The Life And Times of a Terrible Pony

I started having dreams, the day after my mother died. I had never had dreams I remembered before. I started sleepwalking, as well - or, something similar. Most days I wake up at seven AM sharp, panicked and in a sweat, and rush to go...somewhere. It has not escaped my notice that this pattern is exactly like the day she died, where I awoke at seven AM sharp with a cold panic in my blood an a certain knowledge in my heart that by mother had just passed. That day I had jumped up and ran from the house, unwashed and undressed, and I did not stop galloping until I arrived, panting and sweat soaked, at the doors to the Canterlot hospital.

Teleporting would have been faster, of course, but I’m not the best at magic, it it hardly crossed my addled brain to try.

These days I rarely make it pa at my bedroom door, but at the start - before Pony who Doesn’t Matter was around for me to let my stress out on - I often shook myself from my haze in the middle of the yard, one even in the middle of the street.

But, the dreams. I want to tell you about the dreams.

The first one I remember intimately, and I can picture it perfectly still. It was the day after she died - I didn’t fall asleep until just before the sun rose. Funny, now that I think back, how I was falling apart but Princess Twilight still awoke at dawn to raise the sun. Good on you, Princess. I hope I can affect you enough to delay your duty. That would surely be an accomplishment worthy of writing down.

The dream started with myself, as a colt again. I was a gangly little thing, legs too long, horn too long, thin in body and face. My mane didn’t have its silver streaks quite yet so it was still a wash of pretty grey-blue, curling wildly with my bed head. I dreamt I was awaking, as cliche as that sounds, in a Sunday morning - I was off school, and had planned to spend the whole day with my mother, learning from her. Days like that did indeed happen in my past, learning tricks of the trade of course - but that’s not what my subconscious had in store for me.

Instead here she was, coated in leather and bearing a face of such cruel intent I can hardly sit still even picturing it. “Darling,” she said, “Come in, and close the door.” It was a nasty sneer, a voice I’d only heard from her in life when she was commenting on King Sombra. A voice she’d probably use to comment on a stallion like me, to be honest.

I digress.

I walked into her bedroom, more of a high society dungeon on my dream, and closed the door. Aunt Sweetie was tied to the bed, hooves all spread and tummy down, her back a red mess of lashes. I approached the bed, eyes wide with wonder, and Mother put a hoof around me. “Velour,” she started, “This is our legacy. The pain we leave in our wake. Do keep it going for me, will you?” It was so much like something she’d actually said to me that I startled awake, panting and gasping for air.

Mother once said to me, on a Sunday afternoon where I made my first dress and sold it - “Velour, this is our legacy. The smiles we leave in our wake. Do keep it going for me, will you?” Her eyes where filled with kindness and I didn’t know what to say. I hugged her, and in that moment, I did see the appeal of just...doing good things for other ponies. I saw a life before me that would be so easy, so sweet - just making things and helping ponies and loving all around me. Growing up to have a family, a company, and a tight circle of friends.

But it’s just so hard to keep myself from doing things that feel good. I don’t want to stop myself, anymore. But I did that day.

...this memory is getting quite painful, so do pardon me for cutting it short.

The next dream involves my awaking, still as a colt, though younger this time, to her fucking me with an immense strap on. Now, I know I’ve made myself to be rather a dominant figure thus far, and don’t get me wrong, that is how I usually see myself. But my philosophy is one of basking in all the pleasures of life, so I do love a good buggering when one comes up. Even being dominated, in a circumstance like this, can be delicious to me. I wouldn’t do it willingly, but then, that’s never stopped me, so why would it stop any hypothetical future attacker? It certainly didn’t stop another during this dream.

The white colt on the bed pounds his hooves on the headboard and screams, and cries. I watch this both through the eyes of the colt, which is me, and from a far off perspective. This colt doesn’t have his cutie mark yet, and is crushed under the weight of his mother, pressing him into the bed and fucking hon with only his own ass blood as lube. “Take it, take it!” Rarity cries, squealing in delight. I remember the dick stopped being a strap on at some point during the dream, and was instead her own cock, forcing me into the mattress and flaring inside me as she pumped me full of cum. “Have mommy’s babies!” She coos, hips twitching through her orgasm, grinding my face into the mattress with one hoof.

I awoke, groggy and hard as a rock, more turned on than I’d been since I first raped Silver Seashell. The portrait of my mother in the wall stared down at me, unfeeling, as a masturbated - and it didn’t even blink when I came on the ground before it like an offering. I had never before worshipped, but in that moment, I desired nothing more than to be blessed by the goddess I bowed before.

Signed, Velour.
End Entry the Third.