Clitty on the Edge of Forever

Chapters

A Boy and His Domme
The Whimper of Wanked Virgins
I Have No Machismo and I Must Cream

A Boy and His Domme

The first time you met Starlight Glimmer in person, you instantly knew you weren't enough of a man for her.

Granted, you haven't been much of a man for anything... or anyone in your twenty years of floundering around in this strange ballroom dance called “life.” An awkward childhood spent embodying a frail beanstalk of a nerd had ultimately produced a five-foot-and-three-inch punchline of an adult. And that's not covering all the cringey, bony parts of you that just recently finished smoothing out. It took the last two years of high school to endure the braces required for finally... finally fixing your damnable buck-toothed overbite. But, while your mouth straightened, the muscles of your limbs refuse to grow and at least half of your teenage freckles still remain lingering on your boyish face.

Needless to say, you haven't been able to score one with the ladies. Not that this surprises you any. All throughout your developing years, you had grown used to incessant teasing and ridicule from the softer side of the gender pasture: “Nice shorts, Featherweight! Did your Mommy buy those for you?!” Diamond Tiara used to chant across the school yard. “Pfft! Look at those arms! My pet hamster could wrestle Featherweight to the floor!” Silver Spoon would add. “Where's your crown, today, Zipporwhill? Oh. Shoot. It's you, Featherweight. My bad,” Scootaloo once said. Well, maybe more than once.

What you lacked in physical prowess and... well... a Celestia-damned spine wasn't very much compensated by any significant dollop of charisma, either, which simply buried your hopes of being a cool kid in those cruel, crucial years. Sure, you got your cutie mark sooner than most of the other schoolmates in Ponyville, but that amounted to little more than acting as Diamond Tiara's wage slave photographer. In fact, you had worked your wings off for the entirety of junior year to help her with some “personal documentary” bullshit. In the end, she kick-started a young modeling career off your material, and you got nothing but a swift kick in the ass.

The last three years of your life have been spent in woeful seclusion. You've drowned yourself in your photographic hobbies... in lonesome flights over the boughs of Everfree, snapping pictures of nature. But with each passing month—with the vestiges of time being painfully plucked from you like feathers off your dinky wings—you feel the opportunity for true bliss slipping away on greased lightning. And it's the same “true bliss” that every damnable young man your age obsesses over... but most of them have quite likely conquered.

You are a virgin—a pathetic, noodle-limbed, thin-wristed, raspy-voiced pantywaist of a virgin. What's more, you've remained untouched, unloved, and unclaimed at the ripe age of twenty. Twenty. Princess Luna on a bike, in just fifteen years, you'll be declared a “wizard,” and not of the legitimately awesome Court-of-Canterlot kind. From the way things look—flipping through the scant memories of your lonesome life like the pages of a photo album—you can tell that you'll get to that pathetic point of ultimate failure within a blink. And why should you think otherwise? Nothing else has gone the way you've hoped for in this life. Your cold-hearted parents kicked you out at age eighteen and now you've forced yourself to eke out a paltry existence among three other roommates, cooped up in a shitty litter box of an apartment along the lower fringes of Fillydelphia. You make a living (if you can even call it that) wandering around the urban sprawls of Equestria, taking boring stock photos for ten separate magazines—all of which you loathe and don't pay you shit in bits. You've considered taking up pizza delivery—what, with your wings and all—except that you're mortified at the idea of women laughing at you at the door and taking the pizza with no tip.

No tip. No... best not to ever... ever place yourself in some magical porno movie situation. Even in fantasy. For there is barely any “tip” to give. Mother nature's cruel prank on your height and limbs also extends to below the belt, and each night you limp into the shower you have to fight the urge to cry over how little there is to see when you gaze down at your manhood... boyhood... infanthood? Does it even deserve a nickname? It can barely drum up the duty to dribble—even after a full afternoon of chugging Dr. Pony. Real men have the cannonfire to shoot for the stars. You know this first-hand from enough red-faced communal changing sessions before and after P.E. in the boys' lockerroom. But as for you? It takes a trickling brook to do a mite's hair of movement to whatever paltry protein resides in your chestnuts. And the other tubes don't fair much better either. Your so-called “best friends” stopped going to amusement parks with you because you had to spread your morning sarsaparilla evacuation over the course of lady-like bathroom breaks every five fucking minutes.

There's a reason why Diamond Tiara and so many other girls laughably called you a “sissy” in high school, and part of you almost felt enough self-loathing to adopt that masochistic moniker.

But—thank Goddess—another kink rolled into your headspace to save your life.

And be honest with yourself. It's the only happy place you've been able to afford, no matter how absurd. No matter how silly. No matter how impossible to acquire from the daily motions of the winged photographer's Fillydelphian grind.

Ever since you were a little boy—years before you got your cutie mark, or pubic hair for that matter—you've had this insatiable fantasy over doing it with a giantess. Even when you didn't know what “doing it” involved—and all things considered, you still don't—you've had these regularly visited mental scenarios of being embraced, being smothered, and being cherished by female specimens who somehow towered hundreds of feet above you. It wasn't enough that you'd be cuddled by an Amazon or some super muscular volleyball player. No, you wanted a woman who was gargantuan, continental, larger than the very definition of “large” in the Equestrian Basic Dictionary. You wanted a partner who could dwarf the honeymoon bed itself... who could be the bed itself. Her navel would be the mattress and her bosom the pillows. No, fuck that. Her breasts would be mountains and you'd be a poor, hapless speck of dust trying to paddle a canoe across the sweat of her heaving midriff after you've somehow impossibly pleased her.

Yeah, that's the shit, a whimpering and spasming you thinks to yourself, seconds after rubbing your four inches off and gazing lustily at the ceiling of the bedroom, wishing the spinning fan was replaced by her winking womanhood, slowly lowering towards you like a falling moon, carrying with it a tidal wave of lubricated arousal that will drown you...

Drown me... oh please blessed Goddess just drown me...

It's no small surprise that you've long suspected that you were going insane. Sure, perhaps—just maybe—there'd be some rational explanation to all this. Years of being comparatively smaller than everyone else and being consistently teased for it undoubtedly created this... microcosmic complex where you could only imagine being the submissive bitch to some incalculably strong partner. But—while that all makes sense—there's still this assertive portion of you... a pathetically tiny yet unfathomably burning spark that kicks all that crap in the teeth and declares—no, dammit—it's simply a fine taste for macrocosmic beauty.

Because how else can you truly worship the sheer majesty that is a woman? Shapely legs... milky thighs... heaving breasts and pert nipples and fluttering eyelashes and pursed lips and high-pitched melodic sighs...

All of that deserves to be exalted to the highest pinnacle of comprehension. All of that deserves to be elevated to a platform of grandeur where gravity itself simply cannot limit the scope of infinite admiration. Even if your body and frame and manhood are all measured—your heart simply is not.

