What Other Word Begins With C?
Sunday
“You want me to not cum?” Decadence asks, dripping with skepticism, one eyebrow raised as far as it possibly can.
“I understand that it’s an…atypical expectation, Empress, but yes,” replies Undertow, the scientist on the scrying screen in front of her. They manage to look forward unflinchingly, yet they still nervously fiddle with the buttons on their straining coat, sweat coating their brow. Even without actually being in the same room, the aquamarine pony still appears distinctly small in her presence.
“I surmise that this has something to do with the noises I’ve been hearing from the pipes,” she mutters to herself.
“Indeed, they’re significantly backed up,” they say, and they momentarily reach out of the screen’s view to consult some papers. “We’re working on expanding the plumbing to increase the flow, but it’s a dangerous process to work on while they’re still clogged. Earlier we were working on the adjustments when a piece of the piping burst. Two agents were directly exposed and now they’re, um, out of commission for the time being. Which is also indirectly compounding the problem that we’re facing, might I add.”
“And just what is the problem?” Decadence inquires with a weary sigh. She shifts in her seat, grinding her rump against the crystal craftwork. Her enormous ass cheeks bunch up behind her in such a way that they simultaneously serve as cushion and backrest, but they also overflow the armrests on either side. More than just the pipes are going to need work, evidently.
“The problem, Empress, is that the reservoirs are full,” Undertow replies plainly.
This sentence hangs heavily in the air for several seconds before Decadence repeats incredulously, “Full?”
“I assure you I am not exaggerating. In fact, I am understating it really. They are beyond full. We are dangerously exceeding capacity.” Their horn flashes, and then the view on the screen shifts, compressing to make room for an additional view.
Decadence’s eyes widen.
The Crystal Empire has had to see many developments in infrastructure in order to accommodate the changes in its inhabitants over the years. Construction crews are constantly at work all over the city and throughout the country, fighting to keep up with the need for housing for ponies who suddenly occupy many dozens of times the volume they once did. Even before that, however, one of the most pressing matters that needed to be addressed was that of the sewage works, since all those fluids had to go somewhere. The solution ended up being the hollowing out of vast subterranean caverns, huge pits which could fill with jizz filtered in from all across the city. The stuff could then be reconstituted into raw matter which then went toward all those aforementioned construction projects. The Empire’s marketing conveniently leaves out the detail about how most of the crystal used in its architecture was once semen.
The screen shows one of those reservoirs—Decadence knows from the dark blue rocky walls, illuminated by enchanted glowstones. The view is elevated above the walkway which rings around the pit’s perimeter, sloping slightly inward with a dividing barrier that is equal parts fence and grate. Sometimes there might be supervisors milling along the walkway, inspecting the levels of the reservoir, and maybe adding to it a little themselves, since even those with such mundane occupations get pent-up in the presence of so much heady, musky goo.
Or, rather, all of that is supposed to be there.
Instead, the cavern is filled with a lake of white. It is so high that she can barely even discern the top of the fence peeking out from the surface. There are ponies there, their bulging forms swaddled in obscuring hazmat suits, suspended from the ceiling in tethered harnesses. They levitate huge globs of the sticky gunk into the air and deposit them into bags of holding, but the level of the lake is scarcely dropping at all. Distantly, there is a loud grinding and crackling noise, which must be the product of construction efforts somewhere in the cavern.
“We are working on enlarging the reservoirs while the refiners step into overdrive on recycling what we have,” Undertow adds, the screens shifting again to give them priority, “but it is a slow process, it will take time for us to make any appreciable difference.”
“I…see,” Decadence says quietly. She feels lightheaded for a moment, and when she rubs her brow she feels the dampness of perspiration. Her breath comes hot and heavy. She’s aware that it doesn’t help matters in the slightest that she’s getting hard in the middle of this conversation. The huge pink spire of her loins pulses and throbs as it grinds against the underside of the desk in front of her—keeping it unseen from the view of the scrying screen, thankfully. She can’t suppress the arousal that comes from the very idea of the raw power produced by her kingdom’s sexual excess, the idea that somepony could be a threat simply through orgasming.
“And that, Empress, is why we must implore that you…restrain yourself from cumming, just for a short period of time,” they plead.
Brushing her mane aside, Decadence asks, “Shouldn’t we make this more of a widespread call to action? Ask the whole Empire to maintain a celibate lifestyle, just for a day? It seems as if that would make more of a difference than just one pony abstaining from cumming.”
