A Binding Symphony

A Binding Symphony

You’re lying on your bed, feeling aroused by the mare sitting next to you. Your boxers, made of silk cotton continuously rub against the very noticeable lump between your legs. Every time you try hard to adjust and hide it, your growth becomes that much more visible to your visitor. She smiles with lust in her eyes, and says, “Oh, it seems somebody likes what they see.”

The only light in the room are candles hanging securely around the walls that create a luminous dance of shimmering fires upon their holders. They’re bright enough so that you can easily see her, but not so bright as to ruin the romance of the moment. You can also detect the perfect amount of their vanilla scent wafting from the wax, which makes you sigh with alleviation.

The sight you see before you is not one you could’ve predicted to see before this day, nor did you ever think that it would turn you on in the slightest, but it does.

It’s Octavia in two pairs of pink socks, with her laced panties donning the same pigment. She stands a few feet away from the bed, parallel to you, so that you have a good view of what she has done for you. Your mind is racing with confusion, and excitement. You’re ecstatic to know what she has in store, but, at the same time, you’re having second thoughts of performing this dance between bodies.

The main fact that bothers you is that she’s a pony, and you’re human. Only a day in this world, and I'm about to screw a pony... Is there something wrong with me, or is this natural? It’s mind boggling, and it makes you so nervous that you begin to break into a feverish sweat. I-... I need think of why I am doing this, and quick. I don't want to offend her by my hesitation.

You begin to think of the day before you met her. You were preparing for a concert back in New York City at one of the city’s most prestigious stages, Carnegie Hall. You could barely contain your excitement; not just because of the location, but the fact that you were going to have your own solo in a violin version of Fur Elise.

* * *

On your way out, you were carrying a violin in its case and a book-bag strapped to your back. Inside was some change of clothes for afterwards. You had dressed yourself in a formal, black tux with a red tie, and were beginning to make your way down the stairs of your apartment. That is, until your cell phone rang. You set your violin down, and answered, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mr.(Your Name)?” a man asked in a monotone voice.

“Yes, this is him.”

“I’m afraid I have bit of bad news for you.” You started to sweat, because you knew what he was about to say. “I was informed by the program director to call everyone who was supposed to play tonight, and tell them that concert has been, uh...cancelled...”

You closed your eyes and jabbed your fingers to your eyebrows in frustration, sighing loudly. That was the third cancellation this year, the other two venues were not as respected as the Carnegie Hall, so you didn’t feel compelled to be upset over them. But this concert was monumental to your career. It could have possibly changed your entire life.

You wouldn’t have to work at your minimum wage job anymore, and you could live in a more respectable apartment. Unfortunately, it seemed your destiny was not meant for the life of luxury, but instead decides that you deserved two metaphorical punches to the face and one more in the gut.

As calmly and politely as you can, you asked, “Excuse me, but would you happen to know why?”

The man grunted, as if the question was an inconvenience to him, and answered, “Not enough tickets were sold for tonight.”

Figures! you thought. You had to force yourself to keep an even voice. “Thank you, sir. Have a good evening.” You hung up the phone, finished, and slowly slumped back to your apartment.

Once inside, you dropped your book-bag and violin case at the front door, walked to your living room, and laid down on your garage-sale couch. You turned to your right and stared at the many first-place awards you’ve earned from state-wide competitions hanging on the cracked wall across from you. You began to think, What a waste of time. I spent a large portion of my life practicing to become the best, only to find out that people don’t care for classical music anymore. You punched the side of the couch. The idiocracy of it all is disgruntling. They don’t understand that without classical music; none of the other genres would exist.

After letting off some steam, you decided to go into your puny kitchen to find something to calm yourself. You searched through your paint-peeled cabinets to find your decent-sized bottle of 10 year-old scotch.

I was going to save this for a special occasion, but seeing as that won’t happen anytime soon...

You poured yourself a shot glass you found next to the bottle, raised the glass in the air, and, in your best mock british accent, you quoted a line from one of your favorite movies, “There's a special rung in hell reserved for people who waste good scotch. And seeing as I might be rapping on the door momentarily... ” You chugged it, the burn of the alcohol stinging your throat, but the aftertaste was amazingly sweet.

Sighing pleasantly, you placed the glass down, and continued, “I must say, damn good stuff, sir.” You laughed a bit at the joke and thought. Well, I don’t have anything better to do tonight. Might as well drink some more, but first...

You set the glass and bottle on the rustic counter, went into your room, and changed out of out of your formal clothing into some comfortable sleeping attire: a pair of loose boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. If I’m going to drink, at least I’ll pass out comfortably.

You walked back to the kitchen, grabbed the scotch and shot glass, and headed into the living room. Setting them down on your cracked, wooden coffee table, you sat, and leaned back against the couch. The bottle stood there, begging you to have another drink of its strong, sweet nectar. It’s taunting took control of you, and you grabbed the scotch before pouring yourself another drink.

You raised the glass once more into the air and gave yourself a silent toast. To a pointless dream that only exist in fairy tales, cheers mate. Tipping the glass into your mouth, you noticed the burn of the alcohol was weaker this time around due to the fact that you were a bit of a lightweight. Your mouth felt partially numb, but its sweet aftertaste took over and left you in a state of pure bliss.

Deciding that drinking one shot at a time wasn’t enough, you took the bottle, tipped it back, and let a large amount of the delicious liquid flow through your mouth all while leaning your head back over the couch. Regretfully, you pulled the bottle away from your mouth, only to stare at it in your hands. You felt the pleasant effects of the alcohol consume you.

Your concentration declined increasingly, and the world around you began to spin. You felt the inclination to laugh hysterically, and you spilt some of the scotch on yourself. With a pause, you felt the liquid run down your leg as you stared at the bottle again with your brows furrowed and said, “Hey, hey, hey, Why you make me drink my spill?” You snorted and then felt the obligatory sense to sleep. The room darkened as you collapsed to the floor.