All your life, you've felt the precious possession of a soul that could give... simply give forever, especially for a goddess who deserved it. Or several. Or none—even if you could just be allowed the grace to admire them from afar. Given the resources of the universe, you simply could—and would—adore every inch of a woman for eternity, over and over again if you needed to, and how much more heavenly would it be if each and every one of those square inches were spread to square kilometers or square miles or square astronomical units of supple flesh to explore and areolas to scale and hot dripping pussies to spelunk for days and weeks and months and—

Holy goddam shiet you just spurted again fuckkkkk..

Without all the psychoanalysis, this obsession basically amounted to you fantasizing during lonely nights in bed, imagining that you had hooked up with a spectacle of a goddess who would gladly—and willfully—let you live out a week inside her lacy brassiere or wiggle your way beneath the satin band of her panties or even slither down the nylon channel of her pantyhose—if only to be closer to her... to be pressed up against her... so that she became your entire horizon... a forever that you could embrace.

Forever... much like never... both plausible outcomes to such a schoolboy fantasy upon the broken precipice of your stubborn, immutable virginity. Seems fitting that—in a life framed by eternal solitude—you would inevitably imprison yourself to a fetish that was far from plausible.. even if not impossible. The fleeting beats of your heart have clung onto that latter comprehension. There's always been a lot of magic in Equestria, and it's been used for far stupider things than getting a twenty-year-old pervert's pebbles off. But it is still possible.

Isn't it...?

Because of this thought alone, your obsession has refused to die. Over the course of several years—and especially in the last few months—you've found your fantasies reaching a boiling point. You started researching every book, magazine, and periodical you could get your bony hands on in the Fillydelphian library, struggling—hoping—to find some mention in Sorcery Monthly and other subscriptions about a sustained magical spell that had been written by some godly court wizard somewhere that could allow your fantasy to become a reality. You recalled how years ago Starswirl the Bearded reportedly returned from Limbo, and that put a flame of hope in your heart that at least someone out there was intelligent enough—or hairy enough—to get the job done... even if the job only mattered to one lonely and pathetic twenty-year-old who could barely handle his own dick more than a flashbulb camera.

Alas, nothing has ever turned up.

As such, these lonely trips turned into languishing affairs. Spurred on by boredom and self-loathing, you found yourself casually perusing the Classifieds sections of newspapers found in the same library... if only to torture yourself with sneak peaks into what actual adults with actual sex lives actually do with their actual time.

And it was on one fateful afternoon, sandwiched between yawn and sighs, that your eyes stumbled upon a week-old listing in the Classifieds...

...and you found it. You found her.

She didn't give a name at first. Simply a post office box and the vague promise of swift communication upon a reader's initial response. She could just as well have been an overweight pregnant swamp hydra with Everherpes, for all you cared. What got you... what grabbed you by the turgid mistletoe was the very substance of her ardent inquiry:

Thirty-two-year-old magic-born dominant bisexual female with over a decade of sexual experiences seeks eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-old submissive het/bi/pan male to be shrunken to the size of four centimeters (or less) for the purpose of romantic/physical interaction. Male MUST be a VIRGIN. This is IMPORTANT. Also must be okay with a magical spell that will make him frighteningly tiny. Bonus points if he also enjoys flying kites.

Even to this day, your earlobes tickle with the memory of your pounding heartbeat upon having read that. On that life-changing afternoon, your eyes poured over the words in the Classifieds again. And again. And again and again. You pinched yourself to see if you were dreaming, but the rigidity of your outstretched wings in the open view of the rest of the library sobered you up to the reality of the moment. You recall panicking—wondering if Diamond Tiara or any of her cronies had somehow tracked you down in Fillydelphia to perform the mother of all pranks. Or—perhaps—you just realized that you had been living all that time in a solipsistic nightmare and the universe was collapsing until it assumed the shape that you had always wanted.

But, you simply did not imagine what lay before you. Like your unshakable fantasies, the article refused to go away. Perhaps—you thought—it was a prank. After all, who in their right mind would post such a thing? Whoever this Jane Doe was, she could just as well been asking you to bring weapons for a trip back through time. There was no safety in even humoring the thought of pursuing such a thing. None guaranteed whatsoever.

And yet—as you reminded yourself in yet another woeful sigh—what was there about you worthy of keeping safe? What was left to preserve? You hadn't anything to lose... except your virginity. And—by hook or by crook—this was your one golden opportunity to pursue such a venture... even if it ended in Everherpes at the claws of a pregnant swam hydra.

So... within two damned days, you scribbled forth a letter, sent it to the address listed, and wandered home flustered and anxious from the post office, hating yourself for being so pathetic that you actually manifested your obsession into reality—and shared it with an another anonymous person, no less. Sure, it's always sucked having no outlets, but who in their right mind could actually... would actually share the same fetish as you? And with the vague promise of somehow making it happen through magic, for that matter? You felt stupid. You felt shame. You hated yourself and wanted to die.

Then—that night—you humped the pillow while imagining you were trapped between the dueling labias of two mountain-sized lesbians and you fell asleep with a sigh and a stain in your boxers.

Seventy-two hours and a laundry job later, you about ruined your underwear again—because she responded. She did... and she had a name. She gave it—perhaps as an olive branch: Starlight Glimmer.

Starlight...

Glimmer … …

A name that pretty couldn't be real. It sounded too angelic. Too magical. And yet—the stationary she used carried with it a meager glow. It was a light spell—something that Cheerilee had once taught you and the rest of the classroom about long ago. The letter could only have come from a high tier Equestrian magic wielder. No earthen or flighty shiet—this was someone magic-born who could wield a wicked stone of legit wizardry. If it was still a prank by this point... why would someone go through all the effort?

Then there was the fact that this “Starlight Glimmer” wasn't necessarily rushing things, which made it seem even less like a scam. In the letter—which was very eloquently written—she briefly described how surprised she was that someone had actually responded to her bit in the Classifieds... one that she had evidently forgotten having posted.

“To tell the truth, I was somewhat inebriated at the time that I submitted it,” the woman had written—if she was in fact as estrogenical as she claimed to have been. “You must understand—I've grown sick to death of so many play-partners turning out to be egotistical pellets of hot air that I must have gotten drunk and then turned to the Classifieds of all things in desperation.” She dotted her i's with crooked smiling faces afflicted with sweatdrops. It was insanely adorable, and your heart leapt with each line of prettiful, girlish penswirls that carried on like a papery dance. “But I'm actually intrigued that I got a response out of it whatsoever! You sound like a sweet young man, Featherweight, but you were a bit vague in writing about yourself in your response. Not that I can blame you. Heheh.” She even phonetically wrote out her chuckles. “If I were you, I wouldn't have taken the ad very seriously either. But I assure you: this is a very real proposal, using very real—and serious—Canterlot magic. I can only guess that you're a soul out there who very much wants a specific dream to come true. Well, I want a dream of mine to come true as well. So, at the risk of sounding desperate, could you be so kind as to tell me more about yourself? I promise that I'll keep it between us, and I do hope I'm not coming across as too obsessive about all this.”

