You saw him when you first came in to the party, and you immediately had an overwhelming urge to meet him and talk to him and find out if what they said was true, if he was really drinkable.
You'd heard stories about soda ponies before, but you'd kind of passed them off as legends. Just another silly story about silly ponies, because it wasn't actually possible for there to be a pony who was filled with drinkable soda pop.
How could that even work?
When you got to know more ponies, though, it started to seem at least vaguely plausible. There were, after all, crystal ponies, and you'd actually seen one and verified for yourself that you could, indeed, see through them, and suddenly, soda pop ponies moved up one spot on the plausibility scale.
* * *
It took half an hour to get across the room. You could have forced your way though if you'd really wanted to, but what was the point? It was a party; you were supposed to mingle at least a little bit. And you didn't think he was going to go anywhere. He had the look of somebody who was going to see the party through.
Whether by luck or design, when you'd finally made it over to his side of the room, the chair right next to him was open, and you politely introduced yourself and bumped his hoof before sitting down.
At first, you just make awkward smalltalk. It's not like you could just come up, bump his hoof, and then ask if you could drink him. Well, probably. You didn't really know for sure what the etiquette about that is. Maybe ponies have different rules about that kind of thing. But it doesn't feel right to you.
You're surprised to notice that he's got a drink and a plate of food. By now, the plate has been picked clean, but you watch as he takes an occasional sip, carefully holding the drink in the crook of his hoof. So many questions are going through your mind—does that dilute him? Or change his flavor?
You're never going to have an answer to any of your questions if you don't grow some balls and ask.
So you slam the rest of your drink and before you can stop yourself just blurt out "Can I drink you?"
The expression on his face . . . if he'd been drinking, it might have come out of his nose and then you're wondering what happens when he sneezes; do the bubbles inside him tickle or is that something he's used to?
You're about a nanosecond from getting up from your chair and fleeing in shame when he laughs.
"You can't imagine how many times somebody asks that."
"I. . . ." You can. He probably gets asked that all the time. Is being a soda pony like being handicapped, where nobody treats you like normal? And you've just gone and blown it. . . .
"Before I say yes or no, I want you to think about something." HIs voice is smooth and deep, like the bottom of an oak barrel. "It's gotta come out of me."
"Well, yeah, but—" The implications of what he's saying suddenly hit you. It's not like he's got a tap on him somewhere that the root beer pours out of.
There's a joke about a Russian man who has a genie grant his wish to piss vodka, and the punchline is 'Tonight, Vanya, you drink from the bottle,' and it only takes you a second to conclude how the root beer gets out.
Where else could it be?
He's chuckling again. This could well be something that amuses him . . . and why shouldn't it? If you've got a handicap or a weird human—pony—trick, why not get a laugh or two out of it?
"Thought so." He punches you lightly on the shoulder.
"I didn't say no yet." Your face is burning, and you wish you could hide your embarrassment by drinking, but your cup's empty. And to be honest, there's a kind of weird fascination with the idea. It's just so wrong, and yet sort of right. "I've just got to get used to the idea, you know?"
"I guess you've never seen another soda pony before, have you?"
You shake your head.
* * *
The two of you keep talking, and the idea of drinking him sort of fades into the background, but it's still gnawing away at your mind. Finally, you broach the subject again, because it's like a loose tooth; you just can't help but work at it.
"Would I have to . . . you know, put it in my mouth?" Please say no.
"Put it in your mouth?" He sounds honestly baffled by the question. Maybe he's never heard that joke.
"Your, um." You make a vague gesture at his crotch.
"Not if you don't want to." He brushes his forelock back and looks at you thoughtfully. "I'd like it, I'm not gonna lie, but . . . you're really committed to this idea, aren't you?"
You nod. You don't trust yourself to say words.
"Well, if you're willing to pay the price, I'm willing. Grab your cup."
"We're not . . . right here."
"There's gotta be a bedroom or something that nobody's using," he tells you. "There always is."
You nod. Of course there will be.
* * *
The two of you find a room upstairs that isn't being used by anybody, and you even remember to bring your cup along. Oddly, he's decided to carry his with him, too. It's still partially full, so maybe he wants a little drink before you settle in to. . . .
