Night fell, and the knocking on the front door of the farmhouse became more urgent.
The farmer was not a hard-hearted man, but there wasn't much he could do about the situation. Onze was taking her sweet time packing her trunks, sometimes stopping to rearrange the contents. He felt a little sorry for Sept – Onze seemed to enjoy making her wait.
“Oh dear, I'm afraid she's getting desperate.” There was a little malice in her voice, a trace of Schadenfreude. He had learned that the girls could be cruel, even if they would never actually harm their sisters. He supposed it was how rivalries played out between them, a harmless way to defuse the conflicts within a herd of ponies who all wanted to be the loveliest and best.
The alabaster unicorn's horn glowed pale blue, and some lacy nothings were once again folded before being stowed in her steamer trunk. Onze was so beautiful when she concentrated.
They were his treasure, these thirteen lovely unicorns, his thirteen Rarities.
Onze looked at him intently, measuring the situation. He could imagine the calculation in her mind, her weighing the joy of tormenting Sept against her love for her sister. She smiled.
“It was lovely, and you were wonderful...”
Her compliment was sincere, and the look in her eyes awoke sweet memories of her time at the house. She wanted to stay, but it was time for Sept to move in.
The farmer held Onze close and kissed her behind the ear. “Oh, Darling, now you simply must let me go. Poor Sept is waiting...”
The door opened, and the girls exchanged looks. Onze followed her floating trunk down the stairs of the porch, and Sept, trying her hardest to not look distraught, entered the anteroom, followed by her trunk.
He knew what he had to do, and knelt before Sept, holding her close. He whispered in her ear, “Make yourself at home. I've chilled some champagne...”
The next morning, the farmer woke early. He looked over at Sept's sleeping form, laying on her back, wrapped in a bed sheet, with an enormous grin on her face. Her mane was mussed, but she was still far too exhausted from the night before to fuss with it.
He had a job to do. It was time to milk the unicorns.
This wasn't simply manual labor. These unicorns needed special attention. He checked his suit and tie in the mirror in the hall and proceeded to the stalls. They had taught him so much about taking care of his appearance.
Rarity Un lay on her couch, an equine odalisque on her red velvet divan. She feigned surprise at his entrance, and sat up and looked up at him, assuming a posture of alertness as he entered her stall that reminded him of Manet's “Olympia”. She rolled languorously onto her belly as he approached andknelt beside her. There were things she needed him to do before she was ready to be milked.
His practiced hands stroked her back, his fingertips felt the tension along her shoulders and spine. He took a handful of oil, let it warm in his palm, and Rarity Un swept her purple mane out of the way as he rubbed the oil onto her back.
“John?”
“Yes?”
“There, by my right shoulder.”
He concentrated his massage on the sore spot, and Un repaid his efforts with a satisfied moan, a moan that reminded him of her times up at the house.
The girls had their rules, rules the farmer was constantly challenged to recognize and acknowledge. To produce milk, they needed him to inseminate them and trigger a false pregnancy. However, their bodies were their temples, a part of their private sphere. Their souls demanded love, loyalty, and devotion.
Their solution was to send one of their number up to the house when her time came, to live with the farmer and share his bed. He would love her, and her alone, for seven days and nights. During that time, the others were off limits, forbidden fruit.
She looked at him slyly as he continued rubbing her down. He smiled sweetly, and tried to enjoy her teasing. The Rarities tended to react strongly to being milked.
Un rolled over on her back, and pushed the farmer's warm hands to her teats. She closed her eyes and purred as he stroked her swollen breasts, blushed and bit her lip.
“Oh, John,” she gasped breathlessly, “I think I'm ready.”
The Rarity rolled off the couch and stood with her chin held high as he washed the oil from his hands and fetched the bucket. Once again, he knelt beside her, placing the bucket beneath her.
His hands grasped an alabaster teat, and he gently squeezed, starting at the base of her conical white breast, and gently but firmly squeezed each finger in turn, until his thumb and pinkie almost reached her delicate, stiff pink nipple.
