The chances of anything coming from Equestria...
Chapter 1: The chances of anything coming from Equestria...
Chapter tags: [M-human / F-pony / F-human] [Vanilla]
“I swam across
I jumped across for you
Oh, what a thing to do.”
I am a predator—agile, graceful, deadly—and I am stalking my hapless prey.
My movements are slow, calculated, and, of course, completely noiseless. Closing in on the bed upon which I have spotted my next victim, I pause only for the small text—the one that states the fancy scientific name of my species—to pop up beneath me as I freeze in mid-stride. Supersonicus Maximus, it’ll read. Or something like that.
(So I like to pretend I’m in a cartoon now and then; big deal. And yeah, I totally narrate my own life sometimes. What, is it a crime?)
But hey, if you’re done asking lame questions, I was thinking: with a Canterlatin name like that, I think I’d actually prefer to be called an apex predator. Yeah, that sounds a lot more badass, right?
Exactly.
Okay, so, technically I’m a pony, and not very, you know, prey-stalkerish... Pretty much as herbofi—, herbive—, plant-munching as can be, actually. But when have I ever let insignificant little details like that stop me?
Ugh. You didn’t have to answer that. Yes, you. You know who you are. You can’t see it, since you’re behind that screen and everything, but I am so totally face-hoofing right now. Really, really hard.
Ow.
Anyway, getting distracted here. Back to the whole stalking thing.
I briefly take stock of my surroundings: a generic bedroom, of the kind a particularly lazy or imaginationally-challenged author might introduce as the scene of the action in a bit-a-dozen clopfic. It features uninspired, white wallpaper; a large window with the curtains partway open, providing a view of the depressingly dreary weather; and a floor covered in that worst of all possible compromises: carpet tile. All in all however, it’s still cozy enough. Not huge by any means, but one could certainly swing an Opalescence or two in here, if one were so inclined—and, like, sufficiently suicidal.
The only things that stand out in this sea of bland bedroom-normality are some colorful posters and a plushie situated on the foot end of the most prominent set piece: the functional, single-person box-spring bed, plopped down smack-dab in the middle of the room.
As I sneak closer to the bed on my tippy hooves, I finally get a better view of its occupant; my intended target. It appears to be some kind of giant, naked, three-toed sloth? No wait, make that five-toed. Weird. Certainly a strange creature: hoofless, tailless, wingless, hornless, furless... not to mention clueless. (Ha! See what I did there?)
Well, okay, I guess his species isn’t entirely hideous. I mean, he’s actually kind of cute, for a human. And that smooth, hairless skin actually looks sort of soft and fun to nuzzle, I suppose. He also seems to be in reasonably decent shape, though I could probably run laps around him even with both wings tied behind my back. Wouldn’t be entirely fair, granted, given that, according to my calculations, I have at least twice as many legs as him.
And there’re those handy-dandy fingers I’ve heard so much about! Kind of freaky-looking, but based on what I’ve heard, every mare could sure use herself a set of those around the cloud.
What, how do I know for sure that he’s male? Is that what you’re saying, imaginary audience? Geez, what do think, Einstein(s)? I don’t need to go over and check. I mean, I’m no expert on human anatomy, but even I can tell he’s obviously a guy. After all, he seems to lack the brainpower to get the most out of modern blanket-technology (read: I can totally see his junk).
Not that I was looking... well, not looking looking, anyway. I mean, it couldn’t have been more than a quick peek. Only a few seconds or so, all right? But hey, um, if you must know: he ain’t no Big Mac, but he’s still, y’know, pretty respectable. In that department.
I can tell because there isn’t even a sheath for him to hide in. It's all just... hanging out in the open, for all to see. As vaguely-pink and smooth and naked as the rest of him. It’s certainly... different. Kind of—what’s the word?—exotic, really...
Hmmm...
B-but never mind stuff like that, you pervs! Let’s instead focus on the fact that his kind falls squarely in the lazy category. It’s eight in the morning already, but he’s still snoozing! Like there’s nothing better to do with your time! Man, I’ve already gone trotting, practiced my most death-defying aerial maneuvers, napped, showered, preened my wings, done absolutely nothing to my mane, napped, and, oh yeah, travelled all the way to Earth!
Yet here he is, just lying there, all naked and cute and moderately well-endowed...
Just look at him—so peaceful, so quiet... so supremely vulnerable.
Heh. Is he ever in for a surprise.
‘Cause look: the stealthy pony-predator is getting ready to spring on her defenseless, naked prey! Behold her perfect technique, deadly grace, and general awesomeness; the majestic way in which she wiggles her rump whilst she calculates precisely the trajectory needed for maximum where-the-hell-did-she-come-from... ness.
She’s like a ninja—only cooler, and more colorful! Let us take a moment of stunned silence to admire the cat-like grace with which she moves, and completely ignore the part where she misjudges the height of the bed and stumbles, nearly flopping back down onto her clumsy blue butt. Yeah, we’re just... going to pretend that never happened. All right?
So, our heroine—the epitome of cool—is now on the bed—completely without incident—and pauses only to pick up the inevitable Rainbow Dash plushie sitting on the covers, politely informing the stuffed-toy-version of herself that her services will no longer be needed before chucking her in spectacular, over-the-shoulder fashion. Then she mercilessly descends upon the male.
Ah, what unspeakable fate will befall him?
“Surprise!” she bellows, post-pounce. And lo! There is a birthday hat perched upon her head, and another has been brought for his noggin also. And alas! There is Pinkie Pie, too—for she would never miss a birthday party, no matter what number of Wall it was being held behind—and they all partook of some purely platonic cake together, and absolutely no one spilled whipped cream onto anyone else, and then the wholly wholesome threesome flew back to Equestria happily ever after, over the rainbow!
THE END
Psych!
Hahaha, oh man, you should’ve seen the looks on your faces! I totally had you going for a second there; you really thought it was going to be one of those stories, didn’t you, where all the build-up and innuendo only leads up to a lame, totally non-sexy anti-climax? Dude, that would’ve been one sucky surprise, huh?
Unless you’re, like, way into non-sexy things or something. Then this might be a good point to stop reading, I suppose.
But hey, the rest of you just relax, all right? That whole paragraph up there? Made it up. Yup, none of that actually happened; it was a total—as Twilight’s Dictionary for Dorks would suggest—counterfactual scenario. I know, I know... it was impossible to tell, a flawlessly executed prank, etc.
The actual surprise is still pretty sucky, though—if you know what I mean.
In spite of my efforts, though, it still takes several minutes for the lousy bum to open his eyes! Though I guess I can’t completely blame him for being a little lethargic about the whole waking-up-to-a-pony-giving-him-a-BJ dealie; there’s currently not a whole lot of blood available to allow his poor, pea-sized brain to function, after all.
I would know; I felt it rushing into entirely different places firsthoof! Or, firstmuzzle, really, if you wanna get technical about it.
I’m not sure why—and it’s actually kinda-sorta mega-embarrassing to admit to this—but I love that feeling. I mean, he’s no stallion, but let’s be honest here: ~~penis.. es?~~ ~~Penii?~~ cocks in general are just pretty darn fascinating!
Wait, what? A lesbian, me? Really? Is that what they say?
Huh.
Moving on.
He was all soft and floppy when I started off, but a few nuzzles later he was already beginning to stir. Just these tentative little twitches, y’know? Like he wasn’t quite sure whether to stand at attention just yet, given that I was only teasing—running my soft, slightly pursed lips up and down along that pleasantly pulsing shaft as if trying to smear a single, affectionate little kiss along every last inch.
They say your lips are, like, one of the most sensitive bits of your body—above the waist, at least—and I totally believe it. I mean, I might have messed around a little before that, giggling like an idiot while I nudged his semi-flaccid, still-kinda-wobbly erection to and fro with my muzzle and let it bop me on the nose repeatedly. That was just plain hilarious. But when I did the kissy-thing—with that supersmooth skin just brushing along my lips—that was just plain addicting, man.
Just one of life’s simple pleasures, I suppose; not as thrilling as, say, doing a barrel roll, maybe, but strangely enjoyable to my brain. Sort of like how popping bubble-wrap might be soothing to someone else.
In any case, before he got too hard from me just toying with him for my own amusement, I opened wide and took him into my mouth. (Feel free to insert your own, appropriately moist and slurpy sound-effect here.) Ingenious as I am, I even waited a little beforehoof, lulling his unsuspecting cock into a false sense of security. But just when it thought it could relax and get back to lying about aimlessly—you guessed it—BAM, blowjob-city.
Closing my eyes, I then indulged in my other favorite little perverted pastime: letting him grow fully erect in my muzzle. Just... wrapping my lips around him while he was slowly swelling and taking shape; totally feeling him just fill more and more of my muzzle, and rest ever more heavily on the cozy little makeshift bed of my tongue... The texture and mouthfeel changed as the skin around his growing girth was stretched taut, and then those soft, tangible veins started to bulge a little, and all of them just came alive with happy little pulses which—in perfect sync with his heartbeat—simply slipped past the tight seal of my not-at-all-trembling lips...
Hmmm.
Erm, where was I? Oh yeah! So while I was casually enjoying... all of that, letting my mind wander and just generally nursing him to full, raging-hard-on-y erectness with my unrivaled oral skills, he finally woke up.
Took way more licking and sucking than I thought it would, to be perfectly honest.
“Ah! Omigawd, w-wha—?” is his pathetically predictable response to seeing me down there, lovingly tending to his morning wood. From the bewildered look in his eyes, I’m guessing his confuzzled brain incorporated it all into his dream, or something; in fact, he looks like he’s afraid he’s still dreaming. One would almost think that he’s not used to Equestria-famous stuntponies waking him in extremely pleasant ways...
I beam up at him, the very picture of feigned, wide-eyed innocence. “Goo’ moh-nin!” is my cheerful greeting, even though my mom always told me not to talk with my muzzle full. He seems share my opinion on this particular morning: a soft, adorable man-moan escapes his lips in one of those rare, unguarded moments wherein a guy fails to keep himself from expressing anything that might potentially be construed as non-manly. (‘Cause dude, we can’t have that.)
I also wish him a heartfelt ‘Appy brf-dah!’, but he’s too busy being completely baffled to notice.
“What’re you—? How—? Rainbow Dash?!” he continues to sputter, sitting up a little in shock.
After rolling my eyes, I unceremoniously let him slip out of my muzzle, and, after taking a moment to wipe some decidedly uncool drool from my chin, I attempt to answer his tedious questions. “Yup, that’s me! Heard you were, like, my biggest fan, and that it was your birthday, so I decided to fly on over and congratulate you in the flesh!” I add a little wink for good measure, in case he missed that clever, incredibly subtle joke.
“But... Equestria is supposed to be on an entirely different plane of existence,” he automatically objects, even while still panting. He shivers slightly from the minute chill of my annoyed sigh on the rapidly cooling coating of mare-spit I left on a good half of his still-straining length. “One does not simply fly over to—”
I silence him a look that says: ‘Wow, you’re such a ginormous nerd.’ (My face is talented like that.)
“All right, fine,” I say with an exasperated sigh, ”so what actually happened was: I read some of your fan-fiction about me through a, um, magical, inter-dimensional intertubes-connection, and then went on an epic quest with Pinkie Pie to locate the magical liopleurodon, yadda yadda yadda, and presto! I was totes here, yo. And then, the oral sex!” A coy grin seems in order here, so I flash him one.
The look on his face when I mention his writings about me is priceless; even more amusing that the utterly incredulous one that preceded it.
“You—you read those?” are the exact words he blurts out, but everything else about him suggests that what he really meant to say was ‘Oh crap’. I could hear him gulping during the break in that sentence and notice, to my dismay, that he’s even starting to soften a little, down below, out of sheer embarrassment.
“Oh-ho yes,” I cannot help but tease, before idly running an emergency finger down the slick skin of his abating erection, “I particularly liked the one where a certain human male was magically transported to Equestria, and hooked up with a certain member of the Ponyville Weather Patrol... The scene where she took him out flying and they had steamy human-on-pony sex in mid-air was particularly interesting. Not very realistic, mind you, and kind of clumsily written—his ‘mighty spear’, really?—but still, you know, interesting.”
Somehow, he manages to both blanch and blush furiously, all at the same time. He frantically looks around, as if hoping there might be a convenient hole somewhere for him to slink off into.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind, really, ” I tell him with a disarming smile, and this time I genuinely mean it. “We all have fantasies, y’know? I just... Well, I stumbled across it by accident, and—don’t get me wrong, I’m not huge on the whole reading thing—but I kinda did browse through the whole thing...”
“... All seventeen chapters?” he asks in a dull voice, still cringing a little.
“Might’ve skimmed a few of those,” I admit sheepishly, ”but I got the main gist of it. And I liked it, okay? It was hot.”
“You—you really think so?” He sounds like he hardly dares believe it, and looks deeply into my eyes, probably in hopes of catching a lie lurking somewhere in all that vibrant pink. ”You don’t think I’m... pathetic, then, for secretly liking cute, pastel-colored ponies?”
“Hey!” I reprimand him, crossing my forelegs. “Some of my best friends are cute, pastel-colored ponies, all right?”
