, wide smile on your face.

Spike squints at you in confusion, like you just told a joke so bad it made people angry.

"Really? That's a pretty embarrassing name."

"Hey, take it or leave it, kiddo. It's not me that hasn't been laid before," you turn your back on him dismissively.

"Ok wait! Don't be like that man. J-just tell me how to do it."

"Alright alright," you turn back and start off down the street with him, just taking a walk in the nice summer air.

Suppose to be nice a cool tonight, good night for a fuggin'.

"First things first, do you have a headboard?"

Spike taps his chin, "uh I think."

"Good, good, you'll need it..."

"And then you take your thumb and stick it in there, rotate about 90 degrees. Exactly 90, if you make an acute angle she don't feel it, obtuse and it'll hurt."

Spike looks down at his thumb.

"But wait... I have a question."

"Go ahead," you reply, crossing your leg.

The two of you were sat on a park bench. No one was around so it was pretty save to discuss your technique here.

"Is my thumb going in there while my... thing is in there too?"

You look at him with a taken aback expression, "of course."

"How is it gonna all fit in there."

"Don't worry, mares are pretty stretchy."

Spike's face expresses a hint of "I'm pretty grossed out".

"Don't worry dude, it's gonna be weird in there the first time."

"Are you sure all of that will work... I mean the part with her hoof in my—"

You cut him off.

"Just do all the steps, in order, perfectly, it'll work."

He rubs his forehead and looks down, deep in though.

"Also, if she passes out after the shaking, just leave her, she'll wake up naturally."

"Like leave the house?"

"No, no of course not. Just don't wake her up, she'll freak out on ya. Just lay down next to here and enjoy the post-coitus bliss."

"U-uh... alright, Anon. I'll trust you on this. I just hope I can do it all."

You gaze over at the Carousel Boutique from across the street, a pair of night-vision binocs pressed against your eyes. The light is on in the bed room, and you can see two shadows moving against each other. Been going on for about 15 minutes, not too bad. No screaming or loud noises yet. The squirting hasn't started yet either.

You pray he followed through with the 180 spin swirl, it's pivotal in making the thumb ending work. Wait, what's that! You enhance the zoom, and spot a shadowy arm shoot up from the pile of shadows, thumb extended proudly up.

"Here it comes," you hear a shaky, teen-dragon voice shout.

The arm dives back down. Rarity begins screaming in pleasure, perfectly audible all the way from your place across the street. Looking around you see lights flicking on in houses and apartments all over, ponies poking their heads out to see the source of the late-night disturbance.

You smile to yourself proudly. The only thing now was the sound of nice dress shoes slapping against pavement as you escaped back to your house.

"So this is what being a dad feels like you," you say to yourself, wiping away a tear.

Mission fucking accomplished.

F#3: The Prancing Pony

Author's Note

Characters Used: Anonymous, Octavia
Perspective: Second Person, Anonymous
Fetish: Sex workers, Premature Ejaculation
Type: Clop/Humor
Done by Request!

F#3: The Prancing Pony

It's Friday, and you're feeling naughty. With much apprehension, planning and thought, you make the decision to visit the Ponyville Strip Club. You fiddle with the bits in your pocket, unsure how much this sexualized outing will cost you. Is this embarrassing? Is this even worth it? Should you spend another Friday evening with your hand gripped around your dick mournfully?

All these questions and more, like tears in the rain. You have transcended past shame, or so you think. It's entirely normal to ogle mares by yourself, everypony must do it once in awhile! How many lecherous stallions spend their nights drooling over lewd, shaking flank? It's entirely natural.

With a lump in your throat you stagger past the bouncer at the front of the facility, he takes your cover without gusto. Despite being over two feet taller than him, his grizzled face does give you a fright. The flashing, strobing lights of cyan and succulent purple don't help to calm you. The thump of a deep bass beat causes your heart to pump erratically. You nearly don't notice a serving girl who spooks you, entwining her tail around your leg. A small, empty tray levitates near here, suspended by her magic.

"Hey, sweetie," she says, batting her eyes. You almost recognize her, but you can't pin down her name, "how's your night?"

"I-I'm good, how're you?"

"Doing fine," she says sweetly, blowing you a kiss and walking off, "if you need a drink, let me know."

