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Quite frankly, youâll be glad if this is the last time that Santa Claus delivers presents on Hearthâs Warming. Youâre really not looking to make a habit out of it, sat there in an awkward fit of red velvet and fur trim. Neither does Rainbow Dash, looking like sheâs three seconds away from ripping the novelty antlers off from the top of her head. But Twilight just had to bring multiculturalism into it. It wouldnât be fair if everypony didnât respect your seasonal customs. And it would be a hell of a lot easier than last yearâs secret gift nonsense. But you didnât think ponies would be ready for baby Jesus and God. Father Christmas was a hard enough sell as it was.
âOne more ring-a-ling-a-ling-a-ding-dong-ding and Iâm turning this wagon around.â She huffs pointedly, trying to flick her tail before remembering that the sprig of mistletoe tied under her dock made that not a very good idea at all. Her tail hiked back up quick enough.
You offer a slight tug on the red leather reins as a reply. âPretty sure Iâm supposed to be the one doing the driving here. And Sleigh Rideâs a Christmas classic. Everyone loves it! How can you not?â
âThis isnât Christmas. And last time I checked, sleighs donât run on wheels.â
âAnd I asked the Ponyville Weather Bureau for snow today, Dash. Canât always get what we want.â You sharply snap the reins in, getting a shuddering gasp from your rainbow reindeer, showing some impressive discipline in keeping her canter going, despite the jingly red harness fitted around her barrel, the reins connected to said harness, and the wagon full of presents and the man dressed as Santa that was pulling said reins. Not forgetting the mistletoe sat above her tailhole and the novelty antlers, either.
Dash twists her head back to you, and you canât tell whether the look on her face is supposed to be annoyance, arousal, or some sort of confused combination. Hard to tell, but also hard to take seriously with a big red novelty nose sat atop her snout. A flashing one. She could have been spared all the embarrassment had she opted to be Dancer or Prancer, or Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner or Blitzen. Dasher may have been a perfectly good fit, but Dasher came second to Rudolph on the sleigh. And God forbid that Rainbow Dash ever took second place in anything.
Pulling on the reins again, you command Dash to giddy up, jingle horse, pick up your feet. You get a few choice swear words in return. You felt like you had to congratulate yourself, even if your robes hung loose on your frame and your Ho-Ho-Hos lacked that festive oomph. Maybe Santa had his off-days. And maybe a rocky period with heroin in the mid-nineties, too. Not as if Twilight could verify the facts. And it wasnât as if you had to go to all this trouble of travelling to Ponyville on a wagon, either. True, you were doing it for the kids, but Dash had her reasons as well. It was killing three robins with one tinsel-wrapped stone. Free presents for the foals, a bit of off-season strength and conditioning training for Dash, and-
ââŚH-Haa-aahâŚ.Harder.â You just about catch her huff, over the snap of leather straps and the creaking of wood and iron. So naturally you let the reins slip free a couple of inches.
Dash notices the lack of resistance soon enough, abruptly jerking forward from you and the cart. If sheâs annoyed, you canât hear it. The left wheel is starting to squeak again. And youâre sure that itâs got a little wobble on the axle, too. Applejack ought to look at it before it really begins to become a prob-
ââŚGuhâŚ.Harder.â She grunts, and you clearly catch the irritation, simmering over her ragged breaths. You let the reins slip again. Youâd almost be concerned â if it wasnât for all the bells that made her jingle with every movement, or the novelty antler or the nose, or the way the muscles of her hindquarters tightened, flexed and bounced, perfectly framing her now glistening cu-
âI said...HARDER!â and at this point now, sheâs shouting it out with what little breath she has left, taut and raw. Perhaps a little hoarse, too.
You could tease her for the third time, but youâre running out of rein. A few more inches and a few more metres of tug and your little Pegasus would bolt free from you and the cart. You really wouldnât want that.
