Glowing with Passion
B_25 & Brony-Wan-Kenobi

~ I ~

Dark Woods and Bright Huts

Cold winds licked across her bare skin. Trees of towering dark wood made the world and covered the sky in deep green clouds of foliage. Deep in the woods was where Applejack found herself. Finding herself there alone.

The Everfree Forest never ceased to amaze. It always took her sense of balance and tilted it slightly to the left. It didn't matter who entered, what you did, coming or leaving, staying or going—its cold touch tickled in places not usually sensitive.

Applejack sighed while she walked through the carved path, only it and where it led clear, and everything else bloated with trees and bushes and other such things. She didn't mind the forest. Or tall grass brushing against her feet, damp spades filling in the crevice between her toes, the cold and nearly slimy texture stirring a mixture of delight and disgust.

“Least I’m off the farm for a while,” Applejack muttered to herself, sighing once more. Within seconds, her mind flashed with images of her brother, head low and shoulders lower, silent and sad. It’d been a while since he came home like that. “But comin’ out here ain’t exactly helpin’ the head either.”

Her eyes drifted shut. Risk in a place like this. But the prospect of growling timberwolves paled to the images of her mind. Besides, closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, slowly, made her body expel her stress with every breath.

No words. No grunts. No breathing.

Applejack eyes clenched while she repressed the rising of her thoughts—but fighting her anxiety head-on always intensified it. The black world of her mind brightened with shooting lines of red and orange and green.

Comin’ back home in the rain, not even his feet makin’ the wood creak. Not speakin’ a word. Stayin’ in his room when he wasn’t hard at work. Applejack fought back the familiar sting in the corner of her eyes. Always havin’ to keep to himself when he has a family worried for him… would it kill the boy to speak up!? Keeping himself alive but always disappearing…

There was no sense in fighting those thoughts. No amount of giving Big Mac work off and covering for his duties ever seemed to do him any good. She’d find him out on the field anyways. Slumped against a tree, gazing lazily into the sun, never blinking but always thinking.

Sometimes, it looked like he bled more relaxing than working.

A branch crunched. Sickening cracks crying from beneath her foot calling for the opening of her eyes. Applejack whipped her head around with her heartbeat rising, skin sweating, gazing around for danger only to find more trees flanking all around her.

She sighed. All of this was wounding her up to no avail. Unable to help her brother, by talking to him or taking his work, her best efforts gone... not quite ignored—but something close. Her teeth bit into her bottom lip while metaphorical ones did the same into her heart.

There was nothing Applejack could do following Big Mac's breakup, but with that being said, there was something another lovely lady could do to ease his wounds. And just as the thought spun upon the cowgirl, the distant hut of stone came to loom in the distance.

Applejack kept walking even with the heavy weight upon her shoulders, a blush taking to her orange cheek and an itch at the back of the throat that no amount of coughing could clear. Suddenly, she felt so very exposed—her dark-blue denim shorts hugging her upper-thighs, leaving the rest of the bulky muscle exposed to the word.

The button shirt leaving her blouse exposed didn't help. Neither did the sandals she wore out to the forest. Even her stetson felt small on top of her head. The memory of before only made what was to come next make Applejack wish she wore a blanket around her body she could hide away inside.

Applejack had taken her brother's share of work that saw her to the edge of the forest. Only when her cart was full did she hear a creak echo, not from the wooden wheels. Her head had whizzed up, and her gaze had been taken deeper into the forest—sticks breaking, growls sizzling, breathing sounding.

Such a situation drew her feet closer with a rope uncurling into her hand. The closer she got, the louder the sounds became. Not sound but sounds. More than one person. Which one of her workers dared going this deep into the forest? Had they been attacked?

Applejack wrang out her rope while opening her mouth to yell. But when she stumbled upon the two, the people creating the sounds—she, for the first time in a month, heard the first sound of her brother. Not just a sound, but groans of pleasure.

That, of course, came with the following sight.

Zecora didn't so much stand as be bent over by the hunk in red. Barely anything covered her grey fur—brown leather sprawling over her wrists, a thin cloth hanging between her thighs, pulled taut by spread legs—while she hugged her chest against a base of a tree.

Applejack... never expected to see such a thing before. Stunned. A voice trapped at the bottom her throat. She watched her brother to ram his thick cock into the perky, tight ass of her striped, rhythmic friend.