You nod, and quickly realize she's already turning and walking away, and doesn't see your gesture. A pair of stallions push past you, laughing loudly over some joke. You scurry in, taken aback by the vastness of the club. Down a small flight of stairs takes you to the main floor, with about five performance platforms, each circled by lounges. Along the wall, smaller tables and booths. It isn't very busy, but there are a few patrons hooting and wooing at the two performers that are currently flaunting their bodies.

Eagerly you eye the strippers up, hoping to determine if you knew them based on cutie marks, or coat color. No such luck, but their lewd ministrations freeze you in place. Your attention flicks between the ass of one grey mare and the enticingly lustful expressions of another. Each was being showered in attention by stallions, donated bits laying at the dancer's hooves as they showed off their assets.

You felt yourself stiffening, but quickly turn around and try to ignore it. Opposite the dance floor is, naturally, a small bar. The red seated stools laid before a clean looking white counter. The counter is under lit by white florescent lights, beaming softly. Shelves of beautiful multi-colored bottles hang in front of mirror surrounded by more lights. A bartender tends to something, their back turned to you.

Drifting over to it, you quietly sit on the middle stool, but still rouse the attention of the bartender, who's back was turned a moment ago, "how can I help you, darling?" they say.

Her white coat is so beautiful, soft fluff lit angelically by the spotlight above. Her tightly tied purple mane ending in, ironically, a ponytail. Deep red eye shadow outlined by black eyeliner. You stare at her for a moment before she dips her head lower and inquires if you'd like something.

"Yes, please, something strong," you reply, erection pressing against your trousers. She twirls around and begins fixing you something. A cocktail or mix of some sorts. Using her unicorn magic she weaves together a little show for you. Ice, a deep brown liquor, two packets of sugar, all twirling around her as she combined them in a shaker. She coos and huffs sexually as she does, not looking at you directly but teasing you with her subtly erotic movements.

Finally, the finished product, a tall thin glass of what looks not unlike a Long Island Iced Tea. Served on a small napkin, you quickly lift it to your mouth to try it. It's bitter and sweet, almost like tea, but with the harshness of alcohol. You never really liked liquor, and you don't really like it now.

"How is it?" she inquires.

"It's great," you lie. You place the glass back down and let out a breath.

"Hard week?" she asks.

"Yeah, I-I was just hoping to relax a little here."

She nods and looks past you, "why not ask for a private dance, Starshine over there is almost done with her set." She waves over to the grey mare with the rich black mane and simple tri-star cutie mark. The one you were drooling over just a second ago.

"How do I get time with her?" you blurt out, breath slightly harried and eyes wide. The barmare directs you over to a small console beside the bar, with a simplistic, somewhat grimy, touchscreen.

She leaves you to it, and you awkwardly tinker with it, fumbling through the menu to find Starshine. Her profile picture on the menus once again stoked the fires of your arousal. A private dance with her? Any price would be worth it. Wait? Two hundred bits! You looked down at your money, just barely enough to cover that and the drink.

All your saved up money on one lap dance? You look back over your shoulder to her, as she panted and pulled down her stockings slowly for her two viewers. She's already booked directly after he public show, but her final slot of the night is open. Quickly you reserve it for yourself, mashing through the menus. A small receipt prints out after you insert your bits into the machine.

With the smallest smidgen of buyer's remorse you clutch your ticket, and return to the bar.

"Don't worry, hun, I watched your drink for you."

"Thanks," you say, although it's little more than a whisper and hardly audible over the now sensual, rhythmic music which elicits imagery of wet mares and thrusting stallions. You whittle away the half an hour of waiting time by drinking and fumbling through small talk with the bartender.

Time passes slowly, and your confidence in the situation would have been entirely eroded if not for the drink clutched in your mitts. Eventually though, the bartender reminds you that your private show was about to begin in one of the rear lounges. You realize now that you have no clue where you are suppose to go to meet Starshine.

"See that there, past the pole on the left, go through those curtains, she'll be waiting."

"T-thanks!" you stutter, nearly falling off your chair as you bumble down to the rear rooms. You carefully step down the stairs, as to not embarrass yourself with a misstep.

