And The Last Drop Is For Me
Why worry about whether your glass is half-empty or half-full when you can fill it to the brim?
Rarity had long uncorked the battle of Châteauneuf du Pape resting beside her, but it was still good for another three glasses. She played with a strand of violet hair as she swilled her latest glass with delicate flicks of her wrist, watching the dark liquid bounce and settle in the glass, almost mistakable for blood if it wasn't for the lack of coagulation.
The first had been enough to calm her, to remove a portion of her inhibitions and allow her clarity, thoughtfulness. By the time she got to the second, she knew she was treating herself.
And why shouldn't she? She was a hard worker, a loving sister, a good person. She deserved her reprieve, as brief as it might have been. Part of her said that she would lose out on a day of productivity if only for the hangover she was surely due if she continued, but the second glass quelled those concerns before they could truly impact her decision.
Truly good wine had a tendency to be moreish, and even as she sipped on her slowly draining glass, her taste buds continued to acclimate to the feeling of fruity sweetness, the drink's strength and intensity only dulled as her mind began to travel to a pleasant buzz. Her thoughts were a calm ravine of blissful solitude.
Sweetie Belle wasn't in, which was for the best. Rarity needed her alone time.
It was for... thinking, she supposed. Or was it so she could finally stop thinking? A slight hiccup with a green olive overtone, and Rarity placed her finger on it. Worrying, that was the one. A nice, cool drink was the perfect accompaniment to the absence of worry, and Rarity would indulge herself in such placidity until there was no more drink to be had.
Of course, it was only a temporary solution, transient at best.
The evening was hot; it was late summer. It was a night of high humidity and little wind, so even with the window cracked, Rarity had still felt the need to strip down to a shirt and panties. A benefit to being completely alone in the boutique was that she could walk around as dressed or undressed as she felt like.
There were benefits to being alone. Rarity flinched, realising she'd just pulled the strand of hair from her scalp, flicking it away and taking another sip of the alcohol, which sat patiently waiting for her.
She stared at the glass, holding it a little more firmly now. She caught large, crystalline eyes in her reflection, and briefly admired how the colours complemented one another. That was a part of her brain that she could never turn off, deciding what did and didn't go together.
Some things went together with a variety of other things. Some things had a perfect match. Some things, seemingly, had nothing and never would.
Another sip, swallowed faster. The burn of her throat was offset by the relief the taste gave, the strength of the beverage and the knowledge that twenty or thirty sips later, she would be well and truly drunk, stumbling down her path to serenity. She set the glass down, whisking around the room to draw the curtains, all save one that shone down on the room, basking a line of carpet as well as her bed in a silvery glow.
She had candles beside her bed, the nightstand dotted with them. The flame and the wick were good company that night, so she lit them, taking a match and striking it against the box, holding it out to light a candle before placing it against three more, blowing the match out and repeating the process until the room shone with many tiny sources of light.
The last match was still lit, held in a pair of fingers between two acrylic nails. It was funny, when she thought about it. She had invited the flame into the match's life, and now, in their coupling, one had consumed the other, destroyed it.
Why was the sight of a flame so enticing? It jumped and danced with life, beauty before her eyes, a brilliant blue intermixed with the most bedazzling orange, almost like the reflection of her eyes in the glass. Yet, as it continued to travel down the stick, it purged the boring, brown wood, engulfing it and spitting out its charred remains, brittle and liable to snap from the slightest pressure.
The flame was relentless, and it travelled unabated. Rarity could feel it against her fingers, a subtle warmth that became increasingly prominent as the seconds passed. Were some things not destined to be joined with others? Were some people flames, so overwhelming and powerful that they burnt everything around them? Beautiful, but only to be admired from a distance, never to be touched or exposed to for a lengthy period, lest you allow pain into your life.
Rarity could feel the prickle of heat against her skin, a slight burn shocking her senses as she held the match in place. It should have been a struggle, all of her instincts were telling her to drop it, but she persevered in spite of them.
Hot scratches against her fingertips gave her all the confirmation she needed. She swore, dropping the match and leaving it to burn out on the linoleum floor. The spark that had given life to a tryst of linear destruction was extinguished with a single motion.
