Cheer Up, Ye Toymaker's Whimsies

This is for those who want more of the unsavory details of the capture and... use... of our dear Narrator.

Yes, there is even more content that should only appeal to the so inclined, and perhaps those who find my writing style tolerable enough to read simply for words and content. If this bothers you, or you lack the years, begone.

Interlude of Cacophonous Bells, by Twiche.

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Time.

Time passed.

Heidegger, if I understood him correctly, said that time was the framework in which the essence of being, Dasein, manifested itself. This itself seems almost trite and simplistic, but consider the implications. For one, this implies a sense in which we cannot think of ourselves as Cartesian viewers, separate from the world around us, in some way that rejects the empirical. For Being in time is Being in Causality. We are bound by our circumstance, and even if we choose to ignore it, we are shaped by it, utterly, in every moment. You may well be shaped by the words you read here. Even if there is really some “Illusion” field between us and “reality”, this illusion shapes our very nature, and is integrated into our very Being. To avoid this conclusion, to deny the reality of “I” seems... unsporting. Further, consider the inverse consequence, that without time there is no existence. How then can we account for timeless points in life, moments where we feel like nothing is changing. Do we then, in those moments, in a sense cease to be, or at least to know our being? Is this horror then part of me, I myself a necessary part of the madness I stave off? Such questions plagued me, even as more immediate concerns which would drive most away from philosophizing pressed in.

She took me, again, and again, every single day, occasionally several times a day. I should like to speak of it in a more masculine fashion, but honesty compels that I admit this was the way of it. Every day, she took me. Every day she came to the room, and injected me with the same fluid. I was grateful that, at least in this way, I had a means of movement and exercise. Every day she rode me. Almost every day she smiled down at me in the same way. Every day it hurt, and at once felt as a twisted pleasure, to be anticipated. Almost every day she stared down at me, with those same wide eyes.

Tick tock, tick tock.

I imagined that time would move again when I saw change in her eyes, in her smile.

Her eyes refused to change. For me, time ceased. Time is measured as a sort of change, and for me, nothing changed. Only her games.

She loved to amuse herself in strange ways, some cruel, others terrifying, others still amusing to me as well, because they were reminiscent of the Pinkie Pie I had known.

More than once, she came into the room, and her eyes would be shut. Or at least, the square pieces of paper over her eyes with the word “SHUT” in large, thickly painted letters on each, suggested as much. Yet her every step was as sure and certain as normal, as if the loss of her sight did not affect her in the slightest. The yellow light from the hallway beyond was off, indeed the only illumination was a thin stream of moonlight which fell onto her left side as she wordlessly carried out her task. She did not gag me. I was free to scream and rage and curse her, but I could not force a sound from her. The one facet I might have drawn fulfillment from was denied me. The only falter was in her smile, which as she and I both drew closer to the end, changed from a smirk to a full, devilish grin, perfect white teeth drawing my eyes for a moment. When finished, she simply sat there, resting on my tired, defeated body for a time. I yelled, and swore, and threatened. Pinkie went on smiling, until she suddenly dismounted, and left just as silently. The only time during these games that I was able to win some small victory was when I remained perfectly silent, and her smile faded into a straight line. This did not keep her from completion, and I did not try it again out of burning humiliation. For it was insulting to think that the only defiance I could offer was soundless complacency. She desired my rage but would settle for my submission, a truth which only further infuriated me in the addled state brought about by whatever that goddamned concoction was.

Once she came into the room, looking incensed, and injected me without a word, leaving a thick strip of cloth above my head. Then she left, while the effects settled in. A few minutes later she returned, striking the door open so that it made a crash as it hit the wall. She had a large cleaver in her mouth, and she ran to the bed, jumping onto me before I could utter more than a startled cry, and pressed the blade under my chin.

“Not a word, mister.”, she muttered with the handle in her mouth. Survival instincts demanded I comply, so I simply lay there as she went about her work, save only a little grunt or perhaps even a  whimper. She pulled the cloth over my face, and tied it tightly in a knot behind my head, blinding me. I almost spoke at one point, but this was met with a jerk of her neck which pushed the blade harder into my neck. “I. Said. Not. A. Word.” she growled, her words punctuated by harsh movement, and further pressure of metal against flesh. Even in my terror, the sensations still proved too much to endure, and as I felt my own climax I heard her giggle, just before she came to hers (she always seemed able to pace to where we both finished in close proximity). She kept laughing straight through, first a high loud and wrenching sound, then settling into an almost perfectly normal laugh, one that could sound benign and merry to any who didn’t know what mirth produced it. I felt her reach around, and as my sight was restored to me she pulled back, and took the cleaver in her hoof, giggling as she rubbed it back and forth against her own neck. “It’s dull, silly! Couldn’t cut a thing! I’d have to practically hit you with it to actually hurt you, but I’d never do that...” I could only stare, as for a moment,  lifted by her prankish glee, she seemed almost the Pinkie I remembered, albeit with a terrible... all too terrible sense of humour. Abruptly she climbed off, and walked out of the room, turning back at me to wink... letting me glimpse a drip of white fluid running down her leg... as if to emphasize her victory. I could only sigh, and succumb to the frustration. I do believe that at this point I actually cried... But I shan’t speak of that.

