The Mailbox

by concordion

Rating: mature
Tags: Sex, Twilight Sparkle, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Drama, Original Character, Porn, Fetish
Length: 10382

Filigree finds a mailbox that delivers messages back and forth through time. There's a mare on the other end. It's a cheesy romance that writes itself.

A stallion and a mare discover they can send letters back and forth through time via an unassuming mailbox. Despite being years apart, neither of them is surprised when they begin to fall in love.

But they didn't expect to start fucking.

This story contains light cuckoldry, voyeurism and exhibition, and time travel shenanigans, but absolutely no emotional drama, cutesy feels, or crying. Also sex.

Assisted by tailsopony.

Published 2022-09-12 22:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2022-09-12 22:30:01 UTC

Part One

Day 1

This is impossible! he scribbles across a piece of paper torn from an otherwise unused notebook.

Well, what’s impossible is reading Filigree’s terrible mouthwriting. So far this Twilight Sparkle has shown a remarkable ability to decipher his messages, as well as a willingness to entertain outrageous ideas, but if he doesn’t calm down, she won’t be able to read his message, and she won’t respond, and then the magic, or whatever this is, will stop working, and—

He crumples up the page, pulls out a new one, and writes, carefully, What date is it where you are?

He slides his page into the mailbox, closes its flap, and lowers the flag.

Then he waits. He’s standing in the middle of the marsh, in front of an impossibly old, possibly haunted, and definitely condemned estate house. There’s literally nopony around him for miles. Yet here he is, passing notes back and forth with another pony whom he definitely cannot see but who is definitely taking his letters, reading them, and responding in turn.

And who claims things have happened that have not yet happened.

Thankfully, whatever magic has connected them doesn’t take very long. Seconds later the flag pops back up like it’s faulty, only he knows it isn’t broken. He already believes. This is magic, and he’s not good with magic—he’s not good with anything, really—but it’s magic and it works and he’s communicating with someone that’s a whole—

There’s another letter inside, even though there wasn’t one moments ago. Another letter from somepony named Twilight Sparkle. He opens her letter. Reads the date. Gawps.

—a whole five years in his future. It takes him a few seconds to stop giggling like a mad pony.

This is impossible, her letter reads, along with the date. I know this is a trick. Pinkie Pie, if you’re doing this—

He has no idea who this Pinkie Pie is. And she’s right. This must be a trick. Letters in mailboxes don’t travel through time. And even if they did, they’d need somepony to take them, and nopony’s shown up during this brief ridiculous exchange. The only clue that this isn’t just a prank is that his letters disappear the moment he lifts the mailbox’s flag.

He eyes the empty mailbox. If Twilight is in the future, then his future overlaps her past.

And she has records of her past.

Let’s test it, he writes. Can you find sports records from my time? There’s a buckball game the day after tomorrow— He crosses that out and writes down the exact date. —between the Dodgers and the Fast Pacers here in Ponyville. Tell me—

The flag drops on its own, then bounces back up. He pauses writing. Twilight has sent him another letter without waiting for his reply:

Let’s test it. Find a safe, bury this letter so it can survive until I find it, then tell me where to dig.

He smiles. They even think alike, and she wants it to be real as much as he does. He continues, —Tell me who wins before the game happens. And I’ll need to find a safe, so it might take a day or so.

It’s impossible. He knows it, even as he lowers the flag again. It’s some sort of trick.

But his letter has already disappeared. And the idea that it could be real, that he could be communicating with somepony from the future, is downright thrilling.

Her response is equally exciting.

I’ll see if I can find some records. I’ve never heard of those teams, and I’m not really into sports, so it might be a few hours before I can get the answer. I’ll try to reply before the game. Let me know when and where you bury my letter.

Day 2

The next day, Filigree drags a salvaged document safe—fireproof, hexproof, rampaging Minotaur proof, and unsurprisingly heavy—up to the estate, then spends the next hour digging a hole around back. It’s exhausting, tiring work that takes all day, made even worse because he has no idea how deep of a hole he’s supposed to dig, or how quickly he has to complete his task before Twilight decides it’s a scam and moves on.

Well, even if it turns out to be a scam, and she’s not real, and there’s somepony making him waste his time like a sucker, at least he’s getting a good workout.

Eventually the hole is deep enough to survive the apocalypse. He takes her most recent letter, locks it inside, and buries it. Filling the hole is almost as difficult as digging it was, somehow. He flattens the mound of dirt, puts an unassuming stone in front of the pile, and carefully records how to find it behind the estate house. Then, realizing he has no idea if the house is even here in her time, he also records the distance and bearing to the mailbox, as well as the rough location of surrounding mountains. Hopefully it’s enough.

When he returns to the mailbox that evening, the flag is still down. She hasn’t replied. But that’s okay. A buckball game isn’t really the news of the year, and he doesn’t even know what he would do in her position to find the results. Maybe there aren’t any records anymore. But he trusts her. She’ll figure it out. She still has a few hours left. He’s only known her for a couple days, but already he has a feeling this Twilight Sparkle is smart and resourceful.

He can only hope she is as invested in solving this mystery—and in him—as he is in her.

Day 3

Filigree’s buckball game comes and goes without a time traveling message. He could’ve used a warning. His team, the Dodgers, loses. He loses.

He’s a loser.

Figures. What a scam. He stands in front of the mailbox, an angry letter in his hoof, ready to send her way. Shame and anger burn his eyes. This Twilight probably isn’t even real. Somepony is standing just out of sight, laughing his ass off at the stupid, lonely colt who thought he’d made a friend.

He glares at the mailbox.

Heh. He’s a buckball player. He could probably snap this stupid mailbox in two if he tried. It would have a hard time sending magical messages back and forth with a broken post or a missing flag or a—

The flag pops up.

Twilight has sent him another message.

He wipes his eyes. Does he even want to read it? After she let him down?

Inside is an envelope, and inside that envelope are two items.

The first is a five-year-old copy of a familiar letter: Let’s test it. Find a safe, bury this letter so it can survive until I find it, then tell me where to find it.

He gasps, then runs around to the back of the estate house and unearths his safe.

The original is still there. He has two identical copies of her letter. He’s exhausted and sweaty from all the digging, and burying it again will be just as hard as it was the first time, but he can’t stop the excitement flooding his veins.

It worked.

