Heart of the Flame

Chapters

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

Part One

I remember I was alone at home with an empty glass and a pile of books to keep me company, hiding from the brutish realities of our age and the oppressive heat of the swamp outside. It was time, I thought, for yet another reappraisal of my life. After far too long surrounded by books, dust and crumpled scribblings and paralysed by the deadly tedium of routine, adventure was calling, and it would not be denied. And when the call finally came, I was more than ready.

It had all started the way most interesting things do; with mind-numbing boredom, alleviated only by a combination of activity and copious consumption of ice-cold gin cocktails. It was a Friday afternoon in July of the 1965th Year of Celestia’s reign, a total of five years since the return of Princess Luna. It was sweltering hot at the time, as is usual for the horribly foetid climate of Neigh Orleans, and I was hunched over my desk, trying to make sense of a number of papers strewn haphazardly across my desk. If you’ve ever attempted to translate several-hundred year-old documents written in Ancient Unicornian while drinking, you’d know it’s up there with juggling knives while on a pogo-stick and swimming up a gator-infested swamp coated in peanut butter in the category of things you’re not supposed to be able to do.

Still, I had no other real choice. This was the summer, and that meant far more leisure time than anypony should ever have on their hooves. Don’t get me wrong, I like my vacations, but I’m a teacher, and no extra income for three months is a pain in the flank that only hardcore masochists should be able to endure. For all my sexual perversions, an enjoyment of more than minimal discomfort is not one of them. Or maybe it’s different if someone you’re into is making you do it, and not eighty-something school board members with a fetish for underpayment.

Speaking of sexual perversions, my kink for ancient languages was just starting to be fulfilled again, as the words on the pages in front of me started to make sense again and stop being squiggly lines that looked like a cross between Sumarian cuneiform and one of my History student’s napkin essay masterpieces. Or perhaps that was just the alcohol wearing off. Who knows? At any rate, I could actually try to read it now, jotting down copies of particular words and phrases into my trusty old notebook with corresponding translations.

My translations probably were not the best, I’ll admit, but at least I had copied the original words down correctly. My ‘other language’ grammar skills are fuzzy in the best of times, but my copying is impeccable. But that’s not the important part. The important part has only something to do with ancient languages, and nothing at all do with the papers on my desk on that sweltering summer afternoon. It involved, instead, a phone call I got a few minutes later, the high-pitched ringing sound startling me so badly I nearly pitched out of my chair and onto the floor.

After a few seconds of embarrassed flailing, I finally managed to pick up the phone and raise it to my ear. “Bronze Age speaking. How may I help you?”

A loud, insufferably irritating squealing emitted from the tiny little earpiece, and I almost reflexively tossed the phone across the room as if it were a thing possessed. Mercifully, I didn’t have to, though, as the squealing quickly turned to coherent, if excited, speech. “Bronze! It’s Petunia. You won’t believe this! There’s something I’ve got to show you this evening, if you’re free. Take the afternoon train to Ponyville; I’ll meet you at the station. This will all be worth your while, I promise!” Before I could get a word in, the call went silent.

I was left for a few minutes there in a state somewhere between confusion and curiosity. Petunia, an old friend of mine from Canterlot, never called me unless it was something important, much less asked me to meet her somewhere outside the city. She knew the only way to get me out of doors during the summer was some mad hunt for knowledge, generally in the form of some new archaeological site. She also knew this was the summer, and the time was perfect for more hooves-on little research projects. This had to be good, or at least noteworthy.

I looked back at my briefcase, currently lying unopened by my desk. Well, I’d find out soon enough, wouldn’t I? This was important, dammit, and I was going to see it through, even if I had to ride this strange, unexpected torpedo all the way to its conclusion.

What was stopping me, after all? Nothing. Nothing but my own mind, and every bit of my mind was busy screaming at me to get on a goddamn train and see where this led. Even if it led nowhere, it was still worth it, as Ponyville never has a lack of weird occurrences smashing down doors on any given week. Maybe I could take a trip into the Everfree after that, trade in my hunt for Petunia’s discovery for a trek to the old Castle. Then on to Canterlot, and then a straight shot to Las Pegasus and the undiscovered West, basking in the heat of the desert sun.

But that notion passed quickly enough, and I packed my bags with haste before heading out.

The Neigh Orleans train station apparently had a delay that day, so I’d found myself squeezed between a boozed-up ex-businessman with a Sol Invictus Church pin muttering about the imminent empire of the ants and a frumpy twin brother of the real estate agent who probably sold my parents’ houses. No rest for the weary, I thought as I sat on the uncomfortable seat and prayed for my train to come in before nightfall. I had come prepared, just in case; everything I could need was in my suitcase, including my pipe, my smoking blend, a tiny bottle of brandy and a fifth of gin, and I was shaded by a broad panama hat and a pair of old-fashioned aviators with a cheerful blue tiny. All I lacked was a fan in this humid, swampy haze, and that was because I couldn’t shove a whole damn desk fan into a tiny briefcase.

Somepony was apparently looking out for me, as about mid-afternoon I found myself clambering onto the train with my briefcase clutched against my side and glancing over my shoulder to make sure the two I’d sat next to weren’t following me. They weren’t, so I found myself a window seat, stared out the window wistfully the way all train travellers have when leaving home, and hoped to Celestia the H.P. Longmuzzle Bridge didn’t break this time. It probably wouldn’t; despite floods, hurricanes, heavy traffic and general municipal incompetence, the thing has always stayed standing.

The only way to prepare for a trip like this, I felt, was to spend the entire ride there in quiet contemplation, with the occasional sip of gin to aid maximum relaxation as I gazed outside and watched the scenery go by. I had already gotten out of the swamps and the endless pine forests, and had managed to find myself in the midst of the rolling hills and open meadows that signalled the change from coastal Equestria to the midlands. Pretty scenery aside, I knew to never lose sight of the main objective; find out what in Tartarus Petunia was on about. Nopony had bothered to say what this fantastic discovery was, so I’d have to find out for myself the hard way.

She’d called me out for something similar the previous year, but that had ended up being a fluke, chasing after the ruins of some ancient temple in the jungle that turned out to be still be occupied, and not by friendly folk, either. Thankfully, whatever this was, it was still in Equestria, so it couldn’t be nearly so dramatic or so dangerous. As fond as I am of gin and tonic, I would much rather not have to drink it daily to stave off the throes of acute malaria, thank you very much. I’m not stupid, after all; questionably sane, but not stupid. I did not want my obit to read ‘Travel Bug Bites Insane History Teacher: Archaeological Trip Turns Fatal.’

Still, this was as much a pleasure trip as a scholarly one, in my mind, at least. After all, when hellish temperatures and soul-crushing idleness sets in and the walls start closing in a little tighter, the only cure is to gather what money you have, bring a generous amount of booze and tobacco, and go screeching across the country with a radio blaring to make your own adventures.

What would this adventure be, anyway? Ancient mines discovered in the tunnels beneath the Canterhorn? Ruins of an ancient civilisation buried in the bed of the Ponyville river? Lost-lost deer villages in the Everfree Forest? My imagination was running wild with ideas, all of them more implausible than the next. Heh, if somepony had told me what it really was back then, I would’ve suggested they please quit drinking cactus juice immediately and find a quiet place to lay down before they started seeing flying manta rays.