Afterwards each night, I was left with my thoughts, and longings. Trivial irrelevancies though they must have been to her, obstacles to be overcome, they were the lifeblood of coherence to me. They were the maintenance of all structure... the best and only means I had to combat this nightmarish fate.

This went on, and much time passed for others. I learned afterwards that it was almost four months. The ponies in town found it odd that the new pony had up and vanished. They even went so far as to do a cursory search through Everfree. Nothing turned up, so they figured I had simply gone on my way. Simple creatures, lovable, but far too naive... terrifyingly naive, even of their own nature.

Eventually, she took to the habit of releasing me from my bonds during the daily violations. One might make the mistake of thinking I would feel comforted by this, but it simply meant I was able to put my entirety into the act. It meant that I was able to endure the situation all the more insufferably, because, in the moment of passion generated by the serum, I became willing, in a sense. Willing, even in my anger, but that seemed to simply feed into her strange, almost unfathomable desires. The feeling still cannot be described... Pleasure through pain, pleasure because of pain, pleasure in spite of it... it all seemed the same. The permit to move, however, was met with some delight, as it meant I could at least ease the tension in my muscles outside of the “sessions”, a tension that one cannot know until movement at large is a luxury. She eventually left me unbound afterwards, though she would always seem to know when I had fallen asleep again, as it was then that she came into the room to secure me again.

In some perverse Hegelian twist, my freedom was her freedom, and the “play” grew more inventive. As she was able to count on my lust being an overwhelming shackle, she was free to permit me to exercise my own force. I recall one instance in which, the moment she released me after injection, I leapt off the bed, and tackled her to the hard floor. She did not resist, but simply prepared herself in such a way that when my weight landed on her, I also entered her. She wound her legs tight around me, and bit me forcefully on the neck, eliciting a groan of pain and a thrust. After a minute or so here, she giggled, and whispered “Catch me.” I tensed, and in that moment she demonstrated her flexibility, pushing just far enough away to get her back hooves between us, and with a forceful kick, I found myself on the floor next to her. She scrambled upright and headed for the door, and I felt a thrill of hope.

Hope is a foolish thing in such circumstances, for she did not open the door. Instead she simply chuckled and placed her forehooves on it as I flung myself at her. I landed on her back, and the burning need led to the irresistible urge to accept the “offer”. Now I had control, of a sort... now I could vent all my disdain and aggression, now I could gain power over things as they were. The satisfaction, the release of need and want, the restoration of my ego in a frantic state, can only be described as exquisite. I bit her ear, hard, as retribution for earlier. I did the same to her neck, with the intention of leaving marks that would be noticeable for days. I actually pierced the skin, and tasted blood. I can’t describe it any other way... she growled. “Th.. that’s mean.” She said, the pause being from a particularly savage thrust. I shouted her name in frustration, and continued my spiral downwards, my relentless bucking of hips and grunting and panting and growling, until, with a final yell, I finished and pushed her almost vertically against the door.

For a moment we were still, the only sound heavy breathing, much to my satisfaction, from the both of us. I attempted to withdraw, and suddenly, Pinkie was on my back, reaching around, and securing my front hooves together with a pair of cuffs. I tried to throw her off, but she allowed herself to slide almost to the floor, and with a sideways motion swept my hind legs from under me. I toppled over, and in an instant she had secured them as well. Standing up, she moved so that her face was only inches from mine. She was not smiling.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

“You didn’t let me finish. Meanie! Well... I’ll still get my chance... it’ll just be less fun for you, but... sharing is caring!”

She went out of the room for just an instant, and when she returned, she had a syringe, with an almost impossibly long looking needle. “Now... be good, or I’ll get you back for before... and then some!”. She gave a push so that I was laying on my back, pushed my forehooves over my head... and sat down onto me, facing away. She pushed her hips back so that her opening was scarcely an inch from my mouth, and I could see my own fluids inside her. I knew what she wanted. I knew the pain I could cause her... And I knew what the very tip of that needle felt, slowly tracing around the head of my member. “Now be good... or...” She applied just a bit of pressure, and I winced.

I will be brief, and save myself, by saying that I serviced her in this way for nearly an hour, even when she shifted and had me apply myself in like manner elsewhere... even when the tension left, and the familiar exhaustion set in. Her prodding was more than sufficient motivation to keep me awake, long enough to bring her to orgasm several times. Then she lifted her pink, sweaty and somewhat bruised body off of me, and left me there, gasping desperately for breath. “See, wasn’t that better?”

“Fuck... you....”

“No thanks... you already did! Sleep well”. With a wink, and one last, long, piercing stare, she shut the door, leaving me there on the floor. I closed my eyes as I heard the deadbolt on the other side turn with an oppressive finality.

My breathing was the only sound.

Time passed. I slept.

She came again the next day. And the next...

Space and time have an inextricable link, like energy and matter... emptiness and form. Transition in one is marked by effect in the other, in logical form. The universe is logical.

Madness is found within logic. The very nature of the world breeds madness.

END?