“So, what are you going for, tonight?”
“Pure white, Jazz.”
“So chaste.”
“Yup, virginal.”
“Is that why your mane is hymen-coloured?”
I snort.
“Jealous of my shade of pink?”
“As if, Blackie. Rockie loves this.”
I roll my eyes. Four whole sentences without mentioning her coltfriend — an academy record!
“He coming, tonight?”
“Nah, girls’ night.”
“Posey?”
She shakes her head. Good.
“Princess Boss?”
“Nah, Pipp’s got engagements. Streamer awards.”
My eyes light up.
“Sunny with her?” I ask, innocently.
“Yeah.”
“Hitch?”
“Nah.”
My heart pounds.
“Unlucky for him. He used to go clubbing, didn’t he? Before...”
“You know it. Freakin’ horn dog.”
“No, you know it,” I say, bitterly.
She and him. Ancient history. Still hurt.
She pauses applying top-coat to my nail which, for the past half hour, she has been painting a brilliant white, to match my dyed fur.
“Don’t be a bitch. I wanted to stay home, remember.”
“Soz. Well, thanks for coming out.”
“Somepony has to be there when you try that stuff.”
‘That stuff’ was Mareium. Banned, of course. It causes magical gender transformation but is lethal in high doses.
“Means a lot — ta.”
“All done!”
She finishes. I hold my brilliant, painted white hooves up and peer at them.
“You are amazing.”
She is.
“I know.”
“Can I dose here?” I ask, referring to the drug.
“Naw, Rockie said he heard they’ve got horns on the door.”
Unicorn bouncers can sense the magic in a lot of the new drugs.
“Shit.”
“Just wait.”
“Jazz?”
“What?”
“I think tonight’s the night!”
She snorts.
“Just finish your drink and be careful with those.” She gestures to my nails.
I stick my tongue out at her. Gingerly, I upend the glass of rum and coke and feel the rush.
“All right ‘Strawberry’, let’s hit the town.”
My cheeks pinken under the makeup. I had admitted to her, a long time ago, when we were dating, that I felt like a mare.
‘Really, what’s her name?’ she had said, incredulously.
“Shut it.”
I down the drink.
“Let’s fucking goooo!” I bellow, like a jock.
She giggles, collects her purse, which contains my drugs, and we head to the club.
I’m a little woozy after downing the drink. Jazz, beside me, is better.
I hear a familiar dog whistle from behind.
“Fuck off, Toots,” I call back.
The big guy nudges his orange friend, who checks me out. I tingle.
“Show us all that Jazz!”
“Bite me.”
I must sound angry because Jazz squeezes my fetlock.
I shrug and we keep going.
Two, big, suited, unicorn stallions stand at the entrance to Maretime’s bay’s largest venue: Canter-Logic Nights.
Feeling nervous, I try to fall behind Jazz, but she stops me.
“I’ve got the stuff,” she hisses. “You go first.”
I put on a smile and try to loosen my shoulders.
“Gentlemen.”
The lug holds up a meaty hoof.
“ID, sir.”
I hand over my ID, which displays a young, black, earth stallion, with a green mane.
“Who’s this?”
Jazz steps forward, coming to my defence.
“We’ve been through this,” she challenges.
“Boss don’t like it.”
“Sunny likes it.”
It wasn’t just unicorns and Pegasi who had benefited from Sunny’s political ascendancy.
I trot past.
“Wait.”
An intake of breath.
“Over there.” He gestures to a booth. I realise that I’m going to be searched.
Not daring to look at Jazz behind me, I head in.
‘Please don’t search her!’ I think, as the giant pats me down.
The burly unicorn is thorough. Nearby, the music booms.
“Nice ass,” I hear him say as his mouth passes my upturned ear.
“What was that?” I challenge, as loudly as I dare.
Instead of a response, I wince as a rough hand squeezes me between the legs, pinching each sensitive gland.
“I’m so hard,” he breathes.
“Thank you so much, sir!” I say, even louder, trying to get somepony’s attention without directly challenging him.
I feel his thing rise, push against my knee, and then unfold further, sliding up the fur on the inside of my hock.
“THANK YOU!” I yell, shrilly.
I feel it push up, under my tail. The tip of it touches my panties — I wear tucking panties.
Despite myself, I am getting a little turned on.
“I’ll scream,” I finally take him on, my voice cracking with fear. He is huge, in both senses.
I feel a wallop on my cheeks, and he chuckles.
“My shift ends at 3am, darlin’. Go on in.”
He stands aside, but his bulk means that I must squeeze past him. As I do, he pushes his hips out, rubbing himself against me.
My eyes prickle. With a feeling of intense shame, I realise that I am also erect.
I see Jazz in the club foyer, in line for the tickets.
I gesture to her purse.
She nods, and I could kiss her.
“I’m an upstanding mare,” she shouts.
The beat is heavy, even in here.
“Hah! You’re brilliant.”
“Did’ya like the line about Sunny?”
“Hay, yeah!”
“What took you so long?”
I think about the bouncer’s thing.
“Aw, nothing. Just… cunts, you know.”
Jazz gives me a funny look and reaches forward, peering into my eyes.
“There.”
She dabs at my cheek, where the shadow must have run a little.
“Right,” I yell, my voice barely rising above the bass. “First dose!”
Jazz reaches into her purse.
“Be careful, Blackberry.”
She only uses my full name when she’s serious.
After agreeing to meet back up, I set off through the bustle and vapour to the Gent's, clutching the bottle of Mareium.
Burning with excitement and fear, I ignore the snickers of a few as I make my way inside and enter a cubicle.
As soon as the door is closed behind me, I dose by covering the bottle’s top with toilet roll to form a pink circle. Too much is very dangerous, so this precaution is crucial. I pop the foul-tasting result into my mouth, regretting the lack of a drink to wash it down.