Feelings of disgust, a rising shame, the need to turn away. Those were all worthy things to feel, to endure, and to do. Yet, none of those things occurred. Moments of shock could be justified for eyes to be kept on the scene, but once a minute has passed, the list of justifications ran short.

What was Applejack supposed to say? What was she supposed to do? Watching her brother’s fat cock beat deeper into that tight ass, bending the zebra forward, his wide crotch smacking into her plush flanks, stuffing his dick fully inside. His balls, slapping, against her thighs and producing delicious slaps.

And their raw speed! Applejack stumbled back. The intensity of her brother’s thrusting, hips flying, crotch smacking, fucking the poor, small girl without any regard for their difference in size or strength.

Zecora grunted without groaning. Despite being fucked like a sex toy, something minuscule enduring something massive, she backed her ass against his every pump—head yanked back whenever he gripped her long hair.

Applejack had seen, experienced, and enjoyed rough sex. But her experiences had never been this raw.

What in the hay do you think you’re doin’ girl!? Get your head outta of the bushes! This is your brother you’re admiring here.

Applejack ditched the memory as the tickle of grass transitioned to smooth stone beneath her feet. She slowed. Pausing before the door to the hut, her body hot despite cool winds, skin burning even though shorts and a button up shirt was all she wore, she knocked on the door.

“Er, Zecroa? Yoo-hoo? Anyone home?” Applejack tapped her knuckles against the door, lightly, nearly wishing its sound didn’t reach the one inside. Being nervous was unlike her. The couple, during their intercourse, hadn’t caught her… but even still, she suspected they still knew. Mac had asked her to come here, now, on short notice. “Big Mac said to come see ya 'bout—“

The door creaked open.

“Ah! My friend Applejack! I am happy to see that you are back.” Zecora appeared behind the frame, stepping to the side, her eyes glowing blue. “I hope your journey found you well for you have come before the bell. But please. Do come inside.”

Applejack didn’t complain, watching the zebra gesture a hand inside. Without another word, she entered, the creak of the door following behind her.

“You may take a seat before the pot, while I go through this lot.”

The hut laid bare like usual. Stone shelves filled with decorations. Applejack ambled to chair in the middle of the room, sitting down, and fidgeting in place. “As I'm sure you must know, your brother and I together have grown.”

There was some growin’ there, alright.

“As I'm sure you are well aware, my tribe and I are known for different kinds of wares.” Zecora neared the other side of the hut, turning around and bending forward, sticking out her perky little derriere. Underneath the short cloth worn around her hips, supple and striped cheeks peeked out from its shadow. “The customs of our culture may to some be strange, but nothing for them to be afraid.”

Applejack shook her head while lifting her hands. “Hey there! Go easy there, sister. I ain’t the kind of girl that needs gifts.” Her hands collapsed onto her lap. “You’ve already helped plenty gettin’ that funk out of that red grump.”

Zecora rose and, this time, with strands of shiny white twirled around her finger. She turned with a smile, placing her other hand on her lithe hips and pushing them left. “This is no mere gift, my friend. Such tattoos are traditions to give a tattoo to the eldest sister of the stallion we are intertwined with.”

That’s what all of this was about? Getting a temporary tattoo? It didn't make a lick of sense to Applejack on why that would even be a thing—but she fought to shake her head from those thoughts. The last time she'd made assumptions about Zecora was about her wanting to eat her little sister.

Applejack has since tried to avoid assuming altogether.

“So that's all this is about? Putting a tattoo on me?” Applejack chuckled while gazing down at her wrist. Her sleeves had already been rolled up and, with that, she held out her arms.“Guess I'd have to take a look at the design first.”

Zecora approached her with a knowing smile. Something was off about the way she sauntered over. Never before—except the first time they met—did Applejack feel any fear towards her. But now, there was something strangely sexual about everything she did.

Was it the outfit? Zecora never dressed heavily, not looking much different when he had been nude and… yeah. The zebra wore loose brown cloth over her chest, covering the tiny mounds of grey; breasts the size of apples, and yet, equally juicy to the eye.

It made them more attractive in a way—small enough to fit in a palm, half a squeeze consuming every inch of their size. Tight. Everything about the zebra was tight in a delightful way. Tight hips and tight chest and tight ass; a compressed body supplemented.
Zecora walked with a poise leaking pheromones. She wore sandals and nothing more. With only a covered crotch, the compression of her thighs laid exposed, shifting delightfully with her stride, accentuating the treasure of the pussy nestled between them, plump against the fabric. Easily seen if looked for.