The other item is a new letter:

Filigree

I’m sorry I’m late. I had trouble finding records—they weren’t stored in the library like I expected, so I had to go all over town, and now everypony thinks I’m crazy, because I couldn’t tell anyone why I was so desperate to find the score to a specific highschool buckball game from exactly five years ago—

She was desperate? He never meant to make her stress out, but maybe that’s the kind of pony she is. And reading about her caring about him so much brings a smile to his face.

—Anyways. I don’t know much about buckball, but the Fast-Pacers won a decidedly one-sided game, 19-4. I hope they’re the team you were rooting for. If not, better luck next time.

He laughs, feeling better about the game already. It was decidedly one-sided. Maybe his team just isn’t that good? And he had been more interested in the cheerleaders half the time.

Besides, she’s real!

Who cares about buckball?

Week 3

Far more interesting than buckball is the mailbox. From what he can tell, when the flag is lowered, she can raise it and send something to him. And when it’s raised, he can lower it to send something to her. The mailbox is always empty when the flag is down. And he can’t open the front at all when she has it open on her end.

They experiment with the mailbox. She tries sending a message into her future. She doesn’t get a reply. He tries sending a message into his past. What he gets back scares him, and he never tries again. They send a stopwatch back and forth as quickly as they can, but the amount of time that passes is inconclusive.

And among their experiments they send letters back and forth. What does she do? What about friends? Family? Hobbies? Any other pony would grow bored of his conversation—most ponies do—but Twilight happily replies every time: she lives in Ponyville, too; she’s the town’s new librarian; she’s made a few friends around town; her family lives in Canterlot; she may have saved the world a few times (but refuses to elaborate); and she enjoys reading and stargazing. And she asks about him in exchange: his friends and family, his hobbies, what’s it like playing buckball—Oh! I understand why you wanted to know the score for that game. I’m so sorry your team lost! But we probably shouldn’t take advantage of foreknowledge again—and so on.

Soon, far more interesting than a time-warping magical mailbox is the filly on the other end.

Month 3

I want to meet you, Filigree writes. Where do you live in my time?

He holds his message in his hoof. His heart is thumping. So far they’ve been safely separated by inscrutable magic and a five year wall. They’re both safe in the knowledge that this is a very, very long distance relationship. If need be, either one of them can just step away from it all.

But meeting her, in person, face-to-face—what if she doesn’t like him? What if he makes a fool of himself? At least sending letters like this lets him practice what he’s going to say, get his words perfect, try to hide his sloppy mouth writing—

Twilight’s a Unicorn. Her teekay writing is immaculate. Does she mind that he’s a simple Earth Pony? She has to know. She’s super smart.

What if she says no?

Before he can psyche himself out, he shoves the letter in the mailbox and imagines it taking off like a firework, aiming for five years in the future.

Her reply shows up the next day.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

He sits back against the mailbox post and chuckles. Being friends with Twilight is a fucking rollercoaster ride.

I wish we could, but in your time I’m still in school in Canterlot. There’s no way they’d let a strange stallion come and see an eleven year old. And young me doesn’t know about you yet. I’m sorry. It’s not fair that we’re separated in time like this, and I hate it. It’s not fair to you that you have to wait. If I knew where you lived in my time, I’d want to find you too. But I don’t mind the pen pal thing. It’s exciting!

Twilight

PS. Even though we can’t meet, maybe we can still see each other?

Taped to the bottom of her letter is a photo. She’s surrounded by a bunch of smiling and waving friends, but the moment he sees the purple Unicorn he recognizes her immediately.

She’s gorgeous. Her pure, innocent smile melts his heart. He’s totally got a crush on her.

Month 4

He wants to do something special for her, and sending photos back and forth opens up new opportunities. Even though he can’t see her in person, maybe he can still take her on a date.

He decides to take Twilight on a tour of Old Ponyville via a stack of instant photos. She works at the library, so he interviews the current librarian. There’s an old hotel that’s supposed to be demolished later this year, and Twilight definitely won’t have seen it before. Twilight already told him a little about her friends, so he pretends to be a tourist and takes a few photos of Sugarcube Corner and Sweet Apple Acres.

It’s not hard to imagine she’s walking beside him, pointing out interesting things she’d like to see later.

He hides things for her to find. Innocuous graffiti on a wall. A foreign coin hidden behind a loose brick. And, in a particular fit of audacity that even he can’t believe, he walks into Ponyville’s library and hides a photo of himself inside a trashy romance book that according to the current librarian has never been checked out. She’ll be so mad when she discovers it.

Their evening ends at a hot cocoa parlor.

“Where’s your date, son?” Sodapop, the old plump Earth Pony stallion who runs the parlor, asks with a frown.

“She’s just a little late,” he says with absolute certainty, taking a photo of his drink.

When he leaves a few minutes later, Sodapop looks a little dismayed to see him leaving alone, but he just laughs. He hasn’t been alone all day.

Oh, I love that you took me on a tour of old Ponyville. That was so clever! And cute! It was like a date!

He punches the air. Success! He’s the most romantic pony ever!

So I figure why not show you what new Ponyville looks like? You’d be surprised at what’s changed!

Honestly, he isn’t that surprised. Ponyville isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. He glances at her photos and skims the letter until he reaches the end.

My friends know something’s up. I’ve been acting weird around them. I keep giggling and smiling at nothing. My friend Rainbow Dash says I’ve got my head and my rump in different clouds—I think that’s a Pegasus saying. I can’t tell them about you, or else they’ll start asking questions I can’t answer. But they all think I’ve got a crush on a boy.

I think they’re right.

Twilight

He can’t stop giggling like a child.

She likes him!

PS. Never ever hide an instant photograph inside a book again. The inks can transfer to the paper and ruin it. I mean it!

Along with her photographic tour of new Ponyville is another photo of Twilight. This time she’s alone, in her room, holding the camera in her teekay. And she’s angled it so that instead of her just face and her forelegs, he can see most of her body.

He gulps. She’s got a nice butt.

Well—his turn.

You sent me a butt pic! Twilight exclaims.

You sent me one first! he laughs.

He’s leaning back against the mailbox’s post, and he imagines Twilight is too. It’s like they’re sitting beside one another, passing notes in class.

Oh, Celestia, I did, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to, she says.

Really? It sure looked intentional. I bet you take a lot of butt pics, he says, feeling bold. The feeling lasts until a second after it’s too late to take it back.

She turns to face him. She’s smirking. Lewd! I’ve never sent a butt photo before. Or gotten one before! You’re a bad influence.

