Photos of Fillies

Scootaloo was standing alone in the orchard. The sun was low and Rainbow was slung around her neck, dangling by her hooves like a luscious little charm. They were both red, no orange. They were blushing as Scootaloo looked my way with a steely gaze.

She had balanced herself on three legs, swaying slowly into view with a rubber object held firmly in her grasp. The studded little nubs filled the park with a lone, ominous humming, squirming and buzzing as it gyrated against the underside of her hoof.

I couldn’t help but stare. The name of the phallic object—this thing she was holding front of me, looked completely alien and yet somehow familiar with its ridges and curves, its veined exterior. It was bulbous and elongated, seeming to only grow larger as its bearer took each step across the expansive lawn to meet me.

I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks as Scootaloo lifted the appendage in front of her, letting her tongue peek out ever so delicately.

Slowly, methodically, with a practiced ease I’d only ever seen once, she gently dragged her tongue along its length. I stared, mouth gaping, as she teased the tip against her lips, dipped it for a second, then wetted the studs with her tongue.

All whilst watching me out of the corner of her eye—both she and Rainbow Dash around her neck—she trailed the end down her body until it was almost to her chest, then let it sit there, as if waiting.

“Won’t you come join us?” one of them said. Scootaloo’s voice was distant, dreamlike, as it echoed from Rainbow Dash’s mouth “Watch us, as we play with our new toys.”

Their words were impossibly scrambled, intelligent, as if spoken backwards.

Her smile turned into a frown as Scootaloo whispered, slowly, “Neb, em kcuf.”

My skin scrawled and a lump formed in the back of my throat. Various sordid images of Scootaloo and Rainbow Dash, together, flashed through my head. I was holding my camera, clutching it, with this feeling like I was looking for something, or something was looking for me. I had to take a picture, capture this moment.

More flashes, more sex. Scootaloo and Dash entwined together in a bed, their backs to me, and I in the closet as they thoroughly went at each other. Another flash, and it was a filly I didn’t recognise. She was spread out on her back, her tiny body just barely visible by the candlelight of her bedside table. She had a book beside her, but it had been long since dropped to the wayside as she pressed her lips into her lover.

An older mare; her mane was a deep purple, filled with curls and held back into rollers as she kissed and caressed her lover, pressing her chest down with a firm, guiding hoof as the other traced little circles over the younger one’s folds, ever so carefully teasing at her, edging out a tiny orgasm on the back of her desperate mewls.

Her panting was restrained and elegant as the filly shuddered and her horn sparked with a dim green glow.

I held up my camera, brought the viewfinder to my eye, but there was something wrong. The camera was the wrong way. It was facing me, and I could barely move.

My breaths were coming in short, laboured breaths like I had been running a marathon, and my voice, it was unusual, pale almost.

Rainbow Dash approached out of the shadows, her eyes not leaving mine with that look of utter disgust. Alarms, sirens, the blue and red lights flashed just out of sight.

I-I croaked out a response, but it was already too late.

She passed me by, shaking her head as she sighed. “Sorry,” I heard her whisper, “but I’m not into mares.”

Again with the jumbling words. I wanted to ask what she meant, why she’d said that, but I felt like I was rooted to the ground. Helpless, stuck, frozen in place as the form of Rainbow Dash and her young ward faded into the distance.

Then another voice spoke up behind me. This one was soft and melodic, attractive, familiar, yet the voice of a stranger. It was threatening in its own little way.

“Oh, but I am,” she said. Her voice—It was unmistakable. It gave me chills as it cut through the blackness even as a heavy hoof pressed down on my shoulders, stilling me.

My heart skipped a beat. Racing, as my breathing became rapid. I still couldn’t move. I was terrified, shaking like it was the coldest winter out of Dublin’s coast. A flashing of memories, long distant, was washed through my head. I was spun around suddenly, brought muzzle to muzzle, standing inches away from her.

She was towering over me. Her wings were erect and her cheeks flushed. The pink locks of her mane were like a dark veil between us as she slowly approached, breathing heavily—her breaths meeting mine.

“F-Fluttershy,” I stammered. I didn’t know what was going through me. Excitement? Regret? It was all a confused mess. I heard myself say, “Your photos. I-I have them! They’re—” As I looked to my side, I realised that I wasn’t carrying my saddlebags. I muttered. “N-No. They’re here. I have them!” I looked back up.

“Shhh...” Fluttershy pressed a hoof against my lips, silencing me instantly, and then she came closer. Her breathing was warm against my cheeks. I could feel her mane brushing against my fur as she gently pushed my dark green locks out of my eyes.

The space was closing in around us.I was feeling claustrophobic, hyperventilating. The older pony pressed her body against mine. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I was frozen helpless as the soft frogs of her hooves grazed under my tail. Gently pushing the dock aside, I was exposed to the cool air.

A sudden, chilling breeze grazed my nethers—a firm wetness growing below my tail at her every touch. She steadied my withers with her foreleg as she whispered into my ears. “I love little fillies,” she said.

~ ~ ~

My whole body shuddered awake. I was gasping for breath, disoriented and floundering. Somewhere in the darkness a clock tolled. The deep brass of a grandfather clock signalled the hour.

What time was it? How long had I been out?

I settled back into my chair, breathing in the night air. The condensation of my breath formed a cloud of mist in front of me, and the chill of the night had given me a shiver.

It was only a dream, I told myself. My recollections of the night were already fading, just a distant memory, a flicker in the candle light of the past that was my life. Whatever it was, whatever it meant, it was over now.

I plucked one of the photos off of my face and set it back down on the workbench in front of me, among its brethren. I then straightened them out into a neat line, taking extra care to align them and check their contents.

There were eight photos in total. Two personal.

I separated them and pulled them aside. One was of Scootaloo—unknowingly—presenting herself to me. I still salivated a little when I looked at her form, stretched out on the back of that scooter. She was athletic and lithe, not an ounce of young pudge remained. She was perfectly toned from hours of training—what I could only assume to thank Rainbow Dash for.

What could only have turned it from perfect to amazing was the way she had hiked her tail, and daintily stroked and spread her pussy lips for me, and in broad daylight too. God, but it was almost like she knew I was there.

Everything about it felt like a dream, to think I was actually there.

The other was of Toola getting spread deep by a couple of school bullies. The lighting was bad, which was unfortunate, and the surrounding greenery had made the scene blurry and hard to recognise, but I could still make out enough.

The rest of the photos were all miscellaneous flowers, roses, and buds, all the things Fluttershy had asked for and then some. I’d decided to leave out the big purple ones. It felt strange keeping them in, especially considering I was the one who had destroyed them, so that left only five photos remaining.

I frowned and scratched the side of my nose and as I did, I pulled the remaining photos into two piles: The fillies in stack to the left, and the flowers on the right. I then leaned back to admire my work.

With everything in place, I was ready for the next day. All I needed was an envelope and a bit of wax, and I could seal it and be on my way. Another itch, this time on my shoulder, gave me pause.

I glanced at my wrist and then looked around for a clock. The one on the wall said it was just after 3:00 AM. Sugar Cube Corner only opened at six. My shift began after that, plenty of time to get one more hour of sleep, right?

Silence and the chirping of crickets was all the confirmation I needed.