Dash is screaming now whilst the cart rattle over rough ground and for a moment, everything feels like itâs going to break. ââŚ.P-PULL! GRRAAAHHH! PULL, DAMNIT!â You stay your grip, but offer nothing else. ââŚHA-HAANNHHâŚ.WHYâŚWHY A-ARENâT YOUâŚ.GUUUHâŚJUST P-PLEEEEAAA-aAeEEeeSssSe~â
That was when you finally pulled. The leather straps snapped tight, and the harness around Rainbow Dashâs barrel dug in hard against her coat. Rubbing up welts, leaving bruises. Jingling all the way. Your little Pegasus seems to melt with ragged little moans, not at all caring that her tailâs flagged high. Another yank and she shakes and shivers, winks and squirts, all right in front of you. The heat is visibly steaming from her body and her nethers are dripping. Itâs shameless and she knows it.
Turning her head back to you with a breathless grin, Rainbow flicks her tail and starts to pick up her pace. Sheâs not stopping for you, the cart, or all the leather and weight that sheâs pulling. Everythingâs trying to slow her down, and sheâs fighting against it all. She wills the ground to move faster beneath her hooves. She dares you to stay in control. Itâs shameless and she wants more.
Youâre death-gripping rope and leather and it burns in your palms. Every time you resist her, she resists you. The trees and the dirt and the stones melt and blur past you until the cart, the wheels, the presents and the costumes arenât anything but flimsy excuses, lost to the winds. And all that really matters right now is pulling hard enough on the reins to finally contain her. All that speed, power and bravado, brought to heel under the control of your two hands. Dash snorts hotly, struggling under the buckles and clasps, surging forward hard enough to lift you an inch off your seat. You lean back in answer, letting your weight be the counterbalance to slow Dash down again. Her wings quiver and thrash, but theyâre held down tight under the straps. Theyâre all bent out of place and you just know thatâs going to be hours of preening them up again when all this is done. Maybe you should have done the gift-giving first. Maybe you should have given this a bit more thought.
And maybe Rainbow Dash shouldnât have made one last surge on the reins. And suddenly, youâre doing all you can to simultaneously not have both your arms yoinked out of their sockets or to have your entire body thrown forward from the cart and mangled under the wheels and dirt. The reins slip your grasp and Rainbow surges free down the road, several kilos lighter. The look she throws you wanted to be Guess-Santa-shoulda-asked-for-riding-lessons-huh, but she tries to stick her tongue out and it just lolls out in exhaustion. Itâs more panting dog than playful. Still, Rainbow Dash has broken free, and youâre left rolling to a halt with stinging palms and half an erection in your Santa costume. You donât know if it sounds worse in or out of context.
Of course youâre not going to pull the cart all the way to Ponyvilleâs village square. You need your puller back. And you need to pull off your fake beard and hat before you even think about chasing your mare down. Santaâs sliding himself down chimneys and itâs really killing your mood right now. You jump down from the cart, ambling over loose stones and dirt and playing directly into Dashâs hooves. Sheâs already turning off the road and scrambling up a ridge. The reins almost slipping out of sight.
Youâve got a good enough guess where this will end. You always do. You also know where this one started. Something to do with a race years ago, Dash said. She could have won it with both wings tied behind her back. So Applejack obliged. Trussed up like a turkey. To Dash, it felt uncomfortable- but not unpleasant. That was what got her curious. Back in the Christmas present, and youâre tripping up in boots that donât bend for human feet and red trousers that want to slide themselves off your hips. Your knees land on thorns. Your hands, on nettles. Something comes out of your mouth thatâs more animal than human and youâre still chasing those reins. Dashâs laughter peels away through the trees.
Dusty, crumbling tomes poetically tell how the sky is an endless home for a Pegasus. Life, love, death and all in between shapes the clouds themselves. It is their purpose, their birthright, their freedom. To deny them this is the cruellest insult. To strip their wings, the gravest sin. In modern times, Pegasus popstars sing lyrics that interchange with advertising slogans. Canât tie me down. Free like the sky. Chase happiness. In real life, youâve seen Pegasi fidget in small rooms and argue with hotel receptionists when their rooms didnât have more than one window. Rainbow Dash couldnât understand or try to even explore this thing that was anathema to the Pegasus race. A past coltfriend in the Wonderbolts reserves got all awkward when she casually mentioned wanting to buy a dog collar and lead one night. She then said she was just asking for a friend, and said nothing more after that.
