Equestria is a terrible place. And ponies like me are part of the problem. My name? I wouldn't tell you that even if I could. You see, in this world, they hold power; and I dare not openly pass that onto any creature.
You can call me The Pony of Shadows. Sounds more like a title, does it? That's because we all throw away our names and our pasts when we join the Gray Company.
That's the mercenary unit I'm part of; a brotherhood who sells our services to the highest bidder. There's nothing noble about it. Like I said, it's not that kind of world, not anymore. Legends claim it was once, but that's buried so many centuries in the past who knows if that's even true? More likely it's a mantra of those desperately holding onto hope amidst the bleakness.
All those fairy tales about friendship, hope, magic...nonsense. Well, magic certainly is a thing in this world, but it's often used for indescribably nasty purposes, and is barely understood by most; witches and sorcerers jealously guard their secrets. Knowing their true names, after all, would strip their power completely in an instant.
I haven't so much as dabbled myself, at least not since the...incident. But that's a story for another time. Once I was merely a humble scholar, but being surrounded by constant cruelty has a way of hardening anyone.
I sit around a crackling campfire below a black sky where few stars peek through. The embers reflected off my armor, gleaming in parts despite how its started to rust. The sword sheathed at my hip clinks whenever I move. The blade slides free with a hiss that interrupts the pop of the flames, and I turn it over, studying my reflection on the cool steel. I'm considered a fairly handsome stallion, in a gruff, old and seasoned kind of way, my dim coat and darker mane starting to gray.
I don't socialize much with my fellow soldiers. I usually prefer to let my actions speak; this journal is more for me than anything. A record of my horrible, pointless life. I fill the emptiness with bloodshed, choosing to survive purely out of spite.
Around me the men eat, drink, swap stories, and play cards. Anything to ignore the misery of our existence, which could be cut short at any moment. All it would take is one bad campaign for all of us to be wiped out.
As for mares? Well, usually we don't allow prostitutes in. They cause too many problems, steal and spread our secrets, sell us out. However we are allowed to take mares from conquered territories...so long as we don't let them live after we're done.
One is being dragged in now, kicking and screaming, her shrill cries causing my ears to flatten. Her skin is layered in a thin alabaster coat, her mane a light pink, the unicorn tall and voluptuous. A prize indeed,probably someone's trophy wife. Already they're laughing and tearing away her garments, exposing supple flesh to the cool air while they completely denuded her.
She sobs and begs for mercy. None is granted. It would make us appear week, which is unacceptable, even among comrades. Perhaps especially so. We are one in all our faults. They toss her about between them, roughly groping her all over, slapping her. She bawls under their assault, but this is nothing compared to what they'll soon put her through.
I've seen it hundreds of times. They hold her arms behind her, and one of them lifts her lower half by the legs, his pants already undone as he claims her first. She screams when his cock is pushed into her cunt which is barely even wet. He grunts and groans, hatefully hammering into her, like he wants to destroy her with his manhood in order to prove his masculinity.
Laughable, really. But I can hardly claim to be any better. I sit and watch, impassive, barely half-erect at the site. He cums inside her with a final slam, and without her twat even being cleaned she's passed to the next one in line like so much garbage. Some choose to fuck her asshole inside, making her shriek even louder, and a daring one brushes his manhood against her cheek. “Suck it whore,” he demands with a blade pressed to her throat. “And watch the teeth, or I'll feed 'em to you.”
She barely nods in submission, closing her eyes tight and wrapping her lips around his junk. Slowly she bobs her head while men continually rut her now ruined, gaping holes. One dumps his flask all over her, licking up the beer. They slap her breasts about, leave bite marks on them, spank her; anything they can do to break her in and humiliate the once prideful unicorn. They continue this for a couple of hours, some coming back for seconds or even thirds, running her ragged.
Some take her in the dirt on all fours like she's a bitch in heat. Others force her face into their crotch and make her swallow at sword-point. My eyes lazily drifted between her brutal gangrape and the pale moon framed above.
One waves me over to join in, and with a shrug I sheathe my sword which I set aside. I strip my armor, which I leave in sections behind me until I'm practically naked. By now I'm completely hard, and they hold her arms behind her, one still clasping his hands around her skull while he fucks her face balls deep. I lift one of her legs, resting it over my shoulder, and sink into her tight, slippery confines with a clench of my teeth. Slowly I drive in-and-out of her, allowing her time to adjust.
She's rather wet by now despite all the abuse, her flesh responding even if she's mentally unwilling. I explore her supple flesh; knead her breasts and bottom, sticking fingers up her asshole, tweak her nipples and clitoris, make her blush and squeal, the guilt and shame she feels at the pleasure I'm forcing on her written all over a face with messy hair stuck to it by sweat and cum.
But I also know I'm not allowed to let her live. Death is a mercy in Equestria. Why do people continue to have children, knowing the hardships they'll face without point? Hope? Most of them will just end up exploited, like poor Fleur here. If I fathered a child, I'd strangle it at birth, simply so it could avoid such a possible fate. Without thinking my hands wrap around her throat.
She whimpers and her cunt tightens around me. I'm fucking her just as violently as any of them now, my maw twisted with hatred. Not at her in particular; all my self-loathing spills out and she's a convenient vessel to accept it. Repeatedly I batter her warm wet confines, made her whine each time I bludgeon her cervix, desperate to break the final barrier and claim her womb.
After several minutes of trying I finally do; my cock splits the blockage open and she screams when I bottom out inside her slimy uterus, still swimming with an excess of so many soldiers' sperm, her eggs awash in the rancid soup. Soon I'm grunting like some wild animal and adding my own end as her ruined pussy goes vice-tight on my cock and reflexively milks it.
They're cheering me on. Calling her every degrading thing their barely educated minds can come up with.
Her face has turned purple by now. The stallion in her mouth barely withdraws in time as her tongue starts to lull out, still slathered in a coating of spunk that mixes with her drool and dribbles down her chin. Fleur's last act on Equestria as I choke the bitch out is for her fuckhole to churn, and her eyes to roll into her head, as she begins to squirt all over my cock and balls.
At least she goes limp with a strange sort of happiness, her body falling limp, her twat still able to mix me for nearly a minute on reflex even after she's expired. I withdraw with a plop from her gaping, oozing snatch, and let her fall like so much garbage. The men line up to shower her corpse in their seed, still jerking off and celebrating their latest conquest.
I drag my dick over her face to clean it off the best I can. I'm tired. Spent. I tell myself it was a mercy kill. But I know there will be countless more like her, the men butchered and the attractive women claimed for our own, to be used and discarded.
Gradually the festivities start to die down. We'll be on another mission soon, and need our sleep. I settle into my tent, and stir as the first nightmares come, trying not to let the faces of all my victims haunt me.
My most recent, Fleur de Lis, torments me; I'd learn her name later, that she was connected to some nobleman named Fancy Pants. But there's nothing I can do now.
No, I'll simply carry on like this, until my luck runs out and I die; a sword or knife in the back, a stray arrow, infected wound, perhaps even disease or contaminated food. And all my enemies will be eager for company in whatever hell awaits me.
Author's Note
Bit of an experiment for me since I've never tried first-person here.