A crude scent tickles your nose as you enter rear room, pulling aside the grimy curtain with one hand and clutching your ticket with another. Starshine catches your eye immediately, she's casually waiting by another curtain, inspecting her hoof. She's re-adorned herself with her clothing, such as it is. An iris purple gossamer drapes itself over her features, accenting the curves of her flank and deep grey of her fur.

She waves you over when you notice her, and you rush over, waltzing past about three other private rooms. "Hey, ready to go?" she asks cheerfully.

"Yeah, so, how does this work?" you ask meekly.

She pushes aside the drape before her, revealing a small circular room with a pillowed seat against the wall. You head in, sitting yourself in the seat awkwardly. Your shoulders tense up, and you find yourself gripping the pillows on either side of you tightly. She follows in, swaying her hips nice and slowly, tailing flicking with her.

"Relax," she whispers, climbing atop you, running a hoof down the side of your face. Her ass presses against your leg gently, rubbing slightly against it.

Your eyes quickly flick past her to make sure the curtain was closed before following her order. You roll your shoulders and begin to relax into the seat, allowing her lay over you gently. You feel her breasts pressing against your abdomen as she brushes the soft fur of her cheek against your neck.

"Never been with a human before," she says softly, hot breath rolling over your ear lobe, causing a slight chill to tingle your spine.

"Yeah," you reply uncomfortably, feeling arousal surge in your loins as she brushes past your crotch and back to her hooves. She retreats a few paces back and spins around, revealing a rather full behind covered in very revealing panties. With one hoof she reaches back and tugs down one side of the lingerie down, riding down the side of her flank and cutie mark.

Your eyes drift to the prize naturally, her cunt. It presses harshly against its binds, a small strip of dampness along where her lips jutted against the underwear. Her scent is overwhelming, pheromones clouding your mind with sexual urges. You wanted nothing more than to take off your pants to free your straining member.

Lewdly she arches up and stands straight, using her forehooves to lean against the wall. She hikes up her tail, which she waves gently. The music is slow and steady, and she follows its beat, moving along with each note. She raptly shakes her mane to and fro, striking erotic poses between bouts of revealing half-dance. Your arousal grows, cock throbbing, instinctively you find yourself squeezing your legs together, pressing your warm dick against yourself. It's pleasurable, intensely so, especially with the lecherous show in front of you.

Starshine notices and smiles, trotting over to you. "Not so different than a stallion after all," she comments, once again elegantly, gently moving over you. She touches you very little, a hoof here, a patch of fur there. And yet, despite so little contact, your skin tingles in response, and you try to discreetly rub yourself against her, which she allows.

You not-so-accidentally reach for her flank, running your hands through her cutie mark. Her face curls in shock, and she quickly stands erect, hoof firmly but slowly moving your hand away, "no touching that," she says, all sense of lust lost from her voice.

This hardly changes your mind, but when you look down at your hand you spot something like glitter. When you look to her cutie mark it seems, well, smudged. She quickly shifts away, sitting herself right in your lap. You let out a huff as her panties press against your crotch, just a few layers of thin fabric preventing your sexes from touching.

"Eyes up here," she whispers, looking straight at you, her long lashes and blushing face entrancing you. Then, as the song changed again, she began grinding. The deep, guttural thumping of the lead-up bass moving her like a puppet up and down against your cock. It's nearly as if you're having sex, you imagine, hand tenderly hanging near her but not on her.

She places her forehooves under your arms and guides your hands to her midsection, which you tentatively grasp. Her warm frame feeling so soft and nice in your grip. She presses her breasts against your chest once more, and more feverishly begins thrusting and grinding against your cock.

Then, suddenly, you jerk forward awkwardly, and the spell is broken as you begin orgasming. Your cock thumps against its binds as it fruitlessly pumps semen into your trousers, already feeling sticky and wet. Starshine tenses up, she notices! You gulp and freeze up, the pleasure of orgasm mixing with the shame of this unwanted ejaculation into a heart-clutching concoction. She looks at you sideways and presses against you softly as your body goes through its last shivers of bliss. Your face feels like its on fire, and you can't bear to meet her glance.

"Sorry," you weakly say, trying to nudge her off you.

She lets out a half-snort of laughter before stopping herself, "no problem, happens all the time."

You blush and brush past her, shakily trying to stand, "can I go?"