“That’s not—no, look, I’m serious,” he protests, trying to look the part even though the corners of his mouth are twitching. “I mean, a lot of people think the whole humans-with-ponies thing is like borderline best—”
That’s roughly when I intervene, cutting him off mid-sentence with a much-needed shut-up-kiss on some of the more sensitive, reproduction-related parts of his body. So, wait, make that two kisses; don’t want anyone feeling left out. “Yup, it probably is. I’m so going to pony hell for this one...” I lament, shaking my head sadly.
He shivers in delight, but smiles at me without smiling. I feel a pang of guilt for teasing him so much and continuously making light of the situation. (A very tiny pang, admittedly. I’m a terrible pony.) His words sound almost frantic; the guilt over his less-than-savoury thoughts about girls of the equine persuasion must be clashing with the—let’s be honest here—undeniable bangability of the filly before him, creating quite a bit of cognitive dissonance.
Which is a fancy, egghead-esque way of saying that the upper and lower half of his body aren’t strictly seeing eye-to-eye on this one. So I decide to try and think of a bit of extra encouragement for his fussy brain’s sake.
“Think of it more as scoring with, erm... an alien! Yeah, that’s right: a hot, blue alien chick. No antennae, granted, but that still totally makes you, like, a badass, mareanizing starship captain or something, you ask me! I mean, xenophilia is awesome, right? And concerning your masculinity: if that’s not an example of true manhood, I don’t know what is...”
“So you’re really—”
“Okay with it, yes. Or my name isn’t Rainbow Dash!”
He’s still looking at me a bit dubiously, so, after duly sighing and rolling my eyes, I decide to just demonstrate. Easier that way. After giving my new favoritest cock in the whole wide world a fond farewell kiss, I climb up to higher pastures, gently nudging the silly human back down onto his back so that I—his equine, extraterrestrial bed-buddy—can properly get on top of him.
Now that we’re finally face-to-snout I give him a fond little lick on his cheek, a favor he returns by pressing his lips eagerly to my own, kissing me right on the cocky little smile. “God, you look so hot, um, Rainbow Dash,” he pants while he curiously runs those slender fingers through my hair, combing up through the orange, and then back down through the red.
His resistance to what, to him, must seem like a rather surreal situation seems to be fading. Perhaps his mind simply decided that this was just a wish-fulfillment fantasy, or a wet dream after one too many late-night clop sessions, and that he should totally just roll with it.
My eyes close in pure, blissful relaxation; the feeling of his fingertips on my scalp is so very, very, frustratingly soothing. I can tell he finds the whole name sort of awkward to pronounce out loud, though, despite my trance-like state. “You can call me ‘Dashie’, if you like...” Normally, I only let Pinkie get away with that one, but in this case I think I’ll make an exception.
“Dashie...” he murmurs, looking me over. “My little Dashie...” He’s smiling, for obvious reasons, but I decide to let it slide. I’ve got other things on my mind, y’see, what with him sliding those ever-roaming fingers over to my ears and curiously tracing the outlines, before they somehow teleport over to my cheek all of a sudden. He caresses me with the back of his fingers, getting a good feel of the texture of my blue-coated skin. I lean into his affections, humming softly.
“Happy birthday!” I tell him again, my pronunciation a little better when my lips and tongue aren’t otherwise occupied. I accompany those well-wishes with an affectionate kiss on his forehead, followed by a fond little headbutt.. “I hope you like your present...” I beam at him, making it abundantly clear that, well, I’m it. “I didn’t have time to gift-wrap myself for you, sorry.”
“That’s... quite all right,” he mutters, while his eyes continue to gawk at my naturally naked, and furthermore completely bow- and ribbonless body.
“Or maybe you expected me to come in a cardboard box?”
He shakes his head, laughing, while I resist the urge to make a joke about what a messy affair that would’ve been...
“Honestly though, you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble for me,” he says modestly, although something in his quiet voice contradicts his words; I can tell he secretly really does appreciate my being here for him.
“Pfft, well, I can easily just wing it back to Ponyville, if you’d prefer,” I nonchalantly suggest, while casually slipping down his pony-pinned body just a little bit, just enough to feel a warm, gentle throbbing coming to rest against my flank. “I really don’t give a flying fuck, either way...” I pause, blinking, and suddenly remember the contents of the clopfic he penned. “Unless you asked me to take you along, of course,” I add, flashing my finest feline, canarivorous grin.
Apart from that little double entendre, I’m pretty positive the presence of a soft, smooth so-called ‘plot’ pressing up against him hasn’t escaped his notice either; a suspicion that’s confirmed when I feel the wet, tickling sensation of a slightly-viscous droplet dribbling down my skin, roughly where his tip is gently prodding me.
“I guess you could stay a little bit longer,” he concedes breathlessly, though I suspect that the way the ticklish strands of my tail ‘accidentally’ keep brushing across his sensitive, reflexively tightening balls while I happily wiggle my butt might have also had a slight hoof in this sudden change of heart.
“That’s the spirit!” I say with another playful grin, “Shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.”
But then, of course, he proceeds to do just that. Well, sort of; he isn’t looking so much as enthusiastically trying to stick his tongue in there, which, being not entirely unpleasant, is why I can find it in my heart to forgive him. I still tease the suddenly overeager birthday boy a bit, though, leaning back slightly with a smirk and doing a few fakes and feints, then inching closer with seductively parted, freshly-licked lips to make him think I’m gonna let him kiss me, only to pull back at the last second and leave him smooching thin air. He falls for it twice—probably figuring I wouldn’t pull the same stunt again—and the second time I give him a playful nibble-tug on his lower lip for his trouble.
“C’mere, you!” He sounds half-frustrated, half-amused, and threateningly raises two fingers-wiggling tickle-claws (of doom) toward my exposed sides as an unspoken ‘or else!’
I stick my tongue out at him, though. A blatant declaration of war.
He suddenly shoots forward with incredible speed, and despite my literally lightning-fast reflexes he manages to take me off guard. Taking hold of my head with both hands—gently but, if you’ll forgive the cliche, firmly—he prevents his wily adversary from dodging his next move. I feel him slipping his fingers into the wild shock of unruly, multi-colored hair on my head, curling them up and scritching sweetly. Now that he has me, he gazes triumphantly into my pink eyes. I feel myself flushing for some reason, but defiantly hold his gaze.
“Do that again,” he instructs me, “I dare you.”
Taking that as a challenge rather than an order, I decide to humor him and comply, although my tongue seems slightly more hesitant about showing itself this time around; it’s almost like it’s feeling a little self-conscious...
His smugly smiling face is mere inches away from my own now, but just when my feverish thoughts turn to the fact that he can probably feel the embarrassing blush-heat radiating from my cheeks, he manages to render my mind an absolute blank by slowly, sensually drag-licking at my still-protruding, pierced tongue, leaving a tangible trace of warm saliva.
I swear I can taste him on that suddenly-shy pink muscle when it retreats hastily back into the safety of my mouth.
It’s completely icky, of course, and kind of gross, too, and ohgodwhyamitrembling?! Reddening further underneath the blue, I can feel my eyelids closing slightly, relaxing in the way they tend to do when all of your muscles go slack simultaneously. My arms hang limply at my sides, not even trying to push him away. I know he can feel the telltale shiver that signals my unconditional surrender.
Stupid body, betraying me like that... I’m the surpriser, and he’s the surprisee; I’m the one who’s supposed to be in complete control here! I try to laugh it off; try to reintroduce a little levity by reaching back over my own shoulders and manually stretching my already-rigid wings out a little more, accompanying the artificial wingboner with an appropriate, adorable little “POMF!” sound-effect.
This nets me a aw-how-cute smile, but I can tell he’s not buying it.
Crap.
He’s relentless, in fact, and my predicament only worsens when he lets go of me and starts planting all of these irresistible, obnoxiously adorable smoochies on the side of my neck, poking straight through the flimsy facade of my allegedly-regained composure. I actually find myself obligingly craning my head sideways to give him better access. Any inclination towards resistance is further sapped by his accursed fingers, which have slipped around to my back, while I wasn’t looking, and are now drawing intricate, symmetrical patterns on the slender shoulder muscles around my wings.
I’d glare at him for abusing the hay out of my Achilles’... erm, shoulder, but my eyelids have closed completely of their own accord, and the only thing that wants to part at the moment is my useless mouth, which just keeps opening and closing in these downright pathetic, soundless gasps. When I finally do manage to make my mutinous vocal cords produce some semblance of noise, it turns out to be some soft nickering and endless, embarrassing variations on ‘ah!’ and ‘ooooh’.
“You’re so adorable, Dashie,” he makes things worse by saying, “and you just make the cutest noises when you get all turned on like this.” Even the small bursts of breath that accompany those utterly embarrassing words feel so unfairly nice and hot on the patch of skin he’s currently pressing his lips against. It’s making it hard to focus, even though I want to vehemently deny his scurrilous claims.
“S-shut up,” I whimper. “I’m not...” Oh, brilliant retort there. And what the heck was that? A whimper? All weak and cutesy and fillyish? Oh man, this is bad... I’m supposed to be Rainbow Dash, for crying out loud!
“Hey Dashie,” he teases ever-so-cruelly, “What’s soaking wet and clueless?”
So, it has come to this. We’re quoting the freakin’ show now? Okay, that’s it, buddy. It. Is. On. There’s really nothing for it; I’ll have to resort to my secret weapon lest I end up being reduced to an incoherent, utterly uncool mush! I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this...
After finally tearing myself away from his affections, I sit up a little, arching my back backwards and puffing out my chest so that, when I pull his head toward me, I can comfortably smoosh his surprised face up against my breasts.
Ha, in your face!
As expected, this has an immediate, soothing effect on the touchy-feely male: he seems to forget what he was doing, his eyes softening as he gently lips and noses at my nipples and runs his slightly-stubbly cheeks along the taut, creamy cerulean skin of my not-quite-ample cleavage. It isn’t long before he pacifies himself further by slipping my right nipple into his mouth, suckling happily while I lovingly pet his head.
“Good boy,” I coo at him, trying not to be too mollified by the way he closes his eyes and instinctively presses a little harder into the addictive softness of the perky, modest mare-mammaries proffered to him, or the way he’s relaxing completely in my arms, nursing like a newborn foal.
Just when I believe that I have conquered my quarry however, my brilliant boob-smooshing gambit turns out to be Pyrrhic victory. His right hand reaches up to cup my free breast, lifting and squeezing and kneading the malleable, sensitive fillyflesh with just the right amount of delicate roughness, and I have to bite my lower lip to keep from moaning. At the same time, much to my ‘dismay,’ his tongue finds the little steel ring in my right nipple and starts toying with it—flicking it up and down, and tugging at it with the agile tip of that warm, wet muscle. And then—oh sweet merciful Celestia on a pogo stick—he starts biting, gingerly trapping the eagerly perking nub between his sharp incisors with maddening, tremble-inducing tenderness.
That’s just totally unfair, as I’m sure you’ll all agree (unless you’re fond of getting mysteriously airdropped from six miles up in your sleep).
I still have an ace up my nonexistent sleeve, however: by sneakily scooting back and forth while he distractedly continues to grope and fondle my defenseless chest, I manage to smooth back the cock that has been so annoyingly bumping and brushing against my butt this whole time, getting him snugly caught between the not-so-proverbial rock-hard abdomen and a wet place.
My poor, pierced nipple pops free from his mouth when he lets out a gasp; the feeling of being straddled like this, particularly when I slowly begin to rock my hips, is enough to make him shiver in delight. I give his heaving chest a gentle push and he flumps back onto the bed with little to no resistance. Leaning forward, I press my palms onto his chest, supporting myself so that I control the amount of weight resting on him down below.
Through a curtain of blurry, colored strands I see him looking up at me. Brushing the offending bangs out of my eyes, I notice that he isn’t smiling anymore; instead, his mouth is slightly ajar and his eyes have adopted an intense look, smoldering with lust and flatteringly flashing back and forth between my pink eyes and my gently swaying breasts. His hands come to rest on my hips, steadying me without trying to stop or control me.
My smooth, hairless slit slides up and down the back of his flattened cock and gradually coats him in slick fillycum, making the grinding hotter and more slippery by the minute. I can feel myself spreading ever-so-slightly against his shaft, when I ride him a little harder, as well as the wispy ghosts of soft pubic hairs on my inner thighs and rear.
When I lean forward a little more and exaggerate my motions, bending at the waist and sticking my tail out, I find that I can rub my aching clit on the veined, velvety skin of his subtly-curved cock as well. I suck in a squeal’s worth of air when I make this serendipitous discovery, but fortunately manage to bite down on a tuft of red hair to prevent it from escaping.
While I rock back and forth and focus almost exclusively on other senses the soundscape of the room becomes distorted, muffled, leaving me aware of only my own ragged breath and pounding heart. Beneath my hands, I find his chest heaving and pulsing at the same, rapid pace. We’re both panting now, and underneath my powder blue coat I can feel my entire body flushing, while his bare skin, not being blessed with such convenient camouflage, is visibly turning pink.
So yeah, to put it mildly, this tactic is also turning out to be something of a double-edged sword (if you’ll excuse yet another poorly chosen, weapon-related simile for penis). Tantalizing as it must be for him to feel me rubbing up against him—so silky-soft and hot and wet—while knowing full well that the chance to sink balls-deep into a needy, willing female was but a minor shift in position away, the selfsame sensations are driving me nuts as well.