Are you sure you’re not just like this?

Her reply takes a few minutes. He can imagine Twilight is sitting there, also blushing, also excited, and also agonizing over how far to push this. They’re crushing on each other. They’re both horny teenagers—at least, Filigree is. They did just go on a date.

Finally, she pokes him in the chest, metaphorically: No, I am not just like that! You know full well you’re my first special somepony. I’ve never been in this position before. So—maybe? I don’t know! she laughs.

He pauses, his pen held awkwardly. The words he wants to write feel physically heavy. Will Twilight get mad?

You’re really sexy, he decides, and fires it off before he can lose his nerve.

You’re really handsome, she writes back.

They’re both blushing.

Twilight licks her lips, looks around to make sure no one else can see them, then writes, I’ll send you something tomorrow.

When he returns, she’s left him another picture. And—it’s spicy. She’s on her side, her legs folded like she’s a model in a magazine. It looks like it’s been mathematically calculated to show off her curves without revealing anything.

You have no idea how scary it is for a mare to pose her body for somepony, so you’d better send me one back!

He gawks. She wants a sexy photo of him? Well, that’s fair—but he doesn’t know how to be sexy.

He buys a male fashion magazine, fumbles with his camera’s timer—there’s no way he’s asking for help with this one—and poses awkwardly.

It’s awful.

But Twilight likes it! Her reply is another photo, this time a deliberate butt pic: taken from behind, hindlegs wide apart, chest on the ground. Her tail is very strategically positioned, and she has a surprisingly sultry face looking back over her shoulder for an amateur.

He sends a photo back, with his tail strategically positioned over his junk, but he knows he can’t out sultry her so he goes for goofy.

They giggle about how silly they’re being. They commiserate over how having to go home, take a photo in private, and return to send it necessarily slows down their game. They agree that at some point, one of them’s gonna cross a line.

They keep sending photos.

And after days of increasingly desperate teasing, Filigree is treated to a picture of Twilight on her back, with her legs spread—and her tail out of the way. Her pussy is flushed, her thighs shiny with juices. Her eyes are blazing. She’s been hoofing herself just for him.

He can only hope his cock is good enough for her. He’s never clopped for an audience before.

She assures him it is.

Month 12

Compared to their first few days, messages are far less frequent now. They don’t often have time to stand around an old mailbox in the middle of nowhere waiting for the next hurried letter. Knowing that he’ll never meet her is a little freeing: there’s no pressure, no lofty requirements to live up to. Honestly, his relationship with Twilight feels more like having a pen pal—or a long distance fillyfriend. Sometimes they’ll send quick sentences back and forth, like a stop-motion conversation, but other times a week or two will go by without too much concern.

Today is an envelope day, where Twilight has sent him more than just a letter and less than a book. Grinning, he hurries home and opens the envelope, eager to read about Twilight’s day but secretly hoping she’s sent more pictures.

I met you yesterday, Twilight writes.

His grin fades.

She continues, You’re older than in your photos, of course, and I think you were a little freaked out about foreknowledge, but I recognized you right away. And, sweet Celestia, you’re such a gentlepony. I always knew. And you! How did you know I liked pansies? I never told you, but I guess I’m telling you now (this is so weird!) So, thanks for the flowers. It’s totally not fair that older you knows so much about me but I don’t know anything about him. For the record, I also like double chocolate brownies, old magic texts, and vintage lanterns (I’m weird too. Don’t judge me.)

Anyways. You took me on a date, which was amazing and totally unexpected and so nice! I’m trying not to giggle right now. You are a smooth charmer, mister.

There’s a stack of photos included. He flips through them with shaky hooves. It’s real—they really do get together. So long as he doesn’t royally fuck up between now and then, he actually gets to meet her.

And he can see what he looks like, five years from now. He’s a little taller, and he’s got a more muscled build. His mane is different, longer. And that smile: he’s smirking back at himself, a smirk that hits home after traveling five years.

He keeps reading.

I still haven’t told my friends. I’m not sure how they’d feel knowing I’m dating somepony so much older than I am. I mean, you’re not older than I am, but the you that visited is. This is so complicated. Is it complicated? Or am I overthinking it?

She’s definitely younger than he is—it almost looks like she’s taking a photo with an older brother or even an uncle.

It looks like they went to a carnival. It’s exactly what he would’ve done. They rode the ferris wheel (apparently he’s still afraid of heights, if his slightly dizzy expression is to be believed.) They played some of those rigged carnival games (she’s a natural with a water gun, and won a large stuffed bear for him.) And they ate cotton candy, or at least their grinning faces are covered in sticky pink and blue sugar in one of the photos.

They’re having fun. Together.

He can’t stop his own silly grin. He gets to date her. She really does like him. Sure, it’ll be five years before he gets to experience it personally, but who cares? She likes him!

He reaches the last photo and freezes, his smile held in place with glue.

They’re kissing.

Her horn is ignited, and the pink vignette around the edge of the photo suggests she’s holding the instant camera herself. He’s taller than she is, so she has a hoof on his chest for balance and the other around his neck. It’s a cute kiss, very innocent—there are ponies all around, and carnival games in the background—but anypony can tell at a glance that these two are quickly falling in love. They’re both smiling while they look into each other’s eyes.

Actually, it looks like they’re both trying not to giggle.

It takes him a while to settle down and figure out what to say. Five years until he meets her. Is that even the same pony that she’s kissing, after all that time?

Finally he ends up with:

Damn, I grew up sexy. Lucky you!

Twilight’s next letter isn’t a letter or an envelope. It’s a parcel—one so large and crammed so tightly that he has a hard time pulling it out of the mailbox without breaking anything. He brings it home, rips open the packaging, and reveals . . . a camera? He already has a camera, so what is she up to?

This was your idea, actually. They’re fairly new, and I don’t know if they were invented yet, so if not, don’t let anypony else see this, or it could cause a paradox that destroys the universe. (I’m kidding, I think.)

There should be instructions on how to use it, but it’s pretty simple. If you need help or if it doesn’t work, just let me know. I bought two and kept one for myself. All we have to do is pass the big cassette back and forth. I eagerly await your reply!

Twilight

He looks at the box. It’s something called a camcorder. According to the advertising, this thing can record and play video and audio.

Video and audio. His heart thuds. This is as close to holding Twilight in his hooves as he’ll get for a long while. And it’s so obvious. Why didn’t he think of it?

