Saddled

Despite his prior misgivings, the city was a visually impressive place, and his host was more than happy to show him the unique and special elements which defined and heightened its image. Mac had never really been a pony for complicated urban architecture, but he had to admit that there was a beauty in the buildings and public features, the way they curved and rose, the ornate decoarations carved into the stone itself. The pride that had been poured into the construction of the city was evident, and Tajir lamented that they did not have an opportunity to see the actual spectacles of the city, but rather the middling structures that loomed over the streets on the way to his estate.

"Perhaps you can return in the future, and we can visit the sights and the great displays of my home," he mused. "The Grand Bazaar, the Stately Palace, and a day of plays and poetry, to name only a few suggestions. Proper demonstrations of culture and mesmerising art. I regret that we cannot do so now, but I believe that there is a saying in Equestria; do not mix your pleasure with your business? We aim to do similar here, and we must take care of business before we take care of anything else." He smiled warmly and led Mac through the streets, pedestrians parting to make way for him.

The walk was hot even in the shade of the buildings, and Mac was glad to see them drawing close to their destination, though that was swiftly overshadowed by his awe at the sight. He'd expected Tajir to have a large house, perhaps a multi-storey appartment rather than the squat houses or single floors of rising flats he'd seen as they travelled through the streets, but he hadn't expected what could only be compared to a mansion. It sat on its own, away from the combined masses of homes and other buildings, a street running the length of its facade, and possessed three floors, plus a stone bannister on the roof which, judging from the presence of creatures he couldn't make out, acted as a fourth floor. The structure towered above the white brick walls around its perimeter, a sturdy iron gate securing its entrance. He had to remember to continue walking, trying not to gawk as the gate was opened from within and the two of them were granted entry, a path leading through a narrow garden space to a flight of polished stone steps.

The interior was no less lavish, the ceiling stretching three times his height, and dusky colours decorating almost every wall he laid eyes on. Burnt oranges, browns, caramel yellows, forming proudly cut shapes and designs, curving and spiking, while the open spaces were framed by arches and columns, pillars and buttresses. His head swam trying to make sense of it, and his host let out a good-natured chuckle at the apparent expression on his face.

"It is marvellous," Tajir agreed. "I sometimes forget, with it being so normal to me, but my guests allow me to feel that sense of wonder that has long faded into the background for me. I should do more to be grateful for its splendour." He nodded to himself, as if making a mental note, and flagged a passing servant, who hurried over. With a few words, he gestured to Mac, and stepped aside as the servant reached for Mac's luggage, only straining slightly as the big red earth pony let them go. Without any complaint, and the merest lingering gaze on the foreigner, the servant strode away, heaving himself up the stairs to the floor above. "He shall take those to your room and unpack for you while we discuss matters of importance. He shall not take anything of yours for himself, but if you suspect that he has, you need only tell me, and I shall punish him severely."

"That's mighty kind of you," Mac murmured awkwardly. "But ah trust that your servants won't do anythin' untoward. Ah reckon you would've vetted 'em or somethin', right?" At the tilt of the horse's head, Mac moved on. "Thank you very much for hostin' me here. This is quite the place."

"It is the least I could do for such a distinguished guest," the horse replied. "But do not be losing yourself in my home's beauty and wonder just yet, Mr Apple! As was said before, we must conduct our business first!" He laughed again, gesturing for the stallion to follow him upstairs too. "A significant shame that your sister could not be here to experience this. I believe she would have kinder words for it than she did for my customs."

At the mention of Applejack, Mac's mood soured. The grandeur of the hotel-sized house had wiped those thoughts from his mind, but now he felt the worry and the discomfort come rushing back. "Ah reckon she would..."

"Come, now," Tajir assured him. "She will not be harmed. I have given you my word, and I shall keep my word. She shall not be mistreated. She shall be granted the respect and dignity of a mare whose attitude needs correction, and nothing more." He saw Mac nod, but the pony's expression didn't change, and the horse frowned. "I understand this may be strange and difficult, and please rest assured that I do not want that. You will see her tomorrow, and I promise you that she will be able to personally confirm that she was not treated improperly."

The horse's certainty surprised Mac, and he found himself feeling a little calmer. If his sister told him everything had gone smoothly, then he couldn't argue with that. Tajir's confidence in her attitude either meant that he'd underestimated the mare, or that he had absolute faith in the system and its operators. He chose to believe the latter.

"Eeyup," he spoke at last. "We'll see tomorrow."

"Indeed we will, mister McIntosh, indeed we will." Tajir strode along the tiled hallway, opening a door for the stallion and ushering him into an air-conditioned office decorated mostly by thick-leafed plants. "Until then, we have some very important business to take care of, followed by an opportunity to enjoy the splendours of my home. I think you will like it very much."

As he stepped inside, the stallion felt the nerves of the upcoming negotiation overtake his concerns for his sister. There was the matter at hand to deal with, and then...well, maybe he could allow himself some time to relax. He'd been worrying and fretting all day. That couldn't be good for his health. Still, there was something trustworthy about Tajir, and the horse's assurances did a lot to ease his mind.

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Applejack was in good hands.

The hands were insistent, but not rough, working with a precision and efficiency that told her this wasn't the first time they'd done this. Applejack writhed, trying fruitlessly to avoid their touch, but they persisted, their calloused fingers and coarse palms travelling up and down her body methodically. They'd given a warning to her when she kicked out at them, not enough to do any harm, just enough to discourage them getting closer, but then they'd pointed at a ball and chain against a rack, and she'd forced herself to stay still, glowering at them as they'd resumed their attentive touching.