Yet we just keep teasing each other, the foreplay swiftly becoming more like foretorment. Our hands roam freely, fondling and caressing indiscriminately, and the grinding is only ever interrupted for breathless kiss-breaks.
God. Goddesses. My body is so ready. My arms feel weak; I’m trembling; I can’t even think straight anymore. It’s like my consciousness is shrinking, or dispersing maybe; my mind, like the feverish blood pumping through my veins, is rushing to all the bits that are swollen, engorged, soaking wet, or all of the above. Everything else seems to fade away, until it feels like I’m naught but a delirious collection of raw erogenous zones—begging to be touched, and licked, and squeezed, and mated...
It’s like I’m actually in heat... I’ve never been so acutely, perversely aware of my own femininity before, or to put it more bluntly, so aware of the fact that there’s a hole inside of me; a twitching void that’s just aching to be filled, all the way up to my trembling, fertile core.
The sporadic spurts of precum that are messily glazing his navel, meanwhile, suggest that my overstimulated human stallion is quite ready to make me his mare, as well.
A crazy thought occurs to my hazy brain: it’s like we’re engaging in an erotic game of ‘chicken’—except, instead of plummeting to the ground at breakneck speeds, we’re racing our roaring, arousal-fueled sex drives to the very brink of lust-addled insanity.
And well, let’s face it guys: swerving just ain’t in my nature.
Eventually our own bodies interfere, though, tired of us endlessly drawing things out; they bypass our pride and wayward intellect to finally get to the raw, animalistic fucking part already. The initial penetration, buttery-smooth after all that frustrating outercourse, elicits a sigh of sexual relief from us both. I couldn’t even tell you who made the first move, just that his strong hands now rest firmly around my waist, forcefully pulling down my hips whilst I ride him, cowfilly-style.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, from the bottom of my heart andwomb, as I feel him plunging into me. And I mean it, too; in every sense of the word. Not to be outdone, I lean back and use those strong legs, honed by various athletic activities, to bounce up and down in perfect counterpoint to his upward thrusts. The bed is creaking now, and we sink a smidgen deeper into the cheap mattress every time I gleefully let gravity pull me down every last eagerly anticipated inch. Again and again...
And—you guessed it—again.
The wings on my back, my breasts, and my proud little rainbow-tail: they’re all bouncing and bobbing along with my enthusiastic movements, albeit with slight—and in some cases rather jiggly—inertial delays.
Then, in a sudden outpouring of real-life artistic license, the morning sun bursts through a hole the otherwise ubiquitous cloud-cover and spills in through the small apartment’s only window, bathing both the bed and the furiously copulating couple upon it in a brilliant, golden light.
I close my eyes briefly, and my movements become more relaxed and deliberate when the hidden infrared further warms my already-glowing sky-blue skin. When I open them again I can see dust particles, stirred up by the frantic activity on the bed, floating merrily in the hazy yellow rays; they help define the normally diffuse light into clear-cut, individual shafts. When I look down, I notice that the slight slickness of perspiration on both our bodies is fulfilling its purpose, reflecting some of the sun’s rays and making it look like we’re the ones shining; two ethereal bodies, wrought of light and flesh, moving together in an ancient ritual of love and lust. Despite the warmth, I’m getting goosebumps...
Outside, the birds are singing and a distant car-horn blares; the world outside this cozy room is waking up, but we’re not part of it right now, caught up in our own, far less banal little bubble of surreality.
I experience that familiar shiver of delight that tends to hit you whenever your aesthetics-sense starts tingling; when scenery and sound blend together in a brain-pleasing synergy that makes any given day almost—dare I say it—perfect. It only augments the more base, physical pleasures of having him inside of me, stretching me... sliding into my embarrassingly wet, clean-shaven slit with urgent but ever-varying, silky-smooth strokes; in and out and abruptly in and sloooowly out and...
Well, um, y-you get the picture.
When I finally snap out of my love-induced daydream I find him staring up at me, even though he has to squint at the sunlight that’s silhouetting me. The bright colors of my hair are simply ablaze in this light, and for reasons beyond me he actually seems genuinely moved by the sight; he’s wearing a dreamy smile, and the hint of infatuation in his eyes is cranking my blush-dial all the way up to eleven. After bashfully brushing a pink lock of hair from my eyes—in Fluttershyesque fashion—I smile back at him, feeling strangely self-conscious.
Our movements slow down even further, until finally we stop making love entirely and just sit there, pausing for a bit to catch our respective breaths and to savor the moment.
“You make such a sexy Rainbow Dash,” he whispers, reaching up to appreciatively run his hands down along the smooth curves of my sides and supplely flexing hips. “I love you,” he adds earnestly, punctuating those three magic words with a fond little squeeze on my butt.
“P-Practice makes perfect,” I stammer, resisting the urge to squee. A pleasant, nourishing warmth, easily overwhelming that offered by the feeble sun, wells up inside of me, fueled by that stupid, cliched, absolutely wonderful little phrase, and the utterly touching look of adoration in his eyes. A whole flock of butterflies spread their ticklish, gossamer wings in unison somewhere in the pit of my stomach, fluttering around a bit before, I’m quite sure, they all end up alighting on my quivering ovaries.
“I love you, too,” I murmur back, and immediately feel him give a little twitch inside of me. I smile and reciprocate with a fond little female-exclusive squeeze of my own.
He gazes deeply and longingly into my eyes, and I can’t look away either, taken off guard by the intensity of his affection. I bite my lower lip, suddenly a little overcome with emotion. What Would Dash Do in this situation, I wonder? I must admit to being briefly at a loss...
He frowns at me, as if catching a flash of something unexpected in my—I’ll admit, shockingly demure—expression. I hope it wasn’t a tear; that would send entirely the wrong message. I flash him a quick, disarming smile to compensate, and then lean forward, carefully lying down on top of him. I’m still straddling him, but now my upper body is nice and flush with his, my chest flattening against him in a snug confrontation of mammaries and muscles.
My cheek I rest near his shoulder, so that I can hear the steady pounding of his heart, which speeds up noticeably when I begin wiggling my backside to the beat.
He remains still for a while, locked in this intimate full-body embrace with me, and refrains from thrusting his hips despite the fact that I’ve resumed my sensual movements. I take it very slow, adoring the feeling of my internal muscles gently gripping him every time I lift my tail-bearing butt. I’m deliberately teasing him again, of course, frustrating him with languid, light stimulation, but he seems to be enjoying it... So I let my fingers stroll casually up along his chest and use the tip of one to draw circles around an areola. When that still doesn’t push him over the edge, I go for his other nipple with my mouth, dragging a rough, wet lick across the vestigial pink nub whilst making sure I bump into it with the silver bead that adorns the barbell in my tongue.
His admirable restraint finally crumbles, and with a single, additional lick I unleash the stud within.
He wrests control away from me, finally giving in to the instinctual needs. Strong hands firmly grab my butt and pull me down impatiently; yearning fingers squeeze and dig into in the pliable flank-flesh, spreading the soft blue globes to make it easier for him to take me, hard. I can feel that he’s reached that single-minded stage, now, that feverish point of no return... but I willingly let him have his way with me, closing my eyes and cherishing the intensity of the moment. In the frantic, frictional blur of sensations it becomes impossible for me to tell whether he’s in the plunging-in or pulling-out part of that most ancient of mammalian motions any longer, nor can my trembling hips ever hope to match this furious pace.
We’re not using protection this time—a fact which doesn’t concern me in the slightest, but must be a poignant point for him, I realize, as his inevitable climax nears. To cum inside of me, for realsies, for the first time... the mere thought of it, of him filling me—his female, his mare—to the brim with his seed... flooding my warm, willing womb with it... feeling those last few afterthrusts get all slippery from his own unhindered sperm, and keeping it locked inside... his thick, bare cock lingering in my pulsing pussy, while I gently, reflexively milk him for every last, creamy drop... and... and...
Whoa there, keep it together, ponygirl!
Heh. Apparently the whole no-condom thing isn’t just psychologically significant and pleasing to him...
I’m shaken from my ejaculate-filled reverie by an emphatic sense of just how much he needs me right now; how badly he aches for release. He pulls his legs up and digs his heel into the sheets to get better leverage. He groans softly, and his head twists feverishly from side to side.
Abruptly, I sit back up a bit and begin to meet his slightly-slowing thrusts as best I can, letting my weight add just that little bit of extra force and depth. I cup my happily bouncing breasts and play with them for him, putting on a show by mashing the soft globes together and pinching my already-pert and proudly prominent nipples. He watches me with beautiful, half-lidded bedroom eyes, listening and trembling when I tell him that it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to pull out, that he can let go...
The full-body shiver caused by those wombfelt words is just too cute.
He lasts an eternity; he lasts way too briefly. I can tell from his ragged breathing that he’s very close even before he savagely pulls me down by the waist—driven to take me as deeply as possible, down to the very base of his cock—and then he holds me there, holds me tight.
In response, I close my eyes and reach back behind me, cupping those tightening balls pressed up against my rear. I let their warm weight rest on my fingers, and even wiggle them a little, ever-so-gently toying with the delicate orbs within.
He throws his head back and cries my name. Lovingly. Worshipfully, almost. I feel like a princess, a goddess, a queen... His grip softens and he trembles beneath me. As predicted, his final, erratic, sensation-savoring thrusts grow ever more gooey and lewdly noisy, as jet after high-pressure jet spurts into me, filling me with several days’ worth of pent-up, viscous warmth.
“Happy birthday, sweetie,” I murmur happily, beaming down at him.
An indistinct, but vaguely-pleased primitive man-grunt is my only reply.
Eh, it’ll do.
The girl at the bar. You don’t know why, but your eyes keep being drawn to her.
It’s Saturday, and your favorite club is packed as always, filled with familiar, smiling faces. Hers is not one of them though, on both counts.
Perhaps that’s why she sticks out: even from a distance you can tell her smile is an act, a form of social camouflage; it doesn’t match the sadness in her eyes. She looks quite forlorn sitting there, alone at the bar, stirring the last dregs of a festive cocktail. Like a little island of loneliness, quietly adrift in a writhing sea of mingling, noisy people. You just have an incredible eye for nuances like that.
Although the violently pink hair probably contributed to her easy-to-spot factor, too. A little.
The eye-popping hair color is just part of her curious charm. It’s odd; she’s like a walking contradiction, in your eyes; a girl who’s beautifully plain, feminine and tomboyish, simultaneously cool and nerdy with her dark-rimmed glasses, like an exotic girl-next-door with her disarming, intimidating grey eyes. You can’t quite put your finger on her, however much you’d like to.
You notice others making passes at her, all of them semi-drunk suck-ups without a chance in hell. Their corny pick-up lines are met with icy stares and snark, their compliments with blushes and dismissive gestures. The intense, murderous hatred you feel for the lot of them confirms what you already knew: you really need to make your move.
Enamored, and emboldened by the stupidity-enhancing effects of alcohol, you break off from your drunken, merry little band of friends and work your way over to the bar. You have to use your arms to swim through the dense crowd—since surfing wasn’t an option—whilst muttering automatic apologies all the way.
“Hey,” you hail her, for lack of a better brain. You even raise your hand briefly, in an I-come-in-peace sort of way.
“Hey,” she responds softly. Over the rim of her glasses she gives you a curious but cautious stare, of an understandable but regrettable kind you’ve become quite familiar with over the course of an adult lifetime spent meeting cute girls in bars. Her defenses are clearly raised and her narrowed eyes are essentially scanning you, trying to find the answer to that incredibly subtle, age-old female dilemma: ‘Is he a creepy date-raping serial killer, or does he just want to talk to me?’
You bear that piercing gaze with a (hopefully non-slasher) smile, and breathe a sigh of relief when the little progress bar labeled ‘please wait, stereotyping,’ filling up above her head in your imagination, reaches one hundred percent, and the final verdict turns out to be a warm smile.
“You sound a little out of breath,” she points out astutely.
“Yeah,” you say with a nervous grin; the frantic thought Don’t say “That’s because you’re breathtaking!“ is repeating over and over in the back of your mind. You point back to the muttering and glaring folks behind you with a thumb instead. “Bunch of people just standing around in here, getting in the way. Like they’ve got nothing better to do. Go figure.”
“Then why don’t you sit down for a bit?” she suggests casually, indicating the seat beside her. She’s blushing slightly, but firmly meets your surprised gaze as if daring you to call her too forward.
You do no such thing, of course; you wouldn’t even dream of it, unless you happened to be dreaming about being a complete moron. “O-okay,” you stammer, like the smooth operator you are. “Um, what are you having?” You make a show of carefully studying the fancy drink in front of her.
She frowns at her salt-rimmed glass, fidgeting with the little umbrella in it for a moment or two.
You make another curious observation: she's a little awkward somehow, in a way that seems to have little to do with being inebriated; it’s evident even in the way she’s rolling the thin cylinder between forefinger and thumb. It's like she isn’t quite comfortable with her body...
“Something with a really witty name that escapes me at the moment...” she admits after a while, distracting you from your outlandish musings with her adorable little pout, and the way she keeps adjusting her glasses. She must've just started wearing them...
“I see,” you say, nodding sagely. ”Is it any good?”
“Not really,” she replies with a noncommittal shrug. After a moment’s thought, she slides the nearly-empty glass over to you. “Why don’t you try it?”
