Fanservice

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.