They started with her legs, lifting her hooves up so that they could wash her down with a damp cloth, followed by a hasty rub with a towel to remove any dirt and the moisture. They followed the grooves of her frog, delving into the crevices and making sure to be thorough. She winced and wiggled, but gritted her teeth and endured it, allowing them to give her something not dissimilar to a pedicure that Rarity tried to make her get in the spa back in Ponyville, though she doubted the fashionista would approve of this technique. They moved upwards, cleaning her pasterns and rubbing in circles up her calves and over her shins, past her knees and up her thighs. Despite the dubious nature of the situation, the experience wasn't wholly unpleasant; she couldn't remember anypony ever being this attentive with her, and she found herself alternating between pulling away and relaxing at the inviting touch.

Bare hands followed the wet and dry rags, slathered in something warm, thin, and slick. Applejack had heared of oil being used by masseurs - she'd spent enough time around Rarity to have heard about just about every possible style and technique of body care - but she'd never seen or experienced it herself. The oil didn't seem to drip or dribble, or run in droplets down her skin, nor did it pool and coagulate in her coat. Instead, it seemed to become another layer of her, seeping into her fur and resting weightlessly on her skin, the gentle heat and subtle slickness all that remained after the hands smoothed and rubbed it in, spreading it evenly over her body. She watched as the horse responsible for applying the fluid dipped his hands into a ceramic bowl and collected a helping of the liquid, never needing more than what stuck to his palms to cover entire segments of her limbs.

The effect was delayed, and Applejack barely noticed it at first. The warmth that accompanied the oil she had assumed was just the difference in air temperature, given that the cellar or basement or wherever they were was shielded from the sun and the walls and ceiling were solid, heavy stone. As the warmth spread, rising in temperature, she wondered if it was a muscle lotion, the sort she and Mac had used at home to deal with strains and mild injuries. It certainly had the same relaxing feeling to it, the comfort that such a targeted remedy would bring to a weary body, but this was more encompassing, and didn't diffuse as it filled more and more of her. It crept deeper into her body, a wave of relaxation and calm passing through skin and flesh and muscle and filling her with a delightful giddiness. Where he touched, a path of bliss followed, the coarse hands passing over iron-clad legs and reducing them to limp, loose noodles.

There was something else, too, something that the mare didn't notice until the oil had been applied up to her hips. Beyond the weightlessness it brought, her affected areas buzzed and tingled, the air around her seeming to hum, while the areas left unaffected felt unsually dulled. She barely reacted to horse rubbing at her abdomen, the pressure of the washcloth and towel hardly registering even as her toned six pack was polished neatly, while every shift in the air near her legs felt like a gust, tickling her coat and brushing against her skin like a warm summer breeze. When the workers moved or changed angles, she felt it, the subtle displacement of the air heightened into a directed airflow that teased her sensitive skin.

When she realised it, the change was obvious; the cloths had felt feather-light across her abs, even as they were insistently pressed against her iron belly, but the slathered hands danced over the bumps cleanly and fluidly, and left her shivering not with cold, but pent-up enjoyment. The heat and the sensitivity, juxtaposed against the serenity and absence of tension, left her roiling with energy she couldn't get rid of, and so she trembled just a little bit, fighting back the sighs she so desperately wanted to utter. It got harder as they moved up her sides and back, the muscles which carried years of taut stress and unrelenting work loosening at the unspoken command of the horse palming her. She shook her head in resistance as her muzzle was brushed and dabbed, growling at the unwanted touch, but she couldn't find the resolve to pull away from the oiled hands as they gently pinched her cheeks and delicately ran up her throat and around the back of her neck, working to cover as much of her as possible.

She was going slack in her chains long before they reached her face, the impact of the oil leaving her head flagging. The sweet fragrance floated to her nose, lingering as the hands ran over her forehead and the upside of her muzzle, the warmth it carried floating down into her lungs. It wasn't harder to breathe, but it was that much more intense, and now her entire body was rising to this heightened level of perception, feeling every twitch that ran through her muscles, every rub of her body against itself or something against her, and every ripple through the air in the room. She wobbled in her chains, her head swaying as her mind struggled to process the vividity of what she was experiencing. She'd felt adrenaline before, and she'd been sedated before, but this was a bizzare amalgamation of the two, leaving her confused and disoriented. She was roaring with energy and power, but at a loss for what to do. Her body was riled and powerful, but her mind was unwilling to take any course of action. She was antsy and impatient, but comfortable and content.

"Wh-what's happening?" she murmured, her breaths deepening. "What are y'all doin' to me?" They didn't answer, and she looked up at one of them as they stood back to watch on, the worker doing the oiling running his slick hands through her tail. "Ain't this gonna affect y'all too? Ain't y'all gonna be stumblin' and wobblin'?"

"Not us," the horse in front of her stated. He seemed to be the leader, or at least spoke enough Ponish to take the lead on these sorts of things. "Strong. Powerful. We not affect. You, you not strong. You weak. You affect. It correct you, make you useful."

The words swirled around Applejack's head, refusing to form into anything coherent. She winced, the strain of focusing bashing into her instincts to stop. It wasn't a physical hurt, but it was far more insurmountable than any pull or strain she'd ever experienced, and she stopped trying to make it make sense. She focused on her breathing instead, controlling her ins and outs as the stallion moved from her tail to her dock, and then down to her sculpted buttocks, mercifully passing over the cotton of her boyshorts. She didn't wiggle this time, clenching only slightly as he passed over her mons and through her crevice, a strangely professional ethos to his movements as he unabashedly but clinically travelled up and down her loins, leaving no part of her free from his oily application. Her underwear, although a barrier to his direct touch, was no defence against the oil, and it seeped through with ease, the effects following shortly after.