“I'm afraid this emblem is not one for the arm.” Zecora came to the wall behind Applejack, pulling a stool and dragging it in front of the orange girl. “It is more special than superficial. This symbol reflects one's being, and thus, goes on the belly.”

Applejack shivered. Her shirt had already been rolled over her taut stomach, clinging beneath her chest. Her hands rose to cover the area, it feeling exposed, but fought them down to her lap. She may have been uncomfortable—but disrespect would cause all to feel sour.

“You're... really sure you have to do this?” Applejack leaned back into her chair, sighing, while a chill settled over her tummy. She enjoyed showing off both her curves and her tightness, her body more freely express and exposed than others—but in the presence of the exotic, suddenly, her freedom of body suddenly felt a bit too exposed.

“It’s been our way longer than memory.” Zecora sat on the stool, leaning in close, an inch too far, while she the sheet grabbed in her other hand. It glinted for a moment. Curling lines of tribal aesthetic. They tingled in Applejack’s eyes with feelings of something ancient. “Unless we give this to the sister of our beloved, it shows our love extends to only one instead of all.”

What in tarnation did that mean? No point in pushing the matter forward. All of this bloated the air with an awkwardness that made it dense to breathe. From the barely dressed zebra to how exposure her orange fuzz—Applejack wanted to leave, to get out this sinisterly sexual situation.

Applejack let her head fall forward. “Alrighty then. If this means something special to you—then I don't mind so much.” She leaned back in the chair, leaving her taut, orange belly exposed. “Guess there ain't much wrong with rocking a new charm on the farm.”

Zecora grinned. “Your first rhythm! Interesting too! That's not supposed to happen until the tribal tattoos are applied!”

Applejack blinked. “W-What now? Oh no! You don't mean—“

Small white fingers pressed against Applejack lips, closing them while the zebra laughed softly. “Nothing more than a joke. Please, however, keep still. Doing this twice won't feel very nice.”

The sheet froze the trimmed fuzz of the belly, nearly causing it to suck in. The rest of the tattoo sprawled across her crotch, dangerously near the top of her waistband, close to the place beyond sensitive from previous events.

“And now we are done! The tradition is now complete.” Zecora peeled the sheet off from her belly, leaving the black spirals across her crotch. It cooled the spot, a sensitive heat beneath suppressed, glowing dimly green—then ceasing. “And might I say, it accentuates your natural beauty far more than I had expected.”

Applejack knew better than to comment about what 'natural beauty' even entailed. She was all for others who enjoyed expressing all that made them sexual, more in tune with that aspect of themselves... but she couldn't quite see herself falling in that same direction.

At least, that's what she thought.

The next several days came in a multitude of tortures the cowgirl had never experienced before in her life. Never explicit. Nothing outright telling her something was wrong. Not at all. Those delights came in subtle packages that tickled her thighs with a feather, pinching her sensitive tush with denim shorts feeling suddenly too small.

A wetness quivering from her needy, burning, desperate pussy.

Applejack's body twisted as her leg struck a tree. She yelped, orange cheeks burning red, her thong digging into her crotch, wedging between her folds. The cotton rubbed against her skin, teasing her to the point her legs trembled. She feared putting her leg down, panting from the strike, fearing cumming then and there.

What caused her to be so wound up? How did cold showers burn her skin hotter? Applejack hadn't been the same, that was, since catching her brother fucking the zebra savagely in the ass; two primal beasts indulging in their basest desires: pumping and thrusting and fucking, sexual bliss in its most natural state.

Applejack clenched her eyes. There was no way any thoughts of her brother would lead down such a road. But try as she might, even as her foot smacked into the grass again, the idea of his delicious thick hips, so wide and strong, beating into the small backside of that tiny zebra...

She turned and leaned against the tree, panting, every exhale an explosion of steam. The sun licked the hill she stood on. It’d been closer ever since that day. Maybe that’s why she was so hot, being so in heat, being so sweaty and dirty and needing.

“Doin’ alright, sis?”

Applejack fought the shock to jump upon hearing the rise of his masculine voice. Bass, lower than low, tingling her spine into sinking from underneath its command. The tall red boy had come to her right, carrying a wooden basket with both arms, the girth of his muscles exposed beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

“D-Doin' just fine.” Dirty half-lies because she couldn't tell him the truth. Panting. Sweating. Burning. “Just... worked a little too hard without thinkin’ to bring any water.”

