Getting Laid

This chapter contains scenes that might be described as disturbing.

“By th’way,” Applejack said, rounding the corner and marching back into the living-room, “If y’all done messed up my couch with y—”

She might have continued her sentence, but her guests appeared to have vanished entirely. Her manuscript had been left on the table, and she trotted over and picked it up.

“Well, hay,” she said, shrugging. “I guess I’ll hafta find some use for this ol’ thing now. Be a waste t’just burn it up.” She held it at forehoof’s length, then decided that she should perhaps get it published somewhere.

She would later become one of the most influential authors in Equestrian literary history as the age of mass anonymous publication dawned, but her ascendancy is sadly a tale which may never be written.

—

“Draw?”

“Draw.”

Rainbow Dash and Twilight Sparkle shook hooves, miraculously maintaining their balance as they walked back down the dirt path; the latter tucked her magical transcription of Applejack’s account into her saddlebag.

“So,” Dash said, “who next?”

“Well, Carousel Boutique’s nearest.”

Dash made a face. “Do we have to ask Rarity next? What about the other ponies?”

“I’m a bit too terrified of Pinkie to ask her just yet, I’m not that good friends with Cheerilee and I don’t think anypony else would tell us. What’s so bad about Rarity, anyway?”

Dash gave her a look. “I’ll bet you her first time was with her dad to make her pay attention to her again after Sweetie Belle came into the picture.”

Twilight gave her a look in return, and then quickly stopped before the amount of exasperated sighing it represented gave her narcolepsy. “For Celestia’s sakes, Dash. Magnum is an upstanding pony and that insults him more than it does her.”

Dash’s returning look was unrepentant enough that if she had given it to a kadı, she might have been executed for jaywalking. “Hmph.”

“Fine,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll talk with Rarity later. Who else do you have in mind?”

Dash took a second or two to think. “If you want me to pull some names off the top of my head? Cloudchaser, Rainbowshine, Raindrops, Score and Derpy Hooves.”

“And how many of them lost their virginities to you?” Twilight said, giggling at her own wit.

“Four out of five.”

Twilight found that she’d quite suddenly lost her ability to giggle.

—

“Are you sure this is ethical?” Twilight whispered, creeping through the mailmare’s darkened house.

“Hey,” Dash said, glancing about as she rummaged softly through a drawer. “You’re the one who went all ‘oh, we already know your mow-dus oh-pay-ran-dee, we don’t need more of that’ on me.”

“We could just wait until she got home,” Twilight said, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “This feels wrong.”

“It is kinda wrong,” Derpy said, and Twilight and Dash promptly screamed their heads off in a very metaphorical sense.

The lights went on, and a slightly sleepy pegasus rubbed her left eye and yawned slightly as she walked slowly down the stairs. “I mean, it’s kinda illegal too. I think. Not so sure ‘bout that whole ‘national heroes’ thing, but hey.”

“Oh, hey, Derpy,” Dash said, giving her a wide, impressively artificial grin. “We were just searching for, uh—a muffin recipe.”

Derpy looked at her closely through one eye before she nodded, knelt down, pulled the board off one of the steps and pulled out a shotgun, placing the twitch-trigger up against her mouth.

Her voice was rather cheerful as she spoke past the trigger. “You’re trespassing and lying, and I think one of them’s illegal. I think I’m allowed to kill ponies doing illegal things on my property in this country.” She glanced down at her device. “I don’t have to aim with this, y’know? It’s actually really neat!”

“Actually,” Twilight said, and found her muzzle quickly obstructed by a light blue hoof.

“Wait, Derpy, see, we were looking for your diary.”

“Why’s that?” she said, keeping her teeth on the trigger. Dash winced, partially at the lack of trigger safety and mostly at the prospect of her imminent death.

“We wanted to know how you lost your virginity.”

“Oh! Why didn't you say so?” she said, removing her mouth from the trigger and throwing the shotgun to the side; it promptly discharged, sending quite a bit of buckshot and a lot of Rainbow Dash—minus a few hairs—tearing through the roof.

“I’d be happy to help,” she said, noting with interest how Dash’s streamlined flying pose had left her hind legs protruding almost seamlessly from the ceiling. “Sorry ‘bout that. You know how it is. Can’t trust anypony these days.”