The heat from the drug tingles through me but, unfortunately, the immediate side-effects, always more noticeable on the first dose, hit me too. It’s the dizziness that I hope will end first, and it does — thankfully, before anypony bangs on the door. I can just about manage the shivers and creepy crawlies.
I wait it out in the loo, wrestling with the usual worries: that it wasn’t a good batch or that the mix was wrong. As soon as I feel better, desperate to see the effects, I flush ostentatiously and exit.
The first gaze in the mirror is always a little disappointing. Jazz’s makeup softens my lines anyway, and my mane, dyed pink, is kept long. There are signs of an inviting softness around my hazel eyes, however.
My inspection is interrupted by a presence next to me. I clutch the bottle, defensively.
“Hey,” he says.
I turn and shrug.
“You look really good.”
I cringe inwardly — this was not the place. A few stallions turn round and laugh nastily. I would leave, but I’m still a little shaky.
“Can I get your number?”
“Sure,” I say, irritated, and turn to the audience. “It’s one.”
The stallions chuckle, and the unfortunate blushes.
“What a twat,” says one. The rejected pony reddens and departs, muttering.
The latter gives me a macho nod, which I return. Head held high, eye contact, ears forward. Gents only.
The paranoid nausea returns and threatens to overwhelm me, the ugly scene and setting fight my still-budding euphoria.
The jock finishes and leaves. While a few guys give me a look, none approach after my display of defiance. With no further upsets, I calm down and come up.
Winking at the mirror with my newly rounded eyes, I seek out Jazz, needing to share the joy with my friend.
“I gather you took it.”
I am wrapped around Jazz, loving her comforting presence.
“Sheesh! So ‘Strawberry’ has come out to play, has she?”
I nod.
“Well, give it here.”
I reluctantly hand her the bottle and she puts it back in her purse.
“Wash it down with this.”
She hoofs me a rum and coke, which I down to get rid of the foul taste in my mouth. She is Sol-sent.
Both our ears perk up as the speakers blast out a mutual favourite.
She grins and, leading me by the hoof, we step up onto the dance floor. Our coats vibrate to the bass.
We both gyrate, me giggling every so often as she twirls. My eyes are on her, as hers are on me.
My perfumed hide is hot, and as we dance to every new song, familiar or not, we moisten. After a number of tunes, buoyed by the alcohol and the drug, my movements become more provocative. Even if stuff happens later, this is always the best bit of these evenings.
Eventually, it’s my turn for drinks, so I gesture to her and go queue.
“What’ll it be, Miss?”
The bar stallion bawls over the din. I do not correct him.
Returning with the drinks, I see Jazz has stopped dancing. A stallion is chatting with her.
“Hey, buddy,” I challenge, making my voice as deep as possible.
“This is my coltfriend, Blackberry!” she says, loudly.
As I thought, the guy is a creep.
As a beautician, Jazz is significantly better presented than her competition, so she always gets attention. Her coltfriend, Rockie, though, is a hard guy, so most stallions know to keep their grubby hooves off. I’m doing this creep a service by stepping in.
He continues to pester, so I get into his face.
“Mate,” I say, butching up, for effect. Although the Mareium no doubt undermines the impact, I still have my voice and size. I’m taller than him, and not unfit.
With a puzzled look, he finally gets the message.
“Sorry, er, mate,” he mumbles.
After a little dance, I feel like I might be coming down. I want to dose, but with Jazz getting hassled, I don’t want to leave her alone. We decide to risk trying the Ladies' together.
She eyes me critically, to make sure I’ll pass.
“Bit tall, but I think you’re OK.”
She’s a good judge, so I trust her.
Inside, unlike in the Gent's, there’s no tension, but also no anonymity.
“Hey, enjoying the night?” asks one girl.
I pretend nausea — I’m rumbled if I open my mouth.
“She’s just a little dizzy.”
“Poor thing.”
The stranger pats me.
“Well, I hope you feel better soon!”
Jazz ushers me into a cubicle.
While she does her business, I dose.
The rush is cleaner now, with less nausea, but it also cuts deeper, so that my body hums with the warmth.
I lean against the side of the cubicle, overwhelmed.
“Don’t cry!”
Jazz is there immediately with a cotton pad. She takes the bottle from my trembling grasp.
I fall into a hug. I have missed this feeling so much. Because Mareium is so difficult to get hold of, I can only do this a few times a year.
“Hey, I think we are the same height now, sister!”
“I need a mirror!” I declare, grinning.
Leaving the cubicle, I see that my face is fully feminine now, with none of the strong, square angularity that I hate. A smaller, softer, me looks back. Jazz’s immaculate makeup now enhances rather than obscures.
“Fuck me, ‘Strawberry’! That stuff is good!”
“The best.” I sigh.
“Pity about your butt,” she says, cheekily, giving my generous, but still colt-proportioned, behind a pat.
Back on the dance floor, we continue where we left off. Soon my coat is slick and my heart pounds after each high-energy number.
I am getting more attention now.
A plain looking mare makes her way over.
“My friend wants to know if you have a coltfriend?”
“We’re together,” Jazz interjects, not missing a beat.
“Yeah, total lesponies.”
I play along.
“C’mere.”
We kiss, gently, both of us trying to avoid upsetting the other’s makeup.
This is greeted by wolf-whistles around the club. The attention makes me tingle happily.
We continue dancing together and, eventually, the idea that we are off-limits percolates, although we do get offered a few drinks.
But it isn’t enough.
“Want another?” I shout to her.
When she looks confused, I put a hoof to my mouth, indicating a drink.
She raises a glittering pink hoof in assent.
When we step down off the stage, away from the music, I follow up with what I really want.
“Just one more. The last, I swear.”
Jazz’s face darkens.
“No.”
“Please, Jazz!”
“You look great, Blackie. Don’t abuse that stuff.”