“Well, actually, as it happens…” the pony begins while referring back to the big chart on a whiteboard behind them, a black line pointing steadily upward in steeper and steeper slopes. This was what the call began with, an update on how the cum output of the Empire has increased significantly over the years, a result of the population growing and the ponies themselves growing, the average size of Empire citizens trending upward as well. Decadence thinks about the damned chair again, knowing that the dimensions of her quarters have had to be adjusted multiple times already to account for how she has grown. Years ago, when she first became sovereign of a nation, she never would have envisioned the width of door frames to be such an overwhelming public concern.
“This of course represents the total output of sexual fluids from the Empire populace,” they explain while pointing to the graph, taking care to avoid getting so close that they smudge the marker writing with their obtrusive frame. “However, Empress, the truth is that we have also been paying close attention to a particular source of this output.” Their horn pulses again, and another line appears on the graph, drawn in pink. Even before the explanation for this comes out, Decadence is alarmed to see how this line shows an even steeper rate of progression, starting at a relatively low percentage of the total and escalating to nearly half.
“The reality is that you, Empress, are by far the single greatest producer of semen in the Empire,” Undertow says, working into some semblance of a steady stride in their voice even though they are still wary and intimidated. “This is in addition to the unique qualities of your cum, its consistency and its hazardous nature, which make it particularly difficult to work with. And so, while it might be beneficial if we were to enact a citywide bulletin asking civilians to keep it in their pants for a few days, we figure that it might be easier, mitigating the risk of a mass panic, if a single pony could restrain themselves, for the greater good.” They stand as straight and still as they can, arms folded behind their back, the presentation complete.
Decadence is barely aware of the pony on the screen and their damnable graph anymore. She’s slumped back in her seat, staring listlessly. Her head hurts and her balls ache, all she wants to do is ejaculate and then lie down for the rest of the day. Except, evidently, she can’t afford to do that.
“How long would this have to be for?” she asks wearily, rubbing the side of her face.
“We hope…three days.”
Decadence groans and now clutches her face with both hands, because three days was the same period of time that she thought to herself when she woke up this morning. “That’ll go right into Hearts and Hooves Day!” she mewls, already feeling the sinking feeling in her own heart. “How can I just not cum on our horniest holiday?!”
“We are aware that we are putting you in a difficult position, Empress,” Undertow says apologetically, perhaps even consolingly, “but we simply have no other option. At present rate of output, we may see cum backed up onto the streets by tomorrow. We will be working as expediently as possible to improve the plumbing systems and reservoirs. Perhaps we will be able to finish construction before the end of Hearts and Hooves Day.” Then they muster a wry smile and add, “Perhaps, Empress, you can think of it as…a way to be a role model for the populace. You will demonstrate to everypony that even the most virile of ponies can still use restraint when needed.”
There was a time when this might have filled Decadence with a swell of satisfaction, and probably gotten her hard too. She can’t resist an opportunity to satiate the needs of her subjects, and the idea of being revered by them in turn. And she’s certain that the scientist and all their cohort are aware of this too, just like all the functionaries of the Empire who try to curry favor with her, to get into her metaphorical pants (since she very rarely wears actual pants).
Today, all she can do is grumble. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Undertow titters on for a while longer, thanking her for cooperating, assuring her that their team is doing everything in its power to get the job done, reminding her to be careful of her own limits and to report any abnormalities, blah blah blah, before finally the connection on the scrying screen cuts out and then she’s truly alone.
Sometimes she wonders why she thought it was a good idea to do all this in the first place. Could anypony have predicted that this was how it would turn out? A decade ago, two decades ago, was there anypony who suspected that much of the continent would end up under the thumb of a mare with a dick bigger than most trees and testicles that produce countless gallons of spermatohazard putty? A mare who is more than three times as tall as the average adult pony and just as wide? Of course, that was before the average adult pony height tripled alongside her.
Her ear flicks and she looks to the side, to the closed door. A deep watery gurgling emanates from there, and she’s been hearing it intermittently all day. She knows exactly what it is, but she can’t help being surprised by it every time. It sounds too much like a hungry beast, eager to bite into her flesh (and there’s so much of it to be sampled).