A sudden yelp rips the air out of Rainbow Dashâs lungs. Youâre fighting to keep your centre of gravity in one place and just a few metres up ahead, somethingâs violently pulling up loose earth and exposed roots. Something red and made of leather, and with a pony attached to the other end, growling and thrashing, still pulling, pulling, trying to pull free. Youâre scrabbling for the snagged straps on the roots and the moment you get them free, you know Dash will try her damned hardest to dislocate your arms again, but youâve got to stand firm. Youâve got to hold. Hold tight. Bring her down. Your heels are carving deep furrows in the mud as Dash resists, pulls and feints. You try to offer her some slack, she doesnât take the bait. She halts her momentum haphazardly, you get thrown off your balance time and time over. In the grey, fading daylight through the trees, Dash rears up on her hindlegs, snorting, panting, mud-smeared and knowing sheâs got you beat already. And why wouldnât she? The self-proclaimed fastest flier in Equestria, the blisteringly hottest new talent in the Wonderbolts, a national heroine multiple times over and-
Sheâs getting rugby tackled by you. Her hot little body tries jerking its way out from under your arms, but your weight and momentumâs in charge now, and youâre forcing the pace, manhandling the direction. Not towards the ground, but towards the nearest, thickest tree trunk, no matter how hard Dashâs frantic hindlegs buck against your shins. Two more metres, and itâs over. You collapse against the tree, sandwiching your mare, muscles burning and aching for rest. Dash twitches and wriggles ever so gently under your weight, and itâs almost like your breaths are in tandem. Your erection prods in-between her rear. The sweat drips and stings your eyes. One part of you wants to stay there motionless. The other part is already taking the reins and wrapping them around the tree. Loop by loop, the straps grow tighter around Rainbow Dash, getting little grunts of discomfort out of her. Once youâve ran out of slack, you take the rest of the reins and pull tight, once more.
ââŚGuuhhâŚahâŚahâŚa-aaahaaâŚ.just like thaaaat~â Dash quietly half-slurs, head twisted to try and see you, antlers askew, novelty red nose fallen off. Held tight by the leather, not going anywhere. You smell the earth, the bark and your mareâs scent, deep and potent, hitting the back of your nostrils. Your free hand trails its way down from the top of her withers to her barrel, anticipating where the leather has rubbed hard against her coat. The white lather stings and cools the raw patches, sticking to your fingers. She canât hide all the little pains and aches and scrapes, sharply sucking in air when the harness rubs the wrong way, trying to find the most comfortable position possible. You rest your hand on her rump and that sets her off on another deep, all-round shiver. Dashâs tail couldnât go any hike itself up any higher if it could. Her nethers wink uncontrollably and you can just about hear a little drip, drip, drip pattering off your boot. She mouths something to you. Two syllables and hot, heavy breath. Rut me.
Anything else she had to say melted into a gasping moan as she saw your head bob down to her hindquarters, planting a kiss right on her tailhole before taking one sly lick of her puffy labia and exposed clit. That alone was enough to drench your chin as Dash shook against the straps, fighting the inevitable. Not a matter of if, but when. You always save the big tricks till the end, she once told you after a show. Sheâs told you a lot of things since youâve been together. This one took an awkwardly slow and fumbling conversation one night in bed to get to. About the things you liked. The things you wanted to do. Dash eventually meandered on wanting to kinda, maybe wear a collar, redfaced. This time, she was glad she didnât have to play it all off as a joke.
Youâre back on your feet and this very well might be it. Now Dash is pleading. Fill me, fill me, fill me. The next time you pull on leather, your belt comes loose along with your trousers, fallen at your ankles. Your underwear follows soon after, slipping your shaft free in the cold, early evening air. Dashâs tail flicks across the tip multiple times, smearing and trailing beads of pre. You lean steady with your free palm against the trunk and try and lower yourself at just the right angle to slip in. And slip you do. All that excitement and arousal makes your cock rub uselessly against Dashâs wet folds â but does a good job in slicking you up, your mareâs juices dribbling down your length and dripping off your balls. One good push, and you finally slide in, drawing loud, breathless gasps from you both. Dashâs warm slit and pulsing muscles could finish you off by themselves, with the way they eagerly close in around your cock. Judging by the beads of fluid trailing little lines down the inside of your thighs, she could probably finish herself off at the same time as well. Sheâs almost forgotten that sheâs still trussed up in the harness, almost accepting that for all her wings, her speed and her overbearing confidence, someone finally caught her. Tied her down. No escape, no mercy. And she couldnât be happier for it. Someone out there finally got her.