Big Mac shook his head. “We’ve talked ‘bout this! Ain’t no shame in takin’ care of yourself. You ain’t set on beatin’ anyone else on the field so why are you tryna beat yourself.”

“Just a little wound up is all. My mind ain't exactly in the right place as of late.” Now if that wasn’t the truth. Her eyes flicked down for a second, admiring the tight pants hugging the muscles of his round thighs, his shirt clinging to the trenches in-between his abs—round pecs of red threatening to burst through the shirt. “But I'll be alright once I get some rest. You... don't have to worry about me.”

But Big Mac didn’t look convinced. His face narrowed as he turned away, his dense shadow blanketing over her tiny frame. She’d been taller, stronger than her friends and, while she felt big in her own right, those feelings crumbled in her brother’s shadow.

He easily towered over her. His frame spanning twice her own. A powerful, red body accompanied by a deep voice. Stoic and silent; slow and deliberate. Something about him, despite being a farmer, urged others to earn his respect, to prove they their presence worthy rather than the reverse.

“Don't need you passin' out here.” Big Mac Shook his head. “Especially not in this heat.” He set the basket on the grass, rising and turning back to her, coming to hold out his arms. “If you ain't feel well, I can carry ya—“

“I really did mean it when I said I was fine!” Applejack nearly lost face as her back slid down the tree, her clad bottom pushing against the wood, diving her thong deeper into her crack and tighter against her slit. Landing on the ground, her cheeks pressing against the hardness, nearly causing her pussy into finishing. “Just need a moment to catch my breath is all. That’s all it is, alright?”

Big Mac watched her, like a giant to a child, towering over her. Her neck craned back to his frame in, doing her best not whimper at seeing his chest pressed against his shirt. A sexual pec of sheer masculinity.

How could someone else be that hard, so strong, so... raw? His hardness made her softness tingle in delight and demand to be kneaded. To have his strong hands brushing over the back of her shorts, squeezing the fabric and the cheeks buried beneath, teasing her smallness with a restraint power.

Monstrous hands so light.

Why had she become so... needy of him as of late? It didn't make sense. Like any other girl, gifted with well-endowment and knowing what it looked like in the opposite sex—she was as guilty to perverted fantasies like anyone else.

But actually craving him! Stuttering in his proximity, blazing with heat inside his cool shadow. Again and again. The damned sensations teasing her around. How her legs curled together, thighs welling close, pressing against the crotch of her shorts.

“Ya really sure you're okay?”

“More than okay—now git!”

Big Mac kept still, maybe struck by the strange curiosity of the scene, but seeming to know better than to question it. Shaking his head, he lowered his arms to his sides, shurgging. He turned and picked up the basket once more. “Suit yourself. I'll send Bloom to scout the fields with water if ain’t back in ten.”

He left down the hill, and Applejack knew, without a doubt, she hardly made it out of that interaction with honor still intact.

The shallow glow of blue, a cool night, had finally came.

Applejack laid her back against her bed, above the covers, eyes unable to close—ears twitching, painfully, at every groan, moan, and everything in-between coming from down the hall of the second floor.

The couple didn't hide their lust. Sharp creaks of a bed intermixed with whispers, muffled by walls and becoming echoes due to distance.

No point in trying to sleep.

Not when Applejack wasn't tired, body aching but in a different sense, a heat, burning beneath her skin, ticking every inch of her and denying any possible exhaustion. The rising moans, the deep groans, the wet slaps and sweet sounds of a savage fucked—everything about it hot, enough to make anyone feel just as hot.

Getting caught wasn't a fear of theirs. Apple Bloom had just left to spend the weekend to stay with her friends, and Granny Smith—well, she hadn't done much of any hearing in these last few years. That left only one in the house.

And even then, with it being Applejack, the two felt no need to keep quiet about their lust.

Applejack hated that. How her eyes clenched, trying to repress the pitch of their moans, but in the darkness behind her lids, she saw the images those sounds suggested. Zecora, with her front against the headrest, a red hand gripping her neck, keeping her pinned, fucking her as hard as he desired, as quickly as he liked.

Celestia... when did Applejack become so naughty with her thoughts? Her round ass now feeling tight, her curved chest feeling like they were overfilling in size, the contractions of her pussy itching at the prospect of finally being filled. She'd long since lost her shame when the fires of arousal caged her body.

But breaking free was impossible.

Whenever that stupid stud came close, there was no stopping the glowing heat radiating above her crotch. Pressing a finger against her orange skin caused it to sizzle. It wasn't enough to masterbate now. Slipping a hand through the back of her shorts, cupping a handful of orange suppleness against her palm, squeezing—nothing.

