You despise this mare already.

She hasn’t even said a word to you yet, and you already dislike her. Right now she’s talking to the mare guard, both of them speaking too softly for you to hear anything being said. Every few seconds, the guard would glance over at you, as if checking to see that you hadn’t run off yet. The mare, however, seemed content to ignore you for the time being.

That’s fine with you.

Her spawn are still watching you, both of them now standing on the porch. The filly has a curious expression on her face, but her brother is almost expressionless. She appears to be doing most of the whispering, with him replying in short, one-word answered.

And of course, the old mare is still passed out, despite all the noise your arrival is making.

Like, seriously… is she dead or not?

A tug on your ankle draws your attention downwards to where the stallion guard is in the process of removing your shackles. With a ‘click’, the iron clamps fall away and blood begins to flow back into your hooves again.

“About bucking time,” you grunt as you sit down and massage your fetlocks.

The guard just snorts before tossing the shackles into the back of the cart.

With the feeling slowly coming back to your hooves, you stand up and start to take stock of your surroundings. The farmhouse looks crappier up front, with many of the shingles missing and many of the wooden boards cracked or crooked. It even looks like moss is starting to grow on the stone foundation.

God, this place is a dump.

The two mares appear to be wrapping up their conversation, and the guard gives the mare pitying look. “If you run into any trouble with him, just let one of the guards in town know, alright?”

“Thank you,” the mare says, “but I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“If you say so,” the guard mumbles. She titles her helmet to the mare. “Ma’am… good luck.” With that, she turns and joins her companion as he hooked himself back up to the front of the cart, but not before shooting a stern look at you as she passes. “Behave.”

You respond by sticking your tongue out.

“Come on,” the stallion guard sighs. “There’s no point in trying to talk to him. Let’s get this back to Canterlot.” With a groan, the cart begins to roll forward, the wheels sinking slightly into the dirt for a moment before the guards manage to muscle through it. They have to go in a wide circle to turn around, but soon enough, they are head down the path and away from you.

You watch them go with a smirk before somepony behind you clears their throat. Turning, you find yourself under the mare’s glare once again. With her this close, you’re able to get a better look at her.

So, this was Pear Butter. Your mom certainly was overly flattering with her description of her. There’s a noticeable layer of pudge beneath her pale orange coat, and her orange mane is all poofy and messed up. There are a few flowers stuck in her tail. She has a jar of something as a cutie mark, which probably means she loves stuffing her face. Typical mudpony.

As you are studying her, she’s studying you, her turquoise eyes glaring down at you. However, you have some difficulty identifying the look on her face—it’s almost like she’s annoyed, but there’s another emotion you can’t place.

“So, here’s the devil in the flesh,” she finally says, and you grit your teeth at the southern drawl that spews from her mouth. Welp, there goes a few more IQ points. “You’re late. You were supposed to be here at dawn.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, laying on the sarcasm extra thick so her slow mind can pick it up. “Had I known you were waiting, I would have told my carriage drivers to pull a little faster. My bad. I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Hey!” The filly on the porch jumps up onto the railing. “Don’t y’all talk to mah ma like that!”

“Applejack,” the mare calls out in a surprisingly soft voice. “Go back inside and finish up with breakfast.”

A look of uncertainty crosses the filly face. “B-but…”

“Go on. I can handle this.”

The filly shoots you a dirty look before turning and slinking back into the house. Her brother says nothing but follows after her, leaving you and Pear Butter alone. Well, as alone as you can be with a snoring corpse still in the rocking chair.

At the mention of food, your stomach growls loudly. You didn’t get any breakfast this morning, and your dinner yesterday was lackluster, thanks to the Guards.

Pear Butter’s ears perk at the sound.

“Hungry, huh?” she asks. When you nod, she shakes her head. “Well, no food for you until you’ve done some work. There’s plenty of chores around here just waiting for you.”

Work?! What in the name of Discord’s hairy scrotum is she talking about?! She’s out of her dimwitted mind if she thinks you’re doing any work on her farm, and you have no problem telling her so.

“Work?” you scoff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not here for work. I’m here too—”

“You are here,” Pear Butter interrupts, her eyes narrowing, “because your mother, Stormy Cloak, is desperate and doesn’t know what else to do. You haven’t given her much of a choice, and she doesn’t want you to get locked up in a correctional facility, so she’s turned to me. The fact that you are her son is the only reason I’m doing this. I owe Stormy a favor. That’s it. If it were up to me, we wouldn’t even be talking, given the way you’ve treated her. So, if you don’t want to be here, that’s no skin off my nose and I’ll be more than happy to go get the local guards and they can haul your sorry flank back off to Canterlot. Do you want me to do that?”

As she finishes, you stare up at her with wide eyes. You weren’t expecting that sort of fire to come from the mare before you, her accent and appearance making you think she was going to be a country bumpkin.

She cocks an eyebrow at you, the glare still on her face. “Well? What’s it going to be, colt?”

Closing your mouth, you look to the side and grumbled under your breath.

“What was that?” she asks.

“What do you want me to do?” you growl out from behind clenched teeth.

“That’s more like it,” Pear says as she smiles smugly. “Follow me and we’ll get started.” Turning, she heads off towards the barn’s door. You stand there for a moment before grudgingly following behind her.

The large wooden door groans loudly as it's forced open, and you both slip in through the gap. The inside is surprisingly dim, the only light coming from the dirty windows that line the walls. The floor is covered in soft hay, which adds a strong, earthy scent to the musty air. More hay is stored up in an upper loft, and every so often a few strands float down from up above. Various farm equipment is scattered around.