She shrugs, and you catch another glimpse at her flank, afterglow finally settling and your senses returning. Her cutie mark, three stars, had one missing now, and in its place a strange curve. Looks not unlike a musical note. You thank her, awkwardly, and scurry out as comfortably as possible.

Before you leave the rear rooms entirely, you hear a soft chuckling behind you. Naturally you duck low, shame wearing down heavily on your shoulders. You want nothing more than to adjust your cumstained underwear, and move your now soft dick to a more comfortable position, but it feels like the entire club is staring at you!

The bartender waves at you as you exit, one eyebrow raised. She must realize your show ended early! The pain of realizing that mare is going to probably tell everyone else who works here what happened is too much, and you meekly retreat back home.

Monday, another day at the office. The weekend did little to rekindle your dampened spirits, as you spent the next two days stewing in shame. It's almost lunch time, and the monotonous work of your day job has been helping to focus your mind. You wrap up for the time being and stand to walk to the break room. There is a brown bag lunch waiting for you in the fridge.

Octavia blocks the exit to your cubicle, "hey Anonymous."

"Hey," you reply, scooting past her.

"Have a good weekend?" she asks.

"Ye—oof!" you trip forward, bumping against her, "geez, sorry," you say, helping her up.

She nods and smiles, "no problem, happens all the time," she says before walking away.

You gasp, frozen in place as she scampers down the hallway, a soft chuckle ringing in your ears.

F#4: The Exchange

Author's Note

Characters used: Anonymous, Queen Chrysalis
Perspective: Third Person
Fetish: Decapitation?
Type: Clop

Thanks to Eighth for helping with editing this!

F#4: The Exchange

The land of Equestria is untamed, barren. Civilization is a flickering flame, the might of the sibling Alicorns has not yet brought law and order to the land. Behind every dark hill lay untapped magic, mystery, and high adventure!

Along this broken path wanders a brave warrior, Anonymous, whose fate has bound him here to this land until he can find a way home. Anonymous has grown weary from his long travels; his feet drag in the dirt, his shoulders weigh heavy with the burden of his sword and days of quiet travel, while his parched lips cry out for water and rest.

Here, far from the last village he’s encountered, it is easy to go days without seeing another creature of sentience. Yet, he must press on, with only a vague heading and the tugging in his heart to push him forward. The winds, the very cold of night are set against him, his shoulder length hair billows behind him in waves. The warmth provided by his animal furs offering little comfort on this dreary night.

Knees weak, muscles sore, and will fading, it is here that Anonymous nearly meets his end! However, yonder, his eyes catch the haze of smoke obscuring the stars in the night sky. With renewed vigor he surges forth, struggling down the stone steps which he climbed to the grassy gnoll below.

Unthinking, uncaring, he recklessly slides down the side of the steep hill, scraping the back of his leg fiercely. Without a cry of pain, nor any consideration at all, he presses forward toward the source of the fire. Obscured by myriad hills and rocks, he finally comes upon the source — a small hut.

The clearing which the hut is built is surrounded on three sides by rocks and other natural obstructions. The wind is reflected here, blowing over his head. There stands a curious mare in the doorway, leaning in a way to accentuate the curves of her flank.

Reflexively, the hairs on his neck stood on end, and Anonymous partially drew his blade. She coos gently, saying there is no need for violence before she offers him in, to be warmed by the fire and partake of food and drink.

His eyes go wide, and not for lack of light. The bitter cold snaps at his extremities and his body tingles with the imagined sensation of a warm fire, and provisions. With a curt nod and a setting aside of his weapon, he hobbles in after her.

The hut is small, made with firm wood of young trees with animal hides draped over them. An unusual choice for a pony, who in Anonymous’ experience rarely wear or use such things. The mare, with a sleek coat of grey and piercing eyes of purple, offers him a warm drink and bread and other simple foods.

He reaches out for them, gingerly at first, expecting some trick from the unicorn mare that watched his movements closely. However, hunger and more primal want seized control, and feverishly began consuming the hospitality of his host.

An inquiry as to his intentions and traveling destination falls on deaf ears at first, as he continues to shovel in pieces of bread and small berries into his mouth. After washing it down with another swig of bitter tea, he explains his quest to return home — and more importantly his desire for an item of great power, or even a portal that could send him back there.