You remember wanting to sob and giggle all at once.

Obsessive?

She considered herself to be obsessive?

Blessed Celestia, could there actually be a true blue other out there for you? And an experienced, magical opposite to boot?

Like a schoolgirl with her heart all-a-flutter, you hugged the glowing letter to your chest and fell back in bed, smiling drunkenly to the ceiling.

What would you write back to her? What would you tell this “Starlight Glimmer?” What would you possibly share with her?

How about everything?

Which is precisely what you did... in no less than twenty-four pages. And you immediately hated yourself after sending it because you just had your once-in-a-lifetime-chance-at-losing-your-virginity-to-a-macro-obsessed-goddess-named-Starlight-Glimmer-and-you-wasted-it-through-perverted-one-track-mind-selfish-neckbearded-correspondence.

Even now, you gasp at the recollection of how close you came to fainting when you got a response—within twelve hours. Now that was truly magic. The envelope was practically on fire with Canterlot enchantment. Your eyes and body shook as you read through the forty pages of obsessively-scribbled heart-to-balls commentary:

“Oh my Celestia, are you KIDDING?! It feels GREAT when someone's alive and wriggling inside my cleavage!” Trembles. “If you must know, erogenous zones react far better to small-sized stimulation. I personally think women were built for the utilization of this spell.” Shivers. “Barely four inches when erect? Pfffft... please, Mr. Featherweight, I like my partners under four inches—TOTAL. Why should I care about the planck at the end of a speck? So long as the speck is worshipping me.” Downright convulsions. “So... you don't think kites are 'lame?' Whew. Good to know. Uhm. No reason, really. Heheheh.”

Even to this day, every written word and paragraph caresses a warm wet heart that you had long forgotten you possessed. It just took Starlight to bring it back to the surface—to breathe light into the innards that you had long thought dusty and useless. Not once did she ridicule you or poke fun at any of the revelations you textually blurted in the last letter. In fact—in some impossible way—it almost felt as though your awkward, nigh-pathetic confessions somehow made you... more endearing to the woman. If nothing else, her words certainly showed more enthusiasm than the previous response.

What's more, you got to learn a lot more about what she had to... provide. The spell was very much real—or so she insisted. What's more, she wasn't the one to invent it, although she did add a few alterations that improved its casting. The spell was first invented over a hundred years ago, and since then it was used by a small niche of like-minded... lovers, to put it lightly.

What does the spell do? Well, through the utilization of a patented Clover the Clever sigil, it reduces a person's size by an unimaginable percent. But the niche of practitioners—the Collapsing Cabal, as they enthusiastically labeled themselves—agreed on no smaller than one single inch. To shrink anyone smaller was potentially catastrophic and risked legitimately losing someone. In addition to size-change, the spell is buffered by a “protection aura” that—over the course of forty-eight hours—physically guards the spell recipient from pain, suffocation, asphyxiation, structural damage, and physical duress—although the lattermost element is a matter of interpretation, based on one's personal acclimation to the process.

Such magic could only be used sparingly, which made the Collapsing Cabal a very niche group for very niche fanatics of all things giant. The dominant members had to choose their partners very-very carefully—as well as the time with which they chose to “embrace” them. And—in Starlight's case—none of her partners as of late have been enough to... well... satisfy her. To what extent they failed, her letter did not specify... nor did she attempt to educate her new pen pal on precisely what it was that she sought from a quote-unquote “inexperienced virgin male.”

What Starlight did do—however—was provide a photograph. A photograph of herself. The contents of it—in every beautiful pixel—has been lovingly tattooed against the surface of your eyelids ever since. Skin like lavender terry cloth. Hair like liquid silk—dawn purple with aquamarine bands. Eyes that resemble deep blue pools, peeking from just above girlish dimples as she smiles. A purple chakra stone dotted the center of her forehead. It was dim when the photograph was taken, but already you could imagine it emanating with a bright glow of her inner magic-born essence.

And while Starlight's face is charmingly youthful, the rest of the femme's body is a fully-developed battleship of buxom woman. Gently sloping breasts—the kind that ardently fill into healthy C-cups with ample room for wandering eyes to get lost in the delicious gap between—or so you can assume from the meager window afforded by the blouse she's wearing in the photo. Her hips are wide—almost playfully so—but only to give way to legs that make faded jeans look like a goddess-damn work of otherworldly geometry. It's clear to you from just that one photograph that Starlight is a tall... tall woman.

I almost wouldn't even need a spell, you've thought more than once, probably high. In all of your years of fantasizing about giantesses, you rarely ever planted a real-life face on them—or at least a face that you could identify. Sure, once or twice, magazine spreads have played a minor roll. Celestia or Cadance may have even graced the female continent's crown, but that was only because they're both deified enough in waking reality to somewhat deserve such exaltation.

Now that you've won yourself the photograph of a real woman who's tangentially interested in “you,” you've found yourself keeping it close by the bedside as you go to town on yourself at night, your mind conjuring all the million hidden pockets and niches on Starlight's body where you could get lost—and some moister than others.

But then—in the inevitable shower to follow such a sweaty event—you sober up to the final message thrown onto the lastmost page of her response to you: “Is it too much to ask for a photo of you in return? I mean, so long as that doesn't frighten you, Featherweight. At least not too much. Heeheehee.”

Those. Goddess. Dayum. “Giggles.” She took the time to write them all out. How could you refuse such awesome onomatopoeia?

It was probably a bad idea, but you decided to reciprocate in your response to her. In truth, it wasn't hard to scoop up a pic of yourself. Not that you're one to be narcissistic, but you've gotten into the habit of taking multiple selfies and then stapling the photocopies—shrunken—against the spreads of supermodels from scavenged fashion magazines. Such was enough to maintain the physical illusion of an improbable fantasy for you to masturbate to over the past few years. One of the advantages of being a professional photographer with a macro-lens (ho boah).

And it's not like you went completely overboard either. You sent your pen-pal a relatively “modest” photo of yourself, just like the one she sent you—minus the veritable boob-window. You're not that big of a fan of how your hair looked (it was before you ditched the stupid bowl-cut your parents forced on you) and you're certain in hindsight you should have shared a pic where you were wearing pants instead of shorts. Also the feathers on your wings looked positively molty on that day. But—ah well—it's the picture that you chose.

And what a curious thing it was to receive a response—within six hours this time. The enchantment on the envelope was so fresh that it nearly lit up the entire apartment and the gutters of Fillydelphia outside as you opened the parchment with shivering fingers.

Lo and behold: “Oh. My. Celestia. You are just... too... adorbs!” Several hearts—all with smiling faces. “Why didn't you mention that you were flight-born?! That's so cool, Featherweight! And it explains the name—teehee! Did you take that before you turned twenty? Please say you're still just as cute and petite. I mean, not that it matters—heehee—but it's really really sweet all the same. And such a nice smile!!!” Exclamation points—this time with floral patterns. “Uh. Yeah. I've got a better letter to write back in response to yours, but that's gonna take a while. I just wanted you to know that I think you're really really precious. Honest. Whew. We both really dodged a bullet on this one, huh? Ugh, that sounds super vain of me to say. Anywho, you'll be hearing more from me soon!”