Applejack never felt herself so lost to her heat before, feeling like the sun, burning everything but past her skin. The rising pressure of sexual deprivation locking her deeper into repressed frustration.

It killed her. Slaughtering her heart and nipping at her folds. The knowledge that those sexual beings fucked and sucked and did as their delights requested. No clothing to hide away sexual pleasures that so desperately wanted to be exposed and expressed.

Applejack should have known better than to go this low, trying this far to release everything repressed—but panting in bed, with beads of sweat covering her face, all because she did nothing became too much. This damned arousal, all this accursed heat; something had to go before she blew.

That's why she came to sit up in her bed, propping her back against its frame, slipping her hand out of her shorts. Clothing. Tight, contracting articles that suppressed so much of what needed to be expressed.

Away with them!

Applejack was vaguely aware of her heavy breathing while her hands worked at her belt, struggling to uncollapse it, rolling the head back and groaning while she pulled the band through the loops. Each inch slid across released some of the pressure bound against her body, inching toward freedom away from all this imploding.

The belt freed with a metal click. No need to worry anymore about that tool. She held it over the side of the bed and then let go, not caring for the thud of metal against the wooden floor, hoping that it would clue those two into knowing that Applejack could make some noise too.

Next came the shorts. Those were harder than she had expected. Sucking on her skin and draining it of life, they had to be pulled, one tug at a time on each side, tugged lower, and lower, a horrible hugging of the fabric as it squeezed her thighs into bursting from the pressure.

But after an intense squeeze, a scoring and soaring heat billowing out from them both, a breeze brushed over her skin. The shorts slacked between her knees, pulled over the arch of her legs.

Applejack didn't bother touching them, twirling them around until they reached her feet and then kicking them off into the room—they sizzled upon striking the wooden floor.

But, still, that wasn’t enough.

Glancing down her body, it told her what remained to be done. Her exposed, plush, orange cheeks welled against the bed, propping her body slightly up, yet clothing still restrained her. The cotton of the dark-green panties cupped her bottom too tightly, her natural sexuality begging to be free.

Even more than that feeling, however, were the round breasts, too big for her small top, stretching the fabric to its limits. Applejack rolled her head back in elation at that sharp difference; something setting her apart for that sexy zebra.

Where Zecora's petite frame rendered her body cute, her breasts were a size just above apples, and while that accentuated her exotic charm—it was also the founding difference between them.

Applejack didn't take her top off straight away.

No.

What fun would there be in unleashing her tightly-bounded mammaries so quickly? So full, round, a set of perfect orange melons barely restrained by the thin fabric. She'd forgone a bra.

They only wounded her further.

Soft panting broke the air as the sheets crumpled beneath her shifting. Applejack laid a hand against her belly, above her crotch, like her palm had rested against a hot mug. Holding it there, some of the heat within her belly breathed out breathed, her fingers adjusted and adapted to the heat.

Be it a trick of her mind, the heat fogged inside her head as well, with a glow warming against her palm. Pulsating, slowly, emitting additional heat. Damn. Flames beneath the skin soared through her veins again.

“Oh... n-no you... don't.” That same hand slid up her belly, fingers appreciating its tiny width, a diet hard to keep, a workout regime keeping her beyond tight, though with some freedoms, in eating small snacks and taking long naps, that allowed some fat to expand the cheeks of her ass, a softness to expand her breasts to round perfection. “Mmhmm... aren't I just... the perfect little thang...”

Those words were lies, not outright meant, for they lowered the flames within. Repressing that which burned underneath her skin, rendering her folds dry patches of skin and darkened fur, that perfect little tunnel desperate for lubrication.

Torture. Applejack clenched her eyes to repress her exasperation. It took every inch of willpower to not rip off her panties, to not shove her fingers into her cunny, probing herself, feeling herself, thrusting into herself.

But this heat bested her. It wouldn't give itself away to such a telly act. Like riding a bucking bull, she had to keep on top of it or lose the feeling, the pleasure, the expression once and for all.

That's why when her hand finally slipped underneath her shirt that her eyes nearly rolled to the back of her head. She didn't know why her tits were so sensitive, brushing over the hill of her orange breast lighting fires across the fields of fur, igniting a flaming brush pricking beneath the skin.

