On Chamomile Tea and Finger Banging
Chamomile tea has always been a favorite of yours. It relaxes you like only a full day at the spa could, and it costs exponentially less than hours of excessive pampering to boot. Back on earth it was a favorite of yours, and when the pony at the local market said that she had some in stock, you darn near flipped your lid. It didn't matter that you shelled out untold millions in gold coins—which all these equines seen to find nearly worthless, silly ponies—you are now the proud owner of enough of the brown drink to turn all the world’s oceans into tea and still have enough to slake the thirst of two whole British people (not that there are any British people here in Equestria. There aren’t any people-people here either, but that’s beside the point).
What? You really like tea.
And no sooner does the thought of it enter your mind than the smell of shangri-la hit your nostrils, bowling you over into a sea of warm, milky bliss. Everything about this is perfect. The tea of your choice, the couch of supreme comfiness supporting your weight under you—
"Tea's ready!" And the woman of your dreams.
Mare of your dreams, you correct yourself. Your life partner is a horse, and a talking one at that. It doesn't matter how much time you'll have to accept the fact—the thought that you are romantically involved with an equine always strikes you as a tad bit crazy.
"Here you go, dear." A steady, alabaster hoof holds a steaming cup of tea at eye-level. It amazes you how, despite physics still being mostly in effect here (that crazy pink pony who works at the local sweet shop seems to be quite good at finding loopholes in the collective works of Isaac Newton), everyone still manages to grasp objects like they had a million tiny suction cups glued to their hooves.
"Something wrong?" It finally occurs to you that you've been staring at your soul mate's (soul mount's?) outstretched hoof.
"Oh, nothing," you reply absently. "Just thinking about how the very act of holding a cup of tea like you're doing now discredits the tireless work of thousands of years worth of dedicated physical scientists." You chuckle. "They're probably rolling over in their graves right now."
She laughed. "You're starting to sound like Pinkie Pie now." Her laugh reminds you of the old wind chime you had hanging on your front porch back home; clear as crystal, enchanting. You'd go out of your way to listen to the melodic clinking of those old metal bars, and your reaction is the same for your partner pony's giggle. "Now drink your tea before it gets cold. I'd hate for it to go to waste."
You nod and sip the lava-like liquid greedily, disregarding the screams of pain from your scalding tongue and relishing in the flavor. Better make it last—with your tongue turning white and shriveled as it contacts the hot tea, it's doubtful that you'll be able to taste anything for another week, at least. Still, it was worth it.
"Don't drink so quickly," reprimands the mare beside you. "You'll burn yourself." Smiling unabashedly, you stick out your scorched tongue for her to see. Seeing her warning came far too late only made her giggle again and shake her head.
You chuckle with her against a grated tongue as she takes a much more refined sip of her beverage. It never ceases to amaze you how such a classy pony as herself could have fallen for such a common creature as yourself. It's not only the "opposites attract" factor that gives you a tiny jolt of awe every time you kiss. It's also the fact that she's a sentient horse, and you're not.
Nonetheless, the two of you seem to get along just fine. Or at least, you did until it finally dawned on you that you were getting sentimentally attached to a pony. No amount of preparation, no matter how jaw droppingly candy-colored, could have possibly prepared your for the sheer, ragged hands that seemed to grip your brain and squeeze with an unseen force every time the word "plot" made its way into your conversation.
And if such a monumental decision was a toughie for you, it must have been a killer for her. Oh, the raunchy scandal; the fashionista with a life of wealth and luxury, throwing it all away for a star-crossed love that literally fell from the sky? Surely the brutal societal structures would tear her out by the root and stomp her out, all for loving something that wasn't a pony. Yet, true to the element of harmony which she bore, she willingly tossed her entire life out the window all for the raggedy little human
Well, none of that actually happened—ponies as a whole were actually quite supportive of the decision—but what counts is that she was willing to do it.
Of course, the decision to date a horse wasn't exactly easy for you either. Never mind the fact that she's not even the same species as you. Never mind the fact that she lives in a world filled with sparkly rainbows and sunshine spurting out of society's collective ass. No, the worst thing about it was the very first erection you got while looking at her. Now that was without a doubt the most awkward, self-compromising situation you've ever found yourself in.