A jet of creamy milk squirted into the bucket, and Un bit her lip and blushed. Being pawed at and groped like a common farm animal, the discomfort of having her swollen teats squeezed – all these things made her feel a strange mixture of shame and arousal. That John was so gentle and considerate, that she and John had shared a bed, moments of passion, moments of peaceful intimacy, whipped up a maelstrom of emotions that pulled her out of herself and reminded her how it felt to be alive.
He moved his hands to the other full, warm breast, and repeated the procedure. Un let out a whinnying moan of pleasure as a second jet of warm milk splashed into the bucket. “Ohh, John... don't stop...”
Her purple tail swished back and forth as he continued to milk her. Un's blush spread to her haunches, and the bright musk of her arousal wafted through her stall.
He rubbed his cheek against her warm flank as he gently kneaded the last drops of unicorn milk from her. Getting milked did something to the girls' minds – it was an intensely personal and intimate moment for them, and seemed to stimulate their most primal urges.
Un bit her lower lip and looked at the almost full bucket of milk. “Oh... my... I...”
John stroked her behind her ear, and she fluttered her brilliant blue eyes before bringing her lips to his. They shared a long kiss, one that she broke off before bringing her mouth to his ear.
“Oh, John... I'm in such a state... I can do it myself, but...”
This wasn't a tease. She was flushed and flustered. He carefully placed the bucket of Rarity milk on the floor, and sat down on her divan. Un leaped up to join him, laying on her back. She kissed him deeply and pressed his arm against her chest with her fore-hooves as his other hand reached down past her warm teats, and his fingertips gently explored the delicate pink petals of her blossoming sex.
Her tongue thrust into his mouth as he felt her aching wetness.
There were rules, but these rules left open loopholes. Yes, it was Sept's turn to be John's special some-pony, to live in the house with him and be loved by him until her heat passes, to be his one and only – but this was an emergency. Un had plans for the day, a consignment of costumes for an upcoming event in Las Vegas. She had to stay focused and come up with a flattering design for the performing horses – no easy task, as their features lacked the grace, delicacy, and expressiveness of ponies like her.
Her distant, primitive relatives would want to look their best, even if they couldn't tell her that themselves. It was a strange thought for her – she was so like them, these large proud animals, whose similarity to her own kind allowed her and her sisters to exist in this world. Yet they were also so different, their rough countenances and manners a reminder of how the Equestrians could have been had magic not lifted them up to a new order of being. The horses of this world survived by a mixture of strength and caution. At least they understood, in their primitive way, the joys of friendship, the company of the herd. Perhaps Un could inspire an appreciation of beauty in their hearts.
She melted into his big strong arms as his fingers nimbly explored her moist folds. A few small, involuntary gasps guided him to the places she wanted to be touched. She wriggled against him, holding his other arm tight to her chest, her hind-legs spread wide to invite his fingertips to rub her hot little pink pearl.
Her gasps of pleasure grew louder as he found the rhythm her heart and soul and lust desired. Oh, those fingers! However poor a substitute for magic they may be, they were shockingly effective at fine manipulation. That very talent enabled these humans to discover the beauty hiding beneath the rough surface of their world, to become something like her, kindred spirits despite their vast differences.
The sensations from his expert rubbing – faster now, making her heart race – broke her from her reverie, and she melted into his arms, gasping for air. Breathing out, she shocked herself with a throaty moan. She tried to hold herself back, but that only made the feelings more intense. His fingers, now vigorously strumming her clit, became noticeably slicker as her melodious cries of ecstasy swept her last remnants of restraint away.
She writhed in his grip, ground her hindquarters into the stiffness inside his trousers, and felt the orgasm take her.
She lay in his arms, sweaty and panting, as she felt a few drops of milk trickle from her pink nipples. John set her down gently, and placed his mouth over her alabaster teats, savoring the few droplets of milk her climax had coaxed from her. The flavor of her milk was indescribable, creamy with notes of vanilla and musk.