Twilight regained her ability to giggle, albeit nervously. “Sure can't,” she said, as Dash dropped to the floor covered barrel-up in plaster. “Sorry about the, uh, roof.”

“Oh, no biggie!” Derpy said, descending the stairwell as she grabbed the weapon and tossed it back into its hidey-hole. It didn't discharge. “I've got floor insurance. Fully covered!” She went around them and into the kitchen, leaving the two alone.

“This pony's crazy,” Twilight whispered, gently helping Dash to stand. “Even more than everypony else in this town!”

“That’s why I thought of her,” Dash said, pulling a bit of shattered tile out of her mane. “Real character, right?”

Twilight’s whisper turned violent. “She would've killed us!”

She shrugged, dusting her flank off. “I stare death in the eye ‘til it blinks every day.”

Twilight was still vacillating between pointing out her cowardice or her own lack of experience in confronting her mortality when Derpy entered the room with a metal-bound journal tucked under her left wing.

“My first time’s in entry fifty-one, and I’m not crazy,” Derpy said, smiling as she handed the thing over; Dash took it eagerly. “I’m just a responsible homeowner with a good ear and a daughter to die for. Keep the diary. I’m not working on it anymore, and I’m sure you could do something better with it than I have.”

Twilight had never given anyone a smile more nervous than she had then.

“Oh, by the way, Dash, how’d you get a black eye?”

“Well, you know. Fluttershy likes it rough, and all.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her hoof drifted over to a slightly loose panel in the wall. “I’ve seen enough unicorn kinetics and earth pony bucks to know them from a pegasus pounce. You wouldn’t have a skull left to bruise, y’know?”

“Applejack did the second and Twilight the first,” Dash said, and Twilight grasped her hoof as they absconded from Derpy’s place of residence.

—

Twilight took her time in the sun to breathe. “How in the wide, wide world of Equestria did she know the particulars of a pony buck?”

“Says here,” Dash said, poking at the then-open sheets, “she’s a vet. The war kind, not the Fluttershy kind.”

Twilight raised an eyebrow. “A veteran? Equestria hasn’t had a war in ages.”

Dash flipped through the pages. “Wasn’t an Equestrian war.”

Twilight magically snatched the book from Dash’s paws. “Let me see that.”

—

This is the record of Major Ditzy ‘Debir el-Hufiz’ Doo of the Trottingham Unified Armed Forces in her capacity as Confidential Attaché to the Republican Guard of the Khishbiri Republic in the service of Parliament.

I testify that I am not suicidal. I also testify that I am not insane, though I may once have been. I am simply a mare who did her duty as an officer in the Armed Forces, and utilised all possible means to do so. The only crime against the pony race I have committed is war, and that is not what I will be tried for.

If I am pardoned, I will soon resettle in Equestria, taking up a pseudonym; I will keep as my only reminder this journal, and will not directly reveal its contents until any and all matters related to it have been declassified.

At no point have I attempted to censor anything in this document. I sincerely hope that the tribunal who judges me injures no one by means of their popping monocles, for that would be a most firmly unacceptable circumstance.

—

“That’s cool,” Dash said, “but how’d she get laid?”

Twilight was ready to raise a variety of objections in favour of finding the truth behind the Ishpan-Khishbi war, but capitulated to herself and to Dash within seconds; her curiosity had its own priorities.

—

51.

I believe that have not made an entry in several days; this is because I have recently been hit by a grenade, and spent the last five days recuperating. I have at least fared better than the Commander; it has been four months since he was shot, and I have so far been successful in gathering his troops. Even if they sent a new one, I doubt that he will be accepted as a replacement for me.

The shrapnel has been removed, but my eyes will forever be misaligned. I at least can thank pegasus neurological structure that my aim remains true. Situational awareness has its place; now I only see my target so that I can feel a bit better when I choose to miss. The troops notice my disability, but I have gone back into the fighting and my aura of invincibility seems just as strong as ever.