My face flushes with anger.
“I look like shit.”
“Don’t,” she pleads.
“Then gimme.”
I reach for her purse.
“Blackie, please!”
But she doesn’t withhold it.
Taking the bottle, I turn and head to the toilets.
“Ladies' are that way, Miss.”
In my distracted state, I must have headed to the Gent's.
“What if I’m a stallion?”
I try deepening my voice, but I can’t.
“Look, be my guest, but I’d feel happier if I went in with you. I don’t want you getting hassled.”
I wonder if this guy is genuine, and I feel a familiar pang. My eyes drift to his broad chest covered in ginger fur. Then they drift a little lower.
“I have a marefriend,” he adds, quickly.
“So do I,” I snark.
I push past him, heading for the Ladies'.
As I head inside, nopony looks. In the mirror, I see my feminised face and slight form blend in with the other mares.
I double-dose this time, reasoning that Jazz might try to take the bottle back. That will be the last time, I swear.
The rush of warmth hits me like a wave and the cubicle spins. A stabbing pain in my abdomen and chest make me wish Jazz was here. Had I taken too much?
My heart thuds.
After a while, a voice distinguishes itself from the mare-chatter outside.
“She’s in there, I think,” I hear someone say.
Then I hear Jazz’s voice.
“Blackie?”
I fumble for the cubicle door, only barely managing to open it. When she steps through, I am looking up at her.
“Oh, my Sol!”
Jazz hurriedly closes the door.
“How much have you had?” she asks. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I slur.
Jazz reaches for the bottle. I try to stop her, but I am too uncoordinated.
She sighs with relief.
“I thought… please never leave me like that,” she says, with tears in her eyes.
Seeing her cry sets me off, and we both blub.
“It's a good thing you don’t need the makeup now,” Jazz says ruefully, as we both gaze into the bathroom mirror, side by side, cleaning away the damage.
I see that almost nothing of my masculinity is left — just a small reminder, hidden inside my tucking panties.
“OK, let's go.”
I lean against Jazz for support, dizzy and awkward in my unfamiliar body.
As we head down into the club, I feel stallions’ gazes. My face is hot.
A pony in uniform comes up to us.
“She all right?” he asks, gruffly.
“Yeah, yeah. She just needs a bit of fresh air.”
“I’ll get you a water.”
“Thanks.”
With Jazz’s support, I manage to climb the stairs to the club’s outdoor lounge.
As I look up at the night sky, I feel the cold air on my burning face.
“Wow, that was intense.”
A pony suddenly blocks the stars.
“Whoa, hey again,” he says, sourly. “It’s the 'comedienne' from the guy’s loos!”
I vaguely remember the scene from the toilets earlier. It’s the guy I rejected.
“Sorry,” I slur.
“Yeah, whatever. If I’d known you were a mare, I’d never have asked you.”
I laugh.
“Asked me what?”
He turns to Jazz.
“She on something?”
Jazz stays mute.
“What a loser.”
It just pops out. I don’t know why I want to hurt him.
He makes to grab my mane, but a bulging forearm stops him.
“This guy bothering you, Miss?”
The voice of my saviour — a familiar one in Maretime Bay.
I squirm with tingles as the pony whom I have crushed on since high school, Hitch Trailblazer, steps in.
“No, Sheriff. I was just—“
The amber stallion squares up to my persecutor, a wicked thrill shoots through me as I see the muscles from my fantasies tense up, ready to punish him.
“—just leaving.”
Hitch nods.
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he says.
Jazz blushes and looks down.
“Jazzy!?” he says, surprised.
“How come you’re out. Does Sunny—?“
“Jazz…”
“Does she know you’re out, looking for fun?”
I can hear the edge in her voice. She isn't over him, unsurprisingly.
“What about Rockie?” Hitch asks.
“Mind you own business.”
“So, you can go out clubbing with a mare-friend, but not me?”
“Ugh. You’re so—.“ She pauses. “Wait, you’re out with a mare?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Two. And they’re really pretty. One’s called Jazz, and the other…?”
Jazz fumes.
He called me pretty!
“Strawberry,” I say, falteringly, trying to appear neither too out of it, nor too smitten.
“Hey, cutey.”
Hitch gives Jazz a challenging look.
“Fancy a dance?”
“Sure,” Jazz and I say, in unison.
Jazz is staring daggers.
She goes in for a hug, enveloping me.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses.
“But?”
“Let’s just go.”
“Aw…”
“You come down; we stay friends.”
“I love him, though.”
Hitch returns with the drinks.
“What are you lovely ladies talking about?”
“Just girl stuff,” we both say.
Dancing like this feels amazing. My body is so light and flexible.
I avoid the more obvious and provocative moves from before, trying to be more alluring.
Though Jazz isn’t as into dancing as me, I notice a similar change in her.
This time, our eyes do not meet, so I look around the club.
I see face after face turning as my gaze passes over them.
The male faces examine me: from the brisk ‘checkings-out’ by nearby stallions, to more lingering evaluations from those just visible through the disco-smoke.
The female faces are almost uniformly hostile.
I recognise one of the stallions as Toots’ friend from before and give him a smile.
He raises a hoof to his chest.
‘Me?’ he mouths over the music, and he makes to bound forward, but then he sees Hitch and backs off.
I wonder at their interest, for a moment, before remembering what I look like: not a flamboyant stallion gyrating my hips like a pantomime portrayal, but the real thing.
I look over at Jazz, but she is looking at Hitch.
With a rush of butterflies, I turn to see that Hitch’s eyes are fixed on me.
Unable to resist, I respond to his attention, tracing my torso with a white, polished hoof. His eyes follow me as I glide over my feminised ass.
He looks up and our eyes meet.
Jazz stops dancing. Her face crumples as she looks down, shaking.
After a moment, she turns to me with a furious look.