He looked her in the eyes with a smile filled with mischief and affection.
She'd need at least an hour to put herself back together again.
The other girls, of course, had heard everything. They scurried back to their stalls as he slid open the door, erection throbbing in his pants.
This was going to be long, hard morning.
Deux daintily covered her mouth with a fore-hoof as John entered her stall. A glance down was enough to explain why – he had pitched a tent in his dress pants.
“Oh, dear, that's going to be terribly distracting.” Her sapphire eyes twinkled as she stared at his erection. “I have a few things to take care of before we start our session, so... just stand there and be patient.”
She was grinning. John was fairly certain she had something in mind.
As she sat down and unrolled a scroll of sketches, her spiral tail lifted, and the tip expertly felt its way to his fly. The pressure eased as Deux opened his fly while she made some corrections and hummed to herself.
A blue and purple coil of hair wrapped around his shaft and pulled his cock out of his boxers. She was surprisingly dexterous with her tail, and while it lacked the warmth of her body, he could not deny that the touch of her silky hair felt good on his throbbing member.
The strands wrapped tight around his member, and the base of Deux's tail began to twitch rhythmically. She gave him a mischievous glance over her shoulder before returning to her sketches and patterns.
The coil pulled, tightened, slipped, released, rewound itself on his shaft and repeated, each stroke bringing him closer to relief.
It didn't take long. Deux rolled over onto her side. “Better now?”
Satisfying John like this was so very, very close to breaking the rules.
She was still grinning as John left her stall with a bucket of sweet-smelling milk. He was so good at getting her juices flowing, creative and otherwise.
Trois accosted John on the way to her stall. He knelt down to stroke her behind the ear, and shewhispered into his ear, “Oh, John – I watched you and Deux and saw the whole thing. I'm such a naughty, naughty pony...”
John whispered back, “Naughty ponies get a spanking.”
She closed her eyes and arched her back downwards, thrusting her white posterior up. Her rear cheeks blushed in anticipation.
He was still on the safe side. Trois didn't want to punish him. His open hand struck her firm white buttocks with a satisfying smack, hard enough to be loud, gentle enough not to bruise.
Her blush became deeper, and she closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. “Again... please,” she whispered.
A few firm whacks later, and she was ready to be milked.
Quatre needed John's help to try out her new bridle and harness. She kept it on as he milked her.
Cinq was preoccupied with finishing her sculpture, a rearing Rarity in marble. He watched her work for a while, her face taut with concentration, her eyes intently examining the stone through a pair of red eyeglasses perched on her nose. She chipped away at the marble block, slowly freeing her slightly darker stone sister from her crystalline prison. John was about to leave to look after the others, but she took a break from her work, and thanked him profusely for eliminating the distraction of her milk-laden teats before returning to her work.
Six had left a note on her stall door. Her script was ornate, and it invited him to come visit her in the cellar to taste her newest cheeses, after lunch, of course. He pocketed the invitation and continued on past Sept's vacant stall.
The walls were papered with photographs of empty living rooms and lofts and her sketched suggestions on how to turn them from empty space to places with spirit and character. The floor was covered in the tools of her trade, books of swatches of paint and fabric. He tried to discern the order hidden in the superficial chaos, and noticed a rough correlation between the piles and the pictures, her way of keeping her projects organized.
She was waiting for him up at the farmhouse. He'd best hurry.
Luckily for John, the rest of the girls were either uncomplicated or took notice of his increasing nervousness. He suspected the latter, and made a mental note to milk the herd in reverse order tomorrow.
Douze gave his rear a playful telekinetic slap as he hurried out of her stall and winked at him. “Best get a move on, darling,” she purred, “Sept may have re-arranged all the furniture.”