I have heard that they are now calling this the ‘Hurricane War’ in Khishbi, as though ‘we’ will soon win; they have called it an honourable, brave victory, driven by Celestia’s will. It is not honour to massacre these colts, fourteen or fifteen of age, as they charge towards our lines, and it is not bravery to choke them in gas from kilometres away, and it is not Celestia’s will that drives us.

The Ishpanians may be young and inexperienced, but they are many and they are fervent; one of our prisoners today killed himself, biting off his own tongue so that he could choke himself to death on it and meet the soul of his own Celestia in heaven—presumably the same Celestia whose immortal coil is ‘held captive by demonic powers that rule Equestria’.

There is, however, a thing that keeps me wondering: ‘my’ troops, insofar as they are mine in heart, have started calling me ‘The Teacher, the Protector’—in Husharic, this is ‘el-Darbheer-el-Huhfeez’.

Indeed: to them I am a teacher, as though I have taught them more than how to kill foals, and a protector, as though I have done more than delay their deaths.

I miss almost every time I fire, now, as if I am saving a life every time I do, but the machinegun fire hits what I do not and the gas clears what it doesn’t, the former so quickly that I am often complimented for a shot that I have missed, as though a single bullet from me might rend half a pony into paste.

The times where I have hit, it is usually a corpse; he might not be known as a corpse by any medical authority, but a foal choking to death on his own blood in the middle of a no-mare’s-land strewn with the bodies of his companions is sufficiently dead for my purposes.

It is only a matter of time before the Ishpanians break past our barricades and rend us to shreds, driven by the sights of the horrors we have wreaked upon them.

And I suppose they would be right.

As to my personal affairs, I today was approached by one of the troops under my command; his name was Private Masum Muhriz, a colt around eighteen years of age, (which is the customary age of adolescence for colts in the Khishbi law) and he was the second in his class before he signed up for the war, in which he has served for several months.

He engaged me in conversation; this is unusual in itself, because they seem to fear me as much as they love me, but the far more unusual thing about him was his introductory sentence. It was in Equestrian; Muwajahat’s education system has made it much easier to speak in languages she doesn’t understand.

‘Am I to die?’

A few of the troops nearby heard him speak and turned to look at him; two or three of them knew enough Equestrian to translate for their compatriots, and the entire mess hall soon began to stare at us. I held him by his shoulder—here, one of them covered his ears and eyes and cowered a bit, as if anticipating a one-liner and a gunshot—and led him out. One of the mares in the hall started crying; I later found out that she was his sister.

He seemed fearful, and I spoke to him quietly in Husharic:

‘Why are you asking such a question?’

He responded in slightly awkward Equestrian, presumably again to lower the chance that anyone might understand him:

‘My mother, before the war, said that I am going to wed a mare of her choosing, and that we would be happy together. Now I am worried that I may never wed, and die with my only consolation being in Celestia’s heaven. My mother is also not Ishpanian, and my death will only bring her grief.’

I did not know what to say to assuage him; he spoke quietly, and without inflection, but he seemed almost to be in tears. I did not share his faith, and so I could not comfort him on those grounds.

I have no doubt that somepony will read this one day, when it is no longer secret, and scoff to herself—but the truth is that now, as I write this, as I am sitting at my commander’s table and writing this journal, that I am a very lonely mare in a very lonely place. I have never had sexual relations before this date, and had kept myself satiated with masturbation; perhaps it would intrigue the reader to know that pornography is illegal in the Khishbiri Republic, and though it does not excuse me I hope that you will forgive me for the actions that I am about to detail.

I stared at him for a little while; he was not embarrassed, and his demeanour was genuinely distressed. I looked about, and then sure that I was not under observation, grabbed the colt under the jaw and kissed him fully, on the mouth, and stayed like that for around four seconds before I pulled back.

‘I too have never known another.’

He seemed overwhelmingly shocked, and spoke for the first time in Husharic, a simple, one-word proclamation:

‘It is forbidden!’

I blinked. ‘Why is it forbidden?’

‘We are not married. It is forbidden and immoral that we should have relations.’

‘What is immoral?’ I said, and I believe that I was beginning to cry at that point. ‘We cut ponies in half with our repeating machines and we suffocate them so that they drown in their own blood and then we burn their corpses so that their mothers cannot lay them to rest. What is immoral now?’