Applejack didn't see him move, but she felt the absence of his hands when he pulled away, and felt them attach to her chest. She grunted and opened her eyes, only realising at that moment she'd been clenching them shut, and gazed down at her slumped body, her breasts in the hands of a stallion she hadn't even had a full conversation with. He cupped them carefully, sliding up and down their slickening surface and through her cleavage, and grasped them to rub in the oil through her bra as it rapidly took effect. She knew the horses were done with her, at least for this stage of their disgusting game, when they stepped back to admire their work.

The orange mare had never really been vain, at least not in the same way as Rarity was. She'd acknowledged her body and its strengths, and even boasted a little to rile up competitors, but she'd never felt the need to stop and admire herself or stare in awe and facsination. Now, as the horses unclipped her bra to caress her back and chest more thoroughly, she did; she watched as her brown, thumb-wide nipples stiffened and protruded an inch from her mounds, proudly capping her c-cups like a cherry on a cupcake. They were big, she realised, more self-aware and conscious of her body than she'd ever been in her life. She didn't dislike it - she admired her natural exceptions, a swell of satisfaction passing through her as her features came to prominence, exposed and highlighted for others to admire. They should admire her, after what they'd put her through! If they wanted to see what she had, they'd best well admit she had the body of a pony who didn't deserve to have it hidden away.

She felt the horses moving around her, but she didn't really register it as anything more than movement before they cut the straps of her bra with a firm snap and threw the ruined garment to the floor, then reached out and grabbed a handful of breast, squeezing experimentally and pulling a hissed groan from her. The one groping her laughed, calling the other over to join in. She assumed he had, at least, since that's what happened; the other came and grabbed her free tit, clenching more tightly so that his fingertips sank into her boobflesh, evoking a yelp from her at the roughness. They laughed again, expressing what sounded like approval at her reaction, ignoring her as she pulled at the chains, wanting to rub at the spot where he'd gripped her like he owned her. Oddly, the moment of discomfort passed, transforming into a dull pleasure that rested in her bosom, a reminder of what he'd done. It felt good, transfusing her with a subtle joy that gnawed at her, leaving her wanting more, like an ignorable itch that just wouldn't go away, keeping her tempted to return to deal with it without forcing her hand.

She wasn't given much opportunity to mull through her thoughts as her molesters continued trying out their latest creation, toying with her bust in whichever way they felt appropriate. They pushed her swells together, they lifted and dropped the two jiggling weights, they applied pressure to various parts of her squeezable bosom, and through it all, she was yanked from the unfocused thoughts of her swirling, hazy mind to huff and moan, grunting as quietly as she could. The pinch of her buds was what made her squeal and throw back her head, her cuffs rattling and clanking as she tugged urgently at them. Predictably, they continued, pincering her thick nips between their forefingers and thumbs and squeezing in bursts, forcing a feral melody from the female. The spikes of pleasure were too much, bordering on uncomfortable sometimes, but whenever she thought they were going to cross the line, she found herself not caring, and the discomfort fell away, leaving only need and ecstasy in its place. She writhed, the sensations coursing through her body as they tugged at her jutting anatomy too much to endure stoically, as much as she tried. She didn't know if she wanted to try, but she knew she couldn't hope to resist groaning and grunting as they manhandled her so roughly. Was it roughly? Suddenly that didn't seem right; she didn't feel like this was excessive, but like she was feeling something new and unexpected, but she couldn't explain why she felt that. A twist of one of her nubs banished the thought from her brain entirely.

After it had reached a certain point, the rising tension in her loins was impossible to not notice. At first, the bubbling boil had blended in to the general lovliness that had become her body's default, and the tightness slowly pulling inwards had been indistinguishable from the buzz that hummed through her limbs and core. As it exceeded the heat and the pressure surrounding it, her orgasm built into something unmistakable, and a pang of delighted dread ran through her. Shame struck her like a train, but it was beaten back by the primal and aggressive parts of her instinct telling her, demanding from her, that she go through with it, enhance it as much as she could. She clenched, straining against the chains, her calves bulging as her body tensed, her stomach creasing as the indomitable swell rose and rose, surging forward like a tsunami towards shore, until it was towering over her.

And then it crashed.

She screamed. Loud. Her limbs shot out sharply, rigid, before she flailed, thrashing as she was swept along by the powerful, gushing wave. The scorching heat that had grown inside her roared through her body, burning her with a searing delight that she didn't know existed, and she soared to a height she'd never even nearly approached in her solo excursions into carnal satisfaction. She was helpless, left at the mercy of euphoria brought about by something that never should've set her off, threatening to launch her into a void where she'd be lost forever. Her mind raced, awed as it was battered and beaten, tossed around as her body was slammed with hit after hit of endorphins and her nerves fired in a panicked staccato. She was lost; she didn't know where she was, and she didn't know if she cared. There was only the rapturous pleasure and her recognition of just how unprecedented this ride was.

Her climax shuddered to a gradual halt, her body juttering as it wrung the last of her overload from her. She clenched around nothing, her muscles squeezing and tightening in confusion, unsure of what to do. Parts of her were tense again, locked into rigidity from how hard they'd clamped down, driven by her subconcious and her desperate attempts to exert some level of control over her predicament.

"Good, very good," one of her tormenters spoke, his thickly accented tone dripping with sneering, perverse approval. "It work. You soon be good mare." His arms moved, palms trailing down her front and leaving a gentle electric trail that tingled along the path of his touch. When his fingers turned down, slid past the waistband of her boyshorts, and crept between her legs, she shuddered, the tingle amping up to a thrumming current.