I think she's about to go for me, for a second, before she changes her mind and leaves the dance floor, heading for the exit.
She hasn’t taken her purse.
Hitch moves to retrieve it, but I stop him.
“I’ll go.”
He smiles, and my heart melts.
“Jazz!”
The pink tail recedes in front of me. Taller than me now, she is better able to move through the throng. My new form is so much less physical.
But that doesn’t matter as much as it normally would, as the blocking bodies of stallions make room for me.
One cops a feel, but I don’t care.
“Jazz!”
She finally turns round and sees the purse.
“Give it,” she spits.
I hold it out.
“Never again. How could you?”
“Jazz,” I plead.
But she turns away.
I feel terrible that the night with her has ended like this, and I could cry, but I also feel a rush of excitement. I’m free!
I make my way back to my stallion. Clutched tightly in my hoof is the bottle that could make me his mare.
Hitch has picked up our things. He gestures to a booth.
“She OK?”
“Yeah, just tired. Early start at the salon tomorrow.”
Hitch nods. I notice that he is not holding my gaze.
“How about you?” I ask.
“Me? I'm fine! Actually… I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but—“
He gestures for secrecy, so I lean in.
“Me and Sunny haven’t been getting along.”
I can’t believe this is happening! I stay mute and try not to let my feelings show.
“Hard to believe, with her being so—.”
“Yeah,“ I say, interrupting, not wanting him to praise her.
“But she has so little time, now. I miss when she was just a kooky fringe girl, y’know.”
“Selling smoothies.”
Not a glamorous profession.
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. A momentous decision is written on his face. I can’t’ breathe.
Decision made, he leans in.
“Me and her, it’s not like people think.”
His lips brush my ear as he whispers. The stallion-smell of cologne and sweat rolls over me like a wave, as our bodies converge.
“And you?” he asks.
My mind blanks. He’s so close!
For a second, I think he is talking about the bottle clutched in my hoof, and I worry that he might have guessed something.
He misreads my hesitation.
“Of course. You must have a coltfriend. What’s his name?” he asks.
I shake my head. It’s the truth.
“Recent break-up?”
I think back to my ex — my real ex. It had been years, but I had never loved another pony like I loved him.
The memory must have brought tears to my eyes because Hitch’s expression immediately shifts.
“There, there,” he comforts, leaning in for a hug.
I swoon, as he holds me.
“Thanks.”
We break apart.
“What are your plans?”
They flash through my mind: take Mareium, have fun with Jazz, then go back to hers.
“Just dance,” I say. “Yours?”
“Oh, yeah. Same.”
He leads me to the dance floor. It must be getting close to 3am, because the music is winding down.
On the dance floor, he draws me in. I rest my head against his shoulder as we sway to the slower, more ambient, final songs of the night.
After a blissful while, I hear a fuss behind us. My partner withdraws and straightens up.
I shrink behind Hitch as I see the bouncer from before making a beeline for me. Panicked, I try to remember where I put the bottle. Our stuff is at the side of the stage, near the bouncer.
Shit.
The two stallions talk.
Shit!
“He’s the one!” I say, suddenly.
Both look at me.
“You pig!”
I burst into tears.
Hitch is instantly beside me, while the other looks bewildered.
“What’s wrong!?”
“That guy rubbed himself on me before. He said it was a search,” I say, through sobs.
The powerful body tenses, and I see the other’s do the same.
“This true?”
The big unicorn squares up for a second, before backing off with a growl.
“Naw.”
“Better not be.”
The bouncer gives me a look of hatred, and leaves.
“I’m so sorry.” He presses my face to his chest. “We’ve had a few complaints, but until someone makes it official....”
I eke out my sobs while he strokes my mane. His chest is heavenly. Out of the corner of my eye I notice furious looks from a few mares — Hitch is meant to be off limits, because of Sunny.
‘Bitch’ I see one of them mouth, so I turn away. If I wasn’t so in love, I’d feel ashamed.
It must have been Jazz who called the bouncer. She’s done that in the past when she’s been worried.
With a feeling of destiny, I incline my head upwards, seeing the amber eyes boring into mine.
There’s an airless pause and I feel faint. Only my hooves, clasped about his waist, keep me upright.
There is no feeling comparable to kissing someone you love.
We exit the club, arm in arm.
“I’ll take you home.”
“I... was staying at Jazz’s.”
He can’t come to my place, it’s a stallion’s place.
“Oh, well,” he says, awkwardly. “I have a kid.”
I feel like crying. Rejection, after all this?
“But he’s away with his ‘mom’.”
Oh, thank Sol.
Despite the pounding in my heart, I play it cool.
“His ‘mom’?” I force myself to ask.
‘Mom’ can go to Tartarus. But I was right to play sweet and innocent, as I am rewarded by a gentle squeeze. He’s a good guy. Wish I was.
“Yes, not his birth mom, of course. Or—”
Oh?
“—even really my partner, physically anyway.”
I falter. A kiss is one thing, but this could be heading into the realm of dreams.
“Are you all right?”
No! Yes! Fuck! Is this really happening? Aah!
“Yeah.”
I squeeze his hoof.
They haven’t done it!? Sunny and Hitch aren’t… Sol, if anypony else knew! In the Salon, falling for him is called ‘getting Hitched’.
“I can’t really have you knocking on a strange-pony’s door in the middle of the night,” he muses.
Dick. Make up your mind!
We trot in silence for a while. I feel his weight shift as we approach a darkened alleyway, and I notice him looking around, before producing a hipflask, which he takes a swig from.
“You didn’t see that, cutey.”
Wow! Well, I guess nopony is going to search the Sheriff. He certainly keeps this side of himself well-hidden.
“OK. I guess you had better come back to mine.”
He gives my hoof a squeeze. Unable to resist, I steal a look at his torso, and below. The answer it gives is ‘yes’. My own tingles, too.