I suppose, if only to build the case against myself, that I should detail him: imagine a bright lavender unicorn pony with a green mane. He is slightly muscular, but overall his body is not well-defined; his fur is clean and his hair is short, because he is still in the habit of bathing and his fetlocks are unshorn.

‘The Recitation of Celestia does not allow it. It would be against Her will.’

I was so filled with pity for myself, then, that I simply ignored his words and began to drag him; he resisted lightly, but then seemed to realise that his superior officer was pulling him, and he remembered naïvely the penalties for disobedience. When we had reached the commander’s room without being seen—the trenches are far from the internal parts of the base—I simply threw him onto the bed with great force, my wings helping me propel him upon it.

I then bolted the door and began to strip him, laying atop him and beginning with his vest; perhaps stricken by fear, he did not move as I did this. His stallionhood had clearly made a bulge in his washed uniform, and he seemed genuinely embarrassed by it.

Irrationally fearing that I may embarrass myself, I did not say anything about it, but instead put a hoof against the bulge as I pulled the flak vest off him to expose his barrel. He whimpered and I saw a slightly damp spot grow against the fabric; no doubt he had never masturbated in his life. I found the thought very arousing, and rubbed my face against the fabric, causing the warm organ beneath to twitch.

I did not remove my uniform, but simply unzipped my pants; they split almost in two, and so my buttocks and my pudenda were entirely exposed.

I then stripped him of his trousers, easing them off his flank; in general, long-legged trousers are a griffon invention, and have no place on ponies, so it took quite a bit of fumbling to do this. His cutie mark—a symbol in Husharic, like those of most religions which forbid visual art—became visible along with his penis, and I could not help myself but lick at the latter.

My first thought was that it was salty, and I realised with a start that he had probably not washed it recently; my marehood had the discourtesy to force me into a state whereby I could not wait a second, however, and I simply pushed myself up closer to him and pressed my muzzle against his, tilting my head and forcing his mouth open as I began to let my tongue into his mouth. The feeling of his tongue on mine was particularly exquisite, but I could not focus on it while my aching loins remained unsatisfied.

I had used my hooves many times for the same purpose, and so I did not flinch as I grabbed his male organ and put it against my labia, and then eased myself down upon him; I pulled away and looked into his eyes—into one eye, rather, the other staring pointedly at the wall—as I penetrated myself with him. His own eyes rolled up into his skull and he moaned something unintelligible, but of which I could make out ecclesiastical terms like ‘sinful’.

He did not last long, barely half a minute; I let him ejaculate inside me. I did not reach orgasm myself, and continued to use his still-engorged member for a while while he groaned in discomfort. There was no real passion about it; I simply used him and my own hoof until I reached orgasm. It wasn’t a particularly special one; I could have done the same with a hoof and stick.

After that, I pulled myself off of him and threw him his clothing.

I then told him that I had reprimanded him, and that none of anything that we had done had just taken place; I told him that if he tells the troops that anything untoward has happened, I will hang him from his testicles, which I am told is a common punishment in this nation for insubordination. It is unlikely that he will tell anypony, in any case; the shame would be too much for him to bear.

I am not sure what I now think of myself; of all the crimes that I have overseen, this may be one of the most direct and the most heinous. I have let virgin lust lead me into abusing my position for the sake of my own gratification, and cannot conscience my continued freedom.

But I must, of course. I have not answered his question, but I believe the answer may be ‘yes’: I have heard that the Ishpanians are going to mount an attack tomorrow at half strength. I have let a pony’s only impression of sex be manipulative, emotionless, single-sided.

I suppose that I must tell myself that I am entitled to these petty liberties as a commanding officer.

I find myself wishing that if I die it will be just as the war ends, incinerated carrying my diary, perhaps, so that I will not live to incriminate myself.

For now, the best I can do is forget.

Whiskey is also illegal in the Republic, if I may note.

I detest this country with a passion.

—

Twilight Sparkle’s right eye twitched.

“Why is everypony in this town so incredibly bucked up?

Dash coughed a bit. “This coming from Little Miss Sentient Bea—”

Twilight glared at her. “Do you want another black eye?”

Dash quieted herself.