"N-no," she whimpered, turning her hips in a futile effort to stop him. "G-get off me." He muttered something that sounded disrespectful, disregarding her objection as he traced his fingertips around the teardrop of her vulva, her thick rubbery lips slick with more than just the oil. His fingers pressed lightly against her engorged labia, but it felt like a red-hot brand to the mare, her nerves sparking and pleasure flowing through her groin. She groaned and wiggled, but he followed her movements expertly, adjusting and accounting for her attempts to disrupt him, continuing to trace her path until the mounting pleasure became too much and she slumped, allowing him to move freely between her thighs.

He must've taken that as a sign, because his fingers moved swiftly and easily past her entrance and into her depths. As easy as it was with how wet and yawning she was, the graze of his digits against her vulnerable, expose walls felt like an explosion of ecastsy to her, and she clenched down, clamping her legs tight against the intrusion. Like before, he ignored her, swivelling his fingers to brush at the velvety flesh to which he had easy and ready access. She huffed, panting at the waves and throbs he evoked, unable to do anything to stop or slow him. Even squeezing down just made the sensations more severe, compressing his digits into tight confines from which the slightest movement had even more effect. Soon, she was contracting without meaning to, her body reacting to the unsolicited stimulation.

The bubbling, roiling tension built inside her again, unmistakble the second time around. That didn't make it any less intense when the dam broke, her entire body quaking as electricity arced through her, her muscles clenching and unclenching urgently. She screamed again, shouting gutturally to no one as she was swept along in a roaring wave, loving and hating every second of it. The presence of his fingers inside her seemed to intensify, becoming more defined as she contracted around him in a vain attempt to wring him dry.

She'd barely come down from her high before the second horse reached in from behind and grasped her breasts, kneading them purposefully. Her objections, both mentally and vocally, were quieter, reduced in their insistence and demand. She didn't know if she didn't have the strength or if she was growing used to their assertive treatment of her, but it didn't matter. Her arms felt less responsive even though she knew she had a full range of movement with them, less able to yank on the chains above her, and their tactile torture felt less abusive than it had. Even her stomach, taut and tight with the effort of reacting to their pleasuring, felt more relaxed and supple.

The pressure in her head returned as she tried to think about what it all meant, and ceased as soon as she sank back into the comfort of the stallions' manhandling. She groaned in despair, and reluctant joy, at the realisation that this wasn't stopping any time soon. She'd be here for a long time, made to endure exuberance she hadn't asked for. Most of her wondered when it would end, but a growing part of her revelled in how good it felt, and it felt very, very good. She gritted her teeth, fighting back the unwilling moans that threatened to force themselves from her mouth as the stallions began explore her body again, inside and out. She still tried to resist, tried to pull herself back from the pleasure to assert control over herself, but it was a losing battle.

She was - nearly - having a good time.

Mac was having a very good time.

The negotiations had been a lot easier than he'd imagined, though whether through his underestimated ability or the good rapport he'd built with Tajir, he couldn't say. The horse was anything but a pushover, but the red stallion hadn't found the discussions or terms to be unreasonable or opportunistic. They'd been brought water by the same servant who'd carried Mac's luggage to his room, and the talks had opened with the basic and good faith positing of what they wanted. It was almost like two friends talking about what they wanted to have for lunch and where they should go, and the pony found himself able to find common ground very easily. In the end, it had taken an hour, or just over, and with a shake of hands and a few signatures, their business had been concluded.

What followed was a rush of activity as the horse commanded his household prepare for a night of festivities, barking orders at servants and maids, directing them to clean and collect, to write to others and to bring food and drink and other necessities. Mac was given an opportunity to wash and clean and change into more casual clothes, and he did so, refusing the offer of help from servants. He did take them up on the offer to wear a Saddle Arabian garment, however, deciding he ought to fit in. It was loose and smart, and as foreign as it felt, it seemed far more asthetically in line with his host and the environment than the stiff business suit had been.

It was barely evening before he was sat at a low, room-length table, resting on a cushion and exchanging friendly chatter with Tajir and his invited guests. Tajir translated back and forth, and to his surprise, Mac found the experience easier and more enjoyable than he would've expected. The others were friendly, welcoming, and impressed by the pony's attitude towards their culture and norms. They offered him thanks and well-wishes, and spoke his praises to Tajir, who agreed. Mac was thankful for his red coat to hide his blush at their compliments.

"Truly, you are a unique stallion," Tajir insisted, biting into a date. "I did not expect your offer to be so generous."

"It ain't nothin'," Mac assured, nibbling at a vegetable he couldn't identify. It tasted different, but the new flavour intrigued him, and it did a lot to fill his hunger. "Ah wasn't wasn't raised to be greedy, an' with all the work you're doin' to make this work, it's the least ah can do."

"60% of the profits of this venture is still a steep gift," the horse reminded him.

"60% in exchange for a monopoly on apple, corn, an' grape sales into Saddle Arabia," Mac pointed out. "No tarrifs, no restrictions, no questions. Ain't exactly an unfair trade. And 'sides, it's more than enough for..." He trailed off, clearing his throat and continuing to eat.

"More than enough for what?" Tajir asked after a brief silence, gazing at him curiously. The pony remained quiet for a few seconds before he answered.

"Our farm has a lot of produce, but it ain't the most profitable in the world," the earth pony admitted. "Half the time, we're bogged down in disasters, extra costs, long supply routes, an' minimal staff. It's a family business, so we don't really have outside help. Our grandparents founded the farm, an' then our parents, but ever since they passed, it's been up to us to keep things runnin'. It ain't been easy. We've had to ask for loans on a few occasions, and each season we have to try an' chip away at the mountin' debts. This deal's enough to clear all of that away, on the first payment."