His wrist was sore and his head was spinning from his arduous morning rounds. John hurried up the path from the pastures to the front door of the farmhouse, readying himself both for the inevitable and the unexpected. It was inevitable in the sense that he knew how badly she ached to please him; it was unexpected because Rarities were creative and knew no limits – in short, they were perverse, in the same way avant-guarde artists are, always willing and able to make their innermost desires take form.He knew well that Sept's libido was in high gear, especially after his attempt to make her feel welcome had lead to an enthusiastic and sloppy love-making session that had ended with her exhausted and grinning, wrapped in bedsheets damp with musky sweat and other fluids, an Aphrodite risen on the froth of her own excitement.
John felt his heart leap with anticipation.
He opened the door to the farmhouse, and was greeted by a white unicorn prancing from the kitchen. Stockings and garters showed beneath a peignoir, all in shades of pastel blue. Her smile was broad and warm, but also a little affected; she was not only happy to see him, she wanted to make sure he knew she was happy to see him. It was her opening move in an emotional game that ideally both of them would win.
Her eyes twinkled, and a platter heaped with crushed ice floated out of the kitchen, held in a glowing blue cloud of thought. Oysters on the half-shell, shucked and served with lemon and mignonette sauce, danced in front of his hungry eyes.
John reached out to take an oyster, but Rarity's mind pulled the plate away. “Now, now, I've set the table for you, Darling...”
Rarities had hundreds of ways to say “darling,” hundreds of inflections that subtly shifted the word's meaning. This time, she accented the first syllable and drew out the second, a gentle yet playful rebuke.
The table was set with linen and crystal in a room darkened by drawn curtains, then illuminated by a half-dozen candles. John took his place, and Sept joined him as the platter floated to its appointed spot. Her seat was positioned directly to the left of John's, with a cushion for her delicate rump.
Her cheek brushed against his shoulder, and a bottle of white wine rose from its bath of crushed ice, was swaddled in a linen cloth, and floated over to John's crystal goblet. Sept poured a small amount of wine into the goblet with a practiced quarter-turn, then returned the bottle to its place.
Her eyes shined like jewels, reflecting the ghostly glow of her horn. The moment her magic stopped, he leaned over and kissed her.
They held the kiss for a while, tongues darting into each others' mouths, finally breaking apart with a soft, moist noise.
“Darling, you should eat...”
This time, the “darling” was an invitation.
“Shouldn't I clean up first?”
“Come now, you must be famished. Please, enjoy this.”
He took an oyster, dipped it in the peppery vinaigrette, and tipped the raw shellfish into his mouth. The taste was first sour, then briny and cool as he chewed the delicate morsel, followed by the heat of the crushed pepper. John reached for his wine glass.
A sip of dry white wine diluted the aftertaste just a little.
“It's wonderful.”
“Thank you.” She nuzzled his neck. “Just mind you don't have too much wine,” she added with a playful lilt in her voice.
The next oyster was a little more difficult to get out of the shell. Sept laughed gently, and smiled as she said, “It's not rude to slurp – just a bit. I quite like a little delicate slurping.”
She blushed at her own innuendo.
They cuddled, and John slowly finished his plate of oysters. Sept's robe somehow slipped off during the meal, revealing the powder-blue silk lingerie she was wearing. It was one of Un's creations, a corset of heavy silk with garter belts holding up sheer stockings with a back-seam. The rear garters ran from the back of the corset near the croup, though loops on the translucent blue silk panties, with the effect that all four stockings were suspended from behind.
The meal was interrupted a few times for ever longer kisses.
John felt Sept's warmth and eagerness, and suddenly felt an acute need to wash himself. She pouted and demurred, but the sparkle in her eyes made him certain this was what she wanted as well. He disappeared to the downstairs bath, and Sept began to clear the table.
Refreshed and dressed only in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, he returned to the dining room. Sept was fussing with the table-cloth, and gave him a coy look over her shoulder as she noticed him enter.
Her tail was held high, and he saw a tiny movement beneath the sheer silk of her panties. She was winking frenetically, and each eversion rubbed the fabric of her undergarments against her most sensitive spot. The rhythm slowed as she became fully engorged, and felt the silk stretch over her clit, a delicious yet almost unbearable situation.
She stretched out her front hooves and lifted her haunches. Surely dearest John would take the hint.