It’s only after you’ve taken the bright green drinking straw in your mouth that you realize her lips had been wrapped around this selfsame straw just a few seconds ago, making the simple act of sampling the tropical beverage unexpectedly intimate. You hide this realization by making a face. “Oh, this is awful.”
She nods in utmost agreement and disgust. “Terrible!”
“...Want another one?”
A grin. And a cute one, at that. “You bet!”
“So, yeah,” you slur, several hours and/or cocktails later.
The conversation has run the gamut from current occupations and marital status, via favorite books and films, to personal philosophy and politics. You’ve made a conscious effort to avoid mentioning some of your more nerdy proclivities; your inclination to map her personality traits to individual members of the mane six in particular. But somehow, in the end, the two of you have fallen prey to that most ill-advised of emotional subjects: discussing your exes.
At least you can honestly say that she started it, by answering truthfully when you finally worked up the courage to ask her why she looked so sad.
You’re wobbling a little on your stool, but still feel reasonably in control of your faculties as you continue your own diatribe, having agreed to go first. ”She asked me if I wanted the engagement ring back, but I told her no, because...” You blink, considering this now-incomprehensible act of hopeless romanticism. ”Because I’m kind of an idiot, I guess. And then, only a few months later, she got married to that other dude. Even had the obligatory 2.5 kids, 2.1 cats, and, eventually, an above-average 1.0 divorces...”
You pause to take a sip, swallowing hard. It’s a pretty strong drink, all of a sudden, makes you sniffle. ”And what about you?”
She pats your shoulder sympathetically. For a moment, it looks like she might lose her balance when she leans over precariously from the bar stool next to you, but she manages somehow. “I thought I’d found true love, but then it all sort of... fell apart.”
“He left you,” you summarize grimly.
“She, actually. But yes.” She winces. ”It was a... difficult separation.”
Your head bobs up and down to show just how much you can relate to that, but honestly you haven’t quite gotten past the ‘she’ part yet. “She broke your heart. That always sucks... But, uh, does this mean you’re a—”
A playful smile appears. “No,” she says matter-of-factly, apparently having read your mind.
You let out a sigh of relief that makes her laugh. “Then you’re actually more, like—”
“Yeah,” she cuts you off again. “Equal opportunity, basically.”
Is it just you, or did that sweet smile just become a little more lascivious and coy?
Hot. That thought would've been a knee-jerk reaction if the part of your brain in charge of girl-on-girl fantasies had actually had knees.
“Hot, I know,” she says dryly, guessing your thoughts with uncanny accuracy once again. Although, given the subject matter, that wasn’t really much of a challenge.
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, feeling dreadfully predictable and lame. Turnip, you think next, just to confuse her in case she really is listening in.
No response; just a blank, slightly amused expression as you gaze deeply into her eyes.
So she isn’t telepathic after all. Well, that’s a relief. Better safe than sorry, though, given some of the choice thoughts you’ve been having about her all night...
“It’s all right,” she says eventually, laughing into her hand.
One of her eyebrows arches suggestively as she takes another sip from her drink, letting that thick mixing straw rest on her luscious, slightly parted and wet lips before slipping it a little further into her mouth. You watch her cheeks go slightly concave when she begins to suck softly, and can see the colorful drink travel slowly up the semi-transparent little tube, before—you cannot help but imagine—it comes spilling out onto her waiting tongue.
”You can think whatever you like,” she adds flirtatiously, after swallowing every last drop. "It's not a thoughtcrime..."
“You are the most wonderful, intelligent and sexy woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet,” you don’t tell her, “and I would very much like to meet you again.” No, sadly, you come up with that perfectly crafted and utterly sincere line a few hours later, when you’re stumbling into the elevator on the way up to your apartment.
L'esprit de l'ascenseur, you think bitterly, and you close your eyes when the unique, nauseating feeling of the cab rising rapidly up the numerous floors hits you, silently willing the (mostly alcoholic) contents of your stomach to stay put.
With your free hand—the one not holding onto the wall for dear life—you clutch the breast pocket of your faded hoodie, which is situated, appropriately, straight over your heart. Inside of it, much to your relief, you can still feel the crumpled-up napkin containing her hastily-scribbled phone number, right where it has been the last five hundred and twenty-one times you checked.
She is mostly an enigma to you still, despite several hours of talking, but at least you've gleaned that crucial bit of information. You can meet her again. Perhaps next time—providing you both get sufficiently drunk again—you can ask her the question that has most been burning on your lips, for reasons you can’t quite understand.
Who are you, really?
Are a million to one [Illustrated]
Chapter 2: Are a million to one
Chapter tags: [M-human / F-human] [Cosplay] [Mild Ponyplay] [Anal] [Cum]
“Anybody alive down there?”
He finally opens his eyes, with a theatrical groan, before lifting his head a little and giving me a groggy smile.
I take my hand from my tummy—where it had been absentmindedly rubbing the warm glow I still felt coming from within—to make a victory-sign with two fingers. I throw in a wink as well, grinning mischievously.
“Totally just beat my previous record for making your come in this position!”
His head falls back onto the bed with a thump, and he groans yet again—in exasperation this time.
“Remind me again why I ever entrusted you with the key to this place?”
“Like you’re complaining.”
It’s clear he wants to respond to that with another smartass remark, but he soon finds my weight pressing down on his chest, preventing him from replying straight away. This isn’t entirely intentional, I kind of do have to support myself by leaning on his chest, while I slowly raise myself up and let his softening cock slip out of me.
Rolling off of him, I crash-land onto my back, the flexible set of wings getting flattened beneath me. With monumental effort, I manage to lift my tush an inch or so off the bed, just enough for me to fix my tail, which had gotten trapped beneath me. Then I collapse and lie still, staring up at the ceiling and its intricate network of hairline cracks, which I’ve gotten intimately familiar with over the past few weeks, having spent quite a number of idle minutes on my back, basking in one afterglow after the other, on this very bed.
And here we are again, lying next to each other like dead things generally don’t, our hearts hammering away inside our dully-gleaming chests, which rise and fall without ever quite synchronizing.
I find myself savoring every breath, when I’m normally not even aware of breathing at all. But it’s hard not to take a moment to appreciate one’s wonderful, complex, fragile body, when its senses, however rudimentary, have just allowed you to experience bliss.
Without even bothering to look our hands find each other, clasping together. The myriad emotions rushing through us need not be spoken, because everything has already been expressed; in terms of body language, it doesn’t get much clearer than sex.
‘Making love’ they call it. It certainly feels like there’s a grain of truth to that.
I spread my thighs a little, feeling some of that recently-produced love spilling out of me, in the form of several thick globs of creamy-white, which end up forming a small puddle on the sheets between my legs. It makes me feel a little used... but in a good, natural, immensely satisfying way.
It also makes me decide not to spend the night here, lest I end up having to sleep in the well-known wet spot.
“Best. Sex. Ever,” he says, breaking the silence and ruining my introspective moment with his flagrant abuse of punctuation.
“Best sex thus far,” I correct him, in a classic case of blatant foreshadowing. “And do you have to do that?” I’m hoping he can somehow hear me rolling my eyes.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, giving my hand a squeeze, ”I couldn’t resist!” It’s obvious he’s about as sincere as I am, in fact, a magical flying pony. Which is to say, not at all.
A fact made abundantly clear when he goes and does it again, right away.
“In fact, I would almost be inclined to say that resistance was...” He mimes donning a pair of sunglasses. Of course he does. “Futile.”
“I hate you,” I tell him, in an I-love-you sort of way. ”Ignoring you now.”
He makes a (no doubt witty) comeback to that, but sadly, gentle reader, you shall never be able to appreciate the rest of his repartee, since I really have stopped listening. I’m far too busy touching myself, instead, tracing the tips of two fingers up along the freshly-parted, pink lips of my leaking cunny.
Holding the two coated digits in front of my face, I carefully study the tenuous, sticky ropes that stretch to surprising lengths between them when I spread them out a bit. I’m not going to tell you that my mouth starts watering, in a purely Pavlovian reaction, at this point—because that’s just too much information.
My actions have apparently rendered him speechless, I notice, much to my relief. He’s silently watching me play with his cum; I can see it from the corners of my eyes, but I pretend not to notice and keep my expression neutral, acting like I’m not incredibly turned on by any of this. So when I insert those two cum-covered fingers into my mouth, it’s just, you know, simple cleaning.
It’s a very convincing performance, if I do say so myself, and someone should totally just give me the Oscar already.
“There. All clean!” I say in a sing-songy voice, showing him my hand and beaming at him, pleased by his wide-eyed stare. “You want I should clean you up a bit, too?” I inquire casually, making sure to frown in utmost concern when I look down at his poor cock, which is all shiny and drippy with both guy- and girlcum.
He can only nod.
“Won’t take but ten seconds, flat,” I inform him, smiling politely. A few moments later and that smile is pressed lightly against his shaft.
“Oh, what, and y-you do get to do it?” he protests with a pout, but a sharp intake of breath midway messes up his feigned tone of indignation. On a completely unrelated note, I was just catching the last few droplets that beaded his drooping tip on my outstretched tongue, at roughly the same time.
“Hmmm-hm,” I confirm absentmindedly. I clean him diligently, lapping up every last trace of our little tryst, and make extra-sure I get everything by circling the tip of my tongue along the edges of his super-sensitive head. He shivers gratefully for me, and I flash him a very apt, cocky smile.
“You’re evil,” he sighs fondly, resigning to his fate.
“I’m really not that bad, once you get to know me,” I say defensively, only to immediately belie that statement when I notice that I’ve missed a spot! Some of his seed has run all the way down his length to the soft pouch from whence it came. Holding up his weary cock to get at it, I lift up both relaxed, dangling testis with a lengthy lick, and finish up by dotingly planting a kiss on each of those delicate, hidden ovals.
“All done!”
While he recovers from services rendered, I cuddle up next to him. I roll partway onto my side and find myself a cozy spot in his outstretched arm, being careful not to damage my wings. Personally, I still feel like I’m glowing, but he’s obviously getting a little cold. So I pull the covers up to his stomach, which still leaves me with a nice, naked chest to use as a pillow.
His heartbeat settles on a slower rhythm against my ear. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to somebody, and I let out a contented sigh.
“I was wondering, ‘Dashie’,” he says softly, his already-sexy voice sounding deeper as it resonates within his chest, ”where’d you get all this stuff?”
“Internet,” I answer coyly. He gives me a look, though, and I decide not to push it. “It’s from this Rainbow Dash cosplay kit I found, for the most part,” I explain, looking up at him. ”It had the cute lil’ plastic ears, the foam wings, and some other, miscellaneous stuff.”
“They do look adorable on you,” he says, studying my eyes and touching the ears curiously. Your eyes, though... They look really natural, but don’t you miss your glasses?”
“They’re pink novelty contacts,” I explain hastily, blinking a few times now that he’s gone and made me aware of it. “And yes, a little bit, I guess,” I add, squinting. ”Do you, um... Do you think I look better without them?”
He gulps, apparently recognizing a does-this-make-my-butt-look-big question when he hears one.
“Uh... I think you look cute either way?”
I would call him out on trying to weasel his way out of a perfectly legitimate question like that, but we did just have really kinky, really satisfying sex, and, like my partner-in-crime, I’ve apparently gotten soft in the interim. I honestly don’t really need my glasses to begin with... So I turn my mysteriously red face away instead, smiling an endorphin-induced smile while diffidently murmuring, “Thank you...”
“What about the hair, though?” he hastens to change the subject. ”You actually dyed it like that?”
I shrug my shoulders. “It may raise some eyebrows at the office, but, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve already dyed it every other color anyway—except mauve, because fuck mauve—so if people ask I’ll just tell them I couldn’t make up my mind one fateful morning.”
He can’t really argue with that. Having run out of distractions temporarily, he runs a finger down along my neck instead, trailing it all the way across my shoulder before sneaking over to the front and drawing a shiver-inducing, invisible line between my breasts. He stares at them for a while, which isn’t all that remarkable, but he looks like he’s puzzled while he’s doing so, which totally is.
“This is all body paint?” he says, sounding genuinely intrigued. ”It’s really good; almost like a second skin.” He scrutinizes the tip of his finger. “Wow, it really doesn’t rub off at all. In fact...” he muses, frowning and smacking his lips, “it didn’t even come off when I had my mouth on there...”
He prods at my nipple—the fiend!—and pretends that it’s only to point out the specific spot he’s referring to. I quickly protect that poor, embarrassingly quick-to-pique nub by covering it with my hand.
“Quite amazing, yes, given how you were drooling all over them...”
He smirks, but doesn’t take the bait. “I’m just wondering how that’s possible. I’ve never heard of body paint this resilient...”
Ugh. This is why I never like going to the movies with this guy; he always has to overanalyze everything. No suspension of disbelief whatsoever!
“Yeah, well, whenever you notice something like that, uh, an alicorn did it.”
He appears to be far too distracted by my cutie mark to call me out on my evasive answer, however.
“Wait... this looks painted on. That’s amazing; I didn’t know you were an artist! And you managed to get the coating of blue pretty much perfectly even across your entire body, too... Well, I think so anyway; I haven’t really checked everywhere, of course.” His fingers are dancing along my rump and the back of my thigh, now, hinting at where he would probably like to check. ”But how’d you do it? By yourself, I mean...”
“Okay, this is officially beyond curiosity now and right on down to obsession town.” He’s looking at me funny again when I say that, but I roll away from him and swing my bare feet over the edge of the bed. ”I’m just flexible, all right?”
