Trenderhoof blinked himself awake. It was dark outside, and every single part of his body hurt — especially his throat and his ass. His face was covered in dried gunk, he was in somepony else’s hotel room, it stank in here, and there was something large, hot, and breathing pressed against his back. His sleep-blurred mind juggled these facts, trying to make sense of them. It wasn’t a very difficult puzzle, and the memory of the day’s events came slamming back to him.

He’d fucked Prince Blueblood.

He’d fucked Prince Blueblood.

He’d fucked Prince Blueblood.

Well, technically he’s been brutally and only semi-consensually been fucked by Prince Blueblood. Details.

Maybe it had been a dream. I mean, obviously he’d fucked somepony, but maybe he’d had a turgid sexual encounter with some random Equestrian expat and he’d just dreamed about fucking Blueblood afterwards. Cautiously, he lifted his head and craned his neck. The other pony had rolled so he was back to back with him, but Trenderhoof could clearly make out a blond tail and a lean, muscular flank with a compass rose cutie mark.

“Oh, bugger me with a pikestaff,” he whispered. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what it felt like had happened to him.

His mind raced, shaking off the haze of a day-long nap. He’d gotten out of dangerous situations before. He could handle this. He needed to get out of here, and get to somewhere safe. He slipped off the bed, and tippy-hoofed over to the vanity stand where his sweater was draped. It wasn’t in any condition to be worn, but the precious cargo in its breast pocket was still intact. His satchel was tossed nearby, and…

“What are you still doing here?”

Trenderhoof whipped around, and backed up against the wall. Blueblood was sitting up in bed. Holy shit, he was gorgeous. Even blurry-eyed from sleep, with his mane and fur mussed, he was amazing. In fact those things only made him more desirable.

“I was, um, just leaving,” sad Trenderhoof. His path to both the door and the windows were within lunging distance of Blueblood. In theory, since Blueblood wanted him gone, leaving should be easy. But Blueblood was a sociopath, so who knew what he’d do?

Blueblood glanced at the nighttime urban glow outside, and pouted. He literally stuck his bottom lip out and whimpered. Pretty lip. Trenderhoof wanted to suck on it.

“I missed an important meeting because of you. Auntie Tia will be disappointed in me,” he simpered.

“Well, that’s terrible,” said Trenderhoof, inching across the front of the vanity and towards the door. “I’ve got a deadline in five hours, so I can relate. But hey, it was worth it, right? I had an amazing time. I came so hard. You’re an incredible lay. The best I’ve ever had.” This was all true. Except the last bit; there were one or two who were better. So a small white lie.

The sincerity of Trenderhoof’s words must have struck home, because Blueblood’s pout was replaced by a goofy, lop-sided smile. A happy puppy smile that made Trenderhoof want to stay and scratch him between the ears. Flattery, Trenderhoof reflected, would get you everywhere.

But then the smile vanished. “You said you were a writer,” hissed Blueblood, like it was a curse.

“Yeah. I mean. I’ve got a modest following. Nothing big. Nobody really reads me, how do I even do this for a living, right?”

“If word gets out that I have… dallied with a commoner my reputation will be ruined.”

“What?” Trenderhoof could not believe what he was hearing. Was Blueblood that out of touch with reality? Did he know his reputation with most ponies could not possibly get any worse? News of him ‘dallying’ with a ‘commoner’ would probably improve things for him.

“Remember — if you so much as think about writing about what happened between us,” growled Blueblood, “I will end you with my bare hooves. No. Wait. Blood is hard to get out of white fur. With my magic.”

Trenderhoof bolted out the door before Blueblood could remember the small pink stain beneath his left nostril. The hotel’s floor plan was typical of dozens Trenderhoof had stayed at, and he was able to find the stairs down without thought. He made a quick stop in the restroom on the first floor to scrub as much of the obvious cum out of his face fur as he could. Then he headed out into the hot, crowded Cluckstantinople night.

Trenderhoof had spent a week here already, and was able to find one of the city’s famous public baths without much trouble. After soaking away the evidence of the day’s criminal sexual activities, he headed to one of the few restaurants on his list that he hadn’t been to yet. He ordered something comforting — a punishingly spicy traditional dish made of corn meal and cranberries — and glass after glass of lion’s milk. Lion’s milk tasted like unsweetened liquorish, burned like backwoods moonshine, and was meant to be enjoyed in times of great celebration or personal tragedy. Being murdered by a delusional royal would a tragedy. Best to be prepared.

Alcohol has always been a writer’s best friend. The main obstacle to writing is fear — fear that your words, once out of your head in a place where anyone can see them, will be mocked, misinterpreted, or worst of all, ignored. But once a pony was drunk enough, he simply didn’t care. There were other, healthier ways to head off writer’s block, but few were so effective, or so quick. So Trenderhoof wrote. He wrote about all the things he had seen in the past week. The morning light on the ocean. The ruins of lost cites. The palatial villas along the river. The cacophony of the bazaar. The dome of the Phasianidae Sophia. The wonders prepared by the citiy’s chefs.

He also wrote about being rutted by a magnificent, animalistic monster whose level of passion had not been seen since the herd-lords of the Paleo-pony era. Then he tore those pages up and burned them in the little candle on the table, because not only could they get him killed, they weren’t appropriate for a travel and restaurant column.

Were the words good? Were they even coherent? Trenderhoof had no idea. Even if her were sober enough to tell, he didn’t have a chance to re-read them. When he was done had to dash to a late night dragongram office to send them off to his Canterlot publisher, minutes ahead of his deadline. Let his editor worry about his words now. They were out of his hooves.

He headed off prancing into the night, and immediately found himself face to chest with an enormous cock.

No, Trender you idiot, male turkeys are called toms.

“Hello, big guy,” purred Trender, looking up. Turkeys weren’t generally to his taste, but he was drunk enough that he was up for any type of dick. Wait, did Turkeys even have dicks? Or just a hole? Whatever. He was bisexual. He could adapt. Anyway, the turkey was broad shouldered, narrow hipped, and smelled very male.

“Are you Trenderhoof?” said the turkey.

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me,” purred Trenderhoof. “Do you want an autograph? I’ll sign anything. Literally anything.”

The bird produced a badge from somewhere. “Special Agent Tacitus Arsine, Turkish secret police. You were seen earlier today with prince Blueblood?”

Oh buck it with a polo mallet, it was the five oh. Vice, no doubt. Trender tried to bolt, but two more big turkeys had closed in behind him while he’d been talking. “We didn’t do anything. We went back to his room and played checkers, I swear.”

“So you were with him. Excellent. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us.”

Author's Note

I wish to sincerely apologize for my portrayal of the Turkish people in this segment of the story. Particularly, I wish to apologize for portraying them as giant semi-anthropomorphic birds. Few, if any, real Turks are like this.

Sadly.

Anyway: Next time: That plot I said I wasn't going to have. Cerebus syndrome has already kicked in. Damn it. I guess sex is hotter if it has context.