He didn't disappoint her. His strong hands caressed her rump, briefly relieving the pressure of the fine fabric on her pretty little pink pearl.
He examined her lingerie. He had to get this small horse's panties off – and quickly!
His hands reached for the first clasps he could find, and unhooked her back stockings from her garters. He tried pulling them up through the retaining loops of silk ribbon on her panties, but the clasps wouldn't go through.
He examined the back of her corset. There was no way to release the garters.
Sept buried her nose between her front legs and writhed a little, shaking her firm white rump invitingly. John wondered if she was stifling a giggle. His hard cock was already impatiently jutting out the front of his bathrobe.
His hands returned to her rump, and he looked down at the dangling garters. Of course!
The other side of the clip held the silk garters as well. He released it, and pulled, and the silk ribbon slid out from the silver bow tie clips sewn into the base of her corset.
Now, all that remained was the strap over her dock. He released the clasp and pulled it free, then slid her panties down slowly.
She was ready, but now it was his turn to tease her.
He held the base of her tail up high and gave her pearl a firm lick.
Sept gasped with pleasure as he kept roughly tonguing her. Moments later, his tongue darted upwards, and she could do little to resist it probing inside her. She couldn't hold her throaty gasp back at all.
Her magic gripped his cock and pulled him towards her. She needed it, and she needed it now.
His other hand reached between her back legs and firmly massaged her teats and her delicate pink nipples, now standing at attention, while his tongue continued to circle over her clit. She didn't want to come yet. Fuck me already, you silly man.
She pulled his penis a little more firmly. His teasing was becoming unbearable, and her melodious moans of pleasure were escaping unbidden despite her best efforts to hold them back.
Finally he rose and she felt the tip of his cock slide inside her. He was still teasing her, and her slippery entrance tried to contract around his glans. She bit her lip. It simply wouldn't do for her to come before he was even properly inside her.
She thrust her haunches back and felt her shockingly loose walls give way to his shaft.
She closed her eyes and rested her head on her front legs, haunches held high. He was deep inside her now, giving her the hard rutting she craved. The new sensations formed a counter-point to the first crescendo of pleasure, and moaned and grunted and whinnied as it built up inside her.
The climax caught her by surprise, and she lost any semblance of restraint as she cried out.
The pace of his thrusts quickened, prolonging her pleasure. Now it was his turn.
“Oh, darling, fuck me... come inside me, I want... I want to feel you come...”
His new, quicker rhythm continued unabated. She felt her body flush, and her coat moisten with dewy sweat.
His low, deep grunt of pleasure joined her orgiastic moans as he finally lost control, thrusting himself deep to pump his warm seed inside her.
She flopped over on her side, damp with sweat, and he lay down beside her, a big spoon to her little spoon.
They kissed, long and deep.
He ran his hand along her flanks as she cuddled up to him. Her body was warm, and dewed with the bright musk of her sweat. Her mane and tail were a mess; as soon as she recovered, she'd want to put herself back together.
Part of him considered a second round with the horny little unicorn. Maybe he could take her up to the bedroom, and they could continue their love-making on a surface softer than the dining room floor.
But another part of him thought back to the invitation stuck in his pocket. He still had work to do.
His footsteps crunched on the gravel of the path leading down to the stables. Over in the pasture, two of the girls were fussing over a third Rarity's mane.
John honed his unicorn-spotting skills by attempting to identify them. The one with the brush, combing out the wet mane of the other Rarity was almost certainly Treize – she had specialized in mane and tail care, and designed the extra-large curlers the girls used to maintain their signature look.
The unicorn levitating her a curler the length of his forearm watched the proceedings with interest over her red cat-eye glasses. John had to think for a moment; several of the girls made a habit of perching glasses on the tips of their delicate little noses, either when they were doing delicate detail work, or when they wanted to look clever. As he watched her roll the third unicorn's hair into the curler under Treize's approving gaze, his suspicion that the Rarity assisting Treize was Neuf, the jeweler, was confirmed – the sparkle of her earrings gave it away.