"I see," the horse replied, mulling the stallion's words. "A stallion in your position may well have turned bitter, resentful, and spiteful. Some may have tried to demand more of a cut, considering a balancing of the universe after so long under the thumb of fate. Yet you remain generous and thoughtful. Truly, you are an inspiration to us all."

"Just helpin' my family," the pony answered. "It's what a stallion's gotta do, right?"

"Indeed, indeed," Tajir agreed. "I believe you've mentioned that you are the only stallion left in your family, yes? You have two sisters to care for, a business to run, and all the manual labour to attend. Your life is hectic and demanding, but with this deal, perhaps you will be given a chance to give yourself some time and space for more personal matters."

"Personal matters?" the red stallion asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Perosnal matters," the horse repeated, sweeping a hand at the room around them. "Experiencing life, the fruits of your labours. You may wish to build a bigger home, to decorate it lavishly. You may wish to build a circle of friends, or climb the social ladder. You may wish to see your business expand to dominate your home kingdom. Or maybe you wish for a large family, a faithful and obedient mare and many, many strong children. Whatever it is, I hope you pursue and succeed at your endeavour, as noble as it undoutedly will be."

The red pony was about to answer when one of the serving girls placed a bowl of salad in front of them, picking up an empty plate to make room for the new addition. A second brought over an amphora of some fruity drink to fill their cups, doing so quickly and efficiently before stepping back and continuing to attend to the other guests in the room. Their presence had been a constant since the beginning of the gathering, all of them female and all of them silent and precise in their designated tasks. He'd initially been surprised at the sight, particularly the translucent cloths and cuts of silk that formed their uniform, if the skimpy garments could be called such, but had taken it in stride when the other attendants simply ignored them as they sat down. Over the course of the gathering, though, some of the guests had began snapping their fingers to gather the attention of the serving girls, and had been barking commands, and the mention of an obedient mare by Tajir stuck in his mind.

"Can ah ask a question?"

"Of course, my friend. Ask anything your heart wills."

"These...girls," he began, glancing at the wandering females. "Ah can't help but notice that they're not exactly covered."

"They have covered what needs to be covered," Tajir commented with a chuckle. "There is something pleasing about a denial of sense, no? To see a naked mare is enjoyable, but one with enough held back from plain sight is tantalising. There is a careful balance to strike. Do you find these females to be too exposed for such an effect?"

"No, no, not at all," Mac explained. "It's just that in the streets, mares were expected to stay entirely covered, an' my sister got in trouble for showin' her legs. Why are they dressed like this for us? Ah thought it was dishonourable."

"In public, certainly," Tajir acknowledged. "A mare who cannot remain modest is a mare who is not pure in mind or spirit. Such mares are a danger to a stable society. However, in private, among friends, there is little reason to hold a mare to such standards."

An image of the female household servants wearing headwraps entered his mind, but he bit his tongue and insteaded nodded. "Ah understand, but when we stepped off the train, there were girls there too, dressed like these ones here. That was in public." He glanced at the nearest serving girl, eyeing her skimpy outfit and the outlines of her bare body beneath. There was a loose-hanging silk cloth covering her pelvis, and he didn't want to guess whether there was anything beneath. A bitless bridle was secured around her muzzle, the same band he'd seen on the ladies that Tajir had ushered away from the train station earlier that day, and a quick check confirmed that every one of the scantily-glad women here bore functionally identical fastenings.

"Ah, yes," the horse replied, shifting uncomfortably on his cushion. "There are some exceptions. Those ladies were under my employ, and so there is a permission granted for them to be out in public as such. Normally, we would not permit such a thing, but their lijam marks them as subordinates to someone such as myself. It is a...how would you say it? Occupational permission."

"Their bridles?" Mac guessed. "They wear 'em as a mark of employment?"

"In a manner of speaking," the Saddle Arabian confirmed. "A mare who wears it reveals to others that she is harmless, and so there is no reason to berate them should they act contrary to our customs."

"How does it show that they're harmless?"

"The course undertaken to acquire that harness is vigourous and thorough. A female who wears one is a female who has been approved for such a service, and is trustworthy in carrying out this act. The lord of chaos himself was reformed by your heroes, and now serves as a trusted friend to the crown, does he not? There must have been a good reason, and firm standards, before he was allowed to be released from his stone imprisonment and released freely into Equestria."

"But how do they feel 'bout all this? Did they know what they were signin' up for when they were offered?"

There was a moment of silence as Tajir regarded the pony, his lips moving slightly as he pondered. After a few seconds, he nodded, and snapped his fingers three times. Immediately, one of the servants, a hippogriff, strode over, hurrying to the horse's position at the table.

"Yes, master?" she asked, bowing her head and smiling at him. "How may I serve you?"

"Our dear guest has a question for you," Tajir explained, turning to Mac. "Ask whatsoever you please."

The red stallion was put on the spot, not expecting to be able to talk to the ladies about their situation. He hesitated, words swirling in his head as both of their gazes turned to him, the attention burning at him as he sat and floundered momentarily.

"Uh, hi," he began, awkwardly. She smiled sweetly at him and nodded. "Ah was just wonderin'...how do y'all feel about your bridles? Are they comfortable? Do you mind wearin' 'em?"

"Oh, it's an honour!" she answered brightly, her response immediate. "I'm thankful that I was entrusted with it, and I wake up every day greatful for the opportunity to live such a blessed life! Whenever I walk around, stallions and mares alike recognise what I am, and I feel so warm and happy for it! I thought I was happy before, but this is even better! It's exuberance!"

"An' the way you're treated is-?"