You take your first thrust, and itâs a slow crawl through the passage. Warm, wet velvet takes you in further, every inch throbs and pulses. You probe cautiously, trying to gauge her reaction, her comfort, her pain. Too much? Rainbow Dash gazes back at you and senses your hesitation. More. Harder.And like youâre an actor picking up on a missed cue, you reverse and push back in with confidence, pressing your bodyweight against Dashâs back. From there, you pick up a rhythm. Back and forth. In and out. Youâre grinding up against Dashâs rear, your breath blowing the loose strands of her mane and the tips of her ears. Itâs down, dirty and publicly indecent, and the both of you wish somepony else would trot down the path and see you like this, grunting and squelching like champs. You think Dash is saying something, but it gets cut off with sharp moans, pants, cries and moans. The friction of the leather works over her skin. The latherâs foaming up her coat again. Youâre both so dirty and you donât care. Another well-timed thrust turns up the volume, and your mare is hollering as you continue fucking her into a stream of consciousness. No time to breathe, no time for punctuation. Ohhhhaaaapleasepleaseffffuuuckpleasepleaseinnnsssiiiidepleasepleeeeaaaassssse~.
Your heart pounds. Your muscles burn. Your cock is snug in her walls and youâre starting to feel something familiar boil its way up. Just a few more strokes and youâll finally hit it and fucking bust. Right inside. The muscles in Rainbow Dashâs lower quarters quiver so much against your naked waist. She lets out more pleading cry, and you can hear sheâs just about to hit that crest. Her pussy clamps tight on your thick shaft. She hits it hard. Warm liquid soaks your legs and puddles between your boots. Dash rides her orgasm out for as long as she can, not wanting to let you go. Those hot, wet depths are massaging the head something fierce, and you can think of nothing more than to get yourself up to the hilt, right within kissing distance of her cervix and empty out your balls. Sheâs been lax with the protection recently. So have you. She might just take this time, and it would be the hottest thing ever. Breeding her out in the wild. You unload into her womb in seconds. Hunched over your mare, the two of you are motionless for the next few minutes, leaning into each otherâs faces and sharing breath. The endorphins and the adrenaline slowly drain away, and you start to become aware that itâs dark, itâs cold and youâve made an absolute mess of your Santa outfit.
Dash quietly says the safe word. You ease out of her, pull up your trousers, and set about untangling her from the trunk. The buckles and straps of the harness are unfastened, leaving all sorts of welts, grazes and bruises. A quick flap of her wings to get the bloodflow back dislodges a few stray feathers. Kneeling down, you lean into the crook of Dashâs neck and hug her gently, asking how sheâs feeling. Itâs going to be a long session of aftercare tonight, and probably a while before you attempt another session like this again. A hot bath wouldnât go amiss, either. You both trudge back to the cart.
âThought up any good excuses for being late yet?â you ask, fastening your belt.
ââŚEeeh, something something aerial stunt went wrong? Landed on a cloud the wrong way?â
âLanded on my dick, you mean.â
Dash snorts. âReal classy.â
âYouâre still with me, though. Must be doing something right.â you brush the dirt off your trousers, grinning. âIâm not doing this Santa shit for Twilight next year. Do you think doing the Nativity would be too confusing?â
âWhatâs a nativity?â
You donât even know where to start with this one. ââŚItâs like a story.â
âA true story?â
You shrug. Theological debates never made for good post-sex chats. ââŚ.Maybe. Maybe not. Iâll cast you in it if you want. As the donkey.â
âI think Iâll pass.â Dash visibly cringes.
âFine. Virgin Mary it is, then.â
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Author's Note
This is either thirteen days too late, or twelve months too early. Take your pick.