This wouldn't be enough. Applejack rolled up her head while biting into her bottom lip, repressing a groan when it was moans she was supposed to be making. Though her breasts, these aching things of sensitive skin—no amount of teasing, of brushing fingers brushing over their slope, could ever execute the raw, beating need to be pleased.

“Don't do me in like this.” Applejack's hand pressed back against the interior of her shirt, pushed there by the welling of her orange mound, unable to contain all of its marshmallow fatness into her palm. Her hand squeezed at it, welling the softness between her fingers, but her gripping, her kneading—it teased and never succeed in edging her over. “H-How... how am I no good for my own body!”

Anger. Hatred. Sadness. They boiled, and they welled, and they flew. Her other hand tightly curled the sheets of the bed, digging her nails through the fabric, unable to restrain the wounded need to be pleased. Even letting herself go, kneading her own breasts without a notion of shame, like a boy touching one for the first time did nothing to fulfill the aching beneath it all.

Her body, aching, without stopping.

“Aw, shucks? Who am I tryin' kid?” Applejack pulled her hand out of her top and rose the other from the bed, using them both to undo the buttons in the middle of her top, and upon popping a few, moan in release her melons bursting into freedom. “Just haven't been givin' it a full, hardy try!”

Applejack shook her head and freed the long lock of golden hair against her back, shaking the rest of her body as the shirt came sliding down her arms. Grabbing a sleeve with a hand, she tossed to the side of the room—a wave of heat becoming free from her top, like the bunched steam inside a sauna bursting freely through an opened door.

With both of her jugs exposed to the world, they didn't slag in the slightest from her chest, full and impossibly buoyant, they considered gravity only a gentle suggestion. Of course, with the dreamlike mood of the night, Applejack took a moment to do something unlike her.

She admired her best, sexual assets.

The perfections of her breast. Smooth fur of orange coursing over the soft slope of the hill of softness, the initial layer firm, but everything underneath softer than soft. Perfect proportions with a balanced heaviness to them both. It may have been shameful to admit it more, but Applejack had no problem wondering it now—how she'd been blessed with such a great rack.

Applejack continued to breathe heavily while she sat back, lifting both hands before her face, appreciating their slender size. Smooth fingers and trimmed nails. Below, her tits hardened in the air, warmed by the heat of her body against the cool breeze always a foot away from her.

The circular fuzz around her tits darkened the closer it neared to their base. A dark shade of pink coated the two, hardening nipples, each twitching upward, in minuscules spurts, a contracting hardness that welled the aching feeling within them to lip-biting extremes.

Why did it have to be like this?! Applejack outright panted as the coursing flames of arousal burned hotter at her body. Little twitches of the legs shifted her body in place, little pricks of a needle stabbing at different, small spots over her cheeks—her breasts contracted into themselves, hungry to be squeezed by a big, hard, steady hand; nipples stiff, begging for lips, to kiss and lick and suck.

But nothing did the trick. Not even throwing her own hands upon her plump swellings of orange, a sheen across the fur at collecting her sweat, every squeeze, every knead like a pinch when she needed a grab. Unable to pump her own breasts to satisfaction; what the hell was happening to her?

Applejack closed her eyes, arching her hips into the air, groping her tits. Hard. Harder. Tight. Tighter. Near suffocation. Lock the fingers together through the flaps spilling out through the gaps, pinching at the welling softness, a touch higher of pressure—decreasing the intensity of aching only by a smudge.

It didn't work.

No amount of effort could reduce the pleasure. Her tongue lolled past her lips, slapping against her chin lazily; an animal lost to its primitive heat. Her body burned, and her basic touch couldn't cool. If one's own acts failed, then doing more, applying more, would only damn that feeling even worse.

Moans echoed from down the hall.

Could that be the trick? Applejack rolled her head against the pillow while looking to the door, seeing the latch not locked over, knowing that nothing would hide her. Big Mac's throaty groans; Zecora's occasional squeals, creaking and cracking, high up, in the most adorable pitches... sinking and soaking down into low moans; like whimpers of a bitch fucked slowly and laboriously.

Applejack turned her head away from the door, gazing over the peaks of her settled breasts, down the slim landscape of her body down to the surge of heat between her legs. Dark-green cotton damp and matted, the fabric more wet than dry, drying, like the pussy it tried to hide.

Was this taking things too far? Listening in strictly to the couple fucking savagely down the hall? Hearing the meaty slaps of masculine thighs clapping into the supple cheeks of a tiny ass, the raw sounds of sex, of intercourse, of two beings releasing the heat that boiled from the peaks of their sexuality?