Decadence stands with no small effort, grunting in a most undignified manner as she unwedges herself from her seat. Her buttocks assume their proper, full shape after being shoved into the hard, angular confines for so long, wobbling gelatinously. Her breasts maintain slightly more rigidity thanks to the sports bra she wears, relatively small compared to the rest of her but still enormous enough as they jut out in front of her that they obliterate all view of anything beneath her chest. And some part of her knows that she needs to be careful about the manner in which she backs away, certain that her cock will knock against the underside of the desk in such a way that it gets turned askew, but the greater part of her doesn’t care, so she haphazardly wrests herself from the spot where she’d been sitting for far too long and the furniture scrapes across the floor. She can levitate it back into the proper position later, when she’s not instead focusing on magically pulling the door open, a task she can’t do physically without turning to the side and leaning far over to reach across the divide of her hip. Thank Celestia—a phrase she still uses out of habit, for she’s not yet vain enough to say “Thank myself” or “Thank Decadence” like her subjects might—that she’s an alicorn or all this would be so much more tedious.
A heady mist of musk hangs heavy over most of the Crystal Empire, clouding the barrier dome, but it is particularly noxious and intense as Decadence steps through the doorway. Her personal discharge station is right next to the conference room, and there’s a panel in the wall which allows the scrying screen to flip around, in case somepony desperately needs her to be privy to something whilst she’s in the process of unloading. Shelves along the walls house toys and implements of pleasure she can use to assist in the process of alleviating her internal pressure, dildos the size of fallen logs, gemstone vibrators with the force of jackhammers, buckets and buckets of lube, gilded cockrings like hula hoops, and one portal condom, for emergencies only. She ponders this last one momentarily before turning to the drainage pipe.
The star of the show is the huge opening in the wall from which a pipe juts out. Like everything, it’s been getting undersized in recent times, though in this case, structural integrity concerns aside, it’s somewhat of a benefit since the tightness helps her get off. While the cylinder itself is plain metal, the end of it is made of a malleable plastic substance which Decadence can mold as she sees fit, to whatever shape or color or texture she desires, even simulate movement if she can manage the focus for it, with grips on the sides for her to hold onto. Currently it’s been made to resemble a huge pair of glossy purple lips, fixed in an open-mouthed pout. Incredibly horny to her at the time, but now with that gurgle echoing up from it she finds it less arousing. A little—only just.
She looks down at herself. Past her muzzle, the curtain of tricolor hair hanging before her face, the bulging valley of cleavage in front of her, there is the horizontal spire of her penis. She is not even fully erect and yet it still takes up so much of the narrow room that she would have to tuck it up against herself in order to turn around. It throbs, yearning, all the same, trembling along its length and down into the depths of her balls, huge pink boulders which unavoidably stand in the way of her legs and rest heavily upon the ground. Her feminine genitalia quivers and whimpers in anguished delight, smothered underneath all the meat of these phallic titans.
She has already had to relieve herself of the pressure in her loins three times today: after waking up, again after eating breakfast, and once more right before the conference call, hoping to avoid distractions while the important business was underway. That didn’t stop the needful hunger of her base flesh from steadily building all the same, gnawing at her like a parasite. Every slightest stimulation is another piece of kindling heaped upon the smoldering embers, every lusty impulse a lit match poised to spark a cataclysmic inferno. She may not need to cum now, but it’s only a matter of time before the urge overcomes her, and then she’ll be hobbling in here to stuff her cock in that pipe and thrust for a few unending minutes until the tap is empty.
It's fine. She can bear it. She’s had to endure worse.
“I suppose I have no need of this for a while,” Decadence muses aloud, and then, with a flurry of teal magic, she lobs some half-dozen dildos and jams them all into the opening.
The pipe-mouth makes a muffled burp at her.
= = = = =
Monday
A great deal of effort goes into maintaining an empire. So much of it involves paperwork—and all the paper has to be specially enchanted, page by page, so that it doesn’t turn to pulp in an errant flood of fluids. Correspondence from distant subjects. Treaty arrangements with other nations. Notices of altercations and conflicts, between individuals and greater groups. Correspondence from informants in distant lands, keeping an eye on potential threats. And, as always, ledger after ledger of construction projects in need of approval.
That’s in addition to all the interpersonal meetings that need to take place. Scribbling on a piece of paper isn’t good enough for negotiating a trade agreement with the gryphons, they require direct negotiations, squawking for hours about how much of their hunting spoils they’re willing to part with. And the planning committee needs to run her through the itinerary for the annual Hearts and Hooves Day festivities which become increasingly extravagant with every year, especially ever since Pinkie Pie came up from Ponyville. And the royal treasurers need to remind her about how other countries pay in more than just good feels and cum. And Aunty Celestia just wants to see her face-to-face (so to speak, given that the elder alicorn’s head doesn’t even come up to Decadence’s waist) every now and then to see how she’s doing.