He catches the look and I curse. I’m spoiling my ‘sweet and innocent’ vibe. While he has committed himself to an extent, he could back out now, even if it would be awkward for him.
But he doesn't.
Instead, his strong forearm clutches my waist to his, bringing that part of us closer together.
Between the tingling and butterflies, I can barely keep myself upright.
Hitch lives above the jail and so, as it’s Saturday morning, there’s a bit of noise. Thankfully, there’s an entrance around the back, so we aren’t seen by the lowlifes.
Once inside, he gestures to a spare room.
“You can sleep there. It’s where Sunny sometimes sleeps when she stays over with the baby.”
He delivers this lightning bolt with a calm face.
I really do try hard to hold back the tears.
“What is wrong?” he asks, moving to hold me.
I just sob. I’m obviously worthless. Why did I ever think...
“There, there.”
‘There, there?’ I echo inside my head. I sob harder.
“Please! What is it? Tell me?”
I am a stallion-ish, um, thing who is madly in love with you, and you think I’m just a mare and you still won’t sleep with me.
“Are you scared by the lowlifes? I’ll tell them to be quiet.”
He actually heads to the door. By Sol, this guy is oblivious!
With enormous effort, I master myself.
“It’s just, Jazz... is it OK if we stay up a while?”
“Aah.”
I can literally see him thinking ‘mare problems.’
“OK. I’ll get a whiskey. Rum and coke, isn’t it?”
He sits down on the plush sofa next to me. His thigh is brushing mine.
“What about her?” he asks.
Shit. What did I say? Who? What? His thigh is so warm. Mustn’t squirm! Mustn’t squirm!
“It’s OK,” he encourages, as if I'm a lost filly whose parents' names he is trying to learn.
Obliviousness has its advantages. He rubs my hock. I am getting seriously turned on. Much more of this and I’ll have a proud little problem.
“Are you sure you want to talk about Jazz?”
How to answer him and not destroy the mood?
“I think she was a bit jealous, maybe?”
Am I horrible? She’s my best friend! Why am I doing this?
“Oh.” He chuckles. “Well, I think you were making more than a few mares jealous in the club, honestly.”
Heart. Beat.
“Oh.” I manage, heroically.
“And… me and Jazz, we have history.”
I know.
“But then I met Sunny.”
Not back to her! Shit.
“You said you weren’t partners ‘physically’?”
Last roll of the dice.
“Yeah, no.” He pauses. “Sol knows why I’m telling you this.”
I keep myself frozen.
He takes a deep drink. Was that pure whiskey? Wow! He’s really knocking that stuff back now.
“Sunny and I, we love each other. Deeply.”
I wonder if he carries a gun. If so, who do I kill first? Me, or him.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah, but…”
A ‘but’. We live!
Another stiff drink. Steady on pardner!
“—in the bedroom—”
Beat. Heart.
“—well, it doesn’t work between us.”
I lean forward to take a drink and use the opportunity to cross my legs, hard.
“Sorry.”
Have I ever been less sorry in my life?
But what could the problem be? Everypony knows, and hates, Sunny’s status as the local ‘perfect being’.
“You’re a mare—”
An erect one.
“—what do you think?”
Is he serious? That’s an impossible question. There’s no way to play that. Oh, Sol — I think I might have to tell the truth. Not the whole truth, of course. I’m not stupid.
“Well, she’s very nice.”
I feel him stir, moving his hoof off my thigh. Shit. I’m losing him! I need to think!
“But—”
His hoof-tip brushes the top of my hip.
But what? There is no but. Just kill me.
His hoof leaves my hip, and he downs another whiskey.
Is this where he cries about how he can’t bed his marefriend because he feels inadequate?
“But maybe she’s too nice,” he offers.
What!? Oh, Sol! It’s obvious! He needs a ‘bad mare’. He can’t get it up with Sunny because he doesn’t want to spoil his little angel!
If I was a guy — I mean, I am one, sort of — but I would know, I do know, because I’ve had a few in my time, that when you’re on top of a girl, struggling, grunting and shooting your load — you can feel like you’re degrading her. Your thing pushes in and out, masturbating itself inside, before you slump, sweatily, and slither out, but not before catching sight of the pube-fluid foulness and inevitable ugliness of organs.
My heart in my mouth, I choose to be bold. This is the moment. Now or never.
“Not… like me?”
I gaze into his eyes, challengingly, as I did to the stallions in the Gent's earlier.
I see his thing stir and strain.
He downs the whiskey and slams the glass on the table, cracking it.
With a sudden ferocity, he lunges. With one hoof he grips my neck and forces our heads together, while with his other he dives between my crossed legs. His mouth is everywhere as he tears into me. I meet his frenzy head on, physically overwhelmed but matching his passion. Meanwhile, I desperately try to fend him off down-below, to prevent him finding out about my little secret.
He rears back, gripping my shoulders, his face dark and hungry.
We are both panting.
In a deliberate movement, he leans over me, and draws my arms together on my chest.
Uh-oh.
“Hitch.”
He ignores me and, with his fetlock, effortlessly pins my arms in place. Meanwhile, his ardour urgently presses into my soft stomach.
His free hoof reaches for my crotch, having disabled my defences.
No! Think!
I wriggle away, scared, but get nowhere. At least fear softens my little sex, thank Sol.
“Hitch!”
“What’s wrong?” he says, an edge to his voice.
I look down to the organ bumping needily against my stomach.
His square jaw clenches.
“Don’t worry. I have protection.”
He roughly spears his free hoof between my legs, raising his knee to try to leverage mine apart and claim his prize.
“No!”
If Sunny could see him now…
He hesitates.
“Don’t you want this?”
“No.”
I cry, a little — in part, due to genuine fear.
Stung, he blinks.
I can see him thinking, like any good little colt: ‘I have been too rough with the filly, and now she is upset.’