And who was the third unicorn? John caught a glimpse of scuffed hooves. It must be Cinq, the sculptor, who wanted to wash the marble dust from her mane, coat, and tail. Her posture echoed one of her recent works, still and regal. Treize and Neuf moved on to her tail, and she sat, chin high, with her mane neatly wrapped in a pair of curlers. He had seen them do this before – they would let their manes dry in the sun.
Cinq gave him a long look, and Treize and Neuf whispered to each other.
He continued on down the path. A pair of Rarities took turns nibbling from the grass bar. It was one of Dix's ideas, a plot of pasture planted with different varieties of grasses and wildflowers in neat little squares, arranged in a long rectangle for easy grazing. Bluegrass, sweet clover, violets, arugula, daisies, wild rye, bermuda grass, and velvet bent all vied for the attentions of peckish unicorns.
The two Rarities looked up. One waved at John, and the other whispered something in her ear.
He had a little less than half an hour before his appointment with Six, and there was always work to be done on the farm. He opened the gate to the pasture, and decided to have a look at the bungalow the Rarities sometimes used as a retreat when tensions among them came to a head.
John's path took him over the crest of a low hillock overlooking a tree-shaded pond. He had to duck as a divan clutched in a ghostly blue glow flew past him over his left shoulder.
Two white unicorns had set up a picnic in the shade of a willow tree, and lay on pillows on each side of an elaborate blanket laden with trays of sandwiches. The trajectory of the divan brought it to a third Rarity.
She looked up and waved at John.
“Sorry, Darling...” she called faintly, before rolling onto the couch to join her friends in eating crust-less cucumber and daisy sandwiches and sipping tea.
All three of them observed him continue along the side of the pond over their floating cups of tea.
There was one feeling John was familiar with, that of being watched. Going to prison does that to a man. In prison, it wasn't just the guards watching you all the time, it was the other inmates, too, and if you wanted to stay out of trouble, you needed to watch them, too, and feel when something bad was brewing.
Being a convicted felon only made it harder to find a life outside, too. Towards the end of his sentence, he'd replied to a personal ad, hoping that a pen pal could give him some kind of perspective on a life in freedom that didn't involve guns, drugs, and his dumb-ass ex-friends. Getting in touch with a herd of kinky unicorns was, to say the least, unexpected. Even better, they were willing to give him another chance at life as a free man.
Even if everything had changed since his sentence for armed robbery, those four years had left an indelible mark. He couldn't help but feel that something had happened among the girls, that maybe one of their rivalries had gotten a little out of control.
He was close to the bungalow now. A white unicorn trotted out of the pond onto a small pebble beach. Her purple mane and tail were waterlogged and dripped onto the small round stones. She waved at him, and he waved back.
John could feel her eyes watching him.
It made sense to be cautious. As he approached the front door, he heard a soft, rhythmic noise that made him think twice about just barging in.
He wasn't sure what it was. It could easily be sobbing.
While the girls usually craved attention, there were times when inconsolable really meant inconsolable, when they needed some time by themselves. The down side of being ambitious and trying to coax beauty out of everything they touched was that disappointment and frustration was always especially painful for them.
John found a back window, and risked a peek inside.
There was a white unicorn inside, sprawled on a divan, but she wasn't crying.
He was pretty sure it was Six, too.
“What the fuck?” he mumbled to himself under his breath.
It wasn't just the sight of one of the girls loudly pleasuring herself in a darkened room that made him ask that question. He'd strongly imprinted on the girls, and seeing what he'd seen had an effect on him as well.
Now he had the faintest beginnings of an erection, and he was going to see Six in fifteen minutes. Considering the state she was in, she'd probably finish pretty soon and still have time to get herself cleaned up.
Trying not to think about it made it worse. John found himself wishing there was somewhere nearby where he could take a cold shower. Maybe he could hop into the pond?
Even if he didn't know what was going on in detail, he had a vague idea that Six had been the victim of an intrigue among the Rarities.