It's not gay to want a root beer. It's not.
You've got little choice but to let him take the lead here. You've got a vague idea what's coming, but some of the mechanics of what's about to happen are a little bit beyond you.
"Is it going to be warm?"
He gives you a flat look.
Of course it's going to be warm. There isn't any ice floating inside him, after all, and it would stand to reason that whatever came out of him would be the same temperature as he is. When you take a leak, your piss is body temperature, and that's odd imagery to be having but considering the circumstances. . . .
He doesn't go on the bed, and that's good. It would surely be gay if he climbed into bed and then you climbed in with him.
He shifts his hooves around, getting into a comfortable position, and looks over at you one more time, perhaps making sure that you're really up for this.
You knew that stallions kept themselves tucked up in a sheath which was almost as good as them wearing pants—except of course you could still see their balls—and you watch in utter fascination as his penis slowly drops out of its sheath.
You slide your empty cup underneath, waiting expectantly. Any moment now.
Nothing.
The two of you stand in awkward silence for almost a full minute, before he speaks.
"You're gonna have to prime the pump, sport."
Well, that's logical. If he just peed out root beer on command, he'd probably run out pretty quickly. Still, it takes a moment before you move a little bit closer to him, and you hesitate again before actually touching his dick. Which, you unhappily note, is larger than yours, both in girth and length.
Not that you're jealous or anything.
You squeeze him gently and wait, but still nothing.
"Have you seriously never actually jerked off? Everybody else has figured out how it works."
It's just like milking a cow. Your hand moves mechanically. You know quite well how to masturbate; it's a rather familiar process. Perhaps more so than it ought to be, but it's not your fault that PornHub exists.
You're actually starting to get into it. His cock is really just the same as yours, except that it's longer, thicker, and warmer. And has a medial ring, which you don't. You stroke your hand up and down, relying on muscle memory for speed and grip and for just a second you wonder if it would be weird to use your other hand on yourself. Some part of your mind is protesting that this is basically the definition of gay, although your dick begs to differ, judging by how tight your pants are right now.
He shifts a little bit on his hooves, and you take the opportunity to make sure that you're mostly pointing him towards the cup.
You focus on his breath. You can tell by his inhales how much he's enjoying this. And his ears—not something you ever thought you'd be watching for, but every twitch is a signal that you should go a little bit faster or further or maybe use your other hand to stroke his balls because you're committed now.
You can feel his pulse, which is kind of weird. Actually, the whole thing is weird and isn't it lucky that the bedroom had a lock on the door?
Each time you reach the base of his shaft, you hold for just a second before bringing your hand back up, across his medial ring, and you let your fingers just touch his glans and you keep watching to make sure that you've got him aimed towards the cup.
Since your other hand is already roaming across his balls it's natural to be a little bit curious about what his asshole feels like. It's practically right there, after all.
Before you get a chance to experiment further, he sucks in a breath and you can feel him tense and you aren't sure if you should hold your stroke at the base of his shaft or if maybe closer to the tip because you still have to aim, after all. And the first spurt of cum goes wide, splattering against the floor, but then your hand is up against his head, feeling it flare and isn't it a good thing that he wasn't in your mouth because you're not sure you could handle that but your hand had to go there because how else could you aim?
You're pretty sure that porn stars fake it somehow, but he's not faking as he shoots into the cup with your hand providing guidance and encouragement. Not the greatest guidance; a little bit gets on your hand, and it's hotter than you though it would be.
It's also not root beer. You might not be a pony expert, but you know jizz when you see it.
Just the same, you don't say anything, because it's not polite to interrupt a man—or a stallion—when he's cumming.
His volume also puts you to shame; if you'd ever tried jerking off into a cup before, it wouldn't have been much more than a couple of splotches on the bottom, while he's got a good inch or so of depth going on.
He lets out a long sigh, and before your very eyes his dick starts to deflate and climb back up inside him, a process which you can't help but watch.
While holding a cup of his very warm cum.
He's not all the way inside himself when he turns to you and nuzzles your hand—the one not covered In horse cum.
"You're pretty good." And then, before you can even respond, he holds his right forehoof over the cup he brought, and a moment later, foamy root beer issues forth. "You've really earned this."