"Amazing," she explained, jumping in the second his sentence began to slow. "Everycreature is just so engaging and welcoming, and they're all eager to see me, all the time. Before, I was just some griff, but now, I have the chance to make so many strong stallions happy, just by catering to their basic needs!" She let out a cute giggle, and the stallion felt his concerns abate just a little.

"All because you're wearin' that bridle?" he asked, receiving a nod of affirmation. "And what would happen if you took it off?"

There was a stunned silence, as if he'd asked her to do something unthinkable and unfathomable. Her smile twitched, faltering. She remained still, and Mac could see as well as feel the dread taking hold of her. Her joy flatlined, and in an instant, the excitable, boisterous woman he'd been talking to had been replaced by someone nervous and very, very anxious, the upbeat energy replaced with something colder and darker.

"M-my bridle?" She gripped the bowl she was holding more tightly. "Y-you want me t-to...take it off?"

"Ah was just curious," he explained, wincing at whatever faux-pas he'd just committed. "You look like you're bein' treated as a servant, but ah wanted to know if you ever got time to just be yourself. Can you do that?"

There was another silence, and she looked around the room in a panic, the other serving girls looking tense as they carried on with their tasks. Some stared in horror, while the others fornlornly continued with their duties, setting down food and drink or carrying away empty containers.

"I-I..." Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, and her breathing picked up noticabely. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! P-please tell me what I've done wrong!" It was obvious she was trying to stay professional, but she couldn't stop the sobs from wracking her body. "I'll give up food for the next week if it'll make up for whatever I've done, b-but please let me keep my bridle!"

"No, no, it's okay!" Mac hushed, panic beginning to fill him too. "Ah don't want you to remove your bridle! Ah was just curious, was all! Keep it on!" She didn't stop hyperventilating, but nodded frantically, and shifted from hoof to hoof, glancing at Tajir. He nodded at her and waved her away, to which she bowed and skittered to another guest, trying desperately to fall back into a rhythm with her work. Mac was shocked, and stared at her long after she left their presence.

"As you can see," the horse spoke up, seeming indifferent to what had happened. "They don't remove it. They can't. They've been trained far too well, and there is no risk of their abuse of such authority. Such females cannot do harm to a society when they are so well attuned to what is best for it, and so they are afforded more liberty in how they may dress and act."

"Doesn't seem like there's much liberty," Mac mused, wondering if he was towing a line.

"As much as they are able to be afforded," Tajir agreed. "The standards we have exist for a reason, after all, and we cannot abandon it entirely. A female well-trained is a female who has use and purpose. You see, in my culture, we believe that everyone has value and duty within them. For stallions, it is to lead and be strong, to do what must be done for the good of those around us. We fight, we conduct trade, we carry out the hard work that must be done. Architecture, sculpting, governing, farming. Males are strong, and fit for such a purpose." He nodded at the red stallion, noting the pony's physical prowess. "If they neglect this duty, it is a disgrace, and they must be punished. Similarly, a female who rejects their duties must be guided back onto a righteous path. If they cannot, then perhaps their path is destined to be different."

"An' what duties does a mare have?" Mac asked, half disgusted, half intrigued.

"Child bearing, cooking, cleaning, among many others," the horse answered readily. "They have wisdom that many do not appreciate, and it is not best to interfere with the natural wisdom they possess. Not all carry such wisdom, however. While some are paragons, exemplars of all a female should be, some are rebellious, they display contempt for greatness and all that should be." Seeing Mac's frown, he smiled knowingly. "Do not think this is the sign of an ignorant stallion, mister McIntosh. Males, too, are not all destined for greatness. Some are thugs, and are fit only for roles befitting violence. Some are great orators, and speak well before the public. And some, such as myself, are savvy and have a penchant for patterns and opportunities. We all have a place, and we must all embrace it."

"Ah don't know if that's entirely fair," the pony interjected. "Ah'm not a great negotiator or orator, but ah've negotiated a deal with you. We make our own path."

"Do we?" the horse asked. He didn't seem offended, but intrigued by the conversation. "I have an appreciation for langauges and merchantry, but I have no capability whatsoever for hard manual labour. That is not my calling, while it appears certainly to be yours. You have enough strength to fight everyone in this room and win. If, however, you tried to create a work of art to be displayed before our reining sultan, do you believe you would succeed in winning his pleasure, or his ire? I would have no more chance of farming your land than you would of conducting the affairs of any other stallion. That is not a statement of shame or belittlement, but it is important you understand. Our paths are set out before us, and our choice is whether we embrace it or selfishly rebel, denying all others our contributions to the world. That is the mark of a great stallion or mare." He glanced at the serving girls as he spoke his last words. "Or the brand of an impetuous one."

The pony shifted awkwardly, watching as the other stallions around the table leered at the serving girls. One of them swatted at the ass of a passing mare, causing her to squeak and leaving her scurrying away as the stallions laughed. Mac bit his tongue, feeling a growl ascend in his throat, but when the girl turned around to look back at the stallions, she was giggling, a red flush on her face as she tried to resume her work. A few moments later, she walked back past the stallion who'd spanked her, slowing down and hovering nearby until he did it again, a broad smile on her face as he did. Mac didn't know what to make of that, and his certainty took a hit.

"It doesn't seem proportionate," he posited at last. "Trainin' mares to be frightened servants just so they have the opportunity to dress in more revealin' clothing."

"Your language has an idiom, I believe; the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Look around you, mister McIntosh. Our kingdom has little crime, and much prosperity. The citizens here welcome you with open arms, and we have much to trade. Our sultan has not be ousted in over a millennium, and there is no enemy at our gates. We do not imprison our enemies in stone, but set them on the right path and integrate them into our society. Those who wish to deviate from our moral norms must be tested to show that they can be trusted with such a dangerous profession, and they always perform admirably and with the good of the kingdom in mind. Does this sound like a society which has done the wrong thing?"