You feel a very warm, very soft mass of fur curl up next to you. Said furball manages to exude all the heat of an oven, turning her body into a blanket that wraps around your arm tenderly. "Oh, this is just so relaxing." She sighs contentedly, snuggling into your side for all she's worth. "I really cherish these quiet moments, you know. No ponies barging into the shop, demanding Canterlot's latest styles. No crazy villains in need of stopping, no kingdoms in need of saving. Just me," she bopped herself on her nose, then reciprocated the move on you. "and you."
A tiny blush wanders onto your face at the sentiment—flattery is a universal language, after all. The praise is not unprovoked, however. You don't mean to brag, but you have been the absolute perfect gentleman... pony... whatever. Ever since you've started dating the pony beside you, you've done nothing but show the world how well a pony and a human can get along in harmony and friendship and love and junk.
Speaking of junk... You can't help but notice that your pony partner is looking at yours. She's not staring—that would be "far too unbecoming of a proper mare," in her words—but her shining aqua-blue eyes are definitely gazing at the space where she knows your most private of parts are located. You roll your eyes. "Rarity..."
Rarity. Rarity Rarity Rarity Rarity Rarity. Every time you say her name you just want to repeat it fifty times over, letting the syllables roll around on your tongue like a fine wine. The title alone could easily get you as love-drunk as the alcohol could get you drunk-drunk. Each pen stroke (quill stroke—ponies don't have pens. Yet they still use the phrase 'pen and ink'. Weird...) that spells her name seems a little more elegant than all the rest, the regality alone making the ink sparkle like the diamonds on her flank. Not that you've ever stared at her flanks, of course.
...
Okay, maybe you've taken a peek now and then. At least you're subtle about it. She's just outright staring at your personal business. "Rarity," you chime again. "My eyes are up here." The irony of that statement only hits you at a glancing blow as the unicorn snaps her eyes up, attempting to count the number of atoms in the ceiling above you as pure awkwardness rushes blood to her head in a bright blush.
"Oh—yes." She lets out a nervous chirp that has the bizarre ability to turn your heart into a melted puddle. "I was just looking at—" You lean in, anxious to hear the outlandish farce that she is about to create to excuse the fact that she was eying your bulge. "Your pants!"
Your pants. She was looking at your pants.
Really? Is that really the best she can come up with? You're no professional liar, but come on! A little kid could have come up with a better—no, a little foal could have come up with a better excuse. You are so desperately tempted to call her out on it, embarrass her so badly that she winds up with one of those adorable blushes that make you want to wrap her up and hug her for a million years. But you refrain, held back by the skin of your teeth.
Why? You're not quite sure yet. But you've learned from experience that rolling with things has it's own way of paying off in the long run.
"Uh—yes, your pants," Rarity continues. "The inseam is just... so bulging—"
"Excuse me?"
"A-And what I mean by that—" all her regal prose is gone, replaced solely by repressed sexual tension and immense, mind-numbing embarrassment. "What I mean by that is, it's just so—so... fraying!" Ah, there it is; the gloriously irrelevant white lie that "perfectly" masks her not-so-discreet staring.
"Uh huh." The look you give her conveys perfectly that you don't buy her story for a second.
Her blush grows deeper. "Dear, I swear I was only looking at my own marvelous stitch-job."
Ugh. There aren't many thing you dislike about the beautiful seamstress sitting next to you, but her constant, and often mindless chatter about the ins and outs of the fashion industry is certainly on that list. You'll be blunt—you haven't the slightest inkling of a clue about fashion. How you are able to keep up with little miss fashionista is still beyond you. You're a classy type of guy—never objecting to slipping into a nice tuxedo when the occasion arises—but the 24/7 talk of half-seams and overlays grates on your mind worse than sandpaper.
Still, though... she's awfully cute when she gets herself worked up into one of those fashion fits.
"Dear," you reply, mimicking her accent, "while I just love it when you talk fashion to me, I can't help but be suspicious when you train those beautiful eyes of yours on my junk." Leaning in, you cast a dramatically suspicious eye on her. "Are you sure you weren't just looking at what was under the pants?" To complete the comedic ruse, you wiggle your eyebrows erratically.