Getting to Ponyville was easy enough, as the train slid into the station about six o’clock that evening, just as the sun was starting to sink behind some distant clouds. I stepped out onto the near-empty platform with my briefcase floating behind me, glancing around for some sign of my contact.

By the miracle of knowing to look for flailing limbs, I found Petunia leaning against a wall of the station, wearing a giddy smile and waving at me like mad. And by found, I mean the minute I spotted her, she charged at me and pulled me into a hug so tight I’m pretty sure would’ve broken a few of my ribs if she hadn’t let go. “You showed up! I was kind of worried you’d think I was making a big fuss over nothing since I didn’t really explain myself well.”

After a few seconds, I managed to extract myself from her iron clutches and brushed myself off. “Petunia, what are you on about? What’s going on? Why did you call me here?”

Petunia made a shushing gesture before I could get another word in, glancing around. “Not here. Walk with me to the outskirts of town.” I was starting to get a little worried. Petunia not blurting something out when she was excited, for once? Who was this, and what had they done with the mare whose idea of discretion involved only telling the first ten ponies within earshot?

I frowned. “Where are we going?” And please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me this wasn’t going to be like the time we crashed the party at Prince Bluebood’s house in Canterlot on the pretense of ‘exploring the Historical District.’ It was fun, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t think my flank or my liver had yet recovered from the collateral damage.

Petunia’s slightly manic grin unsettled me just a tiny bit as she reached out her hoof to grasp onto mine, dragging me along with her at a breakneck speed before I could complain. She practically galloped through the nearly-deserted streets with me in tow, leaving clouds of dust behind her. Oh sweet mother of Luna, this was going to be like that, wasn’t it? Good thing I had brought the gin, then. Still, I wasn’t going to protest; she apparently knew where she was going. And whatever this was, it couldn’t be that weird, right? It was only Ponyville, after all. I was at least curious to ride the crest of this wave of spontaneous madness, if only to see where I’d end up.

The town itself raced past in a bright, gaudy blur of colour, picturesque half-timbered cottages and townhouses giving way to a rushing green sea of grass and dandelions that seemed to part for us as we ran. Bright orange marigolds swayed in the evening breeze like flickering candles, bobbing and waving at us. The entire field was painted in a wash of dull red, rays of golden light slipping between the clouds like cracks in a door.

A building was up ahead, just over the crest of the next hill, nestled near the edge of the Ghastly Gorge. I could see the structure looming out of the meadow, a tall, grey rectangle topped by a spire that pierced through the clouds like a needle. It looked, frankly, like the sort of place you’d find a centuries-old vampony holed up in; imposing, dilapidated and out of the way. I tried to get closer, but to my annoyance, and Petunia’s amusement, I ran smack into an invisible barrier.

Once my companion managed to exhaust her supply of snickers, I managed to right myself and glare at her. “So... what is this? Why did you drag me out into the middle of this forsaken meadow to look at an old clocktower we can’t even get to? Petunia, were you drunk when you called me?”

She ignored the comment and rolled her eyes. “No, but I’m pretty sure you were. I dragged you out here because, come seven o’clock, I’m going to show you things you’ve never seen before in your wildest dreams!”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet thoroughly confused. “Petunia, dear, darling, colleague, lady, whatever. If you dragged me out here just to get kinky in the middle of an open field, you could have just asked and not bothered with the secrecy. Honestly though, I’m a little disappointed if that’s all this is.” Not by much, but enough. Don’t get me wrong, I like sex, but I thought this was going to be mostly business, not pleasure. Sex was easy to come by; discoveries of the century? Not so much.

To her credit, she had the good graces to look thoroughly embarrassed, flailing her hooves wildly as if to ward off the thought. “No, no, that’s not- I mean, that’s kind of what I brought you here for, but it’s not the whole- er, I mean...”

“Petunia. Take a breath. Calm down. I’ll even offer you a bit of my gin.”

To my surprise, she shook her head. “Won’t need it. There are other things. No, the reason I brought you out here... er, have you ever heard of kink clubs?”

Of course I’d bloody well heard of kink clubs. You can’t be a bored professional with a penchant for debauchery and not have heard of them, at least in terms of rumours and whispers. I’m not just not sure how this was relevant to our current situation. “Yes, did you find one that meets in the middle of an empty meadow?” And was it like Alcoholics Anonymous? I really hoped it wasn’t. I can imagine there’s only so many times one could hear somepony go “Hi, my name is Shutter Speed and I’m a cock addict,” before the urge to uncork the nearest wine bottle with their teeth set in.

She just smiled mysteriously. “Not in the meadow, but in there.” She pointed towards the tower in the distance, the clock face just visible in the evening light. I was just able to make out the time, 6:59, so whatever was supposed to happen would do so soon. “This is the home of the Clocktower Society, and I want to show you our world tonight.”

“So... you joined a kink club that meets in a crumbling, abandoned clock tower on the edge of a tiny town in the middle of Equestria, and you somehow got the feeling that this would be of interest to show a history teacher? That tower doesn’t even look a hundred years old Petunia, and kink clubs are a strictly Twentieth Century phenomenon-”

“Look again.”

I was annoyed, frustrated, and just about to give her a thorough piece of my mind when I turned my head to look again. My vision went white, and I felt myself fall forward onto the grass, as if I’d been leaning against something that was suddenly pulled away. Spitting out a clump of grass, I rubbed my eyes and looked up, blinking. A few seconds passed as I just stared blankly ahead. Then my jaw dropped.

Before me now was no mere turret in the distance, but an entire, massive complex of buildings clustered around a mighty tower that resembled an obelisk of old, light dancing and reflecting off the smooth, grey marble. This whole fortress- at least I assumed it was a fortress- had to be Pre-Banishment, at least, the buildings covered from cornerstone to parapets in a myriad of carvings, from ponies to gryphons and even Diamond Dogs. Soaring pointed arches and steep gables and yellow lancets stared down at us from the massive edifice, lights flickering and twinkling from behind every window. A lone bell tolled from the high tower as the clock struck seven, the sound echoing across the landscape.

This had to be at least Early Gothic, I figured, my eyes scanning every inch of the structure with almost childish glee as I stepped closer. The windows were too narrow for Late, and the columns too thick. But the moldings, the delicate tracery, the carved friezes were not Early features; maybe this was some sort of hybrid structure? It didn’t look like it could have been built all at once, after all, considering the gargantuan dimensions.

I could have stood there all night if I wasn’t snapped out of my reverie by Petunia, who had moved to my side and was tapping my shoulder. “We need to get a move on. The others are here, too.”

Others? What others- oh. In the several minutes I had spent admiring the architecture, a host of ponies had converged on this once-empty field, all of them headed towards the building before us. Hundreds of ponies, mares and stallions, young and old, friends and strangers alike surged forward in this teeming sea of life, gently pushing us forward and into the courtyard of the complex, led by the soft glow of lanterns. The entire hill was alive with the sounds of chatter and hooves rustling through the grass. Flashes of magic were seen here and there, more ponies seemingly popping into existence from what I assumed were teleportation gates.