But now Decadence isn’t tending to any of that. Instead, she’s spent the last hour loitering on the observation deck.
The name might sound strange to a laypony coming to the room in its natural state. Situated near the top of the crystal palace, there isn’t much to observe other than the colonnade of quartz pillars supporting the ceiling and a few forlorn chairs and sofas which are scattered about. It is only with the application of magic that the entire outer wall of the circular room changes pigment and texture to reveal the sky and the city spreading out far below. Further channeling can be employed to focus upon a particular section of the view, allowing one to zoom in and see actual ponies on the ground who would otherwise be too far away to discern, even with their giant dicks waving about. It is perhaps invasive, but who other than Decadence ought to have such a privilege?
She stands by the transparent wall, tracing along it, and where her hand touches there’s a circle that shows a telescoped view, scanning about methodically.
It doesn’t take long to find what she’s looking for: an act of sex.
It’s a threeway. A stallion bucks at a mare lying on the ground, twin cocks penetrating her twice over, gelatinous frame wobbling with every thrust, while she in turn has her face buried in another pony’s fat, dripping vulva, testicles dragging over her chest, their penis in turn jammed into the stallion’s mouth to complete the trifecta. And this is all on the outdoor patio of a café while they presumably wait for their drinks.
Census data has shown that approximately seven percent of the Crystal Empire’s adult population is engaged in an incident of sex at any one time. They may be by themselves, with their lovers, or with whatever stranger they happened to pass on the way to the bakery. They may be romancing delicately in the safety of their home, rutting out in the front yard, frotting at the public pool, or embroiled in a mad street-spanning orgy. There are exceedingly few places where there is nary a hint of white fluid trickling toward the storm drains, ready to be washed down to the exceedingly overburdened reservoirs.
They’re making progress, Decadence was assured when she woke up this morning and received the latest updates on the situation, but the dilemma is nowhere near resolved yet. The ache in her loins must be borne a while longer.
She sighs heavily.
Even though she has meetings to attend to, very few of those meetings would actually truly be in person. It has been a few days now since Decadence stood in the same room as another Empire citizen. That was when she had to do a new dress fitting with Rarity, a process which couldn’t be done over a call, and which required copious quantities of inhibitors for both of them. And, of course, Rarity had to come waddling over to the palace to do it; the notion of Decadence venturing out to her boutique was simply out of the question. There’s simply too much of a risk for her to go out around crowds of ponies. The development of scrying screens was a major breakthrough for communications across Equestria, but the magitechnicians who developed it would be lying if they didn’t admit that a significant motivation for creating it was the need for Decadence to have a means of interacting with others without them being directly exposed to her.
Her involvement in public affairs has diminished substantially over the years. She often doesn’t even come out for fountain initiations anymore. The rare appearance at an open event has to be diligently prepared for in advance, to ensure that all parties involved are accounted for and all the necessary precautions to prevent her from gushing volatile cum over a crowded hall are taken. Shining Armor and her ambassadors taken on the brunt of the burden in overseeing events for the Empire, the voice for public relations, while she is left to merely be the face, the representation of the community’s ideals.
She looks down at them, her ponies, filling the city streets (with themselves, or their excess). The magnification of the viewing wall makes it feel like she can reach out and touch them, feel their fur, their flesh, their immensity. But no, her hands are only touching hard crystal. All she can do is imagine their touch. Their embrace. Their clenching loins and throbbing lengths and tender skin and hot breath and—
The lurch within Decadence drags her out of her thoughts, and she only scarcely manages to exert restraint on herself before it’s too late to stop the pistoning of her hips. A few seconds later, she loosens enough to let some of her muscles relax, to breathe, to whimper. Her jaw unclenches, and she tastes copper in her mouth, oozing from the cut in her lip where she bit down. With her attempt to distract herself disrupted she is left with no option but to return her focus to herself. It’s almost a miracle that she was able to think of anything else to begin with, given the pressing enormity direction in front of her.