The instructions are simple, like Twilight promised. There’s a screen that unfolds on the side, a place to put in the cassette, some basic controls—

Oh, sweet Princess.

It’s her. It’s Twilight. Standing right in front of him, waving at him over five long years.

“Hi! So, this is weird—” she says, a little nervous. Her voice is a little tinny on the small speakers, but she sounds beautiful. Genuine. And already familiar, like he’s known her voice all his life.

She’s so real, so animated. No longer a stranger behind a pad of paper and a pen. He sniffs and blinks, feeling a well of emotion fighting to get out.

“—but still. Hello! And welcome to the future!” she intones dramatically. “You’d better send me a video back right away. I know what you look like, but I want to see you. Now, before I get too distracted, I have some experiments I need you to run, now that we have a second way of communicating.” She smiles at the pony holding the camera.

Oh, right. He’s already there.

She leads him through some curious activities and explanations. There will be extra cassettes over the next few days, she promises, some of which he’s supposed to keep with him and others he’s supposed to send right back after filming various things. They don’t make much sense, but he’d do anything to help her.

“Also . . . ” she says, after filming a TV playing another cassette displaying another TV playing another cassette displaying another TV—“I’d like you to meet somepony! Say hi, Fil.”

The camera shakes as she grabs a hold of it with her teekay, and another pony walks into the frame.

“Hey, little me. First off, don’t worry. Our parents are fine, nopony dies, we graduate, whatever. I’d give you some investment advice but we both know you don’t have any money.”

“You can’t tell him about the future!” Twilight gasps.

“Oh, and we’re totally in love with this sweet little filly!”

“Shut up!” Twilight whines.

“I can’t! I already saw this. I have to say it. It’s, like, a script or something.”

“Oh, sweet Princess, this is absolutely going to break the universe, why did I listen to you—”

“And now I have to make out with you on camera a bunch of times. It’s for science!”

“Ah! Turn that damned thing off!”

“Ha ha, she just doesn’t want us hearing that little squeaky sound she’s about to make. Watch this.”

They kiss.

She squeaks.

The video cuts off.

He rewatches the video several times.

And he’s not sure how he feels about it.

On the one hoof, he has proof that their long distance relationship beats the odds, something few other relationships manage. They get together. Twilight likes him in person. Nothing strong enough to break him occurs over five years.

On the other hoof, watching a pony he’s been flirting with kiss another pony like that . . .

He looks down between his legs. His erection doesn’t care whom she was kissing. His erection only cares that this is the filly that’s been sending him sexy photos of herself and flirting with him for months.

He leans back against his chair, rewinds to the beginning of her video, and starts stroking himself as soon as he can hear her voice. He smiles, listening to her explain inscrutable magical experiments in that cute, adorable, innocent voice. He groans, watching her fluster and fawn over his older self.

But he doesn’t come until his fillyfriend kisses a pony that is definitely not him.

Month 13

A fresh cassette. After racing home he pops it into his camcorder and hits play.

“Hey! Thank you for recording that eclipse. All I got were printed copies in the newspaper—”

The video cuts to static.

He frowns. Has he broken this advanced technology with his backwardness already? He only pressed play! Granted, the buttons are hard to use with hooves, but—

He’s about to rewind and try again when the static cuts back to video.

It’s dark. The camcorder is propped up on Twilight’s desk, pointed at two ponies crammed together on her tiny bed. Twilight is on her back, leaning against her headboard, while Fil holds himself above her with one hoof—he practically envelopes her, he’s so much bigger than she is—so he can stroke her stomach with the other.

Filigree gasps.

They’re about to have sex. It really happens! It’s a recording, after all. It already happened in Twilight’s time.

And it must be really worth watching for them to send it back like this.

Twilight moans, then clamps her hooves over her mouth.

Fil pulls them out of the way for a quick kiss. “I want to hear you.”

“But—what if I’m gross, or I say something stupid, or—I’m scared,” she finally admits.

“I know. Don’t worry.”

He kisses her again, right on the lips, interrupting her protests, then kisses her chin, her neck, and her chest.

And her stomach.

“Oh!” she squeaks, gripping her bed. “Okay . . . ”

He flings their blankets out of the way, crouches between her thighs, and starts to feast on Filigree’s fillyfriend.

Filigree settles into his chair so he can hold the camcorder with one hoof and stroke himself with the other. Hearing Twilight squeak and moan and whimper sends a rush through his body. It doesn’t make sense, but his cock doesn’t care who the cause of her sexy noises actually is. Knowing that her carnal needs are being met, that she feels free to express herself so shamelessly in front of him makes him feel—

Fuck, it turns him on.

Fil turns her to the side and lifts one of her legs up and over his shoulder. Her whole body, from neck to chest to stomach to groin to pussy is on display. And she’s gorgeous. Even covered in sweat, tongue hanging out, drooling like an infant, and bent in half—Filigree thinks he’s in love.

“Be gentle,” she whispers, covering her eyes.

“But you like it rough,” Fil says.

He crouches forward, holds his cock in place, and thrusts.

“How do you kno—Oh! Gods! Ah! Ahh . . . oh, fuck. You’re so big!”

He snorts, grinding his pubic bone against her. “Not really. You just don’t have much to compare with—”

“So big,” Twilight moans, flopping her head onto the bed.

It certainly looks like a giant cock. Maybe because it’s splitting such a tight filly pussy wide open, or maybe because it’s attached to this older stallion.

“Fuck me,” she breathes. “Keep fucking me.”

“Fuck her,” Filigree breathes. “Keep fucking her.”

Fil happily obliges them both. He shifts his weight, readjusts his grip, and starts pistoning in and out. The tinny speakers capture every plap, squelch, and slurp they make. At first Twilight lies there, overwhelmed, but after a few moments her hips start moving, and her core flexes, and soon she’s throwing herself at him as hard as he’s giving it to her.

“I’m . . . I’m gonna come,” she pants. “Oh, Gods, I’m gonna come. I—I can’t hold back—”

“Let it happen,” he soothes. “We love seeing it.”

“Whuh? We?”

Her eyes go wide. She finally notices the little red light coming from her camcorder.

“Oh my Gods, are you filming this?” she exclaims. She twists and buries her face in her bed. “You’re gonna send this back to yourself?!”