You cried a lot that night—but for once it wasn't for all the usual reasons. This was the start of something beautiful, you felt. For this whole thing had danced well beyond “hope.”

And—all things considered—you weren't wrong. The letters continued, oftentimes with rambling discussions that have brought you to previously unfathomable lengths of contentment and comprehension. Her flattery continued—which has been delicious in its own right—but she hasn't been all compliments. The delightful truth is: Starlight Glimmer is a remarkably complicated woman, and everything she's said of you has simply been the cusp of an intricate disguise that is rapidly unraveling, revealing a remarkable web of emotions, needs, and fears. And you've gradually discovered—in how her enthusiastic platitudes mirror your own—that such complexity exists in you. Perhaps it always has... which makes being a macro-obsessed virgin less “terrible” in hindsight, something you never once thought you'd have the strength to admit.

Until Starlight. She's given you that strength—in that she's given you yourself... an excuse to embrace that which previously has brought you confusion, frustration, and even shame.

And then—like a spear straight through the froth of ocean surf—she stabs you with something that you had forgotten about from the start:

“So, I've figured out a place where we can meet and talk in person. It's a really swanky restaurant on the edge of Fillydelphia called Steel Stables. Since I'll be passing through town on a research trip, mayhaps we can finally meet!”

Just like that, you felt all of the confidence and contentment and renewed sense of respect drain out of you like a deflated tire. Everything was fine until everything became real. She was ready to meet you?! Now?!? Evidently—it wasn't to engage in the spell or do anything giantess/shrunkener related. But... she just wanted to meet you? Regular, normal, skin-and-bones pathetic virgin you?!?!

And then it dawned on you. This had to have been a prank. She wasn't Starlight Glimmer—an attractive thirty-two-year-old magic-borne domme waiting to crush a subordinate little wanker into protein sobs. All of those heart-shaped hand-written accents and smiling exclamation points could have been just as doctored as her photograph, and what truly awaited for you on the outskirts of Fillydelphia was a Neighgerian prince itching to rob you of your kidneys and then some.

And if she has been as real as you hoped—as your heart has wept in sweet release for—then just what in the shriveled blue fuck were you actually gonna do about it? You were going to go meet up with her?! In person?! That was the most personable way to be personal! Starlight would look at you once and immediately take back all the flattering, heart-massaging bits of poetic mirth she had woven about your so-called “sweet” self.

Or if you somehow were something that she desired, then the poor woman had to have been sick to the bone to desire such a pathetic thing. Poor creature—she likely drummed up the whole “Collapsing Cabal” thing in her deluded, schizophrenic mind and then projected it onto you for the ultimate let-down.

Or maybe—just maybe—you're as much of a moron as you've ever been, and it's high time you took a stand and embraced something priceless now that it's in front of you. Never look a gift girl in the mouth!

In other words... don't be a pussy, bro... … … even though the word “pussy”—in metaphorically referencing the vagina—should actually equate to “strength” and “resilience” given the savage punishment that poor abominable animal of womanhood receives in life, both in and out of porn—b-b-but that's not the point! Don't be one of those, bro!

This has more or less been what went on in your head—a place that's been far more dramatic ever since Starlight's letters kindled a hidden spark lying deep within. Maybe she's always meant for you to pick yourself up by your bootstraps. Maybe she's just a cougar-in-training setting up a trap for her first kill. In any case, second-thoughts be raped-to-death, you had a virginity to slay, Celestia-dammit.

You said good-bye to your roommates... who are we kidding—you shrugged them off without saying a word and flew off towards the east end of Fillydelphia one sunset by your lonesome.

The Whimper of Wanked Virgins

You trembled throughout the entire flight to Steel Stables. It wasn't because of the cold winds. Besides, you've flown routes like this before while delivering camera film. The world was about to change, and you could feel it. In your bones, in your blood, and—for once—in your balls. Something about this night was going to take something from you. It may not have been your virginity—after all, Starlight only wanted to chat over dinner. But somehow you couldn't shake the feeling that this was the end of something. This was when the teetering would begin—your fragile position along the precipice of forever.

“Forever.” You've long been obsessed with that concept. It's been more than a matter of relinquishing the fragile illusion of immortality that most youths suffer. But you personally see it as a generalized “scare word” that marks the unseen boundaries of your existence. All of that was just about to expand—or shatter—upon meeting this voluptuous Starlight Glimmer. She could very well be heralding the end of your virginity. And—with that—the beginning of the end of so many things, paving a slope towards all the other elements in life that you once considered unfathomable—in both triumphs and tragedy. It was scary and exciting all at once, and the best takeaway from it all that you could conceive is that you would no longer be parenthetically imprisoned by something.

Something like the word “virgin,” so lame and so gross. And here you were about to make a bloody bicycle skid into newer roads, some of which were unpaid—but at least they led you somewhere... even into forever. And if being twenty and horny and full of macro obsession doesn't define what it means to “find yourself in life,” then what the fuck else even are you? Maybe “forever” would tell, or maybe it wouldn't. But—by death or by snu-snu—this Starlight was very likely going to help.

It still didn't soothe your shivers as you touched down in the gritty parking lot of the Steel Stables restaurant. Half the spaces were filled with lazy vehicles. The sun had long gone down behind the umbral edge of the gray city, and yellowish specks of light blurred by on the nearby freeway, filling the air with a hushed percussion that marked every nervous step you took towards the door.

Before entering, you cursed at yourself, pausing at the entrance to do one last—supremely lame thing. Reaching into your messenger bag (it's not a purse, kappa), you pulled loose the best friend any flight-born young man could afford—transparent binding. With textbook precision, you wrapped this around the lower joints of your wings, fastening the whole ensemble to your back. Now—it would take a veritable stampede of elephants to uncoil your wings. There was no way on Celestia's green earth that they could stretch for any unspecific reason whatsoever.

This was enough to give you an even breath. So—onwards you marched into the establishment, asking for a table for two.

“Are you Featherweight?” some blonde thing at the hosting podium asked between chewing gum smacks.

“Uhhhhh—”

“A Miss Glimmer is expecting you. Over at table twenty.”

“Uhhhh—”

Shit.

She beat you to it!

How is that even friggin' possible?! She doesn't know this town! She doesn't even have wings!”

Did she teleport? Is this gonna be some crazy obsessed stalker shit? Does Hoity Toity is gay?

A million thoughts enjoyed a diarrhea orgy all across your brain bone. Through such a numb cloud of dumb fartsposition, you limped—somewhat blindly—until a purple glint from an errant chakra stone directed your twitching vision to a table along the far end of the establishment. And then you heard a voice—a voice that shook you to the core—so delightfully mirthful and womany and angelic that it could only belong to her.