And Rarity's fingers ached. She felt pain, a gentle throb against her otherwise impeccable fingers, tarnished by the lick of the flame. She inspected them for damage, but they looked the same as always.
Had she really expected a difference? Rarity flicked her hair out of her face as she walked back over to her glass, appreciating the new warmth that flooded the boutique. It was stuffy, but it still gave her the chills. Maybe the alcohol had thinned her blood?
Another saccharine sip, and she embraced the feeling. Occupying herself on nights like these was an ordeal—there was no work to be done when the bottle had been uncorked and the glass began to fill. She'd ask a friend over, but spontaneous invitations were hardly considerate, and what would she be asking for? All she had to offer was her company, and what would the other party receive? Happiness, just for being there with her?
Was she happy? How do you answer that? Was she meant to quantify happiness as calm, being at peace with herself, or as another, stronger feeling? Did Rarity even understand the concept of happiness, truly?
There's such a thing as too much thinking. Rarity drained the glass, and before she'd had a chance to consider her next action, she found herself filling it again. She didn't open the bottle just so it could go to waste, and she was beginning to grow increasingly attracted to its taste.
Or maybe it was its effects that kept her coming back. If she drank enough, surely she'd find the relaxing tingle in her body that she so needed? A quiet, inebriated serenade that would pull her into sleep, a place where she had nothing to consider, nothing to contend with.
Rarity walked over to a mirror. A twenty-eight year old face looked back, smooth and without wrinkle, she imagined she could pass for twenty-one without much issue. Digging around in her shirt pocket, she fished out a small box. Opening it, she produced a single tailor-made cigarette, inspecting it in the light.
Trottingham Gold, the embroidery read, stitched into the paper and emblazoned with a high-class insignia, reminding her of the tapestries she had seen in Celestia's old castle. It was a neat little thing with a beautiful stamp, ready to poison her body and shorten her life.
Was that the allure? The truth of the matter was the effect this cancer stick would have on her body, but the truth was so much easier to ignore when there was beauty, grandeur, style in the packaging, a whispered implication of gratification from indulging in a simple vice.
Rarity walked over to the lit candles, holding the cigarette in her mouth as she tried to catch the flame. She had no interest in holding another match. Fire begot flame, in flame there was passion and strength, and that flame kindled the tobacco at the end of her waiting lips.
A short inhale, and Rarity stifled a cough. She hadn't been smoking long, and wasn't entirely sure she even did it right. You were meant to inhale the cigarette and breathe it down to your lungs, and then hold it for how long, again? She took a slightly longer drag as she walked back to the mirror, lit cigarette in one hand and glass in another, watching the contours of her face as she puffed on it, the ember lighting in the darkness, the musky smell of smoke permeating the air and mixing with the juniper of her candles.
A rough, bitter feeling hit her throat, but she persevered. She took the cigarette from her lips and held it at her side as she pursed her lips, allowing the smoke to flow through her. it began to filter out through her nose, and she was reminded of a dragon, gentle wisps carrying themselves away as they faded, becoming nothing.
Her sources of relaxation, her psuedo-glamorous sirens of death, they were interchangeable. Cigarette in one hand, wine glass in the other, she remained focussed on her reflection as she sipped and smoked, the glass and cigarette alike draining as she moved closer to a state of tipsiness. Even when she scrunched up her face on an inhale, she saw no lines. Why hadn't she aged? Her soul felt suitably old and withered.
No ashtray... She walked to the window and flicked the thing outside, half of it still left. She watched the single cherry of light soar through the air before landing on the cobblestone pavement, slowly burning out and ceasing to be. Or so she imagined, she turned away before she could witness its demise.
Finality in everything, but she chose to cut it short. Better to have had and lost than to not have at all, or was that a fallacy? She quaffed her drink with unladylike gulps, finishing a majority of it in one burst of want. How much was left? Her head was swimming, but she still had her faculties. Rarity lifted the bottle, shaking and jostling it around. A glass and a half, maybe two small glasses?