“Of course. Little bro won’t know what hit him. It’s our favorite video.” He pulls her blanket out of the way, easily overwhelming her lust-drunk strength and revealing every sweaty inch of her perfect body—and his own—to the camcorder’s view. “We watch it all the time. He’s watching you right now. Say hi!”

“Oh . . . ” Twilight groans, as he resumes his thrusting. “This was supposed to be special. Just the two of us.” Her pants and little breathy moans make Filigree think she isn’t too upset.

“It is just the two of us.”

“No, I mean—Hrng . . . Fuck it.” She faces the camera and tries to focus on the lens—hard to do when she’s bouncing up and down. “Hey, you. Something—Oh, fuck—something to look forward to. I hope your camcorder’s charged. I don’t think . . . I don’t think he’s gonna . . . stop anytime soon . . . ”

“It’s a pretty long video,” Fil agrees, as Twilight starts moaning. “A real banger. Heh. And speaking of bangs . . . ”

He reaches and presses against her pubic bone, rubs her swollen clit for a few moments, and—

“Oh, Gods!” Twilight cries out, gripping her bed. She bends and twists as her orgasm rips through her. Sparkles spring from her forehead. Her eyes roll back, and she loses her grip, eventually slumping to the side, even as Fil keeps thrusting.

“Sweet Princess,” Filigree groans, enraptured.

“Sweet Princess,” Twilight groans, a few moments later. “That . . . that was really . . . that was good.” A beat. “You’re really good.”

He laughs. “That’s a relief. Can you imagine the paradox if I didn’t live up to myself?”

Twilight doesn’t laugh.

“I thought you hadn’t . . . hadn’t done this before,” Twilight whispers, so quietly that the camcorder almost doesn’t catch it over their bodies bouncing on her bed. “I thought I was going to be your first.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. It was a long wait.”

“Oh, Filigree . . . ” She strokes his cheek. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be. Besides. You were my first, so to speak.”

“What was she like?”

“The mare?” He smirks. “She was a slut.”

Twilight and younger he gasp.

“There weren’t any feelings. No slow burn romance. No love letters. We fucked like animals.”

“Oh, shit,” Twilight groans. “Just—just a one night stand?”

He chuckles. “Maybe a few more than that.”

“Was she good?”

“She was incredible. She loved sex. She had an Earth Pony’s stamina, a filthy mind, and zero shame. Her body was meant for fucking.”

“What happened?”

He shrugs. “What do you think? It didn’t work out. There was no connection. And she didn’t live up to my standards. Not nearly smart enough for me.” He dips his head and licks her horn, from the base all the way to the top. Twilight groans. “But you taught me to be a good student, Twilight. I learned a few tricks that I think you’ll like.”

She twists around. “Do you mean that?”

“Yeah, I wanna try this position that—

“No!” she insists, shoving him. “You dumped her because she wasn’t . . . me?”

“Twilight—I never got over you. How could I?”

“Aww . . . that’s . . . that’s so—” She keeps a straight face for all of three seconds before laughing. “That’s really, really cheesy.”

He shrugs. “And, yeah, you’re really smart, but I think you’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Does that make you my professor?” she asks.

“Ready for a lesson?”

She inhales. “Let me turn over,” she says.

Fil barely waits for her to settle onto her back before throwing himself at her, pressing himself chest to chest, stomach to stomach, crotch to crotch. He can almost completely envelope her. Twilight is mid-kiss when he plunges into her, and she yelps, almost headbutting him. She wraps her hindlegs around his hips, grabs his neck, and holds him close. “You’re so soft,” she cooes. “And so warm.”

“Heh,” Fil laughs, nipping at her nose. “You too. So real.”

His thrusting makes their kissing sloppy. Twilight doesn’t seem to mind.

“Why did we wait so long for this?” Twilight wonders, between kisses. “We could’ve been doing this the whole time.”

Filigree does the math. It’s only been a month since his future self showed up. His flirting game must be through the roof. Either that or Twilight is as horny as he is.

“We’ve got plenty of time now,” he says. “You’re even more incredible than I imagined. Your body is meant for fucking, too. And I have it on good authority that we’re going to spend as much time as possible exploring each other. I’m gonna come inside you today, but tomorrow morning I’m gonna cover your pretty face in spunk. You insist on taking measurements, but I don’t make it easy. The library stays closed all weekend so we can fuck. We barely sleep. In only a couple weeks you ask me to fuck you in the ass. You love it. We’ll go on dates. I’ll meet your friends. And you and I send me so many videos and so many photos. I won’t be able to stand it. I’ll be locked in my room, hoofing myself over and over, coming all over myself. Fuck, you made me so horny, even through that little screen, and now that I’m here, I’m never gonna stop fucking you. I’m never gonna leave you. I love you—”

Twilight squeals, stabbing her horn into her pillow.

Filigree arches his back and comes all over his stomach and chest, nearly hitting his chin.

And only a few moments later, Fil whinnies and thrusts himself deep inside Twilight, holding himself there, muscles tight.

All three of them slump, panting and shaking. Fil starts making out with Twilight. Twilight squirms, pulling at her blankets and making happy Twilight noises. And Filigree exhales a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He’s never come like that. His masturbation is usually unsatisfying and short, but this is full-bodied and thorough. He’s tingling.

It’s also confusing. He’s got visual proof that he sleeps with Twilight, but he still can’t believe it.

Even less believable is the idea of either of them dating somepony else.

Twilight’s horn ignites. She flies the camera up to her face, holds it upside down so she can look up into it, and makes eye contact with Filigree from five years away. Her eyes are blazing.

“I think I love you. Please hurry up and get here. I didn’t know how badly I needed you until you showed up.” She closes her eyes and kisses the lens, leaving a smear on it.

Down between her legs, Fil slides down and begins slurping what Filigree assumes is a fairly substantial creampie, and Twilight moans, “Filigree . . . ” for the camera.

Filigree can almost see the little hearts over her irises.

It’s only much later that evening, after several repeated viewings, that he notices the note with the cassette:

I was going to ask you first. I promise! I even wrote a letter and everything. I knew we were going to, sooner or later. But then we were cuddling and it just felt like the right time.

I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. He says you enjoyed it, but still. I promise, from now on, if we have sex, it’ll be all three of us.

Twilight

PS. It’s not just the sex. I think I really am falling in love with you. ♡

Month 16

They’re in her bedroom today, all three of them. Fil is holding the camera, presumably, while Filigree is against the wall, watching quietly. Twilight’s standing in front of her bed, facing the camera, with a nervous smile on her face and an outfit in her teekay.