“We’ll start you off with something easy,” Pear says as she moves further into the barn. After a moment, she returns with a large, wooden… thing that looks like an elongated barrel that’s been flipped upside down and now has a long pole coming out the bottom. There’s also a bite handle on the side.

“What is that?” you ask as she sits it down in front of you.

“It’s called a ‘butter churn’,” she says. “It’s used to turn cream into butter.” Grabbing the pole, she pulls it up and down several times in demonstration before letting go. “Applejack was originally responsible for this, but seeing as you’re here, you can take care of it while she eats breakfast.”

You deadpan. “What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that to complicated for you?” she asks in faux concern. “I suppose I can find something else that you will be able to understand.”

“I can do it,” you growl. Glaring at her, you start to push magic down your horn, only to wince when it suddenly fizzles out. Oh right. You completely forgot about the nullstone ring. Rubbing at it, you huff in annoyance. “Can you take this stupid thing off me so I can get started?”

“Nope, sorry,” Pear says in a chipper tone. “We do things the old fashion way here, which means no magic. Everything is done by hoof.”

“What?!”

“Eeyup, so you better get started if you want to finish in time,” she says, beginning to make her way out of the barn. “You’ll be helping Applejack and McIntosh with the stall later. If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss your chance for breakfast before it’s time to leave.”

Cursing and grumbling under your breath, you grab the pole and give it an experimental push. It meets some resistance but still sinks through whatever’s in the barrel until it reaches the bottom. Pulling it out again is practically the same, just you fighting a little against the substance clinging to the pole.

That’s all there is to it?

You give the pole another push before pausing.

“Hey!” you call after Pear Butter just as she’s exiting the barn. “When do I know I’m done?”

“When the sound changes,” she calls back.

“And how long does that take?”

“About thirty minutes, give or take. If you’re good at it. Oh, and a little word of advice,” she says, stopping in the doorway. “I know it might be tempting, but don’t try and wander off, ya hear? It won’t end well for you if you do. Other than that, have fun!”

And with that, she disappears around the corner.

You stand there for a moment, glaring at where she had been seconds before until your stomach suddenly growls loudly again. Much to your displeasure, it looks like you’ll have to do this if you want to eat. With more grumbling, you sit down beside the barrel and begin to churn.

Huh… this isn’t too difficult.

…

Ten minutes later and you need to change that statement. Despite the fact that there’s barely any resistance, your legs are already starting to feel sore. The pole itself, while not overly heavy, is wearing down your muscles slowly as the minutes pass.

And this is boring as Tartarus. Seriously, you’re going crazy here. It’s nothing but pushing a pole up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and bucking up again! There are so many other things you’d rather be doing right now. Like find something to eat or something.

Buck, jerking off into the corner would be more exciting than this, and you can’t even use your magic right now.

…

You freeze, staring blankly ahead for a moment before a dark grin slowly begins to spread across your muzzle. Praise be to Discord, you just thought of a wonderful idea.

Standing up, you tiptoe to the doorway and peak outside, making sure nopony is coming. Once you’ve confirmed that the coast is clear, you return to the churn and remove the pole, placing it off to the side. With that taken care of, you move on to the next step.

You grab your junk with a hoof.

It takes a few strokes for things to begin to happen, but soon enough, your member drops from its sheath, its dapple flesh now on display. Keeping an ear pointed at the door, you get to work.

Breathing heavily through clenched teeth, you work your hoof over your shaft. It’s clumsy going, seeing as you’re used to using your magic for such things, but you manage. Running your frog around the tip of your member, you huff softly as precum spreads across your flare. You take a moment to reach down and give your balls a quick squeeze before returning your attention to your head. Pleasure comes readily now that you’ve got some lubrication, and you groan as your member kicks, smacking weakly against your stomach, leaving behind a strand of sparkling pre.

Your hips begin to move with each stroke, your balls swaying back and forth with each hump. You can feel them beginning to churn as pressure begins to well up in your groin. One of your back legs kicks as you draw nearer to your peak.

Feeling the end approaching quickly, you sit down and grab the barrel with your free hoof. Still stroking, you tip it slightly and position the tip of your member at the hole in the top. A quick jerk later, and your fleshy head slips inside the churn just as you begin to flare. The sudden tightness is enough to push you over the head, and with a vicious snarl, you fire your load. Your balls tighten against your barrel as your shaft pulses and throbs, depositing your own special cream into the mix.

Breathing heavily, you let out a weak laugh as you come down from your high. You give yourself a tug, pulling your softening member free of the churn before setting it back upright. With that, you sit down and give yourself a few minutes to catch your breath.

When you’ve sufficiently recovered, you stand again. Picking up the pole, you grin as you return to churning the butter, this time with an added, special ingredient. The very idea of what you’ve just done is enough to make the remaining time go by faster, and with renewed vigor, you go to work.

“You want butter?” you snicker under your breath. “I’ll give you butter. All the butter you can bucking eat.”

The minutes seem to fly by now, and it isn’t long before the sound of your churning changes, and moving the pole becomes harder. Giving it a few more pumps, you pull the stirrer out and toss it aside before grabbing the bite handle in your mouth.

The going is awkward, seeing as you aren’t used to carrying anything in your mouth, let alone something as big and heavy as the churn. Still, you manage to make it out the barn door with little trouble. With a grin still on your face, you make your way towards the farmhouse.

Let’s see how much Pear Butter likes this batch you just whipped up.

Author's Note

What is it with me and food in these stories?