"Ah...suppose it isn't without merit," the red stallion reluctantly admitted.

"Precisely," Tajir noted. "There is merit to our ways, as I am sure there is merit to yours. Your kingdom is famed for its friendship and great achievements, and we find your people to be amicable. I do not ask you to agree fully with us, but merely to understand that we have our ways and our reasons. You are a reasonable man, mister McIntosh, which is why you are sat here today, enjoying our food, and your sister is not. Had the situation been reversed, your positions would've been, too. We are not unreasonable, we just have certain standards. I appreciate that you follow those standards, even if you find them at odds with your own."

"A little," Mac confessed. "But...well, like you said, there's merit to your ways. Ah don't like the ways the ladies are treated here, but...well, it's sorta like a mirror to Equestria."

"How so?"

"We don't have training programmes for disobedient mares or stallions, but we have some harsh punishments for anypony who does anythin' wrong. We don't shout at ponies for dressin' up wrong, but there are limits on what we can do. There's celebrations exclusively for mares, an' the only way a stallion can become a prince is by marryin' a princess. Ain't no real opportunity, unless you know ponies who know ponies. The EUP Guard are almost entirely stallions, and there's no real support for 'em. Ah guess we just view stallions as havin' a role to play, an' carin' little about what that means for 'em. Ah think we've convinced ourselves that, because we don't have a centralised dress code or strict laws against certain things, we're somehow better an' without flaws." His mind flashed back to his sister's earlier words about the need for mares to be in charge to control the impulses of stallions, and he grimaced.

"I am sorry to hear," the horse consoled. "I shall avoid judgement, as you have for my customs. But, while you are here, you may indulge in some customs that are perhaps more favourable towards you, yes? If I may ask something rather personal, do you have a romantic relationship with a mare?"

"Nope," Mac answered. "Ah did, but we broke up. We realised our lives weren't movin' in the same direction, an', well, we decided to end it."

"As sorry as I am to hear that, it does mean you're available, and you're in luck. Normally, I don't have this many servants, but I was lucky enough to be able to hire some additional females on short notice from a very reliable friend." Tajir turned to the room. "Tell me, what do you think of the lovely ladies present? Does any in particular catch your eye?"

The pony wondered if he should eye up the servers and select one like some immature colt. Even with the explanation of his host and the permission implicitly received, if his earlier obversations meant anything, it felt perverse to deliberately ogle what amounted to catering staff for his own satisfaction. He didn't believe that them wearing skimpy outfits was in itself an invitation to objectification, and he was hesitant to jump right into staring at the ladies who were innocently doing their jobs. He picked up some more food - a style of bread he hadn't come across before, and a smooth dip made from chickpeas - and ate to buy himself some time, looking around sightlessly.

"More drink, sirs?" a voice asked, pulling Mac from his reverie. Glancing up, he was greeted by the smiling face of what he initially thought was a pony, until he recognised the black and white stripes which adorned her coat. Not a pony - a zebra, like Zecora from back home. She looked young, definitely not long past twenty, and despite baring the brightly coloured bridle that marked each servant in the room, she appeared upbeat and genuinely happy to be there. He'd gained a sense of when a mare was truly happy from Pinkie's antics, and this zebra exuded it.

A few seconds passed before he realised he'd been staring, and uttered a hasty, "Eeyup." Her smile widened, and she poured him a new drink, the pony watching as she tipped the container up and skillfully topped up his cup. She was slender and feminine, not unlike Apple Bloom, but with far less tone to her muscles, and her size and shape generally felt familiar to him in a comforting sort of way. Her mane was tied into braids, each one seperated into a single white or black collation which flowed over her shoulders and decorated her in a way he couldn't describe other than exotic. Her task done, she nodded politely at him and turned to leave, dutifully carrying on with her job.

"Something slightly familiar?" Tajir suggested, taking a sip from his freshly filled cup. Mac jerked his head to the side, the comment catching him off-guard. It sounded accusing, but not in a hostile way, and the stallion recognised the feeling as the same as when he was caught trying to take cookies from a jar in the kitchen as a colt. As he did back then, he swallowed and averted his gaze.

"Er, maybe," he coughed. "She's...pretty."

"Very," the horse agreed. "What she does with her mane is something I believe only she could succeed in making look good. It is very appealing, asthetically. She does not carry most endowed bust of any female, but perhaps your attention rests on other parts of a woman?" He laughed when Mac blushed, the red stallion chuckling nervously. "There is no need to be ashamed, mister McIntosh. I consider you to be a close associate, and with whom can you discuss these matters if not your associates and acquaintances? You live among mares most of the time, yes? Well, now you are among stallions, and you may grant yourself the luxury of acting accordingly."

The horse's words gave Mac pause, and he found himself genuinely trying to find reasons why he shouldn't engage in this sort of discussion with the slender stallion. He still felt awkward about it, but his rational met no real resistance as he reached the conclusion that his host was correct. Despite his mild misgivings, he cast his eyes over to the zebra, watching her as she worked. Tajir was right; her bosom was on the smaller side, a pair of perky a-cups or perhaps b-cups, but they were suited for her, neither sagging nor blooming from her chest obscenely, like some of the more narcissistic and ostentatious models in Equestria. They were well shaped and fit her body, and were emphasised by the two jutting points standing proudly through the fabric of her chest-covering. Like her chest, her derriere was slim and toned, the sort he'd expect to see on an athletic sprinter, packing just enough to not leave her lacking, but keeping her areodynamic and lightweight.

