Fanservice

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?