An immense task stood before Gosling, and her name was Celestia. There was only one sure way to bring a giant down, and that was careful, considerate attention. She was sensitive, far too sensitive on that one little spot, and she got off on indirect stimulation. This was, perhaps of all of his lessons, the most difficult, and the one he was still trying to sort out. Standing in the hot, flowing water that pounded against his taut-stretched skin, Gosling watched while Celestia winked, knowing that the best way to get her to climax was to somehow manipulate and harness her own natural movements in such a way that left her with a surplus of stimulation. The slick, swift motion of her flesh against itself had to be controlled in such a way that it made her climax.

She stood with her dock flagged, quivering, aroused to the point that some of the strands of her tail had become physical again. Saturated with water, these strands clung to her flesh, her crevices, and her cleft. While her dock strained, pulling tighter to rise higher, the awe-inspiring asterix of her pucker was stretched lengthwise, which further pulled on the fevered, inviting folds of her slit-split cleft. Gosling knew that Celestia could work herself into orgasm just by flexing her own dock and drawing her skin tight back here, tightening it around her winking, excited clitoris, because she had once given him a demonstration.

“Don’t just stand there…” Celestia’s words were breathy, husky, and punctuated with pleading pants. “It’s not fair to take me this far and then not finish the job. Please your princess!”

Well, yes, but how? Stick with the old tried and true? Attempt something new? Perhaps something risky? Push the boundaries between pain and pleasure? A bite had started this, perhaps something just as titillating could take this to as of yet unexplored plateaus of perversion. Closing his eyes, Gosling allowed his other senses a treat: the scent of the soap, the vanilla musk that came from Celestia’s overexcited anal glands, the sounds, all of them, of which there were so many that it was overwhelming, an assault upon the senses.

With his eyes still closed, he could feel the fevered, desperate heat that somehow stood out against the steam of the shower. He used this warm glow against his face to guide himself in, seeking the very warmth of the sun itself. When his snoot touched against hot flesh, Celestia jumped and let out a shrill whinny. Still blind, he felt his way around, trying to imagine what it was that he was touching, trying to see it in his mind. The skin was hard in places, engorged with blood, and he could feel a pounding pulse in the rock hard patch of skin that he knew was located just below her flexing anus.

With all of this blood flooding this area, fueling the machinery of arousal and reproduction, Gosling thought of what it felt like. Penetration was the worst and hardest thing, perhaps the most difficult part of loving an alicorn. The blood sang at a higher temperature than the other tribes, and thrusting into her in an over-eager manner was a good way to hurt himself. It was like getting into a too-hot tub, one had to ease themselves into it a little at a time or be punished by the stinging pain. The heat—her heat—was something best faced with caution, lest one get burned.

He allowed his nose to go down, following along the gentle, pleasing curve of her body. His snoot traveled over a slick, oily patch that quivered at his touch, enticing him to linger and explore. The flesh of the two lips that brushed against his muzzle was hard as iron, an impenetrable door that only opened to the invited. During his slow, lazy passing, he gave one of the lips a little nip, just a gentle, loving nibble to let it know that he would return.

Each of Celestia’s winks caused a red-pink almost heart-shaped knob to appear, it pushed out between the tight, well sealed doors of the fortress of her femininity and then withdrew, behaving like a shy debutante that didn’t know if she wished to participate in the coital cotillion. When he passed, Gosling felt it slip out and grace him with its touch, a little clitoral kiss, a reminder to drop in and say hello. The heat from it was searing. Feeling Gosling’s fuzz against her sensitive, secretive organ, Celestia started and her body went rigid for a time.

The skin turned from hard to soft as Gosling slid his muzzle along the curve of her crotch and slipped beneath her. When water trickled into his nose, he snorted, which caused Celestia’s legs to kick out a bit, widening her stance. There were teats back here, along with the gentle swell of her stomach. There was life in there, life that he had helped make, a fact that still blew his mind all these months later. Sticking out his tongue, he flicked at one teat, then the other, and was rewarded with a hiss. Rewarded? Warned? It was hard to tell. Right now he stood with his head in the most dangerous of places, sandwiched between her thighs, powerful, meaty thighs that could crush marble blocks betwixt them.