Her specialty, cheese-making, was a bit of a sore spot for some of the others. Rarity milk was rich and creamy, with a complex, pleasant flavor, with notes of vanilla and a slight but noticeable tang.
Reminding the girls of its similarity to goats' milk was a sure way to get prodded with a horn.
Six had been working the last few years adapting recipes for various goat cheeses to the unicorns' milk, aspiring to produce gourmet products that would bring in much-needed profits to the farm.
Vanity and insecurity went bit and bridle with the Rarities, and Six's projects seemed to hit a sore spot with some of the others. It was entirely possible that they would gang up on her. Now the question was to find out what pressure the others were placing on Six.
Her cheese factory was in the far corner of the pasture. Several of the other Rarities had complained about the possibility it might smell unpleasant, and they had insisted it be placed far away from the stalls.
In the end, it had been a good decision. The long walk through the pastures filled with frolicking white unicorns had generally positively impressed potential luxury food buyers. Several suggested sending in photographers and encouraging the editors of lifestyle magazines to write stories about the unicorn farm as a part of a push to place Six's creations squarely into the luxury segment of the gourmet cheese market.
Her eyes always sparkled particularly bright when she talked about the possibilities of selling unicorn cheese to famous chefs and the elite. It was her dream, her chance to hob-nob with celebrities and functionaries in the outside world. He even believed in it a little himself.
He opened the storm door to the underground cheese factory and descended into a sitting room furnished with dark blue velvet wall hangings and marble floors. He sat in one of the overstuffed red leather chairs surrounding a low coffee table and waited for Six to arrive.
He tried not to think about what was keeping her. He wanted to be on his best behavior.
Six arrived a few minutes too late, dewy and refreshed, with a bright smile on her face. She had taken the time to put on an ornamental saddle that held a gauzy, flower-pattered sun-dress that covered her flanks and haunches. “Sorry to keep you waiting, darling, I had some sticky business to attend to.”
John's eyes narrowed, but he smiled back.
“Come to the back, I want to show you my newest creation – our newest creation!”
A small door opened, and she beckoned him to follow her to a back room that led to the cellars where Six's cheeses ripened.
“Bend over,” she purred. “I don't want you to hit your head on the lintel.”
He followed her to a stone chamber. A glass dome covered a small, flat cylinder the diameter of his palm. It was covered in an orange crust a color somewhere between the hue of a traffic warning sign and the shade of fresh toast.
“This,” trilled Six, “is my newest creation. I modified the recipe used to create Époisses de Bourgogne
to our milk – so this is a relatively fresh cheese, aged about six weeks, ripened in hard apple cider. The aroma is... well, smell for yourself...”
A blue aura grasped the glass cheese bell and lifted it up. Six scrunched her nose in anticipation.
“...holy... ...shit....”
John croaked the words out as if he had been punched in the gut. The odor awakened Proustian memories of the cell block in high summer, a collected stench of sweaty men with questionable hygiene.
Six's delicate little muzzle remained firmly scrunched. She continued, “...well, it is supposed to have a, shall we say, strong odor...”
There was an awkward pause. John was able to maintain some semblance of composure. Six cut a small wedge out of the reeking disc with a cheese knife. She gave John a side-long glance and expertly removed the orange rind with a few knife strokes before floating the delicate, slightly runny pale yellow cheese over to him.
“Do have a bite...”
Six smiled at him expectantly.
His time in prison also meant that his sense of smell acclimatized quickly. The morsel floating in front oh him was considerably milder than the reeking cylinder it was cut from. He steeled his nerves and opened his mouth.
Six beamed as she shoved the small piece of cheese into John's mouth.
He chewed carefully. The flavor was considerably milder than the smell. In fact, mixed in with the creamy, soft cheesiness, it was shockingly pleasant, if intense.
He swallowed.
“It's... delicious.” John could hardly believe it, but it was true. The flavor was intense, a raunchy and musky yet savory aroma that lingered on the tongue.