Rarity thanked god that she didn't have a second bottle sitting around in wait, even if she wished for one. There was no time like the present, so she poured another glass, this one smaller, more conservative. She'd take her time with it.
Still, what to do, what to do... Rarity made dresses, she made outfits. It wasn't a hobby, it wasn't a habit, it was a career. She was a designer, a businesswoman. What fun that was.
What she wouldn't give to create something without a thought as to how it might be utilised. An exercise in splendour, not fashion, beauty, not perfection. What she loved, not what would sell. Rarity couldn't remember what she loved. She remembered colour coordination, she remembered fabrics and materials, she remembered market trends and opposing designers and the last time she had gone on a date with a man.
It was nice to remember, sometimes.
The night was still young. Rarity could dress up in one of her more snazzy outfits, do her makeup, and be at one of the town's premiere bars in an hour, eyelids fluttering and all attention firmly on her.
But she wouldn't. It was nice to have some time to herself.
She wouldn't just invite any man back to her parlour anyways, it had to be a special sort of person. Someone gentle and loving, that knew how to take control when she needed him to. Someone who would listen and understand, but could quieten her at a moment's notice. Someone to steal the spotlight away from her so she could bask in his.
Where was he? Rarity liked to imagine that there could be a man like that watching over her right then, watching her cavort around in her tight shirt and thin panties, her breasts pushed out and the slender curves of her body on full display. There was no need for accentuation, her naked thighs were all the draw she needed. Then there was her cutie mark, tattooed just under her hip, three stunning diamonds for her eyes only.
...and his. Maybe he would share in her wine, lick the taste off of her lips and savour it, the way it entwined with the sweetness of her lips, the strawberry of her balm. He could introduce his mouth to hers and halt her motion, the two of them stagnant save the twisting of their tongues as they melted into oneness.
Rarity looked to her bed, too large for her. she'd only occupied the left side for so long, and she liked to joke that she was saving the opposite for Mister Right. She decided to lay there this evening, placing her glass beside her and spreading herself out, pushing the covers to the side.
The memory foam here hadn't molded to her shape, and it was like laying on an entirely new bed. She relaxed into it, her body writhing as she rolled her shoulders, her fingernails pressing against the sheets of the mattress as she became accustomed to the new sensation. Tonight was a night for new things.
He was with her, atop her. He looked down with dark, featureless eyes, and Rarity told herself that she couldn't make them out because of the lack of light, even when she looked through him and spotted the ceiling. It wasn't that she had given up hope, that she had forgotten even the look of her perfect man what with all the work she did. She was just a little tired, a little drunk.
He was there, and he waited patiently for her to decide what he did next, tapping a nail against her chin as a smile crossed her lips. They would kiss, their lips meeting once more, pressing against each other and sharing their love as the sound of soft smooches filled the room. He would pull away eventually, leaving her pouting and wanting, and with a stalwart smile, he would lower himself, his weight pressing against her as he kissed against her collarbones, her chest, the feeling electric.
Rarity's fingers traced each spot as she envisioned it, the cool wine glass pressing against her breasts through her shirt until her nipples became hard and she could pass it off as arousal. His tongue travelled around her areolas as she stripped off her shirt, wetting her fingers with a soft lick of her luscious tongue and bringing it down to the pink flesh, pinching and teasing each of her nipples as he bit and nibbled on them, eliciting a soft squeal.
He was an attentive man, a loving figment, and each kiss and lick against her, pattering against her belly, it was another small testament to his love. Rarity quickly grabbed the glass, draining half of it in an attempt to strengthen her connection, and as she continued to lose touch with reality, her vision deepened. There he was, brushing her shirt away and massaging her sides with large, rough hands, his fingers pressing into her skin.
Rarity attempted to ignore the bite of her acrylics against her sides. He lowered his gaze, and Rarity grinned a sultry grin as she realised what was to come. He began to yank on her panties with his fingers locked in the band—no, he was a naughty boy—his teeth... He looked up at her as they came down lower, and Rarity closed her eyes in preparation for what would come next.