Retreating a little, he traveled back up the perfect curve and his slow, teasing movements caused Celestia’s back to arch. When his eyes opened, he found himself staring at a sight that flooded him with desire. His own spasming muscles caused his length to slap against his stomach and the hot water trickling down his sides made the skin of his member sting.

The pain only added to his arousal, but he had to ignore it.

“Gosling”—Celestia’s voice was every bit as needy as it was commanding and demanding—“I need for you to tongue-fuck my foalhole, and I need you to do it right now! Along the top and not the bottom! I’m overstimulated!”

“Yous a dirty girl, yous knows that, right?” His words alone caused Celestia to clench tight and he knew the power of his Broncs accent over the magnificent white alicorn.

“Gosling, do you wish to hang my velvet drapes upon your curtain rod?” Celestia asked in a sweet, almost cloying tone while one hoof made an impatient splashy-stomp against the textured, grippy floor.

The wily pegasus was slow to respond: “Well, yeah, probably—”

“Well, get to licking! Please your princess and I will reward you most handsomely!”

Scowling, rebellious, being young and foolish, Gosling would not be told what to do. His tongue appeared, a dextrous infiltrator, a slippery invader that liked to wiggle into exciting new places. He pressed the tip of his tongue against the rock hard patch of skin that existed just between Celestia’s puffy, swollen vulva and the pinched, puckered entrance of the smaller temple, the secret chapel where he worshipped.

Instead of going down, as was expected of him, he ascended, going up. He felt the tight wrinkles and bumps against his tongue, and there was the faint taste of vanilla to greet him. Celestia let out an equine bellow, her sides expanding considerably when she filled her lungs with steamy shower air. The rough, bumpy texture of his tongue had a pleasing friction against the unyielding, wrinkled texture of Celestia’s flexing anus. The vanilla taste—the castoreum from her anal glands—wasn’t so much sweet as it was a pleasant, savoury bitterness.

He made slow, lazy circles, but also tugged upwards, drawing the puffy folds of her vulva ever tighter around the winking royal jewel tucked away in the deep, inviting folds of the royal vault. After a few licks, he was rewarded with a whimper and settled in for what was sure to be a time consuming task. Lapping at the rubbery sphincter of flesh just below Celestia’s dock, Gosling enjoyed his little treat of vanilla, the scent filling his nose even as the flavour flooded his mouth.

Celestia’s tight, pink, perfect little pucker deserved some loving too, and Gosling was wont to do it. Circles were made, then crisscrosses, then more circles, followed by more crisscrosses, but the entire time, he maintained upwards pressure so everything down below would remain stretched taut. Celestia’s muzzle was pointed upwards at the ceiling now, her long, slender neck and her back were one long continuous arch. Reaching back with her wings in an almost double-jointed manner, she grabbed her hips, the generous, curvaceous swell of her well endowed hindquarters, and she spread herself, pulling her velvety cheeks apart to give Gosling a little better access.

She wanted to be tongue-fucked? That could be arranged, but Gosling had no interest in her foalhole at the moment. He was almost hypnotised by the curious—almost-chewy—texture of her anus. When he pressed his tongue against it, she clenched tighter and the flesh pushed back with delightful resistance. Tilting his head, he changed tactics and began using the side of his long tongue like a saw, drawing it back and forth along the entrance often hidden by her dock.

A flood of clingy, slippery liquid gushed from Celestia’s gash, which was now an angry, lurid red, the colours of an angry, seeping, furious volcano. The pace of her clitoral winking was now like a steam-driven piston rod and moved with the speed of a chugging locomotive barreling down the tracks at full burn. The hypersensitive knob of flesh was forced to push its way past barriers determined to remain shut tight and each appearance of Celestia’s perverse princess pearl was accompanied by a lewd squelch rather than the blast of horns that blared deafening proclamations of princessly arrival.