The slow-moving mob of ponies, by some miracle, quickly changed into a neat, orderly line as we got closer to the main gates, enormous double doors swinging open, beckoning us into a dark, gaping archway. There was no need for pushing anymore; we just simply marched forward, one by one, and tried our best not to fall behind.

I was worried, at first, that I wouldn’t be able to get in, as I lacked one of the little golden badges that everypony else presented to the guards at the gate. To my surprise, Petunia just flashed her badge, and the guard handed me one of my own and waved me through before moving onto the next couple of ponies. I almost stopped as I followed Petunia under the arch, my urge to stand around and simply marvel at everything surrounding me stronger than ever. But I couldn’t, I realised; not this time anyway. It was time to go into the breach, and onward to the unknown, mysterious world of the Clocktower Society.

Part Two

Whenwe finally arrived inside I was too busy staring around to cope with the full impact of what I was seeing and doing. As Petunia and I slowly shuffled forward in line, I took in every detail, every gilded sconce, every polished paving stone, every gaudy, silken banner hanging from the walls. The entrance hall was, in a word, palatial, practically reeking of high-grade marble and artificial plants. Clearly, this was some sort of high-class refuge for big spenders looking for a kinky weekend getaway. So that begged the question: how the hell did Petunia end up in this place? She said she joined a kink club, not a whole goddamn underground secret society, which is what this was quickly looking like. The words ‘Clocktower Society’ with an accompanying logo plastered nearly everywhere I looked in bold, golden lettering may have helped with that conclusion, too.

The rest of the ponies here even looked normal, which is what surprised me the most. At least when crashing the nobility’s parties in Canterlot, they all look exactly like what you’d expect. You know, a bunch of wealthy snobs whose sole redeeming features are: their ability to throw a good party, and their nearly unlimited funds to expend on the propagation of vice, lechery and hedonism. In other words, my kind of ponies, though they’d probably vehemently disagree with that sentiment (Especially since I’m supposed to set a good example for the youth of Equestria. I do, thank you very much. I am the very model of an upstanding citizen. That’s why I keep my activities to either the summer or weekends, and make sure everything I engage in is at least legal, if morally questionable). But these ponies? They looked like they could be your next door neighbour. Hell, I think a couple of them were my neighbours, actually, holy shit. Small world...

The line continued to lurch forward at a snail’s pace, twisting and coiling and uncoiling like a huge blind snake as we made our way across the massive hall and into a second area below a high, domed ceiling. The crowd gradually thinned out and went in separate directions, heading down a flight of stairs on either side of the hall. Now that we weren’t getting shoved forward by the relentless swell of ponies, I was finally able to walk around freely and admire this ridiculously grand room. They had a mural on the wall directly across from us, and I was unable to tell if it was painted last week or past millennium, it was so well preserved. On it was a very large map of what I assumed were the other Clocktower sites across the world, including Ponyville itself (Home of the Clocktower Mares, it read), Zebrica, Griffonstone, and (of course) San Franciscolt. Heh, I had to remember that for my next road trip out west. The most I got out of my last trip to the city was a hotel bill only extortionists could dream of, my tongue seared off by Abyssinian food, and two exes of mine discovering the perils of excessive amounts of absinthe without me. I could’ve just had a fun night ending with a cohort of stallions in harem outfits instead of high-tailing it out of there first thing Sunday morning, terribly sober and unequipped for the dusty horror that is the San Palomino Desert.

Dominating the centre of the hall (and I mean, plopped there without a care in the world. I swear, these ponies have no sense of proportion, moderation, or feng shui) was an enormous marble sculpture of the Founders of Equestria, engaged in various activities that I’m pretty sure were never mentioned in the standard history books. At least, I’m pretty sure they weren’t- unless they left the keywords ‘with benefits’ out of the whole ‘Magic of Friendship banishing away the Windigoes’ section. If so, more power to them! Always knew at least Princess Platinum had to be the kinky type, what with the ‘bridling Clover the Clever and riding her across a stream’ incident still recounted in modern Hearth’s Warming Pageants. Never thought she’d be the submissive type, though. Oh well; just one more thing to add to my marginal notes for my class’s history textbook. My copy, of course; if this was as secretive as it seemed, I doubted anypony would want some overzealous teacher breaking that secrecy. Luna only knows what they’d do to me; probably truss me up and toss me to a gang of wild doms in a dungeon, the bastards.

Hmm, actually that wasn’t such a bad idea in hindsight, as long as they at least took the courtesy of applying lube before allowing my every orifice to be invaded by a large, throbbing cock (I kid. I’m rather partial to both snails and oysters, I’ll admit, but I’m not much of the submissive type unless the fancy strikes me once in a while). Oh hey, Petunia was heading down the stairs. No, wait, she was standing at the bottom of the stairs. And staring at me impatiently. Sheesh, she really needed to unwind a little. It wasn’t my fault this place was just so damn fascinating.

After taking some directions from a bulletin board, Petunia and I made our way into what appeared, at first glance, to be a combination of an indoor shopping mall and an Eastern bazaar. This entire main floor seemed to be shops, booths, offices and other assorted buildings from wall to wall. I was honestly a little flabbergasted; I was expecting just one giant sex dungeon, not what looked like the high street of a Griffish village on Market Day. Ponies milled about from place to place, passing under gaily-coloured awnings that shaded the passers-by from the enormous crystal lanterns that hung from the ceiling. The air was filled with the rich giggles and titters of laughter, the secret mutterings of lovers into each others’ ears, the wearied sighs of an aged shopkeep who’d just dropped an object off a counter and bent down to pick it up.

Petunia didn’t seem to be heading anywhere in particular, so I figured I’d just look around. With that in mind, I set out along the edge of the pavement, browsing the windows of the shops and peering inside. On this end there were everything from bakeries, the smell of fresh-baked desserts wafting out from the open windows of a shop called ‘The Sticky Bun,’ to little cafes and tea-shops squeezed between more upscale stores bearing the moniker of ‘Gift Shop: CTRL Products Sold Here.’ And, of course, there were the many, many street peddlers pushing carts along the thoroughfares, their little wagons loaded down with everything from flowers to Clocktower shirts to even strange and exotic dildoes (now that seemed more on par with the aesthetic, heh). I had to wonder, though: what in Equestria did they use for currency here? Sex? Bondage Gear? Some kind of play money, perhaps?

I was just about to duck into a tea-shop to find out, the delicate smells hitting my nose delightfully, when I felt somepony grab my hoof and pull me back. “Enough time for that later, Bronze. The visitor’s tour group is this way.” Of course Petunia would be one to remind me I actually had to follow procedure. Hmph. The mare has never understood that some things can only be appreciated without rushing through to get to something else. Oh well.

Who were these ponies, these faces? The ones in my tour group looked like washed-out caricatures of the protagonists of some sleazy erotica novella for middle-aged housewives. College frat colts looking for an easy lay and staring around in lustful wonder, and nervous, innocent-faced mares who probably spent eight hours a day bringing coffee to annoyed, middle-tier bureaucrats and spent their breaks sneaking peaks at Love Song novels under their desks. And sweet mother of Luna, were there a lot of them on a Friday evening. Where did they all come from? Almost fifteen of us, and I think I was the only one over twenty-five.