“I noticed,” he says softly, propping his head up on the palm of his hand and staring at me while I stretch, raising my arms high up above my head while holding my own wrist. Although his eyes are glued to my chest and the always-fascinating, lifting effects of my current pose, he still looks confused and a little frustrated by my obfuscating reactions.
I can’t say I really blame him. I sort of feel the same way.
A silence falls between us.
“Look... I’m just complimenting you, all right?” he says, running his hand ”You really pulled off the look; you even sound just like Rainbow Dash. Even when we were... making love.”
(Omigosh, is he blushing? So cute!)
“It was kinda—”
“Hot,” I finish his sentence with a knowing smirk. Again. ”Well, hold that thought, because I ain’t done with you yet!” I warn him, eager to move on past this short spell of awkwardness. ”Quickies are nice, of course, but I’d rather this wasn’t just a one-shot story...”
“I’m really worn out at the moment, baby,” he tells me, trying to sound as close to nearly dead as possible.
“Oh really?” I say, raising my eyebrows skeptically, before sauntering over and leaning down to press a playful smoochie on his nose, ”Well, we’ll just have to see about that, Mr. I’m-too-lazy-to-do-my-girlfriend-twice. Behold!”
I begin waving my hands over the stretch of blanket where I know his supposedly-lifeless ‘mighty spear’ to be hiding.
“Woooo,” I intone in a wavery voice, assuming for a moment that this is really what one is supposed say when performing an incantation. “You want to fuuuuuck me...”
As expected, it isn’t long before my resurrection spell begins to work. This has everything to do with the fact that I’m directing energy into his crotch with my hands, of course, and nothing with the fact that I’m completely nude, dressed like Rainbow Dash, and moving around a whole lot. In any case, something slowly begins to awaken beneath the covers, raising up the crumpled linen landscape to impressive heights.
My sole regret is not having a tiny little rainbow flag handy to claim the summit as duly mounted by none other than myself.
“It’s aliiiiiive,” I say, cackling and hamming it up, sorely disappointed by the distinct lack of lightning bolts crackling in the background.
“I thought pegasus girls were supposed to have low stamina...” is his final, feeble attempt at shirking his primal duties as a man.
“I’m not like other girls,” I say matter-of-factly. “Speaking of which, you haven’t even seen my complete outfit yet!”
That statement raises an eyebrow or two. “There’s more?”
“Hells yeah!” From beneath the bed I produce a cleverly hidden pair of dark blue boots, and out of those I extract two colorful, rolled-up socks. Keeping the opening spread with my thumbs, I stick my toes into the first one, and place them on the bed for support while I use my fingers to deftly pull the comfy, form-fitting garment the rest of the way up along my leg. Every inch I unfurl reveals a new color of the rainbow; the horizontal stripes accentuate my curves quite nicely, particularly once they reach my thigh.
I’ve never really tried to dress myself in a sensual manner, to be honest, but judging from his enraptured expression I seem to be doing okay. Although the fact that my current pose involves one of my legs being lifted—inadvertently exposing one the few spots on my body that is still decidedly pink—probably enhances my reverse striptease a little, I think. As did the twin trickles of leftover seed having a gravity-powered race down the inside of my still-naked leg, reminding him of the fact that he totally just tapped that.
Once this arduous process is completed for both legs, I slip my besocked feet into the special pair of custom-made, leather boots and take my time tying the bright blue laces, silently grateful that I’m not actually a quadruped. I can see him sitting up a little, now, understandably curious about my uniquely-shaped footwear.
“They’re called pony-boots,” I tell him, standing up straight and briefly struggling to find my balance. The reasoning behind that name seems pretty self-explanatory; they’re similar to high heels, in the way they make the wearer walk around on the balls and toes of their feet, except, in this case, there is no heel. Instead, the boots end in a fairly high and wide plateau beneath the toes, which, in this case, is adorned with a horseshoe to complete the unguligrade look.
Having already practiced with these precarious makeshift hooves, it isn’t long before I’m prancing around gracefully. The extreme heel inclination exaggerates the natural sway of my hips while I saunter to and fro, and I can feel how it’s affecting my stance—my back is arched and my chest and my butt are jutting out more. His expression makes it obvious that he very much appreciates these features while I strut around the small room, wiggling my brightly colored tail whilst I walk away from him and twirling like a catwalk model when I turn back around.
Beckoning to him with a come-hither gesture, I smile seductively and then sashay out of the bedroom, off to explore the rest of his apartment.
When I check to see if he’s keeping up, I see him slipping out from underneath the covers and clambering clumsily out of the bed, visibly hindered by both his erection and the stiff—initially even trembling—muscles of his post-coitally strained legs. Nevertheless he manages to follow me as I wobble down the stairs and into the living room, preceded by my wiggly butt and led on by the loud clanging of my hooves on the metal steps.
Once there I get a little more daring, emboldened by the prevalent feeling of sensuality afforded by my kinky costume. I dance for him, moving my hips and running my hands along the smooth, subtle curves of my petite, painted body, mimicking moves usually reserved for strippers and the like. These shamelessly sexual poses brazenly show off my body, leaving nothing to the imagination. Before long I’ve made it abundantly clear that I really did shave everything and didn’t miss a single spot when it came to making myself blue, either.
But then—oh, the horror!—I suddenly become aware of a shoelace that has mysteriously come undone! (It’s a gift. Sort of like a Pinkie-sense, only with shoelaces.) There’s isn’t anything visibly wrong with them, of course, but inanimate objects are often deceptive like that. Clearly, I need to bend over at the waist, facing away from him, so as to check them all—and check them thoroughly—lest I end up tripping and hurting myself!
Even my cute little ponytail can’t hope to keep that pose even remotely modest.
I glance surreptitiously over my shoulder whilst pretending to triple-check those tricky laces. My efforts, I note with a satisfied smirk, have helped raise Mount Penimanjaro to even loftier elevations.
His breathing is heavy and audible and there are fresh beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He’s staring directly at the puffy lips of my vulva, nestled within the blue heart-shape of my behind; I can feel his eyes upon me, and idly wonder whether he can tell how wet I’ve gotten from sluttily parading around like this.
With a single finger I flick the plume of my plugtail aside, showing off its flared base, inserted snugly in my rear. I get another exhibitionistic thrill out of his mesmerized expression; his hungry, lustful eyes. His thoughts I can only guess at, but the fact that they all involve ravishing me in some way or another is completely transparent.
His face flushes when he realizes I’ve stopped moving, and he shyly averts his eyes—only to sneak another peek a moment later, his gaze inexorably drawn to all the soft spots he wants to squeeze and fondle, and the plethora of warm, inviting places he could potentially stick his hard, aching cock...
At this point—given that I’m composed mainly of squishy, horny girl, as opposed to cold, unyielding stone—I think he’ll find me more than willing to oblige, in that regard...
I slowly straighten up, turn around, and strike another pose, raising my arms up above my head and holding on to one of the thin metal beams that support the open staircase in his apartment. I wink at him whilst shamelessly spreading my legs, and stick out my tongue just to be more of an insufferable tease, flashing him a flirtatious glint of a surgical steel in the process.
(Click for the uncropped version - NSFW)
“You like?” I ask, rendering all superfluousness-meters in a five-mile radius utterly beyond repair.
He gulps before he answers, suffering from an acute case of dry-throat-itis for whatever reason. “GOD yes. Those socks and boots make you at least twenty perc—”
“No! Bad! Don’t even go there, meme-boy!” I laugh, straightening up with some difficulty (and subsequently trying to cover up the fact that I nearly fell over). I adopt a coolly confident air for my next sentence, crossing my arms. ”Even I’m getting a bit tired of that one. Although it was awesome when I said it, of course...”
That makes him chuckle. He shakes his head and wisely doesn’t finish his sentence, approaching me instead.
“And what, pray tell, are you laughing at?” I ask mock-indignantly, watching him walk over to me with my hands placed firmly on my hips.
He comes to stand in front of me, close enough for me to feel the bed-warmth radiating from his skin. I look up at him, his smoldering eyes momentarily making me forget that I’m supposed to be glaring.
“It’s just—you’re actually pretty good at pretending to be someone else. You just seem get into character so much, at times; it’s like you think you really are Rainbow Dash. It’s cute...”
He presses a fond kiss on my forehead and keeps his lips there for a while, presenting me with a whole slew of mini-smoochies that come complete with kissy-kissy noises—mwahs, I guess, if you want to get onomatopoeic about it. Obnoxious as that is, it actually feels pretty nice, and the hot, slow breaths escaping through his nose sets both my bangs and my heart aflutter.
I don’t know what to say to that, and so just hug him, pressing the side of my face against his chest.
Even with these boots on, which essentially have me standing on my toes at all times, he still has a good head on me. His tallness, nonsensical as it may seem, is pleasantly intimidating to me. A shiver takes hold of me, though—both from the chill of all this prancing around the poorly heated apartment, as from a sudden, irrational sense of being not just naked, but exposed...
We’re both in a severe state of undress, of course. But whereas I’m feeling slightly uncomfortable at the moment—even a little preposterous, clad only in my socks and boots and a thin blue veneer—he, like most males, seems to be exuding an aura of confidence, even power, in his nudity. Particularly when sporting an erection as proud and undeniably prominent as the one I currently feel grazing my side.
Yeah, that’s not proving to be distracting at all.
He holds me, there and then, somehow sensing my unexpressed desire for closeness, for reassurance... I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame, much as I dislike that particular phrase. Our bodies fit together so very, very nicely... and he’s still so warm; almost as hot as certain specific spots of my own body, but, despite the shiny film of sweat on his skin, nowhere near as moist.
Another kiss—on my nose, this time.
Urge to play hard-to-get... fading...
I wrinkle my freshly-kissed nose, making like a bunny briefly and wiggling it, simultaneously trying to command the network of tiny blood vessels in my cheeks to stop it with the literally-uncool blushing already!
“I just like to do the character justice...” I say defensively, failing to meet his eyes. ”I stayed up all night yesterday, marathoning every single episode of Friendship is Magic, just to present you with a sufficiently convincing Rainbow Dash, all right? Show some appreciation for my sacrifices, at least!”
He doesn’t respond; he’s far more preoccupied with the thin, transparent harness around my shoulders, which holds my cute little wings in place. He runs his fingers down along one of the see-through plastic straps until he hits my clavicle, which he then begins to trace instead.
“H-hey... are you even listening to me?”
“I’m all ears, baby,” he whispers, somehow thinking it necessary to do this in very close proximity to my ear. And as if that isn’t bad enough, he presents each one of the studs therein with its own, eargasm-inducing nibble-kiss, while his fingers have somehow snuck over to the top of one of my thigh-high socks, wriggling into the hem and tugging outward playfully.
“More like all hands,” I mutter half-heartedly. “And t-tongue...” I want to add, but it comes out as a soft ‘eep’ instead, when the tip of his tongue wets the inside of my ear, and whets my sexual appetite.
“Sooo, did the boots, and this,” he says in a maddeningly amused tone, lightly touching his fingers on the base of my tail, “also come with the standard Rainbow Dash cosplay kit?”
“You know they didn’t,” I reply, refusing to succumb to his teasing despite the fact that even a slight bit of pressure on the fat plug in my rear is making my legs feel like jelly. The really wibbly-wobbly kind. “I got’em from a bondage-y sort of website... place...”
“I had no idea you were into this kind of stuff,” he says softly, playing with the silky strands of real, colorfully dyed horse-hair.
“There’s actually a lot you don’t know about me,” I point out gently, wearing a wannabe-enigmatic smile, ”just like I didn’t know you were into My Little Pony, or even a fraction of the things you described in your stories.”
“Touche...” he says quietly; his hand penitently moves up to caress the small of my back instead.
I instantly regret bringing that up again.
“Look...” I tell him, taking a deep breath and casually picking up his errant hand to deposit it neatly back onto my backside. “I’m really sorry I read that story without your permission, okay?”
He nods, goosing gratefully while I attempt to clear the air.
”It’s just, you told me to go google that one restaurant, with the fish, and when I opened your laptop you still had the document open... I just couldn’t resist reading it.”
“It’s okay. My own stupid mistake...” he says resolutely, dismissing my apology with a pat of his hand. “It... kind of turned out for the better, though, didn’t it?”
He doesn’t sound too sure, but his other hand does hopefully join the first in a concerted effort to grope my reasonably fondleable flank. His strong hands actually lift me up a little, his fingers deforming the cutie mark emblazoned on the side of one of those soft, supple blue cheeks.
“It did,” I reassure him, reaching around to affectionately squeeze his own firm butt in return. “You kept parts of yourself hidden from me, I discovered, out of shame or embarrassment or fear of rejection. Things you enjoyed but feared I might find uncool or unmasculine; things that turned you on that you didn’t dare ask me about...”
He tries to speak up, but I’m not finished and run my hand down his cheek. His protests are soon nipped in the bud by a slender blue thumb being pressed to his lips.
Looking at him apologetically, I pick up where I left off, ”So you could only really be you by hiding behind a mask of online anonymity, by compartmentalizing your life, allowing you to indulge in all the things that were truly relevant to your interests while keeping up appearances around me. Did you honestly think I never noticed you closing browser windows when I came to sit next to you on the couch? How often did you retreat back here, to the privacy of your man-cave, so you wouldn’t have to wear headphones and could type as furiously as you wanted, away from my prying eyes? And how often did you resort to j-jerking off to things you wished we could be doing together...?”