The accusation, while pulled off as hilariously as possible, still leaves Rarity reeling. "Why," she shouts, "I never! How could you possibly associate me with such an uncouth act?" Flicking her hair dramatically she adds, "I am shocked and appalled, good sir." Even as she adamantly denies her wandering eyes, you can't help but notice as her stunning azure pupils start to move down your body, alighting their invasive gaze on your nether regions once more.
Time to expose her—figuratively, of course. Shifting your legs around a bit, you reposition yourself so that your bulge is partially hidden beneath your leg. And, sure enough, Rarity cranes her neck up ever so slightly to get a better view or the show. Time to bust this scandalous peeper.
“You know, us humans have a certain... sixth sense for some things, so to speak.” Your expertise in poker comes in handy as you shoot Rarity a deadly serious look even as the most ridiculous lie in human history prepares to leave your very mouth.
“Oh, really?” From her tone of voice, she’s about as convinced of your lie as you are of hers. “I’m intrigued, do tell.”
“Yes, it’s true. Since we are mostly monogamous, in order to help find the special somebody—or pony, in my case—our brains can tell us when somebody is looking at our naughty bits.” The fur on her face, despite being the most pristine, pearly white imaginable, drains of all its color, leaving her face paler than a ghost’s. “I kid you not, we gotta know when someone may be interested in mating with us. We mate for life, you know—wouldn’t want to wind up with somebody that we don’t really love.”
If her face was pale before, now it’s positively ashen. Raw panic seems to run through her blood like ice, and she bites down heavily on her lip to restrain a nervous twitch. She’s been busted and she knows it. "Okay, perhaps I may have snuck a tiny peek. It's just so... exotic." On the last word a tiny tingle runs up her back, as if she had plugged her spine into an electrical socket.
You turn back towards Rarity, hoping that a good, hard look at that luscious alabaster fur will combat the creeping swell that threatens to break out of its mental prison and turn you into a quivering ball in the corner. You sigh as the gentle, indescribable blend of fancy perfume and white roses enters your nostrils. One look at those beautiful, crystal pools of eyes and your heart melts like chocolate in an oven-
And she's still staring at your junk. You spaced out for no more than ten seconds and already back to staring at your member like you're a stripper on display? You sigh. "Up here, Rares."
This time she doesn't even try to hide it. "Wha—oh, yes. My eyes were just... drifting, and they happened to..." Trailing off, she looks at your exasperated "good grief" face and turns up her nose. "Well I, for one, think that you're being rather immature about this whole thing."
"I'm not the one who's staring at my partner's penis."
"Well, we are both grown ponies here." Seeming to forget the rather outstanding fact that you're not actually a pony, she draws a deep deep breath and continues. "I think that we shouldn't just dance around our attractions like naive schoolfillies. I know that it may be a little... unusual, given our rather unorthodox relationship, but I'll be darned if I keep my feelings bottled up." A steadying sigh. Then, "We've been together for a good while, and at this point in a relationship most ponies begin to get... intimate."
Oh... crap.
You've been down this road a few times before, though with distinctly non-pony partners, and you can see exactly what lies at the end of it. Sure, you and Rarity have made out a lot since your relationship went public (by the way—pony tongues are absolutely magical when they're being shoved into your mouth) but that's a far cry from actually doing the dirty deed. And given your position, it would be very dirty indeed.
"I just feel so enthralled with your very presence, so entranced by your touch, that taking the next step would only bring us closer together." She seems pretty calm and dignified about this. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for yourself.
I’m about to have sex with a horse I’m about to have sex with a horse I’m about to have sex with a horse I’m about to have sex with a horse I’m about to have sex with a horse,your mind screams in earnest. You've had to leap this same, if not smaller, mental barrier before when you first kissed Rarity. But your mind is quick to remind you that there is just a tiny difference between pressing your lips against someone else’s and pressing your lips against somepony else’s nether lips. The joking demeanor that you put on just a few moments ago is blown away in an imaginary sandstorm that erodes your skull and grinds at the exposed nerve endings in agonizing pain.
“Dear, are you alright?”