“Featherweight?” A smile. Kittens dancing. Valkyries moaning across thunderclouds. “Featherweight! Heehee—it is you! Hey—over here!”

You looked over. You looked up.

She was standing up, lifted by that smile—at a full height of six feet three inches. Somehow, on paper, you knew that she was tall. The photograph did the truth some justice, but it wasn't quite the same as this... as basking in the shadow of a goddess in a dark vest over a turquoise blouse with faded jeans. She looked so casual—but even if she wore a potato sack she would look like a majestic queen. It put every word that she had ever written to shame—even in their cutest accented handwriting—for nothing could possibly encapsulate the beautiful reality of what loomed before you, waiting to tip over and crush you with a wink or a kiss through your fragile skull.

So... no.

You are indeed not enough man for her. Not then, not now, not ever. You're a whispy whimper of a whiny punk, barely two years past teenagedom, with more perversions and complexes and insecurities than one could shake a stick at—and certainly not your stick.

Which is what shocked you all the more when—instead of flinching or diving out the nearest window in horror—she instead crossed the distance with one feminine swoosh of her limbs and placed a loving hand on your shoulder. Gentle. Kneading.

“Heheheh... you're just as adorable as in your photo!” There was the wink—but your life was somehow spared. “To be honest...” A whisper: “I like this hairstyle better. You look less like a monk.”

“Uhhhh—”

“Did you fly in all the way?! Pfft—you must be friggin' exhausted, sweetie!” She guided—more like tugged you to the table booth. “Come! Sit down! Rest those cute wings of yours!”

“Uhhhh—”

Like an idiot, you sat. Like an idiot, you trembled. Like an idiot, you nodded your head to all the rambling, joyous things she rolled off her tongue. Starlight Glimmer—as it turned out—is just as talkative in person as she is on paper. It simply... took you a few minutes of acclimating to the situation before you could even register the words coming out of her mouth. Then, as the blood in your body started flowing like normal again, you found the strength to sit still... to listen... and—yes—to even smile.

There is something quite... profoundly relaxing about Starlight Glimmer. You first experienced it that night, nestled behind the table like it was a bunker. It's as if she knew that you were a soft-spoken creature in reality. Rather than allow the moment to drown in undue awkwardness, she took control of the situation.

She took control... and in so doing she filled the moment with words, with warmth, with herself. She poured her heart and soul into the breadth of air between you, and soon it was toasty enough inside that you felt like the nearby patrons could roast marshmallows over your combined heads.

And once she had sliced more than a good few openings, you finally... finally took a moment to put a few words in yourself. But only once you felt confident. Only once you felt comfortable. And as your tongue joined in the dance, she slowed the pace of the conversation so you could match it, so that you wouldn't look quite so goofy on that invisible dance floor. And with every inane bit of whimsical conversation you entertained—from discussing the weather to virginsplaining the mechanics of proper photography—she took it all in stride, with eyes that stared at you... eyes full of patience and majesty, framed by the twinkle of pretty lashes and a purple chakra stone that occasionally sparkled whenever she giggled.

Magic is indeed a real thing. You only had to meet her in person.

Dinner was served. Some... fishy shit. Salmon and shrimp and... shit. Who the fuck cares. You were eating her in the whole time... drinking her girlish perfume in between pointless bites of nothingness. There was a second hunger lying beneath everything, even if you hovered safely above it on the currents of her innocent voice.

And then it came time for dessert, and things got scary.

You couldn't tell when it happened, but Starlight's voice had deepened slightly. Whimsy had slid over to make a warm seat for sultry, and before you knew it—she was breaching a brand new subject.

The subject. She tested the waters with the most subtle of inquisitions, too: “When did you first know that you were into 'giant' partners?”

You blinked. The hand you were using to hold the spoon of jello lifted from atop your ice cream sundae suddenly shook with gelatinous vulnerability. “Uhm... when was I first a macro-tard?” you burped, nearly going cross-eyed.

Somehow, she giggled at that. You didn't know whether to smile or jab the utensil into your dickhole. Death by sounding. Tonight at eleven. “Well, that's one way of putting it! But... yeah! When?” She leaned forward with a weighty wag to her painted eyelids. “Was it that one Saturday Morning Cartoon about Daring Do and the Cyclops Queen?”

“I... uh... n-never watched that show.”

“Oh! Right...” Starlight slapped her own forehead, causing the stone to flicker. “I keep forgetting I'm way older than you.”

She wasn't the only one. You were trembling once again. The jello told it to the universe—the scant few souls left in the establishment could look over and see a gamma ray burst about to happen. “I... uhm...” You cleared your throat. “I was super young at the time.”

“Pffft.” She winked. “Define 'young,' sweetie.”

“Mmmm...” You swallowed the jello as your barfed out your thoughts. “Mrrmmheerilee's gwaff.”

“Huh?”

You swallowed. “Cheerilee's class. Elementary school.”

“Whoah, that early?”

“Yeah. Some book we read about a dude who went to a world full of little people. It got me to thinking about... like... the opposite? Only I was a small person and everyone was... g-giant women.”

“Oh-oh really?” Starlight leaned her smiling chin on a wrist, looking too interested to be true. And yet it was oh-so-true. You shivered as her curiosity spilled further: “Tell me more.”

You've never told anyone “more.” In fact, you've never told anyone anything. Even in your letters to Starlight, this was all sacred information that was meant for the walls of your brain and nothing more. But after more than fifteen years of bouncing around with no relief, you finally found the courage—or the weakness—to share.

And share you did—telling her the silliest, doofiest fantasies you've ever had. Fantasies that continued epically on a nightly basis. Fantasies about being a lone little boi, lost in a strange land full of giant girls. About how they'd catch you and put you in a cage somewhere so they could smile at you and coo at you and giggle in your presence. You were such a silly, cute plaything to them, an absolute doll. The things they said echoed all of the teases hurled your way at the schoolyard, but none of them carried the malice. And even if these fantasy giantesses were malevolent, it was a cruelty that you could handle... that you could enjoy. Just as they enjoyed you—when they occasionally let you out of this fantasy cage to fantasy cavort all over their fantasy bodies. And they giggled at their silly little pet. And they smiled... as you smiled.

And somewhere a noodle-limbed, freckled-faced, bucktoothed you grew up humping the bed to this imaginary world, one awkward year after another, until you reached this point and place now, sitting proudly in public, opening up to a considerate grown woman who somehow wasn't laughing or vomiting at every soulful confession of your delicately metamorphosing libido.

And somewhere, in the midst of this, you became aware of a rock-hard erection burning a hole into the crotch of your pants. Only when you breathed out the last refrain of your long-winded recollection did you awaken to this horribly turgid reality, and how your wings were also threatening to burst through the flimsy binding you had made for them upon entering.

All things considered, you could have recovered from this...