She smiles wryly, lounging out on a large bear skin of alluring softness. With a light giggle, she promises directions and information about a portal in return for compensation.

With a furrowed brow and voice as unwavering as the steel of his blade Anonymous declares, “I have no money or assets of value for which to trade.”

Her wandering eyes pace out each chiseled muscle and rippling scar tracing his body, finally descending upon his loins, now only covered by a tapering cloth. It is obvious what she wants, but Anonymous had his apprehensions, why such a simple act for such seemingly valuable information. Perhaps it is of no value to her, and she is willing to give it up to a strange being like Anonymous for this token act.

Satisfied of both his cold, hunger and thirst, Anonymous ponders the act and how it would provide a relaxing layer of fatigue to his already tired body that would provide a peaceful rest. With a stroke of his chin, he nods again, to which the mare lets out a shuddering sigh of anticipation.

She saunters over to him, sitting crossed-legged. With a long tongue, she begins gently lapping his cheek and arm, taking great pleasure in the salty-sweetness of his sweat. He is inclined to recoil, but instead lowers his inhibitions and relaxes his tense muscles.

Her huffs of breath roll down his skin, repelling the slight cold in the hut that the fire had no dispelled. She places a hoof on his chest and motions him to lean back, he does so slowly, finding a small chest to rest his neck on. His traveling clothes and furs offering a blanket of sorts.

He had not been with a mare before, but that didn’t frighten him. The piercing, powerful gaze of his night partner gave him imperceptible shivers. His body could sense magic at work, and get her horn did not glow, nor could he see any magical effects. Against his better judgement, he cups her rear, pulling her on top of him. She hisses lowly in a strange way, and his eyes become lidded and heavy.

Now the magic begins, silvery sparkling tracery working its way under his garments and massaging his genitals to erection. He grunts heavily at the sudden pleasure, gripping her more tightly and sending a scouting digit to her waiting wetness. She encourages this, moving to accommodate his prodding as she offers some mutual pleasure.

He slips a finger in, noting how foreign it feels, and yet also similar. He demands some of the information, whispering into one tickled ear, which twitches as it collects his words.

“North, forward,” she begins, letting loose a moan now as a second finger cooperates with the first to spread her labia. He orders her to tell him how many days, as he uses his other hand to take firm grasp of the base of his manhood.

“Three beginning sunset, if you walk both day and night,” she manages to blurt out before he shoves her down back onto the bearskin.

He stands before he, proud erection and intimidating size shadowing the mare. She hisses and questions if he is going back on his deal. He does not reply verbally, instead choosing to fall to his knees, still lording over her.

He positions her as to best accommodate him, which she has no qualms about, easily moving into position below him. With an animal’s ferocity Anonymous paws at her flank, dragging her an inch or two forward so that their sexes could meet properly. She arches her back and bites down on her hoof to contain her pleasure as he enters her.

Hot molten entering a frozen river! A burst of crackling pleasure, and the cooling heat to follow. He stokes the flames of passion again with another full hilt thrust. He grits his teeth himself, the dam of his inhibitions crumbling under the torrent of more carnal pleasure. He leans deeply over her, arms planted firmly on either side of her head, grasping the thick fur of the skin.

Hammer to hot metal, flying sparks and the pleasure of hard work! He pumped into her like a craftsman working his trade, grunting along with her feminine moans. This goes on for many minutes, and the fire dims. Sweat traces his brow as he continues to work away at her, marble falling to chips and revealing a seductive statue.

Without much thought, he leans into to her whispering, soft ministrations and directions. Her long tongues curls out, first to allow her to pant, which along with her blushing face and squeezing cunt is more than enough proof that he is holding up his end of the bargain. However, he almost doesn't notice the unnaturally long tongue work its way to his ear, and then neck. Warm saliva quickly cooling.

She wraps a hoof around his neck, tugging him deeper into her, closer. And she meets her mouth with his in a loving buss, which lasts no more than a second, as she gently bites into his shoulder and neck. She giggles, and lets loose an affirming half-laugh of his own. She speaks again, this time of the portal's swirling depths, undulating rings of white and black.

"Yes!" he declares, nearing orgasm now. He ramps up his thrusting, which causes her to gasp, letting out a shrill cry of convulsing pleasure. Then, suddenly, she returns to her chanting — this time not of Anonymous' prize, but antediluvian tongues which grind on Anonymous' soul like nails on stone.

