There are some pony folk who enjoy the company of other creatures. Some more so than others consider a griffon as that ‘special somepony.’ For Fly High, his own special somepony, or rather somereature, was Lavah Tavs. An occultist and practitioner of performance arts. Of what, he wasn’t sure. Only that they had shared a deep and intense desire for the finest pleasures involving the art of sexual domination. But her kinky nature alone wasn’t what drew the young stallion her way. It was that wild drive of passion and the desire to experience everything the world had to offer her, how she never waited for it to be given to her. She could only take. Something that Fly could certainly understand.
Fly was introduced to the young
griffon from a certain thestral whom he had been close friends with for the
past couple years now. Ironically, they also met in a similar fashion when a
friend of Fly introduced him to the dark coated stallion. Being in the guard,
Fly very rarely had any free time of his own, except during the evening. Yet,
at the little corner of Goldenhoof Street and Silverhorn, he could still
remember the scent of rich lavender that scent coming off of her feathery mane.
Eyes gleaming in the moonlight like amethyst gems. Her fur and feather white
like sheets of snow, her trims and wing tips tinted with the color of the
flower. Her voice is smooth, warm and crisp like a Sunday spring morning. Her
mask invoking a sense of anonymity.
Sweet and tender like milk and
honey, with a terrifying spice slipped in during the fifth or sixth drink. She
was dangerous… and it only excited him further. But like her mask, the persona
she bore hid her true intent. However, he doubted that sweet kindred nature was
fake. Each mask is just a representative of an aspect of that creature. The
personas were very much real, a part of themselves as they were used to hide
their intent. And Lavah’s mask told him every single desire she wished for that
night.
Fly’s own guile wasn’t as subtle,
but he always kept up the game once he started to really play. He lived a cycle
of modernity and order. The repetition of his daily lifestyle consisted of
waking up at six AM, with a brew of Canterlot coffee, black with two cubes of
sugar. Dying his golden mane blue that matched the contrast of his own deep
blue eyes, looking plain and simple among his fellow guardsmen. Morning
exercises on foot that went on for hours until his legs burned. Air drills that
consisted of high-maneuverability obstacle courses. The pegasi guardsmen
continuously fail them as days go by. The weight of the golden armor became
exhausting during the morning guards and patrols. Fly’ stood for hours till the
pressure burned through his feet. The heat of the sun cooking him from the
inside as his shift changed to patrolling the streets of Canterlot. The lack of
stuffy formal attire beneath his armor was a boon for him as he found himself
dipping in and out of consciousness.
At night, there was no order, no
rules. The only time where he could be himself. Rather than linger in the
barracks with the rest of the guards, he lived the life of a youthful stallion.
At twenty-two years of age, his youth railroaded into a loop of responsibility
that, while he wasn’t ungrateful for, given the pay was good and helping the
common pony out made him feel happy, he wanted to live his life. He had eight
years to go before his youth passes by him, and the last two years had already
gone and left in a blink of an eye. Here, time slowed to a crawl. Minutes felt
like hours. The scent of lavender tickling his nose as he pretended to sip his
drink, spiced with an unfamiliar substance he saw the griffon lass slip into
her female compatriots’ drinks whenever he visited the club.
The predatory expression was
mesmerizing as it was terrifying. But soon, she found herself as the prey when
the façade dropped that he wasn’t the inebriated, manipulatable male he made
himself out to be. The look of shock on her face was amusing. Then, she smiled.
Then she licked her beak. Her gaze was like a miner striking gold. And all Fly
did was grin at her and wriggle his brows.
The lovemaking that went on that
night, not a soul dare make mention of it. It was savage, it was primal, and it
was beautiful for the two involved. But it was a nightmare for everyone else.
The little droplets of blood that smelled of griffon and pony plastered the
walls. Sheets torn by claws, stained by ejaculation, walls fractured by
aggressive movements, marred by claw marks amid the couple’s passion and
ecstasy. The night went on for hours, with only the last ten minutes finishing
up with the two cuddling with one another and sharing one last smoke and drink
before being forcibly evicted by the club owner. The two exchanged numbers and
called it a date. Fly was in love, and in lust.
She was wild, she was free; Lavah
was chaos incarnate. To think he tamed the beautiful beast would be a foolish
notion, but he succeeded in doing so anyways. Either a free beast or collared
beast, in the end she was the same wild beast he came to know her as. To
describe, or even articulate the kind of manner of which their relationship was
like would be impossible. The closest description is that Lavah was still a
wild predator. She only chose to be Fly’ prey.
There was more to Lavah than that
single night. It was then that he learned about her midnight lifestyle. She
owned a private theater that he only heard about on a few separate occasions.
It wasn’t hard to believe she was the owner of such a place, but it did come to
a surprise. It was an adult centric performance art theater that catered to the
kind of intimate luxuries that the noble ponies secretly craved in the dark.
Some that others would consider illegal, like slavery. Either as a performer or
a member of the audience, there is always someone from Canterlot nobility
making their way to the theater, bearing lavish masks to hide their identity.
And one night, Fly received an
invitation to become a performer at the theater.