...hadn't Starlight chosen that exact moment to reach her smooth, manicured hand across the table to rest atop your wrist. “I must say, I envy those girls. Having an adorable pet like that.” She winked. Something moved beneath her lips, all the while she stared down the most fragile piece of you through your eyes. “Something tells me I won't have to envy them for long.”

Shit...

The spoon fell from your spasming hand. It landed in the sundae, splattering cream across Starlight's forelimb and part of her blouse.

But that wasn't the only mess you made.

Shit...!

Your thighs clenched together, but it was too fucking late. And, to top that off, you felt a cascade of feathers across your neck and shoulders. Your goddamn binding had shattered like tinfoil! And now you felt your wings stabbing the back of the booth. People were looking over. A high-pitched whimper was filling the air—and it came from you.

“F-Featherweight...?” Some strange woman reacted to your overreaction.

“Shit...” You finally cursed out loud, but it sounded like a mewling kitten. Probably because you were already crying. Like a child. Such a Celestia-damned child. “Damn... d-damn...!” You tried to say something else—but you were hyperventilating at this point. You shifted your thighs again, and you felt the warm river of you dribbling lazily down one leg. Your eyes misted up to match the misery of the moment. “Mmmm—!”

Then—with a clatter—you scampered out from the table altogether. Heads turned. Plates clattered. You clamped two hands over your face in mid-sob and barreled out the exit. The door stung your pathetic bony limbs, but you limped on, into the urban misery and blight of Fillydelphian night. Your flight-born body instinctually leapt skyward, with the wind, but you couldn't get your wings to work. They were just too damned stiff—even after you had brought premature armageddon to your briefs. You stupid bastard. You stupid, pathetic, perverted little shitstain. Luna damn it all to Hell, why don't you just slide under a rock and hide there forever like the little worm that you are—

“Featherweight! Stop!”

You remember gasping.

She ran out after me?

Your heart leapt.

She ran out after me!

And then it sank.

No. Goddess dammit no—”

You tried to leap again. Stiff wings dragged in the air, and you came thundering back down towards the pavement of the parking lot.

A strong pair of arms caught you. “Sweetie, wait—!”

“Mmmf—” Like a stuck pigeon on the playground, you fussed and struggled. “Let me go—”

Starlight's arms encircled you. Tightly. Her soft bosom pressed into your back. Entrapped, you both fell together, deflating to the edge of the lot, so that you were sobbing and trembling within open glare of the cars swishing by. Her hands swept past your bangs, gentle, caressing, as if working to shield you from them too. Shield you from everything.

“Shhhh... it's okay... it's okay—”

“I'm so p-pathetic!” you whimpered.

“No you're not.”

“But I... I just couldn't—”

“Doesn't take a court magician to figure out what happened,” she said, both motherly and teasing all at once. Somewhere in between both tones, a warm melody ensued. “And I'm not mad, sweetie. Shhhh... you hear me? It's okay.” Her hands stroked your head and neck as she held you closer. “I'm not mad. Now please... please don't fly away.”

You couldn't. Even if you tried. Between your uselessly stiff wings and her strong, empowering arms, you weren't going anywhere. And—as her breaths lulled your sobs down a cold, calm slope—you found that it no longer mattered. You could scarcely feel the moistness in your crotch anymore, and your tongue still ached for the sweetness of the dessert you had so stupidly abandoned back there.

What was Starlight doing to you? Could this have come so easily before?

Then... you felt her lips kiss your forehead. But that wasn't the unexpected part. “Hmmmm... thank you,” she said.

Flabbergasted, you summoned the breath to murmur: “What f-for?” You sniffled, your face still awash with fresh tears. “What d-did I do?”

“It's just... well...” It was her turn to sound vulnerable, though she played it off with adorable nonchalance. “Real talk. But up until now... part of me was a littttle scared that maybe... just maybe... … … you were f-faking it about the whole 'virgin' thing. But... heheheheh...” She nuzzled your face and neck, sharing the smile up close. “Now I know the truth. And... and I couldn't be happier.” A deep gulp, followed by a painfully guilty expression. “Sorry for doubting, sweetie.” She bit her lip.

“Don't... don't be sorry...” You stammered. You wriggled an arm between the two of you to dry your face, the only “strong” thing you did all evening. “I... I just don't understand why—”

“It's this, okay?” She hugged you for emphasis, making sure her eyes reflected every delicate color of the moment. “This is what I want. Someone precious. Someone so sincere... so honest... so fragile... that...” She paused for breath—a warm one at that. You became acutely aware of two points along her bosom growing sharper against your back. “...that e-every little thing I say or do would move the very earth under your adorable feet.” A smile that could kill the Sun. “And I wouldn't even have to shrink you for it.”

And you remember staring at her, breathless, wondering if it was possible to fall in love with someone a hundred times in a single moment.

“Now... uhm... if we're both done feeding mosquitoes... what say we head back inside, sweetie?” She lifted you up with scarcely a finger. You clung to her like the feathers you are. “If nothing else... we'd better not let the waitress think we skipped out on her without paying a tip!”

You giggled. There was nothing else to do. “We c-can't let that happen.”

“Mmmmm. Nope!” And she hooked her arm with yours and led you back inside.

And it's safe to say—with all that's been lost and gained ever since—you've yet to limp back out.

I Have No Machismo and I Must Cream

You didn't come to this point in time right away. As fate would have it, that night at Steel Stables wasn't your last “dinner date” with Ms. Glimmer. Being shrunken down to the size of a toothpick for super kinky sexy times isn't something done in a week—much less a month—and there was a lot for you to prepare for. Physically, magically, and psychologically.

Long story short, you both enjoyed several “meetings” in the recent past, and most of them—okay, all of them—of the “safe for work” variety. In between simply getting to know one another, Starlight Glimmer reached into her purse and provided you with multiple reagents for—as she put it—“microcosmic practice.”

You could actually shrink yourself with the right ingredients! This doesn't come as a grand fucking surprise to anyone in Equestria; sorcerers have long been able to equip non-magic-born individuals with the materials necessary for casting their own spells... albeit in limited scope. And, in your case, Starlight has given you multiple “enchanted stones” for reducing your own size. Temporarily, of course. After all, Starlight isn't cruel—at least not when you aren't ready for her to be.

A good bulk of your dinner dates have consisted of her giving you instructions on how to properly use the stones and what kind of speech would be necessary to trigger the conjured spell. But—after the “homework” was properly prepared, the rest of the conversations were spent investing in one another, sharing fantasies, talking about life in general. It wasn't long until Starlight dominated the exchanges.

Naturally, she is way more interesting than you—although she would likely protest you saying such out loud. Simply put, she has a great deal more charisma and enthusiasm than you do, and this has manifested itself in prolonged bits of one-woman-rambling sessions. Not that you've minded one bit. You spent these entire dinner dates leaning forward with a dumb smile, staring at her face... and also her ample bosom. Surely she noticed—but Starlight never complained.

How could you be so friggin' lucky? Just what is it that Starlight sees in you?