Her penis became fully erect while she wasn’t looking. It is a monstrous thing, one of the largest in the whole Crystal Empire. The pink shaft juts out in front of her like an artillery cannon, its length exceeding both her height and width. She can’t even reach the medial ring, let alone the flared tip which extends up toward the ceiling, bobbing with every throb, and she could hug it tight to herself and not touch the urethral bulge on its underside. Even with the structural elasticity afforded to Empire citizens by their fountain augmentations, many ponies still shudder at the idea of being pleasured by the Empress’s cock. This is before taking into account the hazardous concerns which go hand in hand with that cock.
Yet that is not the real concern now. That would be her balls, which have been yearning for her attention for more than a day now. The gargantuan bulk sprawls before her, a mattress of flesh—she could ease forward and lie upon it, with her penis wedged in between, a self-heated cushion for her to nestle into. She groans as she leans and stretches to place her fingers upon what little is within her grasp, the base where the scrotum attaches to her groin. The fleshy sac is tender and strained, and it squeezes and compresses, like a huge balloon full of…not exactly water, far too thick, and seemingly too amorphous to be flesh. It does not feel like her testicles are enlarging, more like she is filling with super-dense cum.
If she came now, how much of the observation deck would she fill?
No, she has to stop, reel herself back in; that’s the kind of thought she has to specifically avoid.
“No point in staying here anymore,” she mutters under her breath, dull and emotionless. She has work to get back to, and maybe now that will be enough of a distraction for her.
Movement is a difficult thing when one has testicles irrevocably pressing on the floor and standing in the way of their legs. Fortunately, as an alicorn, Decadence has the advantage of both superequine magic and strength to assist her in this endeavor. She’s forceful enough to be able to shove her way around, legs pushing into marshmallow balls with every step, but it’s for the best to avoid resistance as much as possible, so her horn lights up. A shimmering aura manifests around the undersides of her balls, just enough to reduce friction and weight so that she can effortlessly turn and walk, gliding across the floor. The greater concern currently presented to her, however, is the obtrusiveness of her cock, pushed up into the air, into her field of view, by the swollen bulk of her balls underneath it. She ought to be more careful, but she knows that she’s by herself, so she deems it unnecessary. A couple chairs are knocked aside by her advance, a relentless plow pushing through any and all obstacles, as she trudges to the center of the observation deck.
A wide spiral staircase leads both further up and back down into the palace. Descending would be easier than ascending, but she still doesn’t particularly want to deal with stairs at the moment, so instead she approaches the central shaft which houses an elevating platform. This still presents its own complications however, because even its capacious dimensions are tested by her increasingly swollen size. She thinks, actually, that she’s swelled even more since her initial trip to come up here; as she shuffles forward, the edges of the opening pinch at her balls, squeezing inward and amplifying the pressure within. Her cock jabbing into the ceiling of the enclosed chamber doesn’t help matters either, her efforts to mentally will herself to go flaccid proving fruitless.
The feeling of confinement is all the greater as the doors close behind her, locking her into a room that she can barely fit in. Her bloated testicles spread across the floor and mash into the walls. Even her ass is pressed into the wall behind her, completely hemming her in. All she can do while the platform starts to descend is lean back and relax as much as she can in this limited span of time.
She was preoccupied enough with the struggle of her genitalia that she didn’t consider the way her legs were more encumbered as she moved, thighs grinding together more than she’s used to, compressed buttocks riding higher up her back and smothering her wings.
= = = = =
Tuesday
Decadence is already sweating as she enters her personal fitness center, in large part because of the process of entering by itself. Her balls jam in the opening—no, that’s not exactly accurate. They can’t even get through at all. The swollen, wobbling pink globes decidedly stretch beyond the edges of the opening, far past the extent of merely squeezing and shuffling through until she’s free. It doesn’t matter how much she pushes into them, getting a faceful of her own nuts and their heady, intoxicating stench. They wobble and churn, and the sloshing within them sounds like the ocean.
When was the last time she went to an ocean, or any large body of water? The sun upon her skin, the salty breeze wafting across the shore, the crashing waves lulling her to slumber.
“Ohhh…”
The distraction of her self-induced hypnosis causes her focus to break and another pang wracks through her, and the surge of her testicles is forceful enough that it pushes back against her face, a punch from a boulder.