“Where did you even get this?” Twilight asks, blushing.

“I stole it years ago from the school’s supply locker,” Fil says from behind the camcorder. “I’m pretty sure it’s a spare. Let’s see if it fits.”

“Let’s see, huh?” she drawls, cocking an eyebrow. She holds it up and flaps the clothing in Fil’s face. “You already know I’m going to wear it, don’t you?”

“No fucking way,” Filigree gasps when he recognizes it. They ignore him.

“Hey, you can dissect weird causality mechanics and worry about paradoxes, or you can try it on and show us both just how sexy you are!”

“Sweet Princess, please put it on,” Filigree whispers.

She looks ready to argue in favor of dissecting and worrying until Fil calls her sexy. “F—Fine. Just . . . let me go get dressed—”

“No can do, mi amore. It’s, like, a script. And you have to be sexy about it—”

“No!” she squeals. “No. I don’t care. I’m going to go put it on. Wait here.”

Both their jaws drop when she shuffles back into her room.

It’s a cheerleader outfit for the Dodgers: a yellow and red sleeveless sports top that dips low down her chest, a pleated skirt that he suspects has been cut way shorter than regulation, tail streamers, pom-poms, and—Filigree suspects—a pair of shiny white panties.

The young fillies at his buckball games prance around in this outfit, to the immense pleasure of him and his teammates.

And now Twilight has it. “You’ve already seen me wear this, haven’t you?” Twilight asks. She hovers her pom poms in her teekay and gives them each a single experimental shake. “Do I really look that good?”

“Twilight, we always gawk at the cheerleaders when we’re playing. It’s why we kept losing.”

“Pervert.”

“Come on!” Fil says. “Do the cheer! We’ll love it.”

“Yeah, come on!” Filigree breathes.

Twilight takes a deep breath, a look of concentration filling her eyes, and starts dancing:

“Ess is for super, yew is for unique.

“Pea is for perfect, ’cause you know we are sweet!

“Eee is for enthusiasm, arr is for razz.

“So come on, all you Dodgers—”

She spins in place, and flicks her hips.

“Let’s see you kick some ass!”

Her skirt flips up, flashing her panties for a moment.

“Did I do it right, Coach?” Twilight asks, slightly breathless. She bites her hoof and smiles cutely at them. Her tail wags behind her. She’s blushing.

Filigree gulps, watching several of his fantasies and fetishes intersect violently. Twilight could impersonate any of the sexy little things that shake their rumps at Filigree’s games. Fil does look like a coach. The video could end here and it would be a new instant favorite of Filigree’s.

“Hmm,” Fil says. “It needs a little practice.”

“What? I did it perfectly!” she exclaims, stomping her hoof. “It’s exactly how they cheer. I even did the wiggle at the end—”

“I said, it needs a little practice.”

“Oh! Uh—” Twilight tries not to snicker. “Well, do you have any hints, Coach? We’ve got the big game tomorrow, and I don’t want to be missing any school spirit!” she simpers.

He circles around her, eyeing her like a predator eyes a trembling piece of soon-to-be meat. “Lower your chest,” he says, stroking her spine. “Spread your legs a little, and keep your tail up.” He rubs at her cutie marks for a few moments, before lifting her skirt up over her hips. “And make sure to flick your skirt a little higher. You’re eye candy for the team. They’re supposed to want to fuck you. You need to flash your tight little ass for everypony to see, right?” he asks, stepping up to grind his cock against her rump.

“S—Sure, Coach,” Cheerleader Twilight breathes.

He continues giving her ridiculous, obscene tips while touching her in different spots, ostensibly positioning her and helping with her posture but really just using the excuse to fondle her chest, rub her groin, and hump his cock against her cutie marks.

It’s good advice, if you want to turn a spirited cheerleader into a talented seductress—or a teenaged whore.

Fil steps up behind her. “Oh, also, your uniform isn’t quite right.”

Before Twilight can protest, he reaches under her skirt and grabs her panties.

Twilight squeaks, then moans as he pulls them down. The camera’s got a perfect view. Twilight’s so turned on she’s dripping down her legs, hairs from her tail stuck to her thighs. “O—okay, Coach. Should I—”

He leans forward and presses his mouth against her pussy.

Twilight cries out, and her forelegs stagger, like she’s about to fall onto her chest. Her horn flickers, and her pom-poms tumble to the floor. “Oh, fu-hu-huck,” she keens, thrusting her butt back at him.

He tilts his head and slides his tongue over her crotch, lapping between her lips, even poking up her tailhole.

“Ah! Coach! You’re—you’re not supposed to touch me there.”

This can’t be their first time roleplaying. Twilight’s acting is too good. Filigree can almost believe she’s the kind of filly who’d fuck her teachers for fun.

Finally Fil pulls back, his muzzle shiny with her juices.

“Ah!” Twilight cries, thrusting her rump back at him. “I’m so close! Please!”

“Good. A horny cheerleader has more spirit. The colts can smell it on you. Make sure you come see me before every single game for some extra spirit, okay? I’ll give you a protein shake, too.”

“S—Sure, Coach.”

He takes her panties and tucks them into the waist of her skirt. If anypony saw her, they’d know immediately that she isn’t wearing any, and short skirts like Twilight’s practically demand that others try to peek.

Twilight staggers, barely keeping her balance. She whimpers, “What—what about the team? Should I give them some spirit too?” She glances at the camera and says, “There’s this one player I really like.”

“Absolutely not. They can imagine it all they want, but you’re mine after the game.” He bites her tail and yanks. “Keep your tail hiked, you little whore, and try again.”

To her credit, Twilight manages to pull off her routine. She’s sweaty, breathy, and clearly lust-drunk, but she incorporates his lewd, made-up advice like it’s a serious affair. She stands with her legs further apart, arches her spine, flicks her hips and her tail more. She licks her lips and lids her eyes, and chants a little more slowly, a little more breathily. Previously, Twilight would’ve passed for a practiced cheerleader in his school, but this cheer would have her banned, expelled, and sent to the principal’s office for a spanking.

“So come on, all you Dodgers—” she breathes.

Twilight spins around and flips her skirt and her tail out of the way, flashing a tight little cheerleader ass framing a flushed, dripping pussy.

“—won’t you please fuck my ass?”