“N-no, I’m just peachy.” Despite your brain self-destructing worse than an overheating nuclear reactor, you struggle to spit out a small chuckle. “Heh... here I’ve been dating a magical talking pony for months, and I’ve never even once thought seriously about getting intimate before.” You can’t help but feel a little bad as your little white lie draws Rarity’s face taught in concern. Sure, you’ve never thought about the notion seriously before, but there certainly have been... fantasies.
Vivid fantasies.
“Oh dear, now I’ve gone and messed everything up.” Although her pouty face is downright adorable no matter what situation it’s brought out in, it still feels bad knowing that you caused it. “All my novels said that this would be the best time to do it...” Clearly none of those novels involve freaky space aliens. “We could wait, if you don’t feel ready. Getting intimate is a very big deal, and I don’t want to end up ruining what we spent so long building up.”
A cold, awkward silence descends over the room. Rarity still stares at you almost pleadingly, although what she’s pleading for you haven’t the slightest clue. The cogs in your head refuse to turn, and an answer refuses to form. Instead images of horses—real horses, not their nifty pastel-colored doppelgangers, float through your mind, gravely reminding you of all the legal trouble that beastiality entails, not to mention the shame from your family and the general public-
Wait. You’re the only human on this earth. There’s no family to be ashamed of you, no press to belittle you, no courts to fine you. You’re fairly certain that the government on Earth never made any laws saying that humans couldn’t mate with aliens, so why would there be any such laws in Equestria? And to top it all off, Rarity is hot. Like, ‘you would do her even if she was a magical sentient candy-colored pony’ type of hot. That kind of attractiveness is very rarely found on your home planet, yet it seems to be a common enough attribute around here... weird.
You know what? You’re overthinking this.
“Wait.” You focus your gaze on those beautiful eyes, so intricate and captivating. If you could, you would stare into them all day. “I’m just nervous. I can’t say I’ve ever... you know...” you fit your index finger into your other fist, loosely miming intercourse. Rarity picks up on your pantomime and lets out a short ‘oh’ of understanding. “It’s not natural to do that with a horse-”
“Pony, dear.”
“-pony from where I come from. Heck, it’s actually illegal in some places.” Perhaps it would have been best to leave that last fact out. Rarity’s face recoiled in confusion and dampened shock, her mouth forming a near-perfect ‘O’. “But,” you continue, desperate to keep the conversation from turning into something more morose, “I’m not on my home planet anymore, so that makes it okay. Goodness that sounded weird.”
You both let out a quick chuckle at your own awkwardness. Normally you hate it when people—or ponies—laugh at you, but you’ll be able to let it slide, it if means being able to hear that beautiful, crystalline voice of Rarity’s. “Heh... yeah. I’m sorry if I just killed the mood. I guess it’ll just have to wait ‘til another time.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say it has to.” Woah. You look at her horn to make sure it isn’t glowing, because Rarity’s voice just gained +30 seductiveness, and everybody knows that much sultriness is only possible through a vocal manipulation spell. Your eyes wander up to her horn, expecting to see it sizzle dimly in the light. But no, it’s as devoid of magic as you are.
“Uh... Rarity...”
“Hmhmm, do you like my voice? Sweetie Belle isn’t the only one with a talented voice. I guess it runs in the family.” On a normal day you probably could have made some witty response about running and the marshmallow-y softness of her behind, but your brain was too busy basking in the auditory arousal of Rarity’s words. In fact, you’re so entranced that all you can really do is stare blankly at her horn as she bursts out into another fit of giggles. “My my, look who’s staring now.”
“Gaah...” Somewhere deep in your diaphragm, ‘I’m not staring, I’m just admiring your absolutely radiant beauty and that angelic voice’ got warped into ‘gaah.’ So much for the silver-tongued squire you make yourself out to be. Pulling on the last reserves of cognitive thought in your addled brain you stutter, “Rarity?”
“Yes?”
“Could we... have sex? Like, now?”
Another giggle. “I think that would be very nice.” Without breaking eye contact with you, she scooches up and onto your lap with a devious smirk. “Very nice indeed.” Her words, soft and subdued as they are, carry a delicate weight that crushes your lungs without effort and strangles your windpipe in the most sensual way possible.