Petunia soon departed, leaving me trapped in the clutches of this ‘tour group’ and a little lavender mare with a green mane that hung over her eyes and a constantly-swishing tail. She wore a red collar around her neck, which I’m sure had some kind of symbolism that yet escaped me. With a warm smile, she gestured for us to gather in closer. “Welcome to Clocktower Society, visitors! I’m Society Slave SP-0872, your tour guide to the world of the Society. It’s nice to see so many new faces today! Now, do all of you have your visitor’s badges on hoof?” The lot of us more-or-less held up the little golden badges in unison, and the tour guide nodded her head approvingly. “Good. Sorry you had to wait so long, but somepony else took my place earlier. You’ll probably run into her later. So, without further ado, follow me- and watch your step! We had an incident earlier that had half the maid service all in a tizzy.”

The rest of us followed close behind the mare, heading out of the strange marketplace and into an area labelled ‘Viewing Galleries.’ I had to wonder, of course- what sort of incident would require half a maid service? Did somepony just spill a random five-gallon bucket of cum along the stairs or something? Considering what sort of place this was, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were signs that said, ‘Caution: Semen Hazard. Slippery When Wet’ lying around in case of an emergency- O sweet Luna, there was! I’m not sure if it was amusing or terrifying that I’d actually been right.

Gingerly-avoided slipping hazards aside, the viewing galleries were more or less exactly what they sounded like: a raised gallery on the upper level of the main hall, overlooking the marketplace area below through almost sparkling-clean glass windows. Whoever worked as a maid here, they must be working double-overtime to keep this whole damn place spotless. The galleries weren’t particularly crowded at the time, maybe one or two ponies going our way or staring out the windows down at the floor below. I was kind of grateful for that, because by the very interested looks exchanged between some of the other tour members and the passers-by, we would’ve probably been held up if there were more.

We soon found ourselves descending down a flight of stairs into a darker, colder portion of the area. Now this felt more like a typical dungeon, complete with flickering torch sconces and iron doors between segments of the galleries. They even had the sound of... screaming? No, that didn’t sound like screaming. At least, not the kind I’d normally associate with a dungeon. Sounded more like moaning, and holy shit was there a lot of it. Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, I chanced a glance over to the windows.

What I saw appeared to be a scene out of somepony’s most lurid fantasies. Rows upon rows of iron cages contained mares in a wide variety of positions, all locked inside their cells. Masked figures roamed about from cage to cage, browsing the wares as if they were a display in a shop window. A line of others stood on an auction block, collars around their necks and being closely examined by yet more masked figures like shoppers inspecting a fruit for ripeness. The sound of moaning and whimpering, of fast-talking auctioneers. of rattling cages and soft cries of ecstasy were as clear as bells, the constant noise filling up the entire space. Over it all was framed the simple header ‘Slave Pens.’ This was... actually rather unsettling, at least to me. It was practically Hearth’s Warming for somepony actually into this sort of thing, of course.

Myself? I’m not a fan of the whole ‘objectification/being property’ thing. I had a couple of partners in the past who were, but the way they acted even outside of sex always made me wonder where the line between ‘sexual fetish’ and ‘actual lack of self-esteem’ began and ended. And if it’s the latter, I really don’t feel comfortable feeding somepony’s emotional insecurities and actually making them feel that their only worth in life is to be somepony else’s cocksleeve. Of course, most ponies probably just indulge that kink while being perfectly ordinary, responsible ponies- they’re the most usual type you find in the kink scene- but for others, I’ve seen it can be hard to tell the difference between acted-out fantasy and a deeper psychological reality, and the last thing I want to do is turn something that’s supposed to be mutually fun into something genuinely harmful.

...Sorry, I got kind of carried away there, didn’t I? Okayyyy, let’s steer away from complex moral quandaries of equine sexuality and back to the scene at hoof. Trust me to overthink something that should be simple. Er, without worrying about the psychological state of the participants, it looked kind of... hot, I guess? The idea, at least, of being able to just take any random mare in the pens who pleased me, buy her on the auction block, then ravish her in front of the lot of them, her cries of pleasure and moans of “M-more, please, Master! P-please fuck me!” bouncing off the walls while her fellow slaves look on, and knowing that she’s loving every minute of this- Oh. Oh dear. Was it getting hot in here? Certainly not. Must just be my imagination. Ahem, well, it looked like it was time to move on.

At least I wasn’t the only one who looked flustered, I noticed, though my own reaction was considerably more subdued than some of the others staring out the windows like it was their birthday and they’d just got an ice cream cake. The mares and the stallions. I wasn’t sure who they were envying, the subs or the doms, but half of them looked about ready to cream themselves just from watching. Mother of Luna, I thought. At least I know now who the voyeurs are in here.

“This way, visitors! We have a lot more to see. Next we’ll be going through Pet Town before heading back up to the viewing galleries. And before you ask, no, you cannot take one of the pets back with you this time. You can do that later, once you’ve gone through your Society registration paperwork and are given your full member badges. Any other questions? No? Good. Follow me, and keep up.”

Many minutes later, we found ourselves out of the galleries and into the midst of what looked like a large park, complete with trees, meadows, and frolicking ponies getting fucked up against the side of a doghouse- wait, what? I had to use my magic to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating and this entire place hadn’t been a product of my subconscious mind mixed with too much gin and various other substances. This looked almost like some sort of bizarre, X-rated cross between a dog park, a zoo, and a free-range safari, with everything from random pegasi nesting in tree tops and tweeting at passers-by, to Diamond Dogs on leashes catching suspiciously phallic-shaped treats, and even batponies hanging upside down from tree branches and... sucking off stallions? Was upside down actually a better position for it? Eh, best not to question it, I figured.

“As you can see, we have the perches and cages for the adorable little pegabirbs up here here, houses and kennels for the cute little pups and kitties, the leash-rental, adoption office, feed dispensary...” By the Ancestors, what in Equestria didn’t they have here? I’d normally say ‘stallions’ but those were all apparently at the other site... which I would need to visit soon.

No, it was best to stay focused. I was here for the thrill of discovery, the riches of untold history secreted away within the bowels of this ancient clocktower, not to entertain myself. The backdrop of uninhibited, casual, kinky debauchery was just a little incentive to keep me looking around. Within the group, of course, for now- I’d caught an exchange a few minutes before that made it clear it was best to err on the side of caution. Or something like that.

“No sir, you cannot wander out into Pet Town by yourself. We have a loose batpony out there, and she’s known for pouncing on poor, unsuspecting doms and snuggling them until she’s satisfied.”