"Ah like her," Mac admitted, the confession leaving him feeling lighter, like a weight had been lifted from his chest. It was a tentative first step, but after taking it, he felt his confidence grow. Being open and honest felt good among other stallions. "She's got a good figure, an' she ain't the bustiest, but it suits her."

"I could not agree more," Tajir toasted, a pleased smile stretching wider over his muzzle. He sipped his drink and gestured around again. "Anyone else? Perhaps you have an eye for ponies? There is a mare here you might appreciate." After a quick look, he pointed out the girl in question, who Mac observed for a few minutes.

"She's nice, ah'm sure, but she isn't..." He paused, considering his words. "She's lackin' the sort of thing ah'm lookin' for."

"Undersandable. How about...her?"

"Nope."

The red stallion appraised each of the females in the room in turn, feeling less and less guilty with every passing second. He was having fun, expressing his inner thoughts with a pony who didn't judge him for it, and actively encouraged and shared in the activity. Slowly, his shyness abated, and he discovered that there didn't seem to be much wrong in eyeing up prospective partners, or even just attractive females. Why had he felt so awkward about it all this time?

He was honest with Tajir about his thoughts, pointing out the ones which were too tall or too short, the features on each of them he appreciated most. The horse nodded sagely and spoke his own opinion, the pair smirking as they assessed what else was on display. Mac considered the hippogriff who'd been called to them earlier, but outside of pitying her and wanting her to be kept safe and out of trouble, he found he wasn't especially attracted to her. She was physically fine, but there wasn't that significant individuality which made her stand out, and he moved on to another serving girl.

The griffon was the first one to catch his eye in the same way the zebra had. At first, he balked, doing a double-take to see if it was someone he recognised. She was arctic bluish grey, her wings darker than her coat, and her eyes were a shimmering teal that gleamed and shone, drawing his full attention. His mind scrambled as he tried to figure out if this was the same griffon he knew, but the more he looked, the more it became apparent it wasn't Gabby. He'd spent enough time around Spike and his doting, affectionate girlfriend to know how she acted, as well as the white of her throat, which this griffon lacked. With the startling sight cleared up, his gaze moved down to the female's bust, visually caressing her sizable swells as she moved from guest to guest, cheerfully offering them food. He received a good view of her posterior, which was far larger than the zebra's and perfect for her frame, which carried a healthy amount of padding. She looked soft in all the right places, without any excess that looked saggy or out of place.

"That one," he murmured, nodding at her. "She's the sorta girl ah'm not afraid to say ah like."

"A spectacular catch, and a refined taste," Tajir complimented, nodding along approvingly, taking his own chance to eye up the grifonness. "You have a fine eye, Mac. May I call you Mac?"

"Eeyup," the red stallion answered, unable to hold back a giddy grin at the casual use of his name. "As long as you don't mind me callin' you Tajir."

"I think I would like that," the horse agreed, chuckling and raising a glass. "To fine food, fine drink, and fine women - the basis of all fine friendships!" They laughed and drank, and fell into hearty conversation, the red pony gorging more readily on the food laid out for him. It was new and strange, and it was delicious. The more time he spent in this land, the more comfortable he became. He indulged, the new experiences seeming ever more inviting as the emerged.

"Ga-ah!" Applejack cried, grunting as she climaxed again, her mouth hanging open and her eyes rolling back. She'd lost count of how many times she'd been driven to ecstasy by the two persistent horses around the twentieth orgasm, their wandering hands touching her everywhere she could think, and places that had never occured to her. They never undressed, never took the time to sate their own desires, instead keeping her in a constant cycle of rise and fall, her peak arriving and leaving her mentally splayed before they dragged her back into the throes of pleasure. It wasn't romantic at all; they'd held her face up, clutching her muzzle and forcing her to look into their eyes as they stroked at her engorged anatomy, keeping a steady gaze as she squealed and shook as they wrung another quaking climax, but they never attempted to kiss her.

They were so generous.

It must've been hours, but they'd only ever tended to her needs. They'd made her feel so good, foregoing their own pleasure, and she felt the reluctance she once harboured being swept by the rising tide of attraction and want. She was stubborn, she saw that now. They'd only been trying to help her, and she'd been so rude and aggressive towards them, shouting and making a scene. What was happening to her now was only fair, and the stallions carrying out her punishment were doing so professionally and dutifully.

Even though her body had gone numb, wracked by the repetitive rushes of haphazardly firing nerves and synapses, a week's worth of dopamine dumped into her bloodstream over the course of her punishment, the sharpness that came from their gropes, strokes, squeezes, caresses, and rubs cut through the background buzz that had taken over her body. Their touch was as vivid and defined as it had been when they'd first started, and she happily gyrated against the palm held between her legs, urgently trying to feed her own pleasure. The stallion smiled at her gleefully as she gave in to her desires, unable to form thoughts beyond immediate, carnal notions of need and other lustful imperatives. She humped desperately until she came again, feeling another shift overcome her. It felt right, more and more of a burden she didn't know she was carrying leaving her with every mind-altering crash.

Everything felt better. She was exhausted, soaked in sweat, and her feminine excretions dribbled freely down her legs over fur that had become saturated and drenched in her previous produce, but it felt right. She was where she needed to be. Her belly felt smoother, less tense, and her body felt more rounded and soft to the touch. Had she been carrying tension all this time? Was that what this was? A flask touched her lips, and she instinctively suckled like a newborn, greedily gulping down water to rehydrate herself. She'd need it, if they planned to keep doing what they were already doing. When it was empty, they pulled it away, and she beamed through her panting, gasping mouth, her lips curling into a smile even as she tried to drag in air.

This was good. This was right. She was glad she was here.