“Now, I haven't tried it with pasteurized milk yet. I suspect that will considerably tone down the smell, but considering the regulations against the sale of raw-milk cheeses, I'll pretty much have to adapt it if we want to sell this out-of-state or offer it to wholesalers. Nevertheless, I think we have a gastronomic sensation on our hands – I shall call it Époisses de Licorne blanche!”
The rich flavor on his tongue was fading. Six looked overjoyed.
“Do you think you could put that back under glass?”
“Of course, Darling!”
Six pranced back into the sitting room, and John followed. He made sure to turn on the ventilation fans before he closed the door.
John looked at her haunches wiggling beneath her sun-dress. She was in a good mood. That should make things easier.
“Six?”
“Yes, dear?”
“You weren't there for my rounds this morning. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no! I'm just... not producing right now.” She blushed. He was going to guess why, wasn't he?
He knelt down beside her. Her blush progressed to a whole-body flush.
“Should it be your turn up at the house?” he whispered in her ear.
“Well, we have our rules...” Her voice trailed away. He and her hormones were making this very difficult. “I'll just have to wait my turn.”
She forced a smile.
“That seems terribly unfair.”
He was right. Her heat would pass in a few days, and then she'd have to wait for her chance to come up to the farmhouse. Those were the rules, she reflected bitterly.
“It is.” He was so charming. She was glad her sun-dress was there to protect what little modesty she had left. Her full-body flush had progressed. Trying to sate herself earlier had, if anything, made itworse now.
“If you need me to,” he said, “I can help you feel better. That's allowed.”
“John...” Six's lower lip trembled. “I... yes, I do want you to...”
The words came out involuntarily. She meant them, too.
He lifted the hem of her sun-dress over her rump, and her tail followed by reflex. This would help, not as much as a good hard rutting, but...
His tongue took a first tour of her overheated sex. “Ohhhh...”
The tip probed inside her, and she could offer him no resistance. Her walls welcomed him warmly and wetly.
“John, I...”
He returned his attentions to her little pink pearl. She couldn't contain her moans.
It was going to take a while, too, before the sweet release would come. She very much wanted to share it with him.
She took a step back, and John followed her movement, grasping her flanks and pulling her down to sit on his face.
She saw the bulge in his pants, and her mind reached out to unzip him. It was only fair, after all.
“I am a naughty, naughty pony,” she whispered to herself as she pulled his shaft free.
John tried to maintain a steady rhythm as he felt Six's mouth eagerly envelop his cock. She didn't waste time with probing licks, she wanted him inside her – one way or the other.
The hem of her sun-dress hung like a veil over her eyes, held up by her horn, as her head bobbed up and down, trying to give him what he was so successfully giving her. She felt his moan stifled by her most sensitive parts, and his tongue shifted its attentions from her clit to her warm opening.
They were already past the point of no return. She held herself back from orgasm by sheer force of will.
She did what came naturally, and took his full length into her mouth and throat, touching his balls with her upper lip, a soft glottal click marking the moment when she began to deep-throat him. Her horn pulled free from the hem of her sun-dress.
As his eager tongue fucked her sloppy hole, she swallowed rhythmically, letting the muscles of her throat do the work. She did so wish it was his cock back there pumping away at her, but this would have to do.
Even if it wasn't the where she wanted, he was going to cum inside her.
His mouth pulled away from her pussy, and he moaned as he blew his load into her hungry gullet.
Briefly sated, they both lay on the floor, trembling a little.
“Are... are you OK?” His voice was a little unsteady.
“Yes...”
The problem with teasing herself like that was that she now wanted more. She rolled off him, and he sat up slowly.
His hand caressed her cheek. She needed to say it before she lost her nerve.
“John... I need you to...”
He kissed her deeply, which surprised her. She could still taste his salty load. His tongue slipped into her mouth anyway.
They broke off the kiss. “Would you... be naughty with me?”
John nodded eagerly.
In the back of his mind, he thought about a night a lifetime ago, standing in front of a filling station with a loaded pistol.