Her balance disrupted, she might have sprawled back and landed flat on her ass, sprawling out and then having her cock and balls land on top of her, smothering her, but her ass saves her from that indignity. The alicorn’s bloated balloon buttocks, jiggling as they land on the floor with a thunderous thump, a tremor that shakes down through the palace, are large enough that there’s scarcely any difference between sitting and standing, only hovering just above the floor. Even without her balls factoring into the equation, their new combined width would now substantially burden her efforts to fit through doorways anyway. The impact serves to shock her out of her stupor, groaning again as she takes stock of her surroundings and the knowledge that she just allowed herself to slip under again, however briefly. For a moment, she fumbles with her hooves, attempting to stand, but it becomes apparent that her swollen legs inhibit her too much to make that motion, swaddled in flabby sleeves which keep her hooves from touching the ground. After a few seconds, she’s left with the recourse of having to magically levitate her ass into the air until she’s upright—ironic, she’s aware, when she came here with the intent of being physically active beyond the assistance of magic.
“Tartarus with this,” she mutters under her breath, and her horn flashes brighter. The wall peels away, crystal architecture turned to the consistency of cardboard, making an opening far more accommodating for her enormity. Only then does she trudge inside, and now she has to crane her neck just to be able to see over her testicles and around the stiff mast of her penis. She doesn’t bother with fixing the walls, knowing that she’d just have to open them up again later when it’s time to leave anyway—if somepony cares about it then they can just use their own highly experimental crystal magic to fix it themselves.
Actually, she considers, she might have to make the opening larger on the way out.
Even though she and Shining Armor have to spend more time apart than they would like, she knows that he would be disappointed if she were to neglect her physical fitness. It felt particularly pertinent to her when she woke up that morning and became aware of a new kind of pressure in her already pressure-burdened body: a tightness in her abdomen, pressing out against the base of her penis, a gut that was now distinctly present where once there had been a slim waist, even if her breasts prevented her from seeing it. A baser part of her panicked, wondering if she might have impregnated herself after all, contraceptive enchantments be damned, but when she touched the swell of flesh she found it too pliant to be a baby bump. It might have been wise to consult a doctor anyway, but she internally scoffed at that idea, knowing that her cabinet of consultants wouldn’t want her to see anypony.
Of course, that was this morning, and now, two restrained orgasms later, that gut is significantly larger, fuller. She resists the urge to touch it, to attempt to gauge its size via the breadth of her arms. She knows, as she pushes her bulk into the gym—her plowing balls catching on some metal apparatuses, grinding them out of position as she goes past—that exercise won’t actually make a difference under these circumstances. She’s not fatter, she’s just backing up with cum, swelling like a balloon. It makes perfect sense to anypony who doesn’t know how anatomy works, which is fine since the citizens of the United Crystal Empire abandoned all sense of conventional anatomy when they signed on.
Maybe the real reason she’s here is just because she needs to be doing anything to keep herself from sinking into the depths of her unconscious hunger and letting the yearning of her loins drown everything out. Having already given up on trying to will herself not to cum, the next best alternative was to make it so that she simply couldn’t cum. A plug wedged into the end of her cock and magically sealed shut handily makes it so that nothing can leak out. She hadn’t wanted to resort to this before, knowing that the stimulation would arouse her further, but at this stage she’s already in deep enough that the lancing pulsations along the fleshy length are a negligible addition to contend with. It hardly even matters that this has caused her urethra to fill with semen, distending the underside of the engorged pink shaft.
It’s fine.
It’s all perfectly, completely fine.
Now that she’s here, Decadence doesn’t have to worry about anything. She can just grab whatever weights or machines she wants—normally she would endeavor to walk around the room, but it quickly becomes apparent, between her obtrusive bulk and her limited field of view, that it’s easier to reach out for them with levitation and pull them into her grasp—and go through her desired reps. The strain of her muscles as she hefts huge barbells, the trickling of sweat through her fur, is a pleasure all its own. She can even clamber on top of her nuts and use them as balance for aerobics, stretching her back and limbs.
It doesn’t matter that, every time she rounds the peak of a climax, the ocean filling those balls surges and sloshes and swells. The pendulous wobbling of her ass becomes a little more exaggerated, shaking in broader and broader arcs. Her gut grows rounder and rounder, pushing her up from the pulsating length of her penis. And, at some point, even her breasts start to shake, filling with something too thick and heavy to be milk, straining her bra.
By the time she thinks to stop, she no longer has to worry about her testicles fitting through the doorway. They already can’t fit in the room at all, having pushed aside everything that was in it.
= = = = =
The Big Day!