Filigree doesn’t even bother pretending to be confused or appalled with this video. He grabs his erection—his cock doesn’t care who’s fucking Twilight—and starts stroking himself, just as Fil shoves Twilight chest down onto the floor, grabs his cock, and sinks into her winking pussy.

Neither of them last very long this time. Watching Twilight writhe and moan and orgasm over and over is enough to ruin the resistance of both stallions. Fil howls like an animal and pulls himself out just in time to cover her skirt and backside in long streaks of cum, quickly staining it. And Filigree grunts quietly and shoots rope after rope of sticky colt cum all over his chest while he humps his hoof.

His team loses their next game. Filigree gets a dressing down for being too distracted. He doesn’t even care.

Month 17

Today’s package is two parts: a cassette and another wrapped parcel.

“Why would she send me a flashlight?” he wonders, after unwrapping the parcel in the privacy of his own room.

Then he takes a closer look at the graphics on the outside.

Oh. That’s not a typo.

There’s a letter taped to the box, written in his mouthwriting:

You won’t need any instructions for this one, little bro. Enjoy!

Inside is a rubbery, soft, molded pussy for him to hump while he watches the love of his life and his older self fuck.

It’s even colored purple. How thoughtful.

He puts the camcorder on his chest, lubes his fake Twilight pussy, and tries to time his thrusting as Twilight bounces back and forth, sucking Fil’s cock and humping a new dildo they’ve purchased for just this occasion. Filigree’s first threesome, even though his Twilight is cold and rubbery and doesn’t really respond to him. After a few minutes they switch, and Twilight looks up at him with her bright pink eyes while she swirls her tongue over her fake cock and begs him to hurry up and get here already—

He comes harder than he has in a long time.

Month 19

Twilight sends him videos of the two of them fucking each other like desperate, starving animals. Almost every video ends with this older stallion filling her pussy or her mouth with thick pearly cum after she’s come two or three times. Sometimes she’s wearing something naughty, and sometimes she winds up wearing him. And she always tells both of them how much she loves them, and always claims she wishes she could see Filigree in his time, too.

All of Filigree’s videos start with him humping his hoof and end with him making a mess of his stomach or his bed.

It’s sexy as hell. Watching her come all over him—but not him—does strange things to his insides. He can’t explain it. And he doesn’t want them to stop. He doesn’t want to tell her he’s unhappy. And he certainly doesn’t want to break up with her. He needs her. They both do.

Just . . . not the Twilight she is. He needs the earlier Twilight. The Twilight before they met in real life. The eloquent, well-spoken-but-still-friendly Twilight—not the coming-her-brains-out Twilight.

Twilight, I’m worried how much you and I are having sex. It’s really hot, and I don’t want to judge, but I’m worried you’re losing yourself. Please, take some time for yourself. I promise I won’t get mad.

I miss you.

Filigree

Just writing it down lifts a weight from his back. It’s so obvious. Hopefully she isn’t too upset at him—it does sound kind of accusatory. But Twilight’s a kind pony at heart. She’s understanding. If Filigree tells her he’s worried, she’ll listen.

The trip to the mailbox is easier than ever before. He feels lighter.

When he arrives at the mailbox to send his letter, there’s an envelope waiting for him, with two letters inside.

The first is his letter. At least, it’s an exact copy of what’s in his hoof right now, about to send her way.

The other reads:

Hey, little bro. Don’t you worry ’bout a thing. Let me take care of her, okay?

Filigree

The trip home is harder than ever before. He feels nauseous.

It’s obvious in hindsight. His future self knows everything that Filigree does. He’s a perfect keeper from the opponent’s team that knows all of Filigree’s plays. Of course he’d stop Filigree from sending a letter basically telling Twilight to stop having sex. And he’ll be ready if Filigree tries to warn her. Any code that Filigree wants to send, he can intercept if he wants. What other letters has he blocked? What is his goal?

His future self absolutely is Filigree’s opposition. He’s corrupting Twilight, turning her into something perverted, a toy for him to fuck. Filigree knows Twilight. This isn’t her.

And the worst thing is Filigree can’t even blame him. If they’re not the same pony—if it isn’t Filigree that does this, in the end—then something happens during the next four or five years that turns Filigree into this . . . stranger. It’s not his fault. And if they are the same pony, then Filigree himself is responsible.

He’s shaken for days.

Month 22

He sends her a photo of his winning goal.

Twilight sends pictures of the two of them on a date at Sodapop’s.

He asks what her family does for Hearth’s Warming Eve.

Twilight tells him, then shows him what she looks like dressed up in a pretty red bow and a set of stockings—stockings which he apparently covers in cum in five years.

He tells her he loves her.

She tells him she loves him, too.

He stops sending messages.

Year 2

There’s a month of silence before Twilight’s final letter.

Older you makes me feel like a mare, Twilight writes, getting right to the point. You’re amazing, and strong, and so sexy. When we’re in the same room it’s so hard to keep my hooves off of you. You make me feel things I’ve never imagined. You’re such a pervert. (In a good way!) And I can show older you to my friends. I can point at you and say you’re my stallionfriend, my lover. You’re so real.

But I miss writing these letters. Older you and I cuddle and kiss and make love, but it’s you I really felt intimate with. I could share all these dreams and worries with you because writing them down helps me think. And, well, because I feel safe being candid with you. I trust you.

I trust older you, too. Of course I do. But it’s different. I know I’m not making any sense. Oh, Gods. I don’t know what to do. I love you so much. I miss you so much! But then you show up and suddenly it’s like I’m a whole different mare. Really—you’re the best colt I’ve ever met. You’re kind and loving and curious, but you’re also big and strong and you make me feel things I’ve never felt before. Being stuck between you two makes me feel alive in ways I can’t explain. I don’t deserve either of you.

I’m happier now, but I know it’s wrong. I abandoned you. I want to go back to just writing these letters, learning about you and old Ponyville and flirting a little. But I can’t just stop seeing you because it is you! You worked so hard to get here, and you’ve changed my life. How could I kick you out of it?

Please, tell me what to do. I need you both. But I can’t keep going on with two stallions at once. It’s not fair to either of you.

Love,

Twilight

Filigree will pervert and corrupt Twilight. That much is obvious. He may not have done it yet, but he will. She deserves so much better than him. She’s so talented and magical, and she has so much of her life ahead of her. And he . . .

He’s just a stupid jock with no future at all beyond making out with a pretty young thing.