Applejack curled her head, up and down, left and right, ceasing the fight. She kept a hand pressed against a breast, meshing it outward with pleasure, holding a palm covering where the steam escaped. The other searched down to her belly, rubbing over it, in small and slow circles, light traces of her nails brushing over the skin.

Nasty. Dirty. The sounds of sex coming down from the hall, the heights of bliss coming from her brother of all creatures. Was this even right? Her fingers traced over the marking left on her belly, following each line its sprawl, moaning, feeling something becoming unlocked.

Her hand touched down on the crotch of her panties.

The contact rocked her spine. A shiver exploding in bursts of tingles across her spine. But how was this the case? Beads of sweat washed down her body as the main course had yet to begin. The damn aching, the sinister welling, that itch, pulsating, from deep within her cunny.

It took a few moments of teasing for things to make sense within the haze of her mind. With her bottom lip tucked into her mouth, AJ knew what she did. How her fingers slid up and down the cotton, pressing into the thin fabric, feeling her plump mounds on the other side. Her folds, once dry, drenched themselves in her wetness.

But it wouldn't be like the times before. Oh, no. She'd learned her lesson from when she first tried to deal with the heat. Applejack wasn't strong. She didn't have the strength to press upon her softness with the hardness it craved. No amount of her pressure could bring her pleasure over.

Time for a change in tactics.

Applejack's ears perked up to the distant creaking, of the small bed strained to its full capacity, holding the two savage lovers. Listening to the brother and friends while they fucked like animals. There wasn't any shame in indulging this low anymore.

What the body wanted—it got its wishes.

“Going at it so loudly while you're lil' sister is here... are you dirtier than you let on... Big Mac?” Applejack giggled at her words, every exhale a release of steam. Her fingers dived up high, right against the small nub which barely pressed against the cotton. “And you Zecora. Always exposing yourself like that. Naked all the time.”

Her head rolled back at the high moan of the zebra, uttering her own while rubbing circles into her clit, milking the pleasure while the distant pitch rose! But then it fell. Fading away. And her fingers dipped low, below, against her gaping little hole at the husky growls of her brother.

Each growl cracked the air with power. The slapping of his muscles a hungry whispering of masculinity. Applejack didn't bother with the shame, a hot blush occupying her cheeks while her fingers dipped into her hole, fabric included, stretching the cotton as deep into herself as it could.

That's how it came. That's how it went. Moans drawing swirling fingers over her clit; groans sucking pumping fingers into her hole. The green fabric welled with her juices. Soaked to its every fibre.

Applejack, the pervert sister, masturbating to the distant sounds of sex, her brother and her friend, savagely fucking, all for her amusement. But fuck did it feel good. The release of the heat oozing out between her lips. Her cum thicker, denser, gooier than usual.

Fear came. Quickly for her; slowly for them. The rises of their sounds, the creaks growing and the moans blowing and the bliss flowing through the air. One didn't have to be there, from the floor rocking, to know the lovers were reaching the finale of their ecstasy.

Applejack whipped her head around like it would help, knowing that she had no aids to relieve herself with, nothing else that could help her express the burning arousal. Quickly, she lifted her heavy ass off the bed with hands reaching to her hips, tugging the thin strands of green down her thighs, over her legs, and off her ankles.

Bare, and ready.

Heat rolled freely off her body, but even then, she still felt like a furnace. Applejack settled the cheeks of her ass against the bed, rocking back and forth on them, hoping to quell the pricks tingling across their smooth slope. Her legs spread wide, thick orange thighs falling out of the way, leaving the steamy slit, nestled below the tattoo, exposed to the world.

Applejack didn't bother with the foreplay.

One set of fingers pressed against her mounds, sinking into a layer of squish, rubbing them for only a second. Then, her index fingers hovered over to the inner of her folds, pressing out against both, spreading herself wide for what came next.

Her ring and middle finger curled into her hand, aimed at her contracting, steamy, open hole. Pumping themselves inside, the cowgirl threw back her head, great hair dancing in every direction, a shudder rocking her shoulders from the penetration.

Harder... faster... louder! Applejack swayed her head in place at the squeals bursting through her lips, the whines of pleasure cracking at their own pitch. The cacophony of her brother and friend fucking down the hall filled the house with sounds of sex, creaking and moaning and slapping, blistering her pussy into a twitchy needy thing.

But as her fingers pumped into herself. As her back rocked against the sheets. While her breasts swung in place, so full and so round, their movements slight due to their firmness. During the meshing of her cheeks, up and down the mattress.