Guilt-ridden, he tries to turn away and avert his already downcast eyes, but I stop him with a gentle nudge of my hand, wanting him to look me in the eye.
”When you gave me the key to this apartment, I just thought it was so symbolic...” I pause to gather my thoughts and lick my drying lips. ”I... just want you to know that it’s okay. I accept everything you are. You—you don’t have to hide anymore.”
I caress his cheek, lightly touching the corner of his mouth with my thumb as if trying to pull it up into a smile.
”I don’t care if you masturbate to stuff, or if you’re into things that might not be my cup of tea. You’re entitled to your privacy, and I do want to give you space... But, if possible, I want at least a chance to be part of your life, and your fantasies... Most of all, I just want you to be yourself around me.”
“I was afraid you’d think I was crazy, or immature, for being into certain things,” he says, after blinking an inordinate number of times. ”Or worse, a pervert...”
“Trust me,” I reply, giving his cheek a pat and pretending not to notice that his eyes were shining, “that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“But what about you?” he asks eventually, taking my hand to kiss my palm. “I mean, at the most, I’ve learned that blue is totally your color, and that you definitely are both crazy and perverted—ow!”
I smack his rump reproachfully.
“—in a good way! In a really, really good way, okay? I’m just saying, it’s almost like you’re focusing exclusively on me. What I want and what I like. You were even pretending to be someone else just to please me...”
“It’s true. I... I’ve been hiding, too.” I answer honestly, looking steadily into his eyes even though I cannot keep myself from stammering. “I really wanted to share my true self with you as well, but I didn’t know where to begin and figured this little stunt might just be crazy enough to work...”
He looks puzzled by my vague answer, but leans down to kiss me nevertheless. My lips, moist from many a flick of my nervous tongue and still glossy with bright blue lipstick, yield willingly to his tongue. When we finish, I can tell that he’s a bit lost, perhaps overwhelmed by my open-heartedness.
“Okay. So... sharing. Where do you suggest we start?”
Smiling, I gently remind him that we still have unfinished business by lightly tickling my fingers down the flat, angular plane of his pubic bone.
“Ahem,” I fake-cough, grinning sheepishly, “I don’t know about you, but I could totally go for some some of that ‘exploring our sexual fantasies’ stuff right about now.”
He blushes when he admits, “Well, it’s not like you don’t have a wide array of rather, uh, deviant fantasies of mine to choose from. Practically spelled them out for you...”
Nodding, I gather up my courage and whisper in his ear, “This plugtail isn’t just there to look pretty, you know; it’s practice.” My fingers wrap tenderly around his cock, to gauge his gut reactions as I divulge one of my dirty little secrets.
His eyes widen. He swallows a few times, but says nothing.
My face reddens slightly as I bravely press on, plumbing the startling depths of my depravity. “I, um... I’ve kinda been playing with it ever since I got it. I had it inside of me while I was rereading some of the stories under your account, the other day. To make the reading experience more... vivid.” I struggle with myself, wondering how to broach this delicate subject. But I’m not going to allow myself to chicken out this time. ”D-do you remember the one where Fluttershy and Big Macintosh wanted to try something new one day? Something that required a whole flankload of mutual blushing and stammering, and even larger quantities of lubrication?”
“Wait, do you mean...?” His jaw drops a little, and the hands on my backside relax. I feel his cock give a bit of a lurch in my hand. “I thought that, you know, real girls tended not to like that sort of thing,” he admits naively.
“Oh, I love it...” I let slip immediately, in a dreamy, sigh-y sort of way, only to end up blushing even more furiously at my own unintentional candidness. “I mean, it’s your birthday, and everything, so... Would you, um—would you like to do that, with me?”
He doesn’t even need to answer; I can feel him trembling in anticipation, shifting nervously as he tries to suppress his impatience, his need, while going over the practical issues first.
“But then we’re also going to need—”
“Brought a whole tube. In my bag.”
“And where do you want to—”
“Floor.” I find myself going all monosyllabic all of a sudden. “Bed is noisy,” I elaborate, ”Couch, too soft.”
“Okay. Okay. H-how—”
“Doggystyle.” I giggle at the term, getting a little giddy now. “Or ponystyle, in this case...”
“R-right...” He giggles, too, but loudly clears his throat when he catches himself doing it. “Ahem. Right,” he repeats, in a deeper, manlier voice, “that would probably be the most comfortable position for anal intercourse. Probably.” He looks at me searchingly, fishing for some sign of confirmation.
To his relief I nod happily and, through sheer force of will, manage to refrain from giggling a little more at his expense.
“You betcha.”
Adorable as he is, all nervous and wound up like a spring, it was the strong, dominant male in him that had been turning me on just now... I decide to experiment a little; without a word of explanation, I get down on all fours in front of him, sitting down on my ‘haunches’ the way a bright, big-eyed mare might. My hand are placed between my knees on the floor in front of me, and I proudly stick out my chest. The wings poking out behind me only augment the accompanying angelic smile, I’m sure.
“What’re you...?” He looks down at me, understandably confused.
Cocking my head quasi-quizzically, I innocently point out, “Us ponies sit like this, don’t we?”
I beam up at him, satisfied in the knowledge that I’ve given him a crystal-clear clarification.
“Yes, but—” he says uncomprehendingly, simply staring at me until, roughly five cutesy pony-noises and a nuzzle at his hand later, to my pleasant surprise, it seems to dawn on him what my intentions might be.
Perhaps he’s also visited a few of those bondage-y sort of websites; I wouldn’t put it past him!
He gulps, and shifts his weight around on his bare feet. “Yes, um, yes they do... So I take it you’re a pony now?”
“Yup! I’m Rainbow Dash, remember,” I cheerfully remind him, ”and I’ll be your little pony for the rest of the day! Please tell me what you would like me to do. Such as, say, fetching you something?”
I honestly didn’t think I could make the hint even more explicit, only to prove myself wrong a moment later, when he tries my patience by remaining hesitant.
“Something vaguely tube-shaped? Should contain an especially slippery substance that smacks slightly of strawberries? Starts with an ‘L’ and ends with ‘ubrication’?”
He laughs—this is good, I can already see him relaxing a little. “Okay. Um... Dashie? Would you be a good little pony and fetch me the lube?”
Something about that combination of words and the inflection he subconsciously gives to them—‘good little pony’—makes the plume of rainbow colors behind me come alive with happy, tiny twitches of submissive glee. I respond to his was-that-okay look with an encouraging grin and a stealthy little thumbs-up.
“Yes, sir!” I reply, saluting in an exaggerated, comical manner before crawling off on all fours, grateful that the thick socks are protecting my knees from carpet-burn.
I can feel his eyes on me again, following my cutie mark’s wiggling progress to the other side of the room. Well, okay, perhaps those lecherous looks sometimes stray a little bit to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of other things, scantily hidden by the swaying ponytail. The acute, tingling sensation of being watched is making me ridiculously conscious of every little movement, from the gentle bob of my wings to the flexing of the muscles in my bright blue flank.
It’s even worse when I have to retrieve the plastic bottle from my bag, which seems to take forever. All the while, my trembling butt is sticking high up in the air, and I just know he can see everything... I even cheat a little with the zipper, even though being a proper ponygirl should, of course, involve picking up and carrying stuff in my mouth, in lieu of convenient fingers or telekinetic powers.
(In retrospect I really should’ve gone for that Twilight Sparkle cosplay kit, complete with battery-powered magical horn, instead.)
Clenching the slightly tapered top of the bottle firmly between my teeth, I can already tell my hold on it is flimsy at best; my small, muzzleless human mouth is far more geared toward talking and... other stuff. Not wanting to drop it, I hastily break into a quick, awkward trot on my hands and hooves, while keeping my knees off the threadbare carpet.
When I reach my destination I quickly drop back down onto all fours, tilting up my head and proudly presenting the thankfully-undropped lube to him. I give him my best, adorably huge-eyed equine look and tuck my arms up against my torso like a pony rearing up. This has the added benefit of smooshing my boobs together slightly, easily adding +2 to my already considerable awesome-points.
“Good girl,” he praises me, reaching out to pat me on the head, right between the small blue ears poking out from my prismatic mane. It is a wonderfully condescending gesture, which would normally demand a thorough flank-kicking in retaliation, but at the moment only serves to make me shiver some more.
I nicker softly in gratitude after he carefully takes the bottle from my mouth and casually wipes the embarrassing bit of filly-drool off of its plastic surface.
He spends a few more moments petting me, running his gentle fingers through my mane and lightly scratching my scalp, visibly enjoying his ability to make me squirm by playing with the piercings in my sensitive ears. Then he cups my cheek with his warm hand.
Nuzzling back against his affections, I further distract him by presenting his palm with a playful lick. I’d be swishing my tail and flapping my wings happily, if I could.
Eventually, though, he manages to tear his attention away from his cute little ponygirl and takes a moment to study the bottle, noting the stylized strawberry stamped on the front.
“So it really is strawberry-flavored, huh?”
I nod my head immediately, ever eager to please.
“Would you like to taste it first, Dashie?”
Instead of replying I sit up a little more, lifting my head—so that the mane framing my face slips back behind my ears—and opening my mouth. My studded tongue I hold out eagerly, and I close my eyes in anticipation, saying ‘aaaah’ for my beloved human master.
I can hear him doing nothing but stare at me for a while, breathing steadily, transfixed by my suggestive and supremely trusting pose. Then, after a bit of fumbling, there’s the crack of a cap being removed. Then there’s another pause, wherein he’s probably trying to decide how best to get the slippery substance over to my waiting mouth. I await his decision patiently, ready to be surprised.
“Keep your eyes closed, just like that,” he says huskily.
Before I can even nod my approval, an unexpected, gooey droplet hits my outstretched tongue, startling me slightly. It is quickly followed by another, and then, finally, a bigger rivulet of the stuff. The lube is lukewarm and intensely sweet, prickling my tastebuds and lighting up the appropriate pleasure centers in my brain. I let out a happy little hmm, but don’t take any further action; the tantalizing sample remains on display in the convenient little bowl-shape I’ve made with my tongue. I’m trembling a little, though, and the tasty substance pooled on my tongue slowly begins to dribble down.
He remains unsure of what, exactly, I’m waiting for. I suffer the indignity of it until, finally, the penny-bit drops.
“Swallow,” he instructs me in a voice that is slightly higher than usual.
I could swear we both shiver at the inherent lewdness of that word at exactly the same time.
Of course I comply, drawing in the whole muzzleful of artificial strawberry-flavor and gulping it all down. I punctuate that wanton act with a soft ah of shameless satisfaction.
“M-more...” I whisper greedily, sticking my tongue out even further.
This time I’m a bit disobedient and sneak a peek, just long enough to see him pour a little more of the thick, transparent substance on his ring- and index finger.
He reaches out, seemingly to let it drip into my mouth, but cruelly teases me instead, constantly pulling his lube-coated fingers away whenever I try to lift my head to meet them. Even when the flavored lube starts dripping from his fingers he keeps lifting them higher and higher, preventing the viscous, stretched-out string of liquid strawberry, dangling so temptingly above me, from ever reaching my lips.
I decide to be even more of a bad pony; by sitting up suddenly I manage to get the jump on him, quickly taking those delectable digits into my warm mouth. He watches me closely as I indulge myself, feeding me his fingers. I diligently lick them clean and continue to suckle even when every conceivably trace of fruit-flavor has been erased.
He curiously explores my mouth—parting those two fingers, twisting them slightly, and slipping them a little deeper inside. I offer no resistance, allowing him to trace my moist lips with his fingertips, or toy with the steel stud embedded in my helpfully flattened tongue.
It’s obvious that his brain is readily reinterpreting the visuals and feelings provided by my soft lips and hot, velvety muzzle as they wrap ever-so-lovingly around the thick, phallic set of fingers, projecting every bob of my head and every flick of my tongue onto his aching cock. I can see it straining with every pulse of his heart, a fresh bead of precum forming on the very tip.
It’s all I can do not to slip his fingers from my mouth and just suck him off instead.
“T-turn around,” he urges me, after quickly pulling his thoroughly-sucked fingers from my mouth, growing laconic and commanding in his thinly-veiled frustration.
It’s impossible not to pout at him a little for taking my tasty playthings away, but I won’t deny that, by this point, I, too, am shaking—not to mention sopping wet.
“Yes, Sir,” I confirm, foregoing the addition of a silly little salute this time. Instead I obey without fanfare, turning a full one-eighty degrees, while still on my knees, and awaiting further instructions.
“Bend over,” is his next, simplistic command, and the sudden authority in his voice makes my ovaries quiver.
Before I know it, I’m back on my hands and knees again—the latter now spread fairly wide apart—arching my back and presenting myself. Maybe even flaunting myself a little, despite being a bit self-conscious when it comes to my, at the moment, slightly-chubby and less-than-perfect posterior.
Gentle but impatient hands caress my sides, my hips, and both of the soft cheeks of my rear in perfect symmetry. A stray thumb finds the base of the plug at the end of the rainbow, and pushes gingerly.
“Baby?” he say, checking up on me in a heart-warmingly tentative whisper.