“Gyah...” you mutter, too stunned by the recent turn of events to form coherent thought. How the situation turned from “chamomile tea with Rarity” to “hot steamy sex with Rarity” so quickly is clearly above your head—though you’d certainly like to know what you can do to make it happen on demand. That would be pretty nice. No, scratch that. Very nice. So nice that you'd almost be willing to look away from the gorgeously limpid eyes of the mare in front of you.
Almost, of course. Even if you wanted to break away from those seductively sexy bedroom eyes of hers, you're far too hypnotized to do anything other than stare and smile like a fool. Realizing this, she decides to take the initiative. "You’re still staring, you know. I guess I’ll just have to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget.”
“Soon forget” your behind. You’re never going to forget this. The prickling, tingling softness of her fur against your thighs as she pulls down your pants, her flowing voice that turns your brain into a warm puddle on the floor of your mind, the divine feel of her forelegs kneading gentle circles into your thigh, slowly yet maddeningly corkscrewing her way higher and higher...
And now she’s touching your junk.
You look down.
Yep, she is definitely touching your junk. Houston, we have liftoff. You repeat, we have achieved liftoff.
“Hmmhm, do you like that? Maybe I should stop, if you’re not into it-”
“Maybe not!” You cry out a little too enthusiastically. “Maybe you should keep going.” She is undoubtedly the sexiest sentient creature you’ve ever met, but man can she be a tease sometimes. Still, foreplay has always been a huge turn-on for you—and not just because it precedes sex, either.
While you’re off in La-La land making a mental list of all the great things about foreplay (and there are a lot), Rarity takes the liberty of leaning down and examining your member. “How fascinating, it looks nothing like a stallion’s,” she mutters under her breath. “I wonder if it tastes the same.” She lets loose a nervous giggle before diving in for an experimental taste. “Oh my,” she muses. “The taste is so complex.”
“Uh, Rarity?” you interject, eager to stop her from going into a full-scale review on the flavor of your member. “Do you mind saving those kind of details for a later date? I’d love to hear all about my ‘complex flavors’, just not right now.”
The mock pout she puts on only makes her look even prettier. “Hmph, fine. I’ll just have to distract myself with the boorish task of making love to you.”
“That sounds lovelyohgoodness.” Your reply is cut off by your own animalistic growl as the unicorn on your lap runs her tongue up your shaft, this time working from bottom to top in a slow, waving motion. Her intentions are clear, and she wastes no time getting right to work, teasing your still-hardening member with her lips.
As she continues rubbing her tongue on your rod, your mind drifts to your own little slice of heaven, taking the rest of your body along for the ride. The couch becomes a cloud, the softest, most fluffiest ball of vapor in the world. The boutique becomes an endlessly blue sky, stretching endlessly beyond the horizons. The pony in your lap turns into a glowing angel.
Actually, scratch that. Rarity’s already the most beautiful thing in existence. Turning her into an angel would just be a downgrade.
“Hello? Anypony home?” Said angel’s voice pops your blissful bubble with a needle made of sultry syllables and brings you back into the real world. “You looked like you were about to doze off there.”
“Oh, really?” You guess they’re called daydreams for a reason. “I was just zoning out a bit... enjoying the moment.”
The passionate fire comes back to life in Rarity’s eyes with an audible whoosh of sparkling cerulean flame. “Well, I’ll bet we could enjoy the moment even more if we didn’t space out, now wouldn’t we?” You don’t even need to reply the affirmative, instead eagerly running your hand through her mane as she gets back to work, the silky-soft strands feeling more like spun gold than actual hair.
A quick flick of the tongue on Rarity’s part sends a shiver down your arms and legs, turning your soft strokes of her mane into spastic jerks. She eases your slick shaft out of her mouth long enough to chastise you. “Easy now! I don’t want to wreck my beautiful hair too much.” Her tone is harsh, but her look is nothing short of promiscuously playful.
“That’s not the only thing I want to wreck,” you murmur without thinking. “Wait—no!” Who would have thought the tiniest of slip-ups would come at the worst possible time? “What I meant to say was... yeah, I didn’t misspeak.”
Much to your relief, a wry half-smile worms her way across her face. “I would hope not.” In a move that even surprises your own perverted mind, her smile quickly turns into a full-blown grin, blindingly marvelously white teeth and all. “Perhaps I’ve been going about this the wrong way...” her voice trails off as a look crosses her face.