The royal ballroom is a location not normally in the purview of Decadence’s usual haunts around the palace. As they say, however, desperate times call for desperate measures, and so everything and everypony was cleared out to make room for its new sole occupant. The term “ballroom” has also never been more accurate than it is now.
She doesn’t “wake” as much as she comes to some semblance of conscious awareness while the waves of pleasure and pressure calm into a lull. Her awareness is largely occupied by the overwhelming, all-encompassing sensation of flesh and tightness and churning and bulk. She tries to move and her arms and legs are stiff, buried within their own mass. Even trying to open her mouth to let out a laborious, anguished groan is met with resistance from her chin pressing into her bloated neck.
Her back—mostly her ass, jutting so much farther behind—is pressing against some hard surface, and it takes her several seconds to remember that this is not a wall but the ceiling. For as much as her body has become buried in its own cumlogged mass, inflated well past obesity and into the status of blobhood, it is all secondary to her balls. She can feel them, even if she can’t see them, her legs straddled atop their mountainous enormity, rumbling like a volcano waiting to erupt. Her cock aches in a way that is unusual to her, its urethra so distended that it forms a bulbous, taut girth which is just as thick as the fleshy length itself.
The surging growth spurts have never really stopped at any point. It has been a continuous seep gushing throughout her for the past few hours, swelling steadily and relentlessly. It is only in this moment that she is able to consider the reality of what’s happening to her, and what is very shortly about to happen.
Because she knows what today is.
It’s Hearts and Hooves Day. It’s the day when everypony shows their full appreciation for the ones they love. What was once a simple case of cultural expectation brought on by centuries of hardwired tradition has for the Crystal Empire become the most precious holiday of the year. Certainly nopony needs an excuse to love, to cuddle, to kiss, to rut one another’s brains out, but for one day they can opt to devote themselves wholly to their love. It’s for the benefit of the Empire as well, supplying an extra boost to the barrier, to the enchantments which keep much of their civilization running, and by extension to Decadence herself. On Hearts and Hooves Day she is at her most powerful. And being powerful is an enormous turn-on to her.
It doesn’t matter that there’s nopony here with her—nopony to get crammed against a wall by her balls. Not her husband, not any of the other ponies she lusts after. She can sense them, dimly, through the bonds of love which connect them. Shining Armor is elsewhere in the palace, coordinating efforts for the holiday, taking precautions. It is what he’s good at doing, so he might as well keep doing it. Decadence, on the other hand, is good at being huge and inconvenient, so that’s what she’ll keep doing.
A groan gurgles up from her throat. Her penis-plug is under unfathomable pressure; she thinks if it were to come loose, it would fire like a cannonball and punch through the walls of the palace, the barrier, and keep flying for miles and miles. But her cock might just burst before then. Everything might burst. Now that would be a real orgasm.
She doesn’t need to be on the observation deck to know what’s happening. She can sense the love which pulses through the very air of the city, channeling through the Crystal Heart and into her. It pulls at her consciousness in a thousand different directions. She can hear them, smell them, taste them, phantom scenes which play in her skull, layered on top of each other all at once. Ponies holding each other, grasping, groping, grinding. Ponies bucking into one another, squeezing, clenching. Ponies whispering tenderly, gasping and crooning, then wailing wordlessly, a chorus of passion that screams to the heavens.
The alicorn can feel all of this and yet it still eludes her. All she can do is vaguely rock in place and expand, filling every corner and crevice of the ballroom, while she herself gets pressed into the ceiling. It’s impossible to discern the distinction of her anatomical structure anymore, where her appendages and bulk press together; everything throbs, everything trembles, everything is full, everything is cum. The sloshing and churning fills her ears, drowns out her heartbeat, her own thoughts.
“Empress!”
Somewhere past her ballroom-burying balls there’s a banging noise. Fists knocking furiously on a door.
“Empress! Are you there?! I heard you were moved here!” The doors are locked, but there’s no chance of them opening at this point anyway. She can feel them buckling under the continued assault of her flesh.
It’s a voice which sounds dimly familiar. A voice that served no purpose other than to deliver her bad news, and that elicits anguish and frustration and hopelessness.
Tighter, fuller, higher. Her balls might be rising past her, spreading across the ceiling.
But when Undertow continues speaking, it is not with doleful wariness but bright elation. “We finished the construction on the reservoirs!” the scientist cries gleefully. “There’s plenty of space now!”