“When you say snuggling-”

“Yes, I do mean snuggling. What else would I mean? I- sir, if this slave meant sex, she would’ve said sex. We’re are not allergic to the word here, or it’s many iterations: fuck, screw, shag, bang, ife, etc. Ife is still the best though. Heh. Ife ife ife ife- it rolls off the tongue quite nicely, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t recognise the word, but I could ascertain the meaning easily enough. Of course the centuries-old, underground kink society would have a language and jargon of its own. Though I had to wonder- was it a written language as well, and if so, was it spoken by all the members, or just a particular group? A fond as I am of languages, I didn’t want to have to learn one on the fly to be able to communicate with other ponies here. On the bright side, it couldn’t possibly end up as disastrously as my attempt to communicate in a broken mixture of Ancient Unicornian, Pegasopolan, Acadien Prench and Equestrian with a couple of nice police officers outside the consulate in Bitalia. Despite being simply a terrible misunderstanding, the only reason I wasn’t arrested was I was able to prove that the manuscripts I was transporting with me were reproductions, and were sold to me legally. Thank Celestia my horribly-mangled patois at least superficially resembled modern Bitalian.

Mercifully, in this case, all the ponies seemed to communicate in Equestrian just fine; excepting the ‘pets’, who mostly seemed to prefer barks, meows, chirps and various other sounds not out of place in a Menagerie. It was a weird combination of absurd, yet oddly charming, though not necessarily attractive. I’ll be honest, as far as the whole ‘pet play’ thing goes, I’ve always been more into it for the collar-and-leash aesthetics tacked onto standard dom/sub play rather than taking it so seriously. Still, nopony could say this lot wasn’t dedicated to their roles, that’s for certain.

Perhaps I could come to understand their mindset, their habits, their secret languages? It was an interesting proposition, at least- simply come to different parts of this complex, sit there quietly, and observe the action going on. I know they weren’t exactly the types to shy away from viewers- in fact, they seem to encourage it, if not outright participation. On my part, though, I think I’d prefer to simply observe, though- a questionably-sane historian with a notepad and a bottle of gin on hoof, preferably, jotting down every little detail as if I was a reporter for Equestrian Geographic. “Inside The Secrets of the Clocktower Society: The Castle Dungeon meets the Neighborhood Pet Store. Dogs fucked the Batpony- no fault of mine. The hidden, cutthroat world of Cock Maintenance- I mean Clock Maintenance.”

Wait, was alcohol even allowed down here? Petunia had said ‘Won’t need it, there are other things’ when I’d offered her some of my gin, so I figured not; but on the other hoof, I’d seen a bar or two on the main floor on the upper level. Did they have their own concoctions here, instead? If they did, it was probably made specifically to give the pleasant, relaxing effects of intoxication, without the impaired judgement or the addictive potential. Heh, this place was sounding even more pleasant already, though I was a little sad to realise that the bottles lying in my briefcase left on the upper level would be terribly lonely. I almost teared up a little; that was a perfectly good bottle of Bombhay Sapphire- it’d never done any harm to anypony! Well, at least not to me, anyway. What did it do to deserve such a dreadful fate? Oh well, I could keep her company later when I got back home and got a chance to kiss her good night.

I was about halfway into my self-induced state of melodramatic melancholy when I realised that the tour group had started moving on, leaving me in the midst of this goddamn zoo. I paused for a second, looked around at the various denizens with whom I had been left alone, and took off towards the retreating backs of the tour group, flailing my hooves as if trying to paddle across land.

By the time I caught back up to them, they were already taking the stairs back up to the other side of the viewing galleries, though the tour guide did take pity on me and wait until I had stumbled my way up there before continuing on her way. I ignored the snickers of the other tourists, pulling my hat over my eyes. Hmph. What right had they to laugh? This was investigative history in the making, hunting down the discovery of the century. They certainly couldn’t understand the sheer gravity of this place’s existence, I thought. Of course, as soon as I came back here the second time, I’d probably be too distracted fucking my way six ways to Sunday to do much research, but that wasn’t important.

Wandering, and wandering some more, we found our way into overlooking what looked like the most ordinary part of the area; a sprawling subterranean city planted at the very bottom of another cavern. It was cold down here, constant drafts blowing through the vents above us as we leaned against the glass and peered down. It was hard to tell what was going on down there; it just looked like a normal city at first, with ponies just going about their normal, every-day business. And then the tour guide managed to take that assumption, chop it into tiny pieces, grind it to powder, burn the powder to ashes, then toss said ashes in a river. “Welcome to The Core, part of the Borderlands. This is the main non-consensual roleplay area of the Society. Before you ask, yes, it is entirely of the participants’ free will; ponies will, after getting at least silver bell-level clearance- yes, you do have to sign some paperwork to have access to this part, sorry to disappoint, dears- go down here to seek out a situation in which they are getting, ahem, ravished by a random stranger, and pretend to be a resistant victim. Observe.”

Nope. Not happening. This was not my department. I glanced back at the blushing tour guide, stepping back as most of the group crowded around the windows. I was visibly starting to sweat, looking away and trying to ignore it. Stay quiet, stay calm. The sounds of a mare screaming for help echoed from far below, the cries like a nail being hammered into my head. It wouldn’t go away, and I didn’t want to cover my ears. Stay quiet... be calm. Just ignore what's going on below.

The sound was quickly muffled by what I presumed was a gag. I knew this was all just pretend, a roleplay with no real consequences, and with all safety measures and precautions taken beforehand. Still, I couldn't help but-

"Clockface. Sorry miss, but I need you to test your bell, after the incident here in the Borderlands last week."

There was a brief pause, then the clear sound of a small bell rang out once affirmatively. A few seconds passed, presumably the dom checking to make sure everything was in order, before the word "Clockface" was repeated. Almost immediately she started crying out again, though the sound was drowned out the slapping of flesh and loud grunts.

I glanced around, my worries a little assuaged by the display, but not much. This was still very much not my cup of tea, and the sooner we moved on, I felt, the better. The others were mostly still just peering down with voyeuristic eagerness, not flinching or even moving. Just watching. Frozen, silent observers staring, yet separated from it all by a single pane of glass.

I didn’t realise I was still moving until I backed into another pony who had moved away from the group, a mare whose face showed the same look of distaste I probably had on my own muzzle. Green eyes met mine with a slightly guilty look, her ears folded back, as if she was ashamed of her own discomfort. I glanced back at the wall before bringing my gaze back to her, offering a reassuring nod and a small smile. We both understood each other well enough; we would most likely steer very clear of this particular area in the future.

Once the tour group began to finally move on, the mare disappeared into the rest of the group, though I could feel the occasional glance back at me here and there as we kept walking. Most likely, we would not run into each other again. But that didn’t matter. What mattered is that I’d found a kindred spirit, and that was enough to brighten my day once more.

The ground began sloping back up as our tour came to a conclusion, emerging out of the tunnels back into the viewing galleries above the main level, and back into the marketplace area. I saw Petunia trotting towards me as the tour guide finished up her speech. “This concludes our tour of the main facilities of Clocktower Equestria East. I hope you enjoyed your little romp through our little kink haven. Please leave your name and address with our Registration Office when you get ready to leave. If you want to join us, come back between the hours of 7 PM and 7 AM Monday through Saturday, and we will put you in contact with the local recruiting agent in your area. You will file your paperwork with said recruiting agent, who will send it on to our office. After being put on our list, there is a maximum two-week waiting period while we process your applications. When we finish your applications, or if we need to clarify some mistake or question in your file, your local recruiter will contact you via mail within one to three business days. Don’t worry, only you can open or read the envelopes. Our Registration Office is upstairs in the upper levels. Oh, and you will receive your badge via Royal Mail as soon as your registration is in order, along with your Society Training Manual. Welcome, and thank you for visiting the Clocktower Society! Please come back and visit us soon!”