It has occurred to you that maybe—just perhaps—this poor sexy woman is hella lonely. But that doesn't seem particularly true. She talks often about her “best besties” off in Ponyville.

Wait, Ponyville? But... that's where you grew up!

Sure enough, after a few date nights of conversation, you discovered that she lived for an extended period of time in your old home town. This was back when you were still growing into your teenage years and Ponvyille was an actual place of interest on the Equestrian map. Your youth is a fog of photographic nonsense—zipping back and forth and taking a bunch of inane pictures for the Foal Free Press. But there were a lot of stand-out occurrences back then: the Return of Nightmare Moon, the Rise and Fall of Discord, Tirek, Stormking, rumors of a portal that led to a place where everyone was a nonmagical quadruped. Truly fucking weird, epic stuff.

Was Starlight there the whole time? Helping out Princess Twilight and the other Elements of Harmony? She would have been a young woman of twenty-two, meanwhile you were a buck-toothed acne farm at aged ten. You wonder why you had never crossed paths. Then you start wondering about other stuff, and you feel more than a little bit dirty.

But, yes, Starlight has lived an interesting life. She's battled great threats to Equestria and enemies to harmony abroad. And now—in the prime of her life—her private obsession has led her straight to you. And she's invested a great deal of her personal stasssssh of magical reagents in training you to participate in something so dear and intimate to her. It's flattering, for fucking sure, but also more than a little bit intimidating.

What if you don't live up to her expectations? What if you can't perform well enough to satisfy her? What if this whole set up is for a fall and she never wants to talk to you again?

You stand here on the cusp of something grand—the death of your virginity and then some. What lies beyond is forever, and forever is a long dark place to spend alone... especially after having been abandoned for how pathetic and disappointing you are.

But then—at the start and end of each night—you feel Starlight's hands on your shoulder, gentle and kneading. Sisterly, motherly, and yet somehow super fucking hot all the same. And at a particularly tender moment in mid-conversation, she will smile and reach across the table to stroke the back of your wrist.

And each moment reminds of you how she held you dearly outside the Steel Stables on that first night... how she kept you from flying away because you were too overcome with the shame of who you are and your shortcomings (or short cummings, kappa). And something almost convinces you—almost—that there is nothing to be afraid of. There's something special about you. She's seen it, and maybe you will too. You just have to have faith. And hope. And there's nobody in your life you feel more obliged to believe in than this most beautiful and ravishing Ms. Glimmer.

So, to put it lightly, you've followed her magical “homework” instructions with the strength and dedication of a fucking zealot. The details given in how to handle the enchanted stones are quite meticulous.

“Blame Twilight,” Starlight often says, giggling nervously out the side of her mouth.

“Wait...” You will squint at her, tonguing the inside of your mouth. “Which 'Twilight'? Do you mean the Princess of Friends—?”

“Can you recite the magic words, Featherweight?” She wags a finger, like a teacher. She is a teacher.

Micro Equus Invocum.

These words have been burned into the surface of your fucking eyelids. To put it lightly, you've taken Starlight Glimmer's instructions very... very seriously. The last thing you want to do is fail her. And although she's insisted time and time again that the preparation—and the goal—are both incredibly safe, you still don't want to suffer any stumbles. For her sake.

Micro Equus Invocum—when spoken in the vicinity of the enchanted stones, these words cause the invoker to experience the magic contained within the reagents. In other words, beholding the ingredients given to you by Starlight and quoting the mantra allows you to undergo a temporary shrinking spell. Since the second “dinner date,” Starlight's started you out with small doses of magic—instructing you to go through with the spell-practice within the safety of your own seclusion. You've afforded this whenever you've been able to—waiting for your roommates to go to their jobs and make themselves scarce. It's not like they pay much mind to you wanting to be alone; they rarely give two shits about whatever it is you're doing anyways. You've been pretty much friendless until you met Starlight.

Anyways—the “homework” spells. All things considered, it's been a pretty fucking slow-burn in getting to a point where you and Starlight can do anything even vaguely moist. But you don't mind one bit. You're a nervous basket-case of a flight-born faerie, and there's something incredibly relaxing about Starlight taking things slow... hand-holding you until your limbs are too disproportionately mismatched to do anything but smother one with the other's palm. Dear Goddess, you get hard just thinking about it...

But, yes, the spells have been most... interesting, to say the least. The bare bones procedure was to strip of your clothes and squat on your bed before the stones before initiating the magic. The first experiment wasn't much to shake a stick at. In the privacy of your own tiny bedroom, you stammered the mantra: “Micro Equus Invocum!” But you didn't notice anything at first. The stones dimmed slightly and the room fluctuated with enchanted energy, but that was that. You didn't notice the ceiling growing further away or the curtained windows “enlarging” to your perspective. There was a brief flicker of fear in your heart that Starlight was pulling a prank on your naive ass.

And then you tried hopping down from the bed... and you fell. The carpet was a few feet further away than you remembered it. Stumbling back to your feet, you gasped to realize that you were... half the size than you previously were. Starlight's spell had essentially shrunken you to the size of a small child. A tiny heart thumped madly in a small chest, and you scampered towards the mirror in your room to inspect the reality of the moment. Your eyes were granted a brief snapshot of a frightened little doll treading across the floor—tender and previous and easy prey for all kinds of lurching, stomping, big-breasted carnivores. And then—just as you were starting to gasp—the spell ended, and you shot up like a rocket until you were once again your full height. True, you've always been a small young man, but for a brief and heavenly moment you were smaller... and you felt bad for having broken the rules by stumbling out of the bed before the ritual was over.

Like a guilty grade-schooler, you reported the matter to Starlight at the next date. She exploded in giggles and reached across the table to scoop you into a tight hug. Her face was beet-red for some reason, and she navigated a thin veil of sweat to wink at you, smile, and say, “You are going to be sooooooo much fun.”

Needless to say, you were shivering by the time you performed the next experiment. “Micro Equus Invocum!” This time, the stones shrank you to a fourth of your regular size. You crawled around—naked and numb—having witnessed the bed increase from a twin to a queen to a king in the space of a gasp. Your room resembled the hangar for a zeppelin, and the posters on your wall stretched like billboards. Also—for whatever reason—it felt as though your senses were growing more refined. The fabric softener of your pillow and blankets grew four times as intense, and—much to your chagrin—you could smell your roommates' dirty laundry from two rooms over.

Starlight had told you that—with each invocation of the spells—their effects would grow more and more intense. And it wasn't just a shrinking spell placed upon the stones, but a piece of the Collapsing Cabal's protection aura was slipped in as well—perhaps as a last-second precaution to protect you in case something stupid or crazy happened while you were in the middle of doing “homework.” But there had to have been something else to it as well... something that set your nerves on fire and made every tiny sensation a sudden, large, and overwhelming cornucopia of feeling. You also noticed that you... … ...stayed hard longer. Was there some aphrodisiac element to the spell? Or, perhaps, did blood circulate differently when you were smaller?