All of this, gone, at the final moan.

No. No No.

The lovers broke into yells of each other names with wet slaps and smooth smacks cracking the wood of the walls. Following the sounds of splashing, rising at the lowering of their breaths, the creak of the bed gave a final cry—before the two collapsed upon it.

Applejack blinked. The cooling heat of her body, within seconds of silence, soared with intensity. Each pump of her fingers tucking deeper within the welling tightness found, with pain instead of pleasure, the sides of her fingers scratching against dry walls.

It didn't make any sense! Like some magical essence messing with function and fluctuation of her body. Biting both of her lips inward, biting hard upon the plushness—it took away the pain of pumping a dry pussy... but at bringing no pleasure.

Applejack huffed through bit lips. Had being a dirty, incestuous pervert really the cause of her wetness? Her eyes closed, and her imagination exploded. The mental image of Zecora, her knees and hands sinking into the mattress, her long, white and black tail, held up by a strong hand, raised a little higher than needed while a big, fat cock pumped, filled, and savaged her tiny little pussy—walls clenching down on his girth, milking his taste, savouring the true feeling, the utmost bliss of actual hardness.

Hard. Hardness. A rock, somehow, made soft.

Applejack did something she wasn't supposed to do. It happened on occasions during hard times, hazy minds, blistering crotches. Rolling onto the side while a breast meshed into the bed, and a cheek rose into the air, Applejack pumped her fingers deeper into her cunny, risking three, and spreading them wide.

But slowly, and beyond naughty, the image of the striped zebra transition into the wide, slender, orange farm girl. Applejack chuckled against her hurting lips, shameful at the exaggeration the deepest part of her being conjured up—but, at the moment, complaining about it was foolish.

The width of her orange butt, so much more round, filled out to the limit, firm yet plush, supple but soft. The jiggle of her cheeks backing into Mac's crotch, like a marshmallow flying at a stone well, meshing and welling against.

Like such a thing would stop her. It was the aspect of the game that made her little pussy moist. Beating her cheeks against his crotch, while his cock launched within her tightness, spreading her out, collecting her tightly. It didn't matter how hard she backed her butt into his crotch, it would never submit, and all her softness could do was spread against his hardness.

But that was the point. The desire to beat and get fucked by something hard and unbeatable. To do her best, to get fucked so hard, only to reach her hardest backward thrust, the tightest clench of her pussy—all for Mac to grab her tail, yanking it up, and truly thrust against her ass, truly stretch her pussy out to its extreme, a dormant power now unleashed to the expecting, but slightly suspecting little girl.

To go from partner in sex to a mere sex toy, for the towering hunk, coated in red.

But even as intense as her imagination burned the fantasy in the back of her eyes, the masculine musk her lungs hungered for had only the weak scent from between her legs to settle on. The long tuft of her pubic fuzz trapped in the scent, sure, the only natural part Applejack left untouched about herself—but it barely trapped in the smell she so badly wanted to stuff her snout into.

The smell she desired wasn't feminine, oh no, the tingles shooting underneath her skin craved dense masculinity.

And her fingers, deep inside her and far too slender, could never spread that hole of hers to the limit, for her walls to contract, fruitlessly, against something long, something hard, something she could barely handle to keep inside of herself at all.

Then. The pain became too much. Efforts to reach high, to go over the edge, beat the feeling into herself too hard, constant masturbation went on too long—both her, and her body, needing rest from the vain efforts.

And the heat returned.

As did a knock on the door.

Author's Note

Can I recall the last time I wrote regular sex?

It's been some times I've written about a couple that's, let us say, regular size? Micro and macro are my jam, but if it becomes all that I write about, then the fundamental way I write sex will change. Not only that—but I will get worse for it.

Why does B state this as the case?

Because everything informs something else. What is useful for one may be helpful for something else, even though contexts and uses be different, something fundamental applies to both.

What I mean by this is that, if I keep writing micro, then I'll keep using the same stuff within that genre. When I write outside of micro, I am forced to try and do different techniques, some of which, be it descriptions or character interactions, may inform something else, something new and different that will work in micro.

Hence why I was glad when Brony-Wan came to me for a different kind of idea, something I wouldn't typically have written on my own—but giving me the chance to experiment with something new for, in having done so, I've learned and earned a few new tools to apply to the rest of my written works.

As for the theme wedged beneath the skin of this story... catch my notes in Part II.