A look of masculine solicitousness comes over his face, and his bumping member softens against my belly. He releases my arms.
“Oh, Sol! What am I doing? Are you ok?”
I quieten him with a kiss.
He kisses back gently, at first, but his fire soon returns.
To forestall him, I use my released arms to clasp his prodding member, caressing its delicate skin, and teasing and rolling its bulbous head.
To my intense relief, this has the desired effect.
With a moan, he leans back on the sofa, hooves by his side, letting me pleasure him.
From my position of power, I savour his gorgeous, amber body a moment, before I move in.
I lower my head to his, pushing my mane aside, so it doesn’t drape over my face.
Rather than kiss, I brush my lips over the warm, whiskey-scented stubble, and move over the ridge of his jaw, to the vulnerable intimacy of his neck.
An electric thrill rushes through me as he sighs and angles his head, letting me nuzzle. My noises add to his.
I travel over his chest, kissing as I go, delighting in the soft fur.
Meanwhile, I feel the first little dribbles from his thing. It must have been a while…
As I move down to his tummy, I feel him grip my head again, pushing me down towards his waist.
Taking it in my hoof, I lift the wonderful, yet strange, taut, tumescent organ gently to my face, smelling its musk and feeling its length which, up-close, is considerable. It is hardsoft, like a cucumber, sensitive and yet firm and powerful. Below it, his two orbs roil.
Lowering my head between his sweaty legs, I fully commit by moving my mouth over his sac, taking in the tangy sex-taste. I run my hooves up the length above me as I do so.
His hips buck a little, thrilling me with the power I have over his perfect body.
I move my mouth up to his girthy base, angling myself to the side, to wrap my lips partially around it, and then I slide up.
“Mmm.”
At the tip, I pull my mane back, and look up.
As before, his eyes lock with mine.
I blissfully lower myself onto him and, even as he pants and reddens, he never looks away.
Unlike Jazz, and a few others, I cannot take it fully, and so I pull back just before I gag. My prickling eyes and nose are worth his moans.
Pulling up again, I swirl my tongue over the slick organ. It tastes of dick. In a good way.
As the urgency of the blowjob increases, I bring my hooves to its base and close my throat around it, as I have learned to.
To my delight, I begin to taste his closeness and feel it pulsing.
He is already beginning to buck, so I slow my motion, wanting to prolong the experience.
We continue like that for a while, until his grip on my head becomes vice-like and he forces himself down my throat. My eyes roll back in an attempt not to gag, but my body betrays me, with the unfortunate attendants of gulps, mucus and tears.
“Aah!”
With a final tensing, he comes, and I fill with that weird ‘heavy’ taste cum has, along with a deep love for the stallion who has filled me.
Tears of love mix with the others. All I want to do is gaze up into his eyes, but I know that I don’t look my prettiest right now, so I drape my mane over my face as his thing softens and withdraws.
The panting stallion sighs, as they do.
“Fuck me, cutey. Wow.”
If we weren’t strangers, I would cuddle him. Post-coital stallions are the best.
Instead, I have a terrible choice. I need him in me, but… I can’t, can I?
The Mareium bottle lies among my things, just next to the sofa. I have a reckless impulse: one more dose and the stallion I love could take me properly, as the mare I am!
And then I remember Jazz, and mom, and all the ponies I’ve loved. It’s not worth it.
Couldn’t we just try anal? With the lights off? If he finds out, I’m dead though — oh, Sol!
While having these thoughts, I make my way to his kitchen which is, fortunately, ruthlessly well organised. Taking a scrap of kitchen roll from under the sink, I dab my face in an attempt to undo the damage.
After swilling my mouth out, I take a swig from a rum bottle on the counter. My head pounds from the drink and excitement. My little, feminised, sex, ever hopeful, begs for more.
But surely he’s satisfied by now? I prick my ears up — there’s silence from the other room. With a yearn of disappointment, but also of relief, I sense that the night is over.
In the harsh glow of the kitchen light, I plan my exit: I will find him sleeping; I will drape a cover over him and will give him a kiss goodnight; I will collect my things. On the way back, I will text Jazz with the first of many, many apologies. Oh, Jazz…
With my mind made up, I return.
As I walk into the room, however, he springs to attention. It seems that I have underestimated my charms, or at least the length of his dry spell since, if anything, his hunger is greater than before.
Thoughts of leaving are swept aside by the sheer excitement of having the stallion of my dreams consume me.
And I find myself unable to resist responding, despite my misgivings.
With renewed butterflies, even more intense than in the club when I pulled the same move, I twirl and 'paint' my assets sensuously with my polished hoof. This time, though, I draw it around my entire ass and cutie mark, whose picture, a cocktail glass, by some joke of fate, points a straw right between my cheeks.
To complete the effect, I angle my hips so that my waist sucks in, while my newly enlarged rear pushes out. The pose raises my pink-dyed tail so that it drapes coyly to the side of my white-furred valley, which is further set off by the lacey pink/white trim of the panties. My feminised thing and orbs stay tucked out of sight, of course.
“You like?”
Hitch tenses and a possessiveness comes into his demeanour, like a colt with a toy. He nods. He wants me.
I can’t believe I’m going to do this.
“Should we?“ I gesture to his bedroom.
He shakes his head.
I don’t falter. What does he have in mind?
“In there,” he says, his voice thick.
The guest bedroom. Of course. He can’t have my stink on the sheets when Sunny comes round, can he?
I wonder what it’s like to just be quietly loved by a stallion like him. To be long-term and play and cook and fight and just be together? I feel a pang for another time, before the Mareium, and before the world changed. Just coltfriends together. No lies.
“Now,” he orders.
I see that barking at me stirs him even more. Maybe it’s all those ‘bad mares’ in the cells? All that power — it can be corrupting.