He brushed a soft finger against her folds, and she was already wet. She cooed in delight, feeling him brush her faster and with more effort as he brought forth soft moans and quivers from his partner—he knew her body so well, it was hard to believe that it wasn't Rarity doing it.
He increased the speed of his motions, his thumb rubbing in small circles around her clit as she panted from the sensation, raising a leg and lowering her other arm as he groped at her ass. He was fast, frantic, playing with her at a pace Rarity could barely handle, force and skill combining to create something that truly mesmerised her. Somewhere, in some distant state of consciousness, Rarity's arm ached.
He strummed against her puffy little pussy with a smile on his lips, dipping his head lower but never having a taste, the little tease... Rarity wanted his tongue inside of her, she wanted him to make her squeal, to make her scream out in pleasure, to make her feel satisfied and whole and wanted.
But he still refused, and maybe it was because Rarity couldn't emulate that sensation. She chose to ignore that possibility, draining her fourth glass. Her vision bounced with the blur of renewed life, and once again he was warming her up, warming her up for what?
Rarity grabbed a pillow, slipping it between her legs. Giggling, she allowed her eyes to settle on the blackness of closed lids. "Are you going to fuck me, or are you just going to sit there all night?"
She pressed two fingers inside her—no, he pushed his cock inside her, hard and thick and eager to show her what she was missing. He explored her insides with deft precision, and Rarity tightened herself around him, squeezing tight as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He moved faster, his hips gyrating as he continued to push himself into her, bottoming out multiple times as Rarity kept him completely locked in place, determined to prevent him from moving away, from leaving.
Her huffs accompanied the rapid beating of her heart as she felt him hilt inside her once more, and Rarity played with her clit as she watched, careful to never open her eyes. His pumps were rapid, his cock long and thick, and he gave all that he could, so generous and considerate, even to the point that she knew he wouldn't finish until she did.
He never tired, either. He didn't have to stop to adjust himself or catch his breath, he didn't complain that he was getting close and ask to slow down, he went with her pace always, the perfect accompaniment to the music of her body, like red wine and warm summer nights.
His breath and hers matched perfectly to the point that they were one, there was no distinction and no confusion, he was a perfect replica of her in every way as he pushed her closer and closer to what she sought.
Rarity could feel a pressure building inside her, one that coursed through her loins and threatened to erupt without warning, an overwhelming thing that was the product of such ardent and affectionate lovemaking. She wasn't fucked like a whore, Rarity was given the care and respect she deserved, even as she was filled and her pussy contracted, her chest heaving and breath hitching as he brought her closer and closer to orgasm.
And her man deserved a reward too, for all of his hard work and devotion. "That's it..." she purred, her words slightly slurred, her heart slamming against her chest. "A-are you going to cum for me, darling?" He grunted, or maybe she did, fucking her without restraint, pushing himself all the way in and becoming more desperate with each pulse of Rarity's pussy around him.
"Why don't you finish inside of me?" Rarity asked, gripping with her legs tighter, preventing his escape. She imagined a bit of light panic and a short exchange, and she shook her head, violet hair bouncing as she bit down on her lip. "Well, maybe I want your baby, sweetheart... Will you give it to me? Hic! G-give me your baby?"
Rarity could feel the throbbing around her beginning to reach critical levels, and with a loud gasp began to empty herself onto his cock, even as he surely shot his load inside her and surely impregnated her, the fantasy a fitting substitute for reality as she allowed the orgasm to shake and shudder through her, riding it out with increasingly lazy flicks of her clit as her body settled, a shake still running through her.
Slowly, he removed his cock from her spent entrance, and Rarity wiped her fingers on the sheets, knowing they'd be washed later. She grabbed the bottle and went to fill a final glass.
Half of the contents spilled on the floor. She couldn't stop shaking.
She grabbed the remainder and downed it, ignoring the burn and the slightly nauseous feeling that accompanied it, ignoring everything. She grabbed the pillow from where it sat between her legs, pushing it into a bundle of blankets and other pillows and wrapping her arms around it, cuddling against it.
She wiped her forming tears against his chest; she wasn't sure why she was crying. "I love you," she whispered, and her bedroom said nothing back.
Author's Note