With that bundle of future red tape put in front of us, the tour group dispersed, and I was reunited with an excited- and for some reason, thoroughly soaked- Petunia, who was wearing in a red collar. “Should I ask?”

“I just got back from the showers. I needed to clean up after-”

I waved my hooves in front of my face hastily. “Okay, got it, I shouldn’t ask.”

She pouted for a second, then her smile bounced back into place as she leaned into my shoulder. “So.... what’dya think?”

I hesitated a second. What did I think? So far, this place was amazing, sexy, confusing, even overwhelming at times. But... it seemed absolutely like somewhere I would want to go back to. “It’s... a lot to take in, but I quite like it. I would love to come back sometime, as a full member.”

Petunia squealed before practically tackling me to the floor. “Really? ‘Cause I know you, and I know you love history, and I know you love kinky stuff but don’t like certain kinky stuff, so I thought you’d be kinda turned off by some parts but nerding out with others, but I’m so glad you like it and wanna come back and oh my gosh, I wanna to be there when you get your Society badge and-”

“Tuney, stone floor. My back. Overenthusiastic mare on my chest.”

“Oh, right. Sorry!” She clambered off of me, apologising profusely as I rolled onto my stomach and rose onto four hooves again.

“It’s quite alright, dear. Now...” I grinned, glancing around as a thought came into my head. “You mentioned something better than booze around here?” Ancestors knew I needed something to help sit back, relax, and help process all this.

“This way!” was the last thing I heard before I found myself being dragged away into the unknown once more, in pursuit of the only thing that could make this carnal carnival of kinky chaos even better; a stiff drink.

Seven hours and seven weird cocktails of various (non-alcoholic, but still delicious) elixirs later, I found myself sitting outside, on a small, grassy knoll overlooking the tower. I closed my eyes, letting the clouds of sweet, pungent smoke drift out of my mouth and be carried wherever the wind might blow it. I sat there, in the stillness, savouring the smell of fresh wildflowers, the cool morning breeze that rustled through the meadow, the sound of hooves crunching the grass beneath them as they left, one by one, going back to their lives. I glanced down at my watch: two minutes. Two minutes until the spell was broken, and this long, amazing night ended.

The sound of the bells striking 7 AM rang out across the meadow, the reverberating clang carried far into the distance. As Petunia moved to my side, the last rays of silvery moonlight kissed the earth good night, giving way to the first glowing ember of dawn flickering on the horizon. A good end to a good night, I thought as I slid my pipe back into my saddlebag, turning away as the barrier went up behind me. I almost felt a little sad, having to leave so soon. But I would be back; of that, I was certain. The Society had gotten my interest, without a doubt.

And next time, I would do my best to explore it all.

Part Three

This feels almost like a dream, I mused as we made our way down the seemingly endless tunnel that sloped and twisted deeper into the caverns like some primordial river deep beneath the crust of the earth. Watery canals and dark stalactites and glittering deposits of quartz and limestone passed before my eyes as I rode the little magically propelled boat. I felt like an Orpheus on Charon’s ferry, going down a gloomy Styx or sluggish, drowsy Acheron in near pitch-darkness, completely alone. The comparison was not exactly fitting, though, as this was no Tartarus to which I descended; no, this place was all too mortal, considerably more pleasant, and just as awfully mysterious.

For Petunia and I went down into the very heart of these ancient caverns, untold millennia of history rushing past me as the boat sped up and sliced through the water, leaving a churning foam and a spray of fine mist in its wake. I was quite giddy, I had to admit, the excited pounding in my chest drowned out by the deafening roar of a nearby waterfall (though thankfully not actually on the route I was taking). A purple lantern, perched precariously on the prow of the boat, lit the way as best it could, casting an unearthly glow on the boat and everything in it. The surroundings, unfortunately, were now going by too fast for me to catch more than a glimpse: a cracked wall shining with veins of silver here, a pile of shattered rocks from a cave-in there.

After a while, however, the boat began to slow down once more, going to a more leisurely pace. I took a breath, moving to the edge of the boat and leaning against the railing to get a better look, at least now that it was safe. I had to squint to see, before nearly jumping back in shock.

There were ponies on the walls. Or at least, once I had a second look, very, very detailed, painted carvings of ponies. Almost lifelike, really. Each set of reliefs was divided into their own scenes, in which the figures appeared to be doing fairly mundane things; selling goods, working in a studio or shop, doing household chores. There was a farrier at work by his forge, his muzzle set in a determined expression, the fire practically leaping out of the wall. Beyond him was a pegasus mare standing in the midst of a triclinium-style dining room in an outfit not seen for several millennia, a scanty chemise belted loosely around her middle. She was depicted pouring what I assumed was water into the cup of a unicorn stallion nearby, reclining on a couch in a purple-bordered robe. Even their expressions were lifelike, the mare shooting the stallion a half-lidded, flirty smile, and the stallion’s jaw set in a cocky smile that made it clear he was the type that was used to always getting his way.

The images began to get more... sensuous as the boat went on. The fifth or so showed a pegasus gazing towards a larger earth pony stallion with a meek smile, a collar around her neck and a leash attached to it, which was currently wrapped around the stallion’s hoof. This would still be fairly innocuous if it wasn’t for the finer details. The pegasus was lying on her back, looking up at the stallion with her back hooves spread out, a faint blush painted onto her muzzle paired with a demure smile and a pair of wide, pleading blue eyes. Above the two of them were carved the words, almost like a caption,διημ and ΤΑΣΤΟΡ. I mentally transliterated the captions, muttering to myself as I tried to puzzle them out. “Deemh and Tastor? Those words sound familiar, and the script is Ancient Unicornian, but I don’t recognise the words themselves...” Not only was it Ancient Unicornian, but a particularly archaic form that had died out around the early years of the Post-Unification Era. Could these caves really be that ancient?

As the boat continued on its journey, similar images became more and more common, each getting increasingly lewd as time went on, until even I found myself squirming. A younger stallion would have blushed at the lurid reliefs instead of studied them, the carved image of two stallions taking either end of a mare bound to a stone altar particularly catching my eye before I regained my composure. The use of colour and detail was rather fascinating, too; for being practically ancient, the images were extremely well-preserved. They almost reminded me of some ancient vases tucked away in Canterlot University’s museum, hidden from the usual viewing public due to the erotic scenes they depicted. Except these were not the relics of a culture long gone; no, it still existed and was thriving, if below the surface. Still, I didn’t want to get too excited yet; I had a strange feeling that whatever was shown on the wall would pale in comparison to the delightful decadence likely to be found at the end of my ride.

And I am happy to say I was entirely correct.

The evening before, we were in the Tropicana Cabaret on the upper floors, sipping Pina Bourgeoisie with Serene on the side. Saturday night in this place was a chaotic mess of clinking glasses, pushing crowds and the constant sound (and smell) of sex. This was a professional kind of weird, where it was perfectly ordinary to see a giant spinning wheel of bound-and-blindfolded mares right in the middle of the main floor, surrounded by cheering, boisterous patrons that were in little mood to wait their turns. This was what was known in this place as ‘Fuck Roulette.’ It was much like ordinary roulette, except every time the wheel turned, a different mare was angled towards the crowd. And it was in this heavy scene that we laid on our couches and observed in quiet awe.