You couldn't help but... indulge more than a little bit in the whole matter. By the time you were doing your fourth spell, you had properly taped a series of magazine spreads all across the headboard of your bed. So, by the time the stones had shrunken you, your eyes lifted up to see enormous voluptuous pinups of Equestria's finest ladies—only now they stretched like glossy paper giantesses before you. Their eyes sultry. Their expressions hungry and ravenous.

You waddled across the plush duvet of your bedspread, bouncing as though you were on the moon. Shivering and breathless, your naked self gazed up at the harem of Amazons and you... simply fell back, limp and erect at the same time. You touched yourself in places you never before thought accessible, all the while staring at this veritable tsunami of estrogen bearing down on you. There were whimpers—moans even—but... you didn't come.

Halfway through the matter, your thoughts lingered on Starlight. And it occurred to you that these experiments were about more than just living out an erotic fantasy that was becoming more and more real with each excursion. Every waking thought of every day was practically drenched in the thought of her... of how sexy her body was... how gentle her touch felt... how warm her breaths were and how angelic her voice sounded. When you crossed the street to get to your latest employer, you were thinking about her violet eyes. When flying over the treetops of Everfree to snap photos of local wildlife, you thought of her giggling voice between rambling narrations of her life in Canterlot... and you smiled.

You smiled. This woman did more than just turn you on. She made you happy... and—cynicism aside—you can't truly recall a moment in your life when you could assuredly state that you've been “happy” before. And—with or without the promise of shattering your virginity—you nevertheless found yourself anticipating each visit and “dinner date” with this lovely goddess more and more.

It was almost as if—dare you say it—you've been falling in love with Starlight Glimmer.

Could you possibly be any stupider? This was all about a Classifieds ad that you had answered. An ad that Starlight had made when she was drunk. You were nothing more than a variable in an equation that she was solving—one that she had gone through the motions of before—with other partners far more experienced than you. So what if she was asking for a virgin? Yes, you're filling that role, but once it's been tasted—there won't be any of it left. And then what will become of you?

Starlight will move on. That's what. You will no longer be the special element in her niche fantasy, and she will not have any need of you.

And... you're okay with that, right? Surely you will have to be. Perhaps if you kept all of this as purely sexual, then you wouldn't be taking the prospect of a one-night's-stand as something so... harrowing. So soul-crushing. You just had to keep your dick in it. Nothing else.

Then why is it that you couldn't orgasm to the moment when you were in the throes of the experiment? Was Starlight a bigger thing than... bigger things? What if there was something you could do to preserve what you've been lucky enough to win so far? More and more opportunities just to listen to Starlight... to see her smile... to hear her laugh and feel her warm, loving fingers stroking your hand and shoulder like you belonged to her.

You belong to her. But will you forever?

A crazed, desperate thought thusly ripped through your young masculine mind: you have to give her a reason to keep you. Virgin or no-virgin, you gotta find a way to make this one-night-stand last forever.

And it became all the more pressing when she finally declared a date for the two of you. The date. It worked perfectly with your dual work schedules. You'd both have a break at the start of the month. You would go to her place in Canterlot. She would shrink you and then take you for a romantic, formal date at the secret meeting place for the Collapsing Cabal. Then—after socializing and meeting with her fellow fans of the microcosmic persuasion—you would be taken back to her place...

And you would be taken.

Forever, as it turns out, wasn't that far from now. You had to prepare, asshole.

So you assigned yourself a second string of “homework” to perform alongside her magical instructions. While you shrank yourself more and more—preparing for the ultimate transformation on that most magical night coming up—you went to the library and read every (and you do mean every) fucking book on sexuality, romantic self-help, female anatomy, social skills. You name it. If it was put to pen, you read it and committed it to memory.

You studied up on every conceivable body part of a woman. You read up on the “secrets” to good love-making in every men's magazine... women's magazine... teenage girl magazine... Barnyard Bargains catalogue. Anywhere and everywhere. You researched hard so that—just in case—if the final spell went wrong and you couldn't be reduced to the size of a toothpick, you could at least perform with one.

You did kegels. You went on jogs. You ate protein shakes, protein bars, protein cereal, protein soup. You watched a fuck-ton of retro Smash Fortune flicks. Anything you could do to immerse yourself in all things manly. You've even forsaken masturbation for two weeks straight—a miniature no-nut Neighvember, if you will—like a boxer preparing for a main event. For you indeed did have a “Main Event” coming up, and you had every intention to not be coming up prematurely once the moment struck. For Starlight's sake, if nobody else's.

And if maybe... just maybe you could impress her enough...

...then perhaps she won't be tired of you once you no longer qualify for that Classifieds ad. And you won't have to embrace forever alone.

And before you know it—between the mantras and the exercises and the nights spent lying in bed staring at the claustrophobic ceiling as your hormones did battle with your emotions—the first of the month finally arrives.

And here you are...

And here you stand... …

Alone at the Fillydelphia railroad station with a ticket in hand. You've left your apartment for a week's “vacation,” having told your roommates that you're “off to visit family in Ponyville.” Truth is, you're heading to another part of Equestria completely: Canterlot. It'll be your first time going there for a reason other than business. You would have flown, but Starlight insisted on buying you a ticket to get there via train. Perhaps she meant it as a nice gesture—to have you rest your wings and relax for your time spent arriving at her place. But part of you thinks she's being a cruel mistress for once by elongating the trip and forcing you to endure so many thoughts and misgivings along the way. She does like to tease you, after all.

Nevertheless, it is awfully generous of her to pay for your transportation. This is on top of the fact that she's paid for all of the magic stones that you utilized in preparing for ultimate shrinkage. So much has come out of her purse to make this weekend the most magical thing ever, and just what did you do to deserve any of it? And does she value you as much as she values the fantasy that you're about to perform for her?

In any case, the ticket is a load off your wallet. You don't exactly make the most money as a freelance photographer, and this “vacation” is something you can scarcely afford. Part of you gnaws your lip at the thought of just how you're going to pay your portion of the utility bill once you return from Canterlot. Odds are, your roommates will finally throw you out. Wouldn't be the first time you've been kicked out of house and home. But—if it means achieving the mother of all microsmic experiences—then it's more than worth it.

Doesn't help that you spent an extra fortune on... something on the side. You take a look into your messenger bag and you see it—the rectangular velvet box nestled safely among your other packed-things. It's small enough to fit snugly between the digits of two fingers. You made sure it didn't resemble a ring case; no point in giving Starlight the wrong idea. Nevertheless, it's a special thing you had commissioned over the past few weeks, swallowing up the bulk of your earnings over the last month. Will Starlight like it? There's no telling yes or no, but you're Tartarus-bent on showing her how much she's meant to you lately.

She's made you happy. Even if this whole excursion is a bust, you must somehow return the favor.

You zip your messenger bag shut, take a deep breath, and step onto the train as it carries off to Canterlot.