“Yes, Master,” I say, recklessly, wanting to stir his fire even more.
He grins. I was right.
“Call me that again, slut.”
Slut? Well, fortunately I don’t love him for his imagination.
I play along.
“Master?”
I won’t lie, submissive play can be a turn on. Elaborating on the role, I bring a hoof to my lips and make my hazel eyes large.
“Now,” he commands, and moves in, as if to carry me to the bedroom.
I back away slightly. Let a mare prepare!
“Slut was naughty before, so can she go to the little filly’s room to make herself look pretty for Master?”
Ugh.
He nods and heads to the kitchen, probably for more whiskey.
Using the opportunity, I prepare the bedroom. There are bedside lamps. The flat is surprisingly tastefully decorated. Princess Boss’s influence, probably. Certainly not Izzy’s, or the place would be covered in crap.
I make the room dim, leaving one lamp on.
With my heart in my mouth, I reach for the Mareium bottle in my things… but no. Even if he beats me, it’s too dangerous. The final changes can be lethal, especially when combined with sex. I know because I’ve lost good friends that way. Despite that, I make sure the bottle is accessible from the bed, hiding it in my clothes.
I head for the bathroom.
Where are the douches? C’mon. C’mon! Surely Sunny… when she stays over?
I find them under the sink.
I squat and soap to prepare my little pink, rinsing it thoroughly with the douche, inside and out, before drying the area with a towel. I can’t dawdle, it’ll just have to do. I dab his cologne on my backside, marvelling at how the Mareium has shaped it into a bubble. I had a nice ass as a stallion, I thought, but now, wow! How could he refuse?
At least the Mareium makes my thing smaller, but if these panties come off… I mean, they’re just for role play. Why the hay am I so stupid?
But maybe he’s secretly bi, or is too drunk and horny to notice? I have often flirted with ‘straight’ stallions in the past, only for them to be happily down to screw later.
With less time for my face, I make only a brisk inspection. It’ll be dark. Still, I do rub at the tear streaks and dab a little powder — freaking white makeup! Jazz would not be impressed.
A knock on the door.
“Master’s waiting.”
I grab a large tub of baby lotion from the vanity, and leave.
I sashay out of the bathroom.
He’s waiting and immediately grabs me from behind, his hooves perilously close to my sex. He pulls me back, pushing himself into my softness.
I would be thrilled, but I am too scared of him finding out about my secret before we get to the bedroom.
“What’s that for?” he asks of the baby lotion.
Dessert.
“Um,” I say, and wiggle into him. Feeling it where I want electrifies me. I bite my lip — not for display.
“Oh?” he queries, before realisation dawns. “Oh! Good slut.”
In the dim guest bedroom, I put the lotion on the side-table.
Pushing the duvet to one side, I lower my torso onto the bed, raising my head on my forelegs, angling my underside away from the light.
I feel him pull my tail, raising me up.
“Oh, cutey… you are.”
He is actually lost for words! I burn with pleasure.
Whack.
“Ow!” I squeal, not expecting it.
“What are you?”
Shit. Does he know something?
Oh, of course, the ‘roleplay’.
“I’m a ‘slut’.”
Wack.
He’s really walloping me.
“What are you?”
“A slut!”
Wack.
The pain draws tears this time. He is incredibly strong, and I’ve never been weaker. The bruises I’ll have after this! I’ll be standing in the salon...
“Slut! I’m a nasty slut!” I shriek, half-genuinely.
After he’s done, he drags me, tail first, into him.
Faint with fear and arousal, I reach for the lotion and smear some on my hooves.
“Let. Master.”
He takes the lotion bottle.
My heart stops. What the fuck do I do now?
But I don’t have time to think. His hoof is already between my legs.
I moan as his hoof pushes into my clean, slick, pinkness.
However, that turns into a whine of fear as I feel him continue up my taint and push inside my panties. The world stops as he touches what I have been hiding.
He staggers back.
“What… what the fuck are you?”
I whip round, my hoof grips the bottle.
“I’m me. Hitch. Master? Please, no!”
I know this look. I bolt.
I head for the exit but, scrabbling with slippery hooves, I can’t get his door open.
“You… you! What have you done?”
I hear the deadly anger in his voice from the bedroom, where he is still reeling.
“Making me… do that to you.”
I’m crying. I need to focus. Why won’t it open? There’s a safety latch!
“Lying to me the whole time.”
Oh, Sol. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to actually…
“Talking about Sunny.”
He doesn’t say the last word, he growls it — a guttural beast’s voice. I have never been so scared.
“I’ll fucking kill you!”
With a final roar, I hear him coming for me.
Giving up on the door, I hurl myself towards the bathroom and lock it behind me.
Chapter 3 [TRIGGER WARNING!]
Author's Note
TRIGGER WARNING!
This chapter may be harmful to read if you are of a sensitive mindset or are processing certain events linked to the red tags, especially those raised in this fiction. These tags are to be taken especially seriously for this chapter.
The other chaps are fairly tame. Turn back now if you are unsure.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Chapter 3 [TRIGGER WARNING!]
Crash.
At least the safety conscious bastard has firm doors.
Crash.
I look at the terrified mare in the mirror with pity.
Crash.
I instinctively cower away from the noise, shrinking into the corner by the toilet.
Suddenly, silence.
Some heavy footfall.
A door slams. The door to the flat? But I don’t dare leave.
I uncurl, tottering towards the door, like a chick reluctant to leave its nest.
With a sudden jolt, I realise that the bottle of Mareium is in my hoof.
“We’re dead either way,” I say to the mare in the mirror.
I don’t take it. I put it to one side and slide it onto the vanity, crushed by the feelings of doom, self-hate, and fear.
The edges of the walls go white as the adrenaline, drugs, drink, and general madness of the evening — Hitch, Jazz, the bouncer — all seem to roll into one.