He wants to tell her to break it off with his older self, to just go back to the way things were, when they sent pen pal letters back and forth and marveled at how such a silly thing like a mailbox somehow contains the most powerful magic they’ve ever known.

But it’s that powerful magic that proves he can’t do it. Fil knows everything Filigree’s thinking right now. He’s already read Twilight’s confession, her plea for help. He let Filigree see this. And he knows whatever Filigree’s going to choose.

Older Filigree knew that Twilight felt bad, but he still went to see her. He still dated her, and seduced her, and corrupted her.

Really, Twilight shouldn’t be with either of them. They’re the same stallion, after all. He’s going to do all of these things anyways.

And when he closes his eyes and really interrogates himself, he already knows what his answer is going to be too. He doesn’t have to be honest. He just has to be deliberate, and trust in his beloved.

Twilight,

You deserve to be with somepony who helps you grow, not somepony who keeps you stuck in the past. And I never wanted to bring you heartache.

I’m breaking up with you. I’m so sorry.

It’s been almost two years already. It’s only four more years before I meet you. I promise I’ll come find you.

I hope you’ll let me fall in love with you again.

Filigree

She doesn’t reply.

He stays at the mailbox long into the frozen night, but the little flag stays in its sent position. Maybe it’s broken. Maybe she broke it in anger. Would he even know? She probably wouldn’t break it, though. She’d worry about breaking the universe by tampering with it.

Either way, she doesn’t reply.

Part of him wishes Twilight would argue with him, or yell at him, or plead with him. It’s petty, and spiteful, but shouldn’t she also be broken-hearted? Doesn’t she care?

And part of him is worried that Twilight is going to try something drastic. She’s exceptionally smart, a real magical prodigy. If anypony would be capable of traveling back in time—as well as obsessed enough to try and do so—it would be Twilight.

But overall, he’s relieved. No messages means she’s accepted his request, even if she doesn’t necessarily understand it or agree with it. Maybe, five years from now, Twilight is sitting down with older him and figuring things out.

Or maybe they’re having a knock-down, relationship-ending fight. Maybe he just broke her heart.

He checks the mailbox every day, just to be sure.

Then he checks every other day.

Then it’s whenever he thinks about it.

Then he stops altogether.

Year 6

He graduates. He goes off to college. He meets a mare, and he tries desperately to make it work, but she’s as dumb as a post. He reads about the return of Princess Luna and somehow he knows Twilight had something to do with it. Whole months go by where he doesn’t think about Twilight, or the mailbox, or about his older self. Then he’ll have days where he cannot function, cannot think of anything but the life he gave up, and the life that’s speeding towards him, inevitable like a freight train.

And then, suddenly, he’s only days away from meeting her.

They made such a big deal about showing each other old and new Ponyville, but standing there, just out of sight of the library, he realizes almost nothing’s changed. The only sense that any time has passed at all is how much of a stranger he feels in his hometown.

Twilight never gave him a script to follow; he has no idea what Fil said or did five years ago. All he knows is Twilight wants him here. So he spent time on the train practicing and rehearsing, but predictably he’s drawing a blank.

Maybe he ought to return later, and give himself a little more time to plan.

But the townsfolk won’t appreciate a grown stallion hiding in the bushes, stalking a filly, and the universe might well implode if he wimps out, so he walks up to the Golden Oak Library before he can lose his nerve, holds a bouquet of pansies so tight he’s going to crush their stems, and steps in.

It’s dark inside, compared to the sunlight, but it’s warm, too. Very comfortable. Although it’s been years since he last visited the library, it hasn’t changed much. And there’s a familiar filly at work, humming to herself, a dozen or so books floating around her head while she studies a mostly empty bookcase.

He smiles, despite himself. She still has a gorgeous rump.

“Um . . . H—hi.”

Twilight turns, confused. “Hello? Can I help you?”

He gulps.

Her books fall to the floor.

“Filigree!”

Twilight launches herself at him, and holds him in a tight hug.

He gawks at her. She’s so young now. He’s used to her being the same age. Her voice isn’t tinny or distant. And she’s so much more three dimensional than he remembers—but it’s the Twilight he fell in love with, all those years ago.

The Twilight he’s still in love with.

Fuck.

“Oh my Gods, you’re here! You’re really . . . ” Twilight steps back and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Um . . . I’m supposed to—There’s a carnival and, uh—”

She stares at him, waiting, but the words don’t come out. His legs are locked in place and he can hear his heartbeat and his lungs are burning but he can’t seem to fill them for some reason—

“Hey.” She touches his face. “Relax. It’s me. You’re okay.”

He starts bawling.

No, he really isn’t.

He doesn’t deserve her. After all the anger, all the jealousy, all the dread—after abandoning her for years and years, and missing her so much—after watching himself change her into something awful—after trying to move on!—he thinks he can just waltz back into her life like nothing’s happened?

“But I screwed up so badly!” he sobs, crumpling against her.

Any normal mare would back away from the crying adult stallion. He’s an awful hot mess. But Twilight grabs him and holds him and doesn’t let go. She doesn’t complain as he wails in her ear and smears snot on her shoulder, and she doesn’t try to rush him or get him to calm down. She’s so soft and warm and kind.

“I love you,” he blurts out, hanging on for dear life.

“You’re okay,” she soothes. It’s okay that she doesn’t say it back. “I’ve got you.

“You’re here now.

“I’m not going anywhere.

“We’ll figure it out together.”

Filigree actually returned to Ponyville a couple days before meeting her, hoping to give himself a chance to try and figure things out first so that he wouldn’t wander in blindly. He barely remembered what he said to her, all those years ago. He knew he had to take her to the carnival, subject himself to the horror that is the ferris wheel, watch her win some games, and gorge on cotton candy. And he wanted to give them both an extra day to put together her letter and send back the photos—technically, tomorrow is the anniversary of that fateful letter.

But really, he wanted to return to the mailbox one last time.

The flag was down. A new message. She never did break it.

Inside was a letter and a picture with three ponies: an older him, a younger him, and Twilight.

You’re about to make a young mare happier than she has any right to be. You’ve got this.

- Twilight and Filigree

PS. I wouldn’t want the additional stress, but you say it’s okay, so—you’re a wonderful father. Congratulations.

Author's Note

The End

The 2006 romance movie The Lakehouse starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock most certainly does not explore enough of its kinky implications.

You want more? Hike that tail up, you little whore, and leave me a comment or two!