I’d gotten into the Society properly just this morning, after I got my letter and badge back from my recruiter in Pintocola- because Neigh Orleans apparently didn’t have enough ponies in the society to warrant it. Nevertheless, I was so thrilled that I immediately called up Petunia, and asked her if she would go with me back to the Society tonight. Predictably, she readily agreed, and I finally hung up after I was fervently promised that I would be dragged to visit one of her favourite places around the Society.

The overall atmosphere of this place was three parts San Ruano casino, one part Mareibbean nightclub and all parts sleaze, the nearest radio blaring some loud salsa music at top volume, over which could still be heard the synchronised moaning of mares. The entire thing smelt of a forest of plastic palm trees, stale cigar smoke (not actual tobacco, of course- Celestia forbid anypony inhale anything so dangerous) and tiny parasols tucked in virgin margaritas. I was halfway expecting to see some sort of kinky tropical floor show any minute, a line of beautiful mares done up in colourful boas and feather headdresses hovering by the stage as if waiting for their cue.

I waved over a waitress in nothing but colourful panties, stockings and a job collar as I finished up my glass. “Margarita, extra ice, put a little dash of Muzkal in there, too.” The waitress smiled and whisked my drink away on a tray as I looked down at Petunia, who was currently snuggled against my chest and watching the mares dancing in gilded, bejeweled cages above our heads with a contented, almost blank stare. I think there was even a little bit of drool. “I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Mmm... sexy pegasus flank- huh what? Oh! Sorry, did you say something?”

I rolled my eyes, booping her on the nose just to watch her muzzle scrunch up and get her ‘cute-but-angry’ glare. “Yes, I did. I was just saying you seemed to be enjoying yourself, that’s all. You were kind of spacing out. You sure these ‘clocktails’ don’t have actual alcohol in them?” Part of me was kind of hoping there was, but I figured there most likely wasn’t. There were enough range of effects available to CTRL elixirs that it would probably be superfluous, even if I grumbled to myself at the slightly-synthetic taste of their beverages compared to the actual thing. Still, I wasn’t going to throw up, wake up with a splitting headache, or start dancing with a lampshade on my head anytime soon, so I suppose that was a small price to pay.

She nodded vigorously, blushing as she instinctively wiped the corner of her mouth and shifted slightly so she was staring up at me. “I’m sure. CTRL sure knows how to brew up good replacements, though. Have you tried Muzcal yet? All I know is it’s got agave nectar and something else in it, but hoo boy has it got a kick. Also, you might want to cover your ears for a few seconds. It’s like Starbright for your hearing.”

I took the glass from the waitress as she came back, nodding my thanks and lifting my glass to my lips. Ah, this at least tasted like the real thing- Agave nectar, a bit of orange-flavoured serene, and a splash of lime to tingle the tongue. Perfect. I propped myself up on a hoof as I drank, observing a mare with a neon-green mane and trefoil radiation symbol on her flank being released from the wheel, stumbling her way bow-legged out of the lounge and leaving a trail of pearly-white cum behind her. “Please, it just tastes like a virgin margarita. There can’t be anything like that in th- holy shit!”

Oh sweet Luna, I think my tongue actually lolled out of my mouth for a second there. I could hear every wail of the trumpets, feel every drumbeat vibrating down to my very bones, practically see every piano note being pounded out as if it were being played right next to me, and not from a radio on a bar countertop ten feet away. Oh dear... hoo boy, I was not expecting that. I’ve heard of eargasms, but this was the closest thing I’d ever gotten. I had to actually glance down to check I hadn’t popped a stiffy- mercifully, my cock was still in its sheath. Mercifully, because if I had gotten a boner, poor Petunia would’ve probably gone flying off the couch, and I would never hear the end of it. As it was, I saw the knowing grin she was aiming at me and huffed. “You didn’t say it would do that.”

“I told exactly what it was like. You just didn’t believe me. To your credit, though, I halfway expected you to cum after the first five seconds, since I know how much you love this music.”

I may have been shuddering a little, but no way in Tartarus was I going to let her notice. Even if the music was busy running my pulse and causing my ears to nearly fold in on themselves from sheer sensory overload. “Oh shuddup, ‘Tuney. If it was swing, maybe. But you know me better than that.”

“You also didn’t finish your drink. I bet if you had, you’d be singing a different tune- and we’d have to call the nearest maid to clean up.”

I dismissed the thought as ludicrous, pointedly going back to sipping my drink- albeit slowly- until it was empty. “See, I did it just fine, and- holy fuuuuuck...”

I am a little ashamed to say she almost won the bet that time. Can you really blame me, though? The first thing I heard after that was some stallion on the opposite side of the room, talking to his friends very loudly about his last exploit in Pet Town.

“...and this cute changeling just starts making what I swear was a mewling sound, can you believe it? Not even being led to the stocks by her leash could stop her from wriggling around. It took a few smacks with the crop to get her to stay still- coated with Starbright, of course- but I managed to finally get here in there for her punishment. And you know what she did when I moved around to the front to see if she’d had enough? She kisses the crop, looks up at me with this grin that could turn on a blind guy, and goes ‘Thank you sir, may I have another one?’ Now, me, being a newbie, I’m not used to this sort of thing, so I don’t know what to say. I just kinda sit there looking dumb for a few seconds, until I say the first thing that comes to mind: ‘No, I think you’ve had enough.’ This is obviously not what she’s looking for, as she immediately gives me this goddamn puppy-dog look, and starts mewling like she’s in heat and going ‘Just one more, sir?’ I don’t care how much of a sadist you are- there is no way you can argue with that.”

“Wait, wouldn’t it be more of a truly sadistic thing to give her the cropping?”

“Not for a pain-slut. You don’t understand- with those subs, it’s crueler to deny punishment than to give it, since some of them can get off on the sheer humiliation alone, and thus you might be stopping them from getting off. I like whipping, cropping, spanking and biting, but orgasm denial is not my thing. Not that I wanted to, anyway. So I just kinda think on my feet- which come to think of it, is rather necessary here. It honestly kinda reminds me of back when I was in an improv acting troupe, only a lot more sexual. Er, anyways, I go ‘Very well then. I may even give you a reward after if you take your punishment well.’ And she does. Dear Celestia, she does. I think she was halfway to coming just from the smacks alone by the time I actually started fucking her. Granted, I was pretty pent-up too at the moment, so it wasn’t long before we both went off. I was kind of embarrassed at first that it didn’t take too long, but once we got to the nearest Aftercare room she was rather encouraging.”

“I believe my exact wording was ‘any stallion who can bring me over the edge so hard I feel weightless after has nothing to worry about.’ Which I still firmly believe,” quipped a wry voice from the other side of him.

There is no way any stallion can handle listening to the agonisingly-specific details of fucking a cute little changeling mare in the public stocks until she’s reduced to a pile of whimpering, aroused mess and not be close to blowing a load then and there. Especially when said changeling was sitting on the other side of the table and reminding him of the bits he forgot or left out. I caught Petunia’s eye and shot her a glare back in response. She probably knew something like this would happen. Scratch that- she did know, probably because she’d had Muzcal before and had a similar experience.