With immense strength she pins him in place, legs curling around him to keep him in her. He thrashes back just as her wet, wanting mouth bites down with a vicious intent on his shoulder. He lets free a cry of pain, wiggling now to attempt to free himself. However, he now notices painful, pincer-like grasps clutching his cock, not unlike clawed fingers. From his shoulder, he felt his essence begin forceful sucked out, and his head swims as blood is extracted from his human wellspring.

They grip his manhood painfully, as she laughs in an otherworldly, demonic voice. Her body begins to glow with green light as it transforms back into what must be its original form! Anonymous recoils as he feels her chitinous, hard body and holed appendages. He tears her face from his shoulder, skin painfully ripping with it.

"Behold your queen, my new sire!" she yelps, foul fangs letting loose their grip on his flesh.

He's able to grapple her now, one hand clamping on her throat forcefully. Her green slit-like snake eyes narrow and her horn begins to burst with magical energy, however, before she can cast any depraved spell Anonymous acts. He lifts her up and backward best he can, penis still paired with her clamping depths. With his free hand, he grasps the handle of the pommel of his sword, knocking it into his palm.

"Fiend!"

With a stunning blow, he cleaves her neck partly from her body. A gurgling shriek rings out, and her magic peters as it fades. Black ichor gushes from the wound, splattering the floor and dousing the fire. A secondary strike and he completely decapitates the changeling, her body falling limp as he grips her by the hair.

Quite uncomfortably his hips buck and he trembles as he cums inside her, seed spilling into her still warm depths as the grip loosens on his penis. He growls in disgust and pulls out, body sending signals and sensations of both post orgasmic stimulation and revulsion.

Anonymous clutches his wounded shoulder and stands, shaking his head at the sight before him.

F#5: Black Magic!

Author's Note

Characters used: Trixie Lulamoon
Perspective: Third Person
Fetish: Tentacles
Type: Clop

F#5: Black Magic!

That damned Twilight Sparkle! you think to yourself, pouting and throwing down your wizard's hat. How could the great and powerful Trixie be brought so low before such a weakling such as Twilight!?

Trixie is flush with embarrassment even now, her reputation in tatters because of Twilight Sparkle! Her mind cranks and grinds, trying to work through the anger and anxiety to find an answer. What makes Twilight so much better? How was she able to see past all Trixie's tricks, counter all her spells? That damnable library was the source of Twilight's power, and if she could loot it. . .

Clad in a black sneaking suit, face covered and mane held back by a bandanna, Trixie skirts around the edge of a window. The house is empty, Twilight and her watch dog Spike far away in Canterlot for some silly event. It's dark, and devoid of any life. A sliver of moonlight streaks across the bookcases in the main room.

With one last glance behind to make sure no one is around Trixie uses her magic to unlatch the hook on a window. She slithers in like a snake, silently closing the window behind her and creeping to the selection of books. Despite currently owning the house and being relatively safe, Trixie is smarter than to get cocky.

Without a doubt Twilight has laid out some sort of defensive spells on her books and home. Closing her eyes, Trixie strains her horn as she scans the room for the prickling of a magical ward. Nothing except from a massive spike of raw energy from one particular book. Trixe opens her eyes and finds her self looking directly at it. A black book, whispering gently in the dark to her. The room's light seems to ebb away, sapped by the book's essence. Trixie feels her hooves moving toward against her will. No, that's not right, not against her will but not with it either.

It slides off the shelf with a mind of it's own. A small yellow note on the side reads 'Spike: don't touch!" which is barely noticeable in the darkness. Trixie snatches it with her magic and flips through the pages, not noticing the terrible eldritch glyph on the front. Her mind races as she quickly tries to absorb the information.

Surely this is her most prized book, the power emanating from this tome is remarkable! The contents are a rambling of nonsense recounts of desert travels and deep caverns. No spells, no magic techniques, and yet why—

Trixie flips the page and feels a searing pain, her eyes well with tears as it feels like her pupils are burned off. Illusory visions of odd glyphs and odd, amalgamated nonsense words jump out at her. The wood of the floor sears and hisses as black marks are imprinted on it with ghostly brands.