In my state of disassociation, the shrieks of manic laughter and hysterical sobs seem to come from another mare, and I feel pity for her. At one point I feel a sharp pain in my side and feel the oozing warmth of blood. Did she stab me? Am I dying?
Eventually, the panic attack ends and, exhausted, I crumple to the floor. I am still too scared to leave the bathroom.
I do not know how much time has passed or what is happening: had he just left? might he be asleep outside? will he be waiting for me?
Lying on the tiles, my consciousness begins to ebb.
Suddenly, heavy hoof-steps outside jolt me fully awake and I rise, my body sick with adrenaline.
I back away as the door explodes with a colossal crack.
Screaming, I cower in terror next to the toilet bowl. I see an axe blade twist and withdraw, taking with it a chunk of door-panel.
An amber face peers through at me and for a split-second our eyes lock. It is the most hated that I have ever felt.
There will be no reprieve — if he has his way, I will die. Soon there will be nothing to stop him.
My flight-designed body jerks involuntary with the desire to survive, wanting to run, but I am hopelessly trapped. The throbbing in my head is overwhelming, but the fear of death keeps me sane.
"Help!" I scream. But I know it's no use.
Crash.
The barrier of the door splits fully open. My last protector. The hole is big enough for his entire arm, which reaches through to the handle.
Without thinking, I attack. I don’t remember seeing the glass shard on the floor.
He roars with pain but doesn't withdraw.
Instead, turning with the practiced motion of a stallion trained in combat, he punches through my weapon with his bloodied hoof, smashing it and sending me flying back against the toilet, almost knocking me out. I crumple to the ground.
Unwilling to accept the inevitable, I try to shuffle across the floor away from him, sliding on the blood-slick, white tiles. I make a pathetic attempt to return to my corner, as if I would be safe there.
Over the sound of my ragged breathing, I hear the door click — the room is filled with light as it swings open.
Unthinkingly, I scrabble for the Mareium, which had been knocked to the floor in the melee. I drink it. All of it.
The rush cuts through even the adrenaline of this moment. The edges of my vision are pink and white — I roll my head back on the tiles.
In a state of hazy detachment, I see Hitch raise the axe above me, before throwing it away and stomping out of the room.
I gasp with gratitude. More moments alive! I just want to be back home, safe, with Jazz.
But then I am hit by an incredible pain from my groin, worse than any I have ever experienced. It’s the Mareium. Oh, Sol!
Gingerly, I reach between my legs, to the epicentre of pain. The tucking panties are empty, and very bloody.
Finally, a mare! The real me.
But I’m so tired.
Still, if I’m to survive, I must move. Though all I want to do is lie here and sleep, I know it’s either move or die.
I uncurl from the corner, forcing myself up, propping myself on the toilet bowl.
I feel a heaviness below my stomach. I always wondered what that would feel like. My embryonic uterus. An engine.
The pain from it is incredible. I am a defective chassis, and its power is brutal.
I only make a few faltering steps beyond my prison before he crushes my throat in his hoof.
He shoves his face into mine; it smells heavily of whisky.
“I’ll show you what it is to be a mare.”
His other hoof reaches down and pulls hard at my panties, which snap off, revealing myself fully.
But he is not looking.
Releasing my throat, he swivels me, and I am shoved into the bathroom. I fall forwards over the toilet bowl.
My legs are sticky, my died-white fur is a horror show.
Splayed over the toilet seat, he grabs my pink tail, lifting me up.
“You wanted me to fuck you.”
The beast-voice cuts through the haze of pain.
In a daze I feel him wrap a hoof around my waist.
“N-no, please.”
With all the force of that terrifying body, he thrusts.
My bloody fluid lubricates him and somehow my new body feels something other than pain.
An unfamiliar sensation of arousal builds.
The feeling is unlike anything I felt as a male — it is more like a pleasurable paralysis. Waves open me up even further, willing him inside, ignorant of the damage.
And his thing responds, as it would to any mare.
As I ebb and flow, he grunts and grunts and grunts.
Not satisfied, he turns me over, so that my back is to the toilet tank and my sex is in the air.
He spits on my face and continues.
I can’t bear the hate in his eyes. I don’t want that to be my last memory. It’s not fair.
He is panting more and more.
The madness distorts his face.
Lifting me bodily, he turns me over and dumps me back on the bathroom floor.
I lie crumpled at his hooves, until he yanks me up by my tail.
I’m an object to him now, not a pony, nor even a mare. I am a repository: for anger and lust. But at least I can’t see those hate-filled eyes.
My soft, failing, body judders with each of the thrusts that follow.
The treacherous new sensations rise to a climax, and I join him, lowing like a cow.
We tremble and shudder.
Time passes in painful ecstasy.
With each thrust, more flows. Soon the edges of my world dim.
With a final grunt, he buries himself.
Other than the pressure on my new vagina, I can’t feel him unload. I imagine the fuel roaring into me, igniting an eternal fire, burning me away.
The pain returns as the pleasure subsides. It is too much.
My vision goes white, and I pass out.
I do not know how much time has passed.
I am cold, cold, cold.
I open my eyes, but they are unseeing. I can feel fluid — gallons of it seems to cover the floor, spreading from my legs, smelling of iron.
A power beyond me compels me to try, one last time, to live.
“Hitch,” I call, feebly.
I wait a while in the dark, as moments flash before my eyes: foreground thoughts of Jazz, pleading with me not to dose so heavily; the hostile stares of mares in the club; Hitch’s tenderness, before he changed.
As the numbness spreads from my centre, my thoughts turn to older memories. The sun on my face as I explore the dunes of Mareocco with my old love. Mom’s sharp voice telling me off for getting lost. Bullies galloping after me in the playground. Rosemary saying that she didn't want an ugly, smelly, little brother.
With that last memory, I succumb to sleep.