“Oh,” Decadence thinks dimly. “So, I don’t need to hold myself together anymore.”
She tastes cum in her mouth.
Then everything goes white.
A loud rumbling comes from the crystal palace at the center of the Empire. Most ponies don’t even notice, for they are too taken with their sexual debauchery to look. Many of the ponies who do take notice are quick to dismiss it, knowing that the Empress and her Prince-Consort are wont to having their own sexual escapades on Hearts and Hooves Day. Only a few ponies who are not already preoccupied with the impaling of or being impaled by penises take the time to look up at the towering crystalline structure.
They see waves of white ooze pouring from every window and balcony and doorway, spilling across the plaza and gardens and out through the streets.
There is no time to run.
There is only cum.
= = = = =
Later
The sun on Decadence’s skin feels even nicer than she imagined. The atmosphere outside the Crystal Empire, beyond the climate-controlling barrier, is refreshing to her in a way she has not experienced for some time. Gods, just the idea of being out from beneath the barrier is a notion which has been utterly alien to her for the past few years, unable to imagine the idea of making herself so vulnerable. The ocean breeze brings a chill which wafts over her, offsetting the summer heat; she’s used to a climate that hovers comfortably around springtime for mostly the whole year. Well, mostly she’s used to being inside, so it’s also nice just to be able to look up and see the sky, the clouds, the sun, stretching out to meet the ocean on the horizon.
But she also reflects that the sensations upon her skin pale in comparison to simply having her skin fully intact to begin with. Thank Celestia—well, in this case she can feel no shame in saying “Thank Decadence” since she was directly responsible for pioneering development in this particular field—for reconstitution magic.
She doesn’t need to think about that right now, though. She didn’t come here to think about things, to worry. She doesn’t need to devote any brain space to the circumstances that led her here or surround her very being here. There’s no reason to concern herself with the sentinels who are standing guard far down along the beach, comfortably out of the range of her reactive growth aura. And she certainly doesn’t need to continue to fuss over the CUMBATH dossier in her supply basket which details the aftermath from Hearts and Hooves Day, the structural damage, the flooding, the ponies who were exposed to spermatohazards, the costs and ponypower needed to enact repairs, and the ultimate conclusion that it was deemed necessary for Subject 001 (Empress Mi Amore “Decadence” Cadenza, Priority One) to have a proper vacation to get away from the source of her irritation, the stress of dealing with the Crystal Empire while simultaneously being disconnected from it.
Everything is fine.
Sure, there are still certain precautions she needs to be mindful of. She has to keep a condom on because her cock is pointed straight toward an open body of water and the ramifications of such exposure could be disastrous. She’s presently not even erect, however, the dull throbbing of her loins nothing more than a soft metronome beat, and she’s only had to cum once so far, when she first set upon her designated spot on the beach. It proved convenient, because the resulting filled rubber, a balloon with enough volume to equate to a cozy house, is currently functioning as a makeshift chair-mattress for her to recline upon. She has recently come to appreciate the option to rest on a bed filled with her cum, and this time she can enjoy it without the discomfort that comes from lying on her own testicles. Her balls are quiet, and they don’t ache at all.
The ability to relax offers her a kind of satisfaction which is adjacent to but distinctly different from sexual pleasure. It is not a cascading failure which urges her on to further entropy. It is simply…quiet. The voices of her anxiety, the yearning to tear down the walls dividing her from other ponies, are gone. She breathes in the salty aroma, not of semen but of the sea, and she feels profoundly pleased, yet there is no urge to cum.
“Maybe,” she mutters to herself with her eyes closed, “we cum to get rid of our negative emotions. It can’t be good to keep all of that bottled up inside.” Then she chuckles under her breath at the thought that that could be said of the negative emotions or the cum; neither is especially good in excess.
One is certainly a lot hotter than the other, though.
Author's Note
So when it sank in that Valentine's Day was coming I started wondering if I could write something for the Decaverse again; it was too late for me to start on the inhibitors shenanigan story that has been rattling around my head for years so that was shelved once more. Around the same time, though, a particular inkling of an idea was brought to my attention, and I thought that was something that could be used for Decadence.
Undertow was originally just a placeholder and I could barely be bothered to put much detail to them so you can imagine what they look like but there's totally a true canon appearance for them.
There's some grim irony in the way Decadence's place in the setting has been built up in parallel to my own life and my handling of the Decaverse.
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