After a few minutes to settle down a bit as the effects started to wear off, I looked up at the brightly-coloured ceiling with a bit of a frown. This was... fun and all, but it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for when I first showed up here. Petunia had promised... you know, historical discoveries beyond anything I could imagine. And call me weird, but this wasn’t really scratching that particular itch. I wanted to get out. Explore. Just wander my way through this maze of kink facilities, slink up to some back-alley shop, find me a map and see what I could find. Keep moving. Don’t turn back until it’s time to leave again.

With that thought in mind, I looked down towards Petunia, who seemed to have caught my frown and was gazing up at me with a puzzled expression. “What do you say we get out of here? Go exploring. Not anywhere in particular, just find some little niche or backwater corner of this place nopony goes to much and look around. At least some of these facilities have to be, what, 1000, 2000 years old?”

She bit her lip, glancing over at the bar for a few seconds as if contemplating getting another drink, before her eyes widened. “Oh shit! I told you this would be an adventure, and here I am sticking you in a lounge for a night as if we’re back in Hayvana on vacation. I wanna make it up to you, and I’m going to! Come on, we’re going now!”

“Wait a second Petunia, I think we might wanna decide on a particular area first-”

“I have an ideeeeeea! Now come on Bronze, up and at ‘em! See you later, Zecora!” With that, I found myself once more pulled from my comfy spot, and found myself barely able to keep up with Petunia as she weaved expertly through the crowd and into the halls beyond.

For those of you who have never been there, to call the Society complex a maze would be wholly inaccurate. Mazes don’t have maps made for them. What it is, however, is incredibly vast, and thus still easy to get lost in, even with a map on hoof. With that in mind, Petunia and I found ourselves drifting from place to place, stopping at the occasional back alley to check where we were and make sure we could find our way back... eventually.

Beneath a seemingly endless ceiling that stretched farther than we could make out, we found ourselves in the midst of the City, the urban predator/prey setting somewhere between the Borderlands and the area known as the Hunting Grounds. No, we knew where we were going, thank you very much. We were just taking the time to enjoy the scenery, and watch the doms pursuing after the fleeing mares passing by on occasion. The City itself was a weird amalgamation of styles, ranging from ancient to medieval to modern depending on where you were. At the moment, we were in the section that I’m pretty sure was modelled after Late Renaissance Griffonstone, complete with having almost all griffon doms roaming all over the place. And griffon statues. Anatomically-correct griffon statues. You know it’s the right place when even the sculpture is trying to turn you on. They even had inscriptions in period-era Griffish on the walls! And they were accurate!

“Are you... sure... we’re going the right way?”

“Certainly. The map says that the old palace district is on the other side of this tunnel. Now come on, I want to see their collection of fertility idols that nice zebra down the way mentioned!”

Petunia followed behind me, panting slightly as she tried to keep pace with me this time. Never underestimate a historian in his element. We will find what we’re looking for.

With that in mind, it came as a surprise when we found ourselves, not in the palace district, but in what appeared to be a large, sparkling cavern. And when I say sparkling, I mean if there was more light in here than a few torches, I would’ve been blinded. Every curve of the walls, every crevasse was encrusted with milky-white crystals that reflected beautiful, constantly-shifting patterns onto the dark grey floor. We carefully walked about in a bit of a state of awe, stepping over small sinkholes and chasms that peppered the floor like swiss cheese. I don’t think anypony came down here much, or they would’ve covered up the holes, at least.

The floor was angled at a bit of a downward slant, so the descent was fairly easy as we made our way downward and into a branching tunnel. The air was getting hotter, for some reason, and more humid. But why? We were getting deeper underground, and it should have been colder. “Where are we?” I muttered to nopony in particular, squinting my eyes to read my map under the dim lighting. As far as I could tell, we should have been...

Oh. Ooooooh. I’d had the map upside down before. Whoops. On closer inspection, I found we were in an area known as ‘Hot Spring Caverns’ on the south side of the City. It was apparently a buffer zone between the upper dungeon levels and the City, connected by a string of tunnels that meandered around before finally converging on a stairway back up to the dungeons. But wait, what was the ‘greyed-out zone’ to the east? This was a huge section with no label, just a blank, grey space stretching out over a third of the area. Maybe they hadn’t developed this area yet?

“Do you think we should keep going, Bronze? I don’t recognise this part of the caverns...”

I thought for a second. It only took a second to offer a definite, “Yes, we should. Come on, who knows what we can find down here! Isn’t this what we were looking for in the first place? New places, new discoveries?”

One of her ears flicked, but she otherwise appeared to not have heard me. After a moment, though, she slowly nodded. “Alright, but if you get us lost, Mr. ‘Intrepid Adventurer,’ I will make sure everyone and their mother hears about it.”

Fair enough, I thought. With that in mind, we delved deeper and deeper into the caverns, tracking our way across a narrow chasm (which apparently actually had a magical barrier to prevent falling into it. They do think of everything here) before being plunged into near-darkness as the torches got more distant. I lit my horn, my pale blue aura lighting up the area as my eyes began to adjust. Keep moving. Don’t linger or wander too far away from Petunia.

By the time we got back into one of the well-lit areas, I was pouring sweat, wispy clouds of steam rising around me. You know, this may not have been such a good idea after all: I was missing the cooler areas back upstairs...

No, that was the wrong attitude. Learn to enjoy the thrill of not knowing where you’re going other than some vague goal of ‘somewhere interesting.’

I ended up standing on the edge of a large pool of water tucked away at the corner of the cavern, a little boat tied to a post on the black, sandy bank. Somewhere in the distance, a waterfall flowed, the only visual evidence a constant cloud of steam floating out of a nearby tunnel half-submerged. The boat was fairly innocuous- just a little sailboat with a lantern on one end, and a ramp leading up to it, and a sign next to it that read ‘To the Heart. Two ponies maximum capacity. This boat is self-guided and needs no steering.’

I glanced back at Petunia curiously. “What do you make of all this?”

She shrugged. “I can only assume that this boat is left here for ponies going to ‘The Heart,’ wherever that is. The better question is- should we get on it?”

My answer to that question was ready enough, as I clambered onto the boat, feeling giddier by the minute. This was it, I felt. Some part of me knew this was probably a terrible idea, but another was screaming ‘this is exactly the opportunity we’ve been waiting for!’ That part was considerably louder, and was currently located by the prow, humming merrily and with my hoof floating over a ‘launch’ lever while a stunned Petunia looked on. “Well, aren’t you going to get in? This is for two ponies, you know.”

She opened her mouth for a second to protest, then closed it again. She seemed rooted to the spot, until finally she gave a resigned shrug. “Fuck it. Let’s see where this goes. Onwards, Captain Bronze Age.”

I grinned. “That’s just what I like to hear. Hop aboard and make yourself comfy, because I have a feeling this is going to be a long ride.”

Petunia soon settled down next to me on a padded wooden bench, and I hit the lever. We were off, finally. To where? Who knows? We’d find out when we got there.