Subs and Sandwiches

Rain. Oh, how Sandy Surf hated the rain. It drizzled down her wings and pooled at her hooves, darkening her tan coat to an icky brown. She flipped her mane out of her face, teal at the roots fading to white at the tips, and hugged her saddlebags against her body with her wings. It didn’t matter, she tried to tell herself, if this draft of her latest story got wet. She planned to rewrite it anyways. But that didn’t stop her from protecting it, fanning her wings around her body as her eyes roamed down the tracks for a sign of the train to Ponyville.

A little foal whispered to his mother and pointed. They were on their way to school, no doubt. Ah, yes, and here was the shocked gaze of the parent. Sandy was used to this response. It wasn’t every day a pony saw a pegasus with clipped wings, after all.

Her ear flicked as she regarded their whispered conversation. They’d probably assume that some abuser had forced this upon her, or her parents wished for an earth pony and were determined to make her one, or one of the other million stories she’d heard to explain away her damaged wingtips. The truth was a bit sadder than any fable a mother would invent to placate a foal.

She had been born incapable of flight thanks to tendon weakness in her wing joints, and had started clipping her own wings in her teens as a sign of rebellion against the world’s disapproval. Of course, that only made ponies pity her more. She had found solace in writing, for it was the only way she could come close to flying. Repetition and practice begat talent, and she often sent her stories to publishers with the hopes that they'd be accepted. When one of her drafts was accepted by a publishing house, Sandy realized that she could be more than just a flightless pegasus to others. Her cutie mark appeared, a sand dollar with a sun design, inspired by her first story, Icy Tea’s Day at the Beach, written about her happiest childhood memories from a foal’s point of view.

Children’s stories were her forte, and her latest book, My Mommy’s A Cat, had become a resounding success, especially in the secret kink society she found herself visiting again and again.

Sandy had arranged a meeting today with a few of the good friends she had made there, and she hoped that collecting their stories would inspire her to write her first adult novel. Either way, it would help her get out of the house, and any excuse to visit the Clocktower Society was a good one.

The Clocktower Society, Sandy thought as she shivered in the rain, was an experiment in extreme measures. Everything was designed to create the safest, sanest, and consensualest environment for BDSM, to the point of utter ridiculousness. Where else would geniuses conspire to create dildos that not only vibrate and glow in the dark, but are also enchanted to take on a life of their own, or freeze or heat up on command? Where else would ponies chase and hunt each other in an entire city built underground for that purpose? And where else would a spa not only offer a “happy ending,” but a cock-and-teat milking service while they shine your hooves?

Sandy found this all rather absurd, and yet she considered its ridiculousness quite charming. The Clocktower was a place even she managed to fit in, where she had found friendships and sexual adventures beyond her wildest fantasies.

A train whistle blew, signalling the arrival of the Ponyville train to the Manehattan central station. Jerked from her own train of thought, Sandy trotted on board and perched on one of the seats. The early-morning train always had seats available, which gave her room to spread out the latest copy of her story to dry.

Only the edges had gotten wet, thankfully. Even though it was likely that she'd start again from scratch, she didn't want to throw this draft out just yet. It was so hard to find inspiration to write, and even harder to focus back home in Manehattan. Sandy could hardly wait to arrive at the secret entrance of Clocktower East.

It was less crowded in the sandwich shop than Sandy had expected. Perhaps it was unusual to grab a bite to eat at 8 am on a Tuesday here. In Manehattan, all the chic coffee shops would be open for business, ready to serve her any combination of coffee, syrup, and cream she wished. But here it was sleepy, quiet, and almost desolate. Sandy dropped her manuscript down, claiming a corner booth as she waited for the others to arrive.

Like many other places in the Clocktower, the very name of the shop didn’t seem to take the matter of BDSM seriously. The Sub’s Subs. Sandy found the pun both abhorrent and cute.

The mare who was serving the sandwiches was rather cute, too. She had served Sandy a daisy sandwich, paid in the society’s currency of Tallies created by a Fire of Devotion-powered Phaser, applied to the sandwich mare’s rump. She moaned her thanks, and then went back into the kitchen, leaving Sandy alone with her thoughts.

Her hoof rested over the collar around her neck, rubbing its smooth surface. In the Society, the collar colors meant different things. The red base color meant she wasn’t looking for a permanent relationship with a dom, the purple and orange bands in the middle meant she enjoyed rougher play and played non-consensual situations, and the silver studs meant she was free to use by any pony, any time.

Safewords could always slow down, pause, or stop the play if she didn’t feel comfortable with, of course, but she made sure to choose where she played carefully to keep that to a minimum. Sandy loved being in Clocktower, since she always felt safe and in control, and was excited to talk to her friends who felt the same way.

The first to arrive was Ghost Phase, a timid unicorn mare, barely out of school. Sandy waved her over and cleared a spot on the table. Ghost scooted next to her, barely ruffling the pages. Her white coat was damp, and her pale blue mane dripped with water. Clearly, it had been raining in San Fransiscolt too. Ghost’s horn lit up, a hazy blue aura surrounding both her and the pages on the table. The mare blushed as she cast a drying spell before picking up a page and beginning to read.

Sandy didn’t have the heart to disturb her with the fact that the page was from the end of the story and she would need more context to understand it. Ghost worked in a coffee shop, after all, and was likely tired from taking the morning shift, so maybe she wouldn’t notice. Occasionally, Ghost’s hoof would creep up to fiddle with her white collar, which proclaimed that she was a pet open to new relationships.

The door slammed open, announcing the arrival of Misty Step, a changeling from Hive Tempest and Ghost’s self-proclaimed “bestie for life.” She was as spirited as Ghost was timid. Her indigo mane clashed with her red and gold collar, in Sandy’s opinion, but Misty didn’t seem to mind her fashion calamity one bit. She grinned and flopped down next to Ghost. “Hey, Ghostie, how’s it going?”

Ghost squeaked and looked up from her page. “It’s, um, fine.”

Misty prodded the quiet mare. “Oh great, glad to hear it. Hey, I came up with a joke while I was on patrol last night!” Misty worked as a changeling scout, and was currently stationed Celestia-knows-where searching for any undercover changelings working for Chrysalis.

“Oh.” Ghost set down the page, and gazed steadily up at Misty, who was practically vibrating in her seat. “Tell me.”

The changeling grinned. “Why did Chrysalis kidnap DJ PON-3?”

Ghost blinked, trying to work it out. “Um, because she loves music?”

“Close. It’s because she feeds on wubs!” Misty cracked up at her own joke, her laughter overshadowing Ghost’s soft giggles. Sandy rolled her eyes at the pair and started gathering up her now-dry pages. Those two were almost inseparable, thanks in part to their mutual love for pet play.

Where was the third mare she was supposed to be meeting with? Sandy frowned and stood up to peek outside the shop. Nope, she was nowhere to be found. She sat down next to the other two. “Have either of you seen Glossy Print?”

“I haven’t seen her since last week. I bet she just got held up at the magazine,” Misty offered, shrugging. Ghost shook her head, and snuggled against her changeling friend.

Sandy sighed and pulled out a pad of paper from her saddlebags. “Alright, then we’ll start without her. Misty, would you mind telling me about your favorite memory from playing in the Clocktower Society?”

Misty grinned. “Oh, where do I even begin? That’s hard to narrow down, but, hm… oh, right, right. It all happened a few weeks ago, when I asked Shutter Speed to be my owner for the day…”