And Celestia certainly needed a declaration that she was about to arrive.

No longer content to tease the entrance, Gosling made a concerted effort to batter down the back door and set his tongue to work. The tip of his tongue was like a key, poking, prodding, seeking the welcoming slot that would allow it to slide in. He was rough and abrasive, with no gentle movements, not now. Hard aggressive action was needed and his actions caused Celestia’s cleft to be stretched tight as a drum. He pushed and shoved not just with his tongue, but with his muzzle and his snoot, slamming against the searing flesh that offered token resistance.

Gosling was determined to break into Celestia’s vaunted vanilla hidey-hole and when the flat, flared tip of his tongue found just the right angle, he thrust forward. She resisted him at first—she always did, it was reflex—but his persistence was rewarded when she relaxed her sphincter just enough for him to disturb the sanctity of the hidden chapel of secret vanilla delights. She was grippy and little bumps just past the entrance ground against his tongue, offering delightful friction. He had to push harder to keep going and as he probed deeper, he could feel her closing tight around him, grabbing him, and squeezing him during this weird, intimate kiss where he touched her most secret, vulnerable places.

After making a few penetrating flicks with his tongue, he retreated before he pulled a muscle or got a cramp. It was hazardous to explore this ancient chapel, this hidden temple, and perhaps one day when he was a well seasoned explorer, he would plumb its depths. But today was not that day. He retreated with a wet pop, a sound very much like a cork shooting out of a champagne bottle.

“Yeah, yous a dirty girl, ain’t yous… I just invaded your salad shooter with my mouth dick—” Gosling never got a chance to finish because he was squirted in the face by a copious stream of squalene, some of which had gone right into his eye, which stung and made the muscles of his face quiver with pain. He angled his face up towards the shower head to rinse out his eye and another stream of greasy, musky liquid was squirted from Celestia’s seizing vulva. This time, a flood came forth, soaking Gosling, leaving him slick and glistening in the soft warm glow of the overhead light.

The third blast produced a firehose gush that came out like a flood for a second that seemed to stretch into an eternity, then reduced to a steady trickle that dribbled down between Celestia’s quivering, trembling hind legs. The liquid was viscous, clingy, and hung down in long stretchy ribbon-like strands that seemed to stretch impossibly long before breaking.

“Did you… did you just cum at the sound of my voice?” Gosling asked while the vanilla-acrid scent of alicorn sexual secretions assailed his nostrils. He waited, but there was no reply from his mate, who seemed to still be lost in her climax. His eyes, greedy for the sight of her in this pose, drank her in, and he stared at her wet, glistening neck, his favourite part of her. She was beautiful, perfect, and just as he was about to say so, he was sprayed yet again when Celestia wiggled her bottom at him.

He was marked by the alpha mare of alpha mares.

She was panting, her tongue out and dangling from the side of her mouth while her muzzle still pointed upwards at the ceiling. Her sides heaved like blacksmith’s bellows and her parted backside was released when her wings sagged down to the floor of the shower. Her feathers were rustled, mussed, and still somehow perfect, evidence of a sexually flawless creature. The jerking muscles of her hind legs made her wobble and the musky flood continued to ooze from her spasming cleft.

This was a lesson learned for Gosling, further evidence that one did not need to pounce upon the clitoris and begin gnawing. Indirect stimulation had brought her to one of her most powerful orgasms yet, based upon the evidence of what he was seeing. A flatulent squish could be heard, followed by a queef of shuddering relief that echoed from the tile walls.

Like an eager student, Gosling looked up at his teacher with wide, adoring eyes, watching her every movement as she recovered. Even now, she was majestic, with her dangling tongue, her crossed eyes, her fluttering eyelids, and the soft, squirty post-orgasmic expulsions of her musky, nostril-crinkling feminine secretions that threatened to provoke Gosling into a dignity destroying flehmen response. Even though he knew he had done well, there was a part of him that sought praise, but Celestia was in no condition to give it.

Grinning, cocky, confident, Gosling took a step back and allowed his mate to recover.

Author's Note

Foreplay! It exists!