Trixie stumbles back and releases the book from her grip, sweat dripping from her pores as she tries to rub her eyes. Book remains levitating, and the tickling sounds of distant chanting reach Trixie's ears.

What terrible trick is this? Some sort of defensive curse?

She scrambles backward to get out of the circle of runes only to press against a spongy, slimy wall of purple-black. She recoils and screeches, turning the other way and running into another set. Thick, rubbery tentacles with violent sharp suction cups. In a matter of seconds she's surrounded by them, on all sides, bioluminescent strips on thinner ones propping up between the cracks in the wall.

Trixie immediately produces a panicked teleportation spell, but feels her magic sputter out as the runes flare on the ground, and a thin tendril snaps out and tugs on her horn, wrapping around it with otherworldly strength and knocking her to the ground. With a grunt Trixie quickly tries to right herself, only to flop on her back as more tentacles snap onto her limbs.

She begins panting and groaning in fear, swirling darkness filling the corner of her eyes, snake-like green a purple illuminated tentacles weaving around her ragged pony frame. They swerve and constrict against her chest, the thin black material of her sneaking suit all that is protecting her from them.

She tries spell after spell but they all fizzle out, only emboldening her captors. What a foolish pursuit, stealing Twilight's secrets! Her breathing becomes ragged and the urge to scream out is intense, but her voice is gone! She opens wide but only a low gurgle comes out. Quickly her mouth is filled with one of the tentacles, going deep down her throat incredibly fast.

She gags and gasps, biting down hard on the rubbery appendage. It does nothing, simply retracting and then pumping it's salty slimy mast forward again. Trixie struggles to breath through her nose, sucking in as much of the stale air around her as possible. She almost doesn't notice her suit being torn by gnashing teeth, revealing her nether regions.

The sudden exposure to the air feels pleasing, but she squirms in shock and confusion. What the fuck sort of spell is this? Trixie's panic mind searches for answers, but finds little to do. What could she do? Bound, immobile, unable to use her magic?

The probing, slightly rounded end of a thinner tendril rides up and down her labia, flicking her clit as it rides up and tickling her ass on the way down. She bucks as much as she can, but can't resist the pleasure as it begins to build. She winks in arousal and the tendril leaves her mouth, strings of saliva and a thicker white substance coating it and her mouth.

Trixie gasps for air, tongue coated in a white slime of gritty, salty texture. She gags again, some of it spilling out the side of her mouth. She's given only this moment to rest, as the one working on her cunt begins pressing deeper. With a shrill cry from its victim the tentacle enters, sliding in and out with some ease do to her arousal.

Despite her fear, Trixie was quite heated. She was getting wet from the mouthfuck alone, as unpleasant as it was. Maybe it was the vile substance the thing had pumped into her that was causing her to go delirious and actually enjoy what was happening! She shudders at the continued thrusting into her puss, leaning over to look at it go to work.

A subtle bulge develops in her abdomen as it probes deeper, far deeper than any stallion. It glides along the walls of her canal, leaving a thick substance behind. Trixie begins sucking in breath more heavily as she works toward and orgasm, not quite against her will but not with it either.

She moans again, just on the edge, the tentacle throbs and pulses in her, delivering a new coat of paint to her uterus just as she cums. A soupy mess of a maregasm gushing out as the tentacle leaves her. She looks up at the ceiling, mostly blocked out by the tentacles, face hot with embarrassment and lust.

I wish Twilight were here to save me!

"What the heck?" Spike's young voice calls. Trixie's eyes shoot open wide, and a blinding light fills the room as the bulb overhead is flick on.

The light quickly evaporates Trixie's nearly ghastly captives, and they disintegrate into a blackish paste, dropping her harshly on the floor.

"Oh my god," Twilight cries, and Trixie vaguely sees her covering Spike's eyes with a hoof as she rolls on her side. Looking forward, she sees the two just at the open entrance of the Treebrary. Her new sneaking suit was ruined, covered in slimy whitish silver goo, ripped in several places. Her mane and face were sticky and covered with the demon's essence as well. She wipes some off her forehead before it enters her eye.

A pool of more viscous orange "squash soup" pooled around Trixie's thighs, mixing with the other fluids of black and white.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID BUT YOU'RE CLEANING THIS, TRIXIE!" Twilight shouts.