Although it’s already getting hard to support myself with just one hand, I still manage to raise the other and shakily stick up my thumb, letting him know that he could continue.
“I could feel it inside of you, when we were...” He trails off, gently playing with my plugtail still, lulling me into an unsuspecting state of whimpery enjoyment while his imagination takes the realization that I had taken both him and this toy at the same time, and runs with it.
Without warning, he experimentally smacks my flank. This elicits a surprised little squeak from me, followed by the soft, amused approximation of a nicker. I look back at him and make eye-contact, slowly shaking my head, albeit with a reassuring smile.
He takes it well, fortunately, and immediately reverts back to just stroking and kneading again, soothing my blushing, freshly-swatted rear with a sweet massage. He lets his thumbs rub and pull outward, spreading me slightly, only to exert inward pressure again a moment later, fondly squeezing the soft, round globes together again.
His left thumb occasionally slips off to the side, however, and keeps stroking the spot where I know my suspiciously detailed cutie mark—too crisp and flawless even for a piece of extremely skillful inkwork—is situated. I can feel his movements slow down while, I’m guessing, he studies it up-close and puzzles over how I managed to get it like that.
“Please play with my tail some more, Mr. human, sir,” I implore, distracting him from that salient detail (for now). “I love having my t-tail pulled,” is my next bashful suggestion. “But first, um, maybe a little lube first, if—if you don’t mind?”
He’s way ahead of me, it seems; the words have barely left my muzzle when, with a jolt, my feverish, fuzzy brain registers a gasp-worthy splash of eek-cold! This jumbled sensation is rapidly followed by the equally confusing amalgams giggle-wet, yum-slick, eww-messy, and hmm-soothing—not necessarily in that order.
“That feels niiiice...” I murmur, stretching out the vowel for every second it takes the swiftly-warming liquid to flow down around the plug at the base of my tail.
Slowly, he takes hold of the end of my tail and wraps it around his hand a few times, both to get a good grip and to make me wait for—anticipate—the tug to follow with breath that’s bating like nopony’s business. Just when I’m about the start whining he gives the ponytail a good pull; I feel myself stretching around the circumference of the buttplug the more it slips out of me. He stops before it pops out completely though, and watches while the pink plugtail slowly gets sucked back in.
Then he pushes on the flanged, circular end with the flat of his hand—gently at first, but, spurred on by my encouraging gasps, ever faster and more firmly, until he’s practically fucking me with the smooth, cone-shaped toy.
“Like that?” he asks rhetorically, his voice now husky and gravelly with arousal, masculine and wonderful.
I merely nod, sharp incisors sinking into my trembling bottom lip in a failed attempt to keep the inevitable squeals from escaping. The sensation of the bulbous plastic plug—expressly designed to stay put once inserted—being pulled from my clingy tailhole, stretching the tight muscles that had held on the narrow ‘waist’ so snugly, only to have it be plunged back in again... It felt weird and exquisite, uncomfortable and wonderful—wrong and very, very right—in bewilderingly equal measures.
Like merciless tickling, the stimulation only gets worse and worse—or rather, better—until, at the last, I simply cannot take it anymore.
“Sto-hoooop,” I whimper, lowering my flank in a frantic attempt to get away, “Puh-lease s-stop...” I can’t even handle basic pronunciation anymore, it seems.
“Does it hurt?” The intense concern in his voice touches me deeply.
“No!” I blurt out quickly, frantically shaking my head to make him understand. “No; good, really good, just...” I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. “Please... please take it out and—and—you know...”
He exhales softly, with audible relief. “And what?” he says, recovering quickly and going right back to teasing me.
“Noooo”, I cry out, closing my eyes in feigned shame and trying to entice him by sexily wiggling my butt. “Please don’t make me say it...”
It’s all part of the game, I tell myself, but to be honest I’m not quite sure I’m actually still acting. Awesome as I am, even I can’t blush this furiously on command, let alone make my heart race quite this fast.
The expectant silence continues, however, broken only by my occasional little utterances of ‘please.’ This quickly dashes any lingering hope for leniency. He’s really going to make me beg...
“Please,” I reiterate, my fingers digging into the carpet, my whole body shaking as raw need clashes with shy reluctance. “Please fuck me.”
“Please fuck you in...?” he supplies with admirable restraint, pulling firmly on my tail again. The slippery toy is soon stretching me wide with the fullness of its girth, but it lingers on that maddening threshold where suction and friction just barely balance each other out.
I try to relax a little more, but it’s no use; I’m so frustrated right now I could just scream.
“Please fuck me in the ass,” I say in soft-spoken surrender, the lewd words just loud enough for him to deem them acceptable.
Hanging my head in lustful shame, I don’t even bother stifling the throaty gasp that inevitable follows when he pulls the plugtail free. It feels strange and empty right away, and I can feel that the flexible, normally puckered little hole remains relaxed, refusing to close, twitching and clinging wantonly to something that was no longer there.
I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me and look over my shoulder to see him pour a copious amount of the chilly lube over himself, impatiently rubbing it into his skin to make the entirety of his length all nice and shiny-slick for me.
“E-Enough?” he pants.
Taking another good look at his cock, thick and veiny with pulsing arousal, I smile and murmur timidly, “Lil’ more wouldn’t hurt...”
Moments later, two hands firmly and possessively take hold of my hips, steadying and steering me. I feel comfortingly vindicated by the fact that they’re trembling, too.
“You love this, don’t you Dashie?” he says, guiding his cock until its tantalizing tip is pressed up against the yielding tautness of my well-prepared rear. ”You really want it?”
“Mmmyes...” I timidly reply to both questions at once. It’s hardly even a word, the shy admission nearly completely hidden in a tight-lipped murmur of delight.
“You're gonna beg for me like that?” he says, sounding genuinely disappointed. ”Louder.”
I clear my throat and stammer out an unconvincing “Y-yes...”
“Louder!”
One deep breath later, I try again. “Yes.” It’s not a huge step up in volume, per se, but infinitely more wanton and, therefore, honest. Last but not least, my answer comes complete with a complementary little push backwards.
“Attagirl,” he mutters proudly, rewarding me with a long, slow push of his hips, which, sadly, only manages to make his cock veer off and slide up between the slick cheeks of my oiled-up butt.
“Whoopsie...”
He’s clearly embarrassed, instantly slipping out of his dominant role, but my half-coughed directions—”Lower, lower”—make us both giggle and quickly help to lighten the mood. He fumbles around a bit longer, but thankfully refrains from simply poking around in hopes of serendipitous penetration and instead tries to find my sweet spot manually.
Then, suddenly, there it is: a slight, pleasurable sense of pressure back there, while the initial resistance of certain circular muscles is slowly overcome. But with the copious amounts of lube—his cock literally dripping with the slippery stuff—it isn’t long before he manages to slip the head inside of me, with a blush-inducingly wet, sloppy noise I cannot hope to reproduce in writing.
“Okay?” he murmurs, sounding a little choked, holding on to me so tightly it feels like he’s afraid he might tip over.
It must be overwhelming for him, being the first time he’s ever taken a girl like this, but the shaking I feel against me, even inside of me, I realize, isn’t merely nerves. I recognize this emotion, this desire burning within him: it is the instinctual urge to take me quickly, to mate, only worsened by the animal-inspired position we’re in. It’s making his hips buck haltingly of their own accord, while his hands hold me fast. He wants me so very badly, with every fibre of his sexual being, yet he’s holding back; hence the shaking.
If only he could feel how much I need him right now; how much his loving restraint means to me...
I close my eyes and nod, slowly and deliberately, eagerly allaying the concerns that are still staying his hips. The nervous gulp that follows I try to hide as best I can.
Even the tiny movements he’s making are already generating a warm, tingling sensation, which slowly crawls its electrifying way up my curved spine and leaves a trail of helpless shivers in its wake. The strange feeling of pressure intensifies when he does finally push in deeper; I can hear the surprise in his grunt when he bottoms out and the cushiony softness of my butt comes to press up against his groin.
“Dashie... tight,” he whispers and groans, respectively; both words having to force their way out through tightly clenched teeth. It is just about the last intelligible thing he manages to say for quite a while.
“Big,” I breathlessly correct him, with the last shred of eloquence I myself can muster.
I’m not just trying to stroke his ego: the plug had a fairly intimidating circumference, but I only had to squeeze that into my tight little butt once. Accommodating him, however, requires constant stretching, so despite the nearly frictionless ease with which he slides into me, the feeling of tightness remains. Each inch he withdraws or stuffs back into me seems to stimulate every last one of the countless nerve-endings that line my sensitive rear. I do my best and try not squeeze too hard, but I just feel so good, so full...
He’s so deep inside of me; I’m more aware of it somehow, certain I can feel him throbbing somewhere within, prodding and stretching out the soft, velvety walls of my insides. (Although that may just be my imagination.)
He’s very considerate and takes it slow, eventually even slipping his slightly-more-steady hands from my hips to roam across my dramatically arched back, using his knuckles to comb and massage the slender, flexing muscles. This helps me relax; the overload of sensations subsiding and blurring together into a pleasant tingle in the back of my brain. I begin to move a bit, too, quickly finding and matching his laid-back rhythm.
“You can move faster now,” I shyly inform the floor below me.
“Okay Dashie,” he mumbles distractedly, his voice thick with awed arousal.
He wastes no time complying. His hands return to their original position, helping me push back against him by pulling at my hips gently whenever he thrusts forward.
The fact that he’s still referring to me as ‘Dashie’ hasn’t escaped my notice, and when he pauses briefly, panting and savoring all the wonderful new sensations so snugly enwrapping his straining cock, I can’t help but wonder: what is it that he sees when he’s looking down at me like this? Humans are such visually oriented creatures, after all...
Is it a human girl’s (slightly ample) behind, repeatedly pressing into him? The painted globes—their roundness exaggerated by the pose—jiggling gently every time he slams into her butt? Is it the thrilling taboo of anal sex that’s making him throb so much inside of me? The lewdness of pulling apart those smooth cheeks with his hands and watching the hot little hole nestled between them, overflowing with lube, take his glistening cock all the way up to the hilt?
Then again, maybe’s squinting a bit, overlooking certain details and seeing a scene from his more far-fetched fantasies coming to life instead? Have the vivid colors, dancing cutie mark, and mare-in-heat pose beguiled his brain into believing he is rutting Rainbow Dash the pony? Is that what’s making him grunt softly in response to my whinny-like whimpers, and dig such deep dimples in my fleshy flank with his fingertips?
Or perhaps his mind is alternating between the two, and he finds himself torn by the duality of it all—unable to distinguish between the girl- and the fillyfriend; between fantasy and reality? I must admit to getting the two confused in my own head from time to time, at the moment.
Ah, but if he only knew how pointless that dilemma really was; how false the dichotomy....
That’s roughly when he softly calls my name, asking me if I’m still with him.
“Hm-hmm,” I let him know, nodding my head and pressing back against him with a fond little wiggle.
But I’m apparently lying, because when I open my eyes a weird new perspective greets them, one consisting mostly of floor; a bewildering fact that even a whole bunch of blinking doesn’t help to resolve.
Yeah, I’m afraid I may have spaced out for a little while, there... At some point my weakened forelimbs must have given way beneath me, leaving me with my face buried in my arms. My hind legs are still holding out somehow, so however shaky as my knees might feel, at least my butt is still being held proudly aloft. Much like my tai—
Oh no, that’s right, my ‘tail’ is on the floor beside me somewhere; I forget.
With my cheek pressed flat against my forearm—which, strangely, feels slightly wet around where my muzzle was resting—I watch the room rock back and forth. Apart from the soft whisper of shifting knees and elbows on the carpet, a constant series of soft, rhythmic pats is the only thing I hear.
The plump layer of soft, curvy fat on my gluteal muscles ripples pleasantly with the dull impacts of his powerful thrusts. The increasing tempo turns the slow sway of my breasts into a blur of bounciness, and nearly every time he fills me I can feel the light, delayed touch of his ponderous balls against me, the poor things quickly drenched by the wetness of my confused, neglected pussy. Even these indirect sources of stimulation feel amazing, particularly now that our virgin anal fuck in the middle of the living room is getting rougher and more desperate. Any sense of discomfort is rapidly evaporating, drowned out by sheer, unadulterated pleasure.
.
I can’t take it anymore—unbalanced as it leaves me, I’m still compelled to prop myself up on a single, precarious arm, while my left hand urgently feels its way down along my kneeling body. The first halves of two fingers slip in easily, the brief, titillating taste of double penetration making my mind surge with depraved but fragmented fantasies. The intermittent, gentle slaps of his scrotum against my knuckles only add to my arousal, constantly reminding me of the fact that I’m taking him all the way.
Wishing to draw out the moment, I spend a few moments fingering myself, twisting, curving, parting and wiggling the two digits inside, spreading the fruitlessly clenching, silky inner walls, until they are slick with with my own, non-strawberry-flavored lubrication.
Hmmm, my half-delirious mind muses in a rare moment of clarity, fingers really are the best...
Withdrawing the now sufficiently soaked set of fingers, I tease my way down to my swollen clit, still quivering beneath its little hood. The time for gentleness has long since passed; I mercilessly trap the protective skin between my fingers, frantically rubbing the aching nub of raw nerve-endings, hidden within.
Sweat runs down my face, plastering strands of green and purple to my cheeks; I can taste the tinge of salt every time I wet my lips, in the short space between one gasp and the next. One of the long, striped socks is bunched up closer to my knee than to my thigh, pulled loose during the latest flurry of frantic fucking, which is probably also responsible for dislodging the silly set of wings still strapped to my back. My hair is an absolute mess; the rainbow colors are no longer distinct and my bangs are all frizzy from the static electricity of the carpet. I can tell that the see-through headband hidden beneath the locks has shifted, too, the lopsided pony ears only adding to my disheveled look.
It’s like my outfit and appearance are beginning to accurately reflect my frazzled state of mind, and my rapidly de-te-ri-o-rat-ing capacity for... something-something.
In short, my mind is going; I can feel it.
My fingers are still making tight little circles, eagerly rubbing my needy clit without even the slightest semblance of shame, while I’m pretty much getting pounded from behind. Even the wet, squishy shlicks, made all the louder by the excess lube that’s leaking down, cannot hope to deter me now. I feel so hot, so raw... All of these warm pulses of pleasure aren’t simply fading away, but seem to be accumulating in my lower tummy, building up a ball of tension inside of me, until the mere prospect of release makes me tremble with anxiety and anticipation.
And then, when an overly-enthusiastic fingertip accidentally pulls aside the pink fold of skin it had roughly been caressing, and brushes across the suddenly-exposed, shy little girl-glans that was hiding beneath, a jolt of electrifying joy shoots up my spine. A strangled little cry of shock—a paradox of intense joy and something closer to anguish—is the only warning my lover gets, but he recognizes the signs and pauses when he feels me shiver, tensing up beneath and around him, teetering on the brink...
“Whinny for me, ponygirl,” he whispers hotly, his grip on my hips tightening, pulling me close and preventing me from slipping off. “I want to hear you say how much you love this. And then maybe I’ll let you cum...”
After giving him my cutest impression of an equine whinny, I obsequiously oblige, saying softly, “I love being your pet pony... your fuck-filly, your s-slutty lil’ cum-loving broodmare...”
This verbal smut is mostly intended for his enjoyment, of course, but, to my surprise, hearing such humiliatingly lewd epithets spoken aloud, in my own voice, is affecting me, too. Like a fan-fiction author getting all hot and bothered by her own writings.
The carefully obscene words just keep on coming, flowing from my prurient mind with surprisingly fluid ease. Normally I tend to feel silly and awkward, talking dirty like this... I mean, I’m putting myself in a vulnerable position; he might laugh, or be turned off by something I say. In the heat of this particular moment, though, such concerns seem inconsequential.
My tone is sweet and servile as I continue, ”And I love your cock, sir; it feel so good in my tight little flank. Ah... I’m so happy! You’ve taken me everywhere now; used my muzzle, my pussy, and my butt, all in one day! It makes me feel so special, so loved...”
When I feel the fiery passion my words inspire in him, I decide to go for broke.
”I want to be your special somepony forever; we can get a nice collar with a name-tag on it that says ‘Dashie,’ and maybe a pretty bridle, and a bit, and a cute frilly saddle for me to wear, so that you can ‘ride’ me every day!”
I take a deep breath. There’s more that I could say, but I’m so close now; so fucking close...
”P-Please-may-I-cum-now-please?”
“God I love you,” he blurts out, his voice full of adoration, trembling with arousal, letting me know that I managed to strike quite a few chords with him as well. “Cum for me...”
His kinky-cute encouragements are the final push I need.
The muscles in my legs involuntarily contract, and my heavy boots are lifted clean off the ground. I clench my thighs together desperately. The muscles in the single arm that holds me up are no longer capable of supporting my weight. I collapse forward, losing my balance, but twist my torso just enough to keep myself from landing face-and-boobs-first.
My cheek is pressed against the scratchy floor. Through the small, blurry slits of sight left to me, my entire body atremble with tension, I breathlessly watch my own outstretched palm come down on the ground with a subdued slap. Three times it slowly rises and swiftly falls, before becoming too heavy to lift. My knuckles go white when I make a rigid claw and drag my nails across the floor. I’m vaguely aware of the soft sound of a multitude of squirted droplets spattering down on the ground between my legs, before soaking into the carpet. There’s the hard thunk of my hovering leather clad hooves crashing back down to earth.
I’m still gently convulsing; high-pitched gasps accompanying each aftershock. But then, finally, my strained, trembling fingers are allowed to relax and unfurl. I stare at the flexing digits with detached fascination for a moment before finally drawing breath again, sucking in a huge gasp of air only to let it out in a single, endless, shuddering sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I pant out absentmindedly, without knowing whether I was apologizing for cumming so quickly, or for making such a mess. Somehow I manage to get back onto all fours for him.
He takes this as his cue to move again, but he stays in very deep this time, allowing the core heat of my silky insides to soak into every last throbbing inch, grinding and pushing into my rear with minimal movement. I lean back against him, adding some sensual, gyrating movements of my own. He bends over me until his body is flush with my submissively kneeling form, covering me, appropriately, like a stallion would. This changes the angle in which he penetrates me, making his tip slide into heretofore-unprodded parts, and allowing him to push even deeper.
The weight of his heaving chest is warm on my back; his chest-hair is kind of ticklish; his heart is pounding so very, very fast...
“Not gonna last,” he announces superfluously, given that he’s already shaking and the movements of his hips are becoming clumsy and intermittent. “Can I...” he cutely stammers, and during the slight pause there’s the quiet rustle of dry lips being licked, ”c-come inside?”
“Please yes,” I sigh immediately. My face flushes; I didn’t mean for that to come out sounding so unabashedly eager. “I mean, if you want to...”
He lets out a ragged-sounding laugh. “You’re so friggin’ cute... Wanna cum in your hot, sexy ass so bad,” he assures me, in a growly voice that comes across as only semi-playful. Those lust-inspired words, and the passionate ferocity behind them, make me shiver in delight. He seldom talks dirty to me, heightening the impact of the rare occasions when he does.
We share a kiss—although I have to turn my head and crane my neck back as far as it will go to make it happen. His lips can only reach the corner of my mouth, but when we stretch things a bit, the tips of our tongues can just barely touch and wiggle together.
His hand quickly find and cups one of my breasts again, automatically gravitating toward their seemingly irresistible softness. I spare a single hand to lay atop his own, our fingers intertwining. We massage my chest in unison. I squeeze hard, and he follows my example; I want him to be rough with me right now...
Just a few moments later, he lets go of my breast and tenderly squeezes my hand instead. His scruffy chin comes to rest on my shoulder; we’re so close together, now, so intimate... I can feel him growing weaker, putting more of his weight on me, and quickly steady myself by straightening out the solitary arm still rooted to the ground, locking up my joints.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I whisper encouragingly, while he takes the last few gasping breaths before the plunge, trembling against me in that adorable way males tend to, in their most vulnerable moment.
His fingers tighten around mine, squeezing spasmodically as spurt after totally-palpable spurt of hot sperm pulses past my snug sphincter, pulsing up from the soft, tightening balls still kissing my perineum.
“T-there’s so much...” he stammers as fills my trembling butt to the brim, wrapping his free arm around my waist and holding me tight. “How can there be... I already... Fuck.”
“Yay!” I cheer tremulously, making him tense up with laughter at a crucial moment, just as he was coming down a little.
“Dammit Fluttershy,” he groans, loosening his grip and giving me another, well-deserved swat on my rump; a gentle one this time
Giggling, I make it up to him by demonstrating some fine muscle-control, squeezing and milking his still-deeply-embedded cock. He responds with his own little twitches, and we spend a few moments indulging in this most intimate form of Morse code, until he begins running his thumb lovingly up along the tiny little bump of each and every last vertebrae of my soon-to-be-shivering spine, and conscious thought is forced to take a backseat for a while.
The tender massages culminates in him gently pulling out of me. Closing my eyes, I find myself completely relaxing; even the slight, warm soreness, tingling to life around my sensitive, stretched rear, is quickly soothed by the gooey warmth of the fresh load leaking out of me.
“D-Did you like that?” Boom. There go all the replacement superfluous-o-meters.
“I loved that,” he says with a contented sigh, leaning in to press a fond smooch on one of my cheeks, immediately making him the first guy to literally kiss my ass.
“I’m going to take a shower, I think,” he says delicately. It’s obvious he’s trying not to hurt my feelings by implying he feels dirty, now.
“Knock yourself out,” I tell him, gesturing dismissively, “I’ll just, uh, hang around here for a bit, okay?” Carefully, I lower myself onto my stomach, lying prone and panting softly. I hear him blow me a another kiss and then stagger up the stairs; the familiar hiss of the shower soon follows.
After a while, I too get back on my feet, though not before wresting my feet from the restrictive clutches of my pony-boots. I just don’t trust myself to make it up the stairs on those things—at least not in one piece.
In passing, however, I do pick up one previously-discarded item of pony paraphernalia: My plugtail, which I reinsert gently, blushing a little bit at how easily the previously tight fit slips back into me, and a lot at the depraved feeling of satisfaction washing over me, knowing that most of his slow-to-leak-out cum is now firmly locked inside of me.
(As much I might tell myself that this is just because I don’t want to drip all over the place as I make my way upstairs, gentle reader, you, at least, know better...)
Once back in the bedroom, I pause only to pick up the plush mini-me lying forlornly on the floor, banished from the bed by a callous usurper.
“I’m sorry, squirt,” I address her softly, staring into those embroidered eyes. And in the faintest of whispers, I add, with genuine remorse, “For everything...”
Curling up on the covers and hugging myself, the stuffed Rainbow Dash cuddled up cozily against my breasts, I spend some time replaying the morning’s events in my mind. Recalling how considerate he had been, how gentle, even when given power over me; when I lowered my defenses and was at my most vulnerable...
More than ever, I felt that I could trust him.
Hello, world.
You awaken, but don’t open your eyes just yet. Don't feel like it.
As always, you have no clue what triggered your return from temporary non-existence, what part of your unconscious brain decided it was high time to get back to being you again. You're grateful that it bothered to; you're quite fond of being you, after all—of being, period, really. But today you feel like easing into cognition gradually, rather than leaping out of bed in the existential equivalent of plunging straight into the deep end.
Being still half-asleep, you’re experiencing a strange sense of separation from your surroundings. A feeling of detachment, really; as if you’re just a mind, an outside consciousness, plunked into a physical vessel. Now you’re trapped in there, stuck with this clumsy guy-shaped construct, having to make due with piloting it through the universe you happen to find yourself in.
“Captain’s log,” you mentally dictate to a make-believe computer. “Stardate: Saturday morning—ish? We need to set a course for the nearest refueling station; some of our vital systems are in a dire need of a glass of water.”
A nagging feeling of dull pressure begins to grow in obnoxiousness down below, as more of your body begins to boot up, alerting you to another soon-to-be-pressing emergency.
“Captain’s log, supplemental,” you add as a footnote, “Number one informs me we may also need to, uh, eject some warp-core cooling fluids in the foreseeable future. Make it so.”
Your mission is interrupted during the planning stages, however, when close-range sensor-readings indicate that you do not appear to be alone in your bed.
It's still quite hard to tell exactly where you end and the rest of the world begins, though; whatever part of your brain is responsible for that useful bit of trivia is apparently still in the gimme-five-more-minutes phase of waking up. It almost seems like a shame to ruin this pleasant and fragile state of being by doing something as ultimately pointless as, say, moving, but curiosity is getting the better of you.
As your consciousness continues to trickle languidly down your spine, branching off into increasingly smaller nerves in a complex fractal pattern, you become aware of her warmth radiating onto your skin, so clearly distinct from your own. You get a whiff of her scent: clean sweat, undefinable female sweetness, the unmistakable aroma of sex, and something else, something difficult to place... Subtle hints of fresh hay, perhaps, mixed with new-fallen rain. When you inhale again, however, all you get is a noseful of ticklish hairs.
You can hear slow, steady breathing, and even the occasional snoring, ending on a curious, neigh-like note with each exhale. Then the bed creaks gently, and something soft and downy brushes along your thigh.
Little pointless lights blink on and off on the face of the computer in your brain, while its squishy synaptic circuitry processes all of these observations. “INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER,” is what it eventually spits out. Which is only marginally more helpful than if it had told you the answer was exactly forty-two.
There’s nothing for it; experimentally, you decide to open your eyes.
Rainbow Dash is lying next to you.
She’s on her side, amidst a mess of crumpled covers. It’s clear she’s been tossing and turning; her back is to you, while her head rests near your feet on the opposite end of the bed. The late morning sun, shining through the window, lends a golden glow to her outline and a luster to her cerulean coat. One twitching, erect wing—soft light glistening through the individual feathers—is draped lightly over your hip, the other is splayed out flat on the sheets. Even as you look, cross-eyed, at her colorful tail, it gives another nervous flick, relocating to someplace between her stretched-out hind legs.
Lifting your head, you can just barely make out the scruffy, tiny shock of mane belonging to your Rainbow Dash plush, cuddled up in its slumbering namesake’s forelegs.
Oh, well, that explains it.
You’re still dreaming, of course. Silly you! Personally, you blame your cosplaying girlfriend.
Satisfied with a mystery solved, and suddenly too drowsy for even a full bladder to truly register, you let your heavy head drop back onto the mattress, close your eyes, and drift back off to sleep, only to suffer through vivid, recurring dreams of being left hanging off cliffs.