But this isn’t just any look.
This look is all too synonymous with that same gleefully demonic word, “Idea~!” that usually precedes a literal storm of fabrics and sewing needles. Oh, the needles—those things are the stuff of nightmares. You shiver again, this time in fear. But Rarity is too blinded by the light bulb flashing over her head to notice.
“Maybe this might keep you quiet.” Showcasing a dexterity and flexibility that you never knew she possessed, Rarity pushes herself up onto your frame facing the opposite direction from you with a petite grunt, putting her body at a steep angle to the ground. From here, her head is almost touching your thigh—she’s essentially upside down in the textbook definition of a 69.
Oh yeah, her flank is also directly in your face.
You have to admit, you’re liking where this is going.
“Now,” Rarity’s voice interrupts your shameless starring at her most sensitive of parts, “less talk and more love making.” As much as you would love to bend to her every whim (and you mean every whim) your body isn’t as eager to cooperate, hardening like clay being blast-fired in a superheated oven.
Speaking of hard things, Rarity turns her attention back to your member, stroking it with the finesse of a practiced painter, dabbing at her canvas with a delicate stroke. While the reality may be a bit dirtier than the metaphor, it certainly does a good job of painting a picture (get it?) of how amazing Rarity is at servicing you.
A quick swirl of her tongue over your tip forces you back to reality. Your brain is having a jolly good time drowning in its own hormones, but that luscious flank in front of you is just begging to get touched. Still shaking from the overdose of sensations coming from your loins, you force a deep gulp of air into your lungs before reaching out to grab the pearly white rump in front of you.
The first thought that hits your addled brain as you finally start rubbing your hands over your marefriend’s backside is, Holy gods and/or goddesses this is soft. Like, Tempurpedic mattress made of clouds and stuffed with babies.
Babies are soft, right? Oh well, your mind is too wrapped up in the velvety-softness of Rarity’s posterior to think of a better, less-creepy description.
Thankfully, running your hands along Rarity’s supremely soft rump is getting as much a rise out of her as it is you. She coos with clear delight, squirming ever so slightly under your touch. “Ooh,” she mumbles in between gasps. “They’re so much... softer than hooves.” Disregarding her remarkable transformation from fashionista-extraordinaire to Captain Obvious, you take her squirming and groaning (and her muffled pleas to continue) as signs to continue, expanding your reach to her upper thighs, slowly working your way towards that tantalizingly hidden spot between her legs, veiled only by her shivering tail and your own inhibitions.
Oh well, you’re not getting any younger, and this romantic little encounter certainly isn’t getting any awesomer. Nervousness thrown to the wind (or more accurately, shoved into the depths of your mind and buried under a layer of bravado) you release your hold on Rarity’s flanks and brush aside her tail in a dramatic flourish, almost like you’re pulling back the curtains to some great stage show. In the depths of your mind, you actually think that seeing a pony’s genitalia up-close for the first time would be a bit shocking, giving the anatomical differences.
But no. In the anti-climax of the century, you only discover that Rarity’s undercarriage looks exactly like any earth female’s. Come on! your mind screams exasperatedly. You’re telling me that magical talking ponies have the exact same anatomical structure as humans? What, do humans and ponies share a common ancestor or something? The angry side of your brain doesn’t even bother to finish with a coherent thought, branching off into muted mumbling as the rest of you just stares curiously at Rarity’s familiarly-female flower.
“See anything you like?” Your marefriend’s voice hits your ears.
“Well... it’s certainly interesting,” you manage to stutter. “I think I’m gonna borrow some anatomy textbooks from the library tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?”
Oh crap, you said that out loud, didn’t you? No matter, you have a back-up plan expert enough to work one hundred percent of the time yet simple enough to remember even when your brain is drowning in its own hormones. You take a deep breath—
And blow a lungful of cold air right onto Rarity’s marehood.
“Oh!” Her eyes shrink to near-comical size as the cool breeze hits her very human-like slit. No matter how many times she’s assured you that her eyes are nothing but normal and that their contractions don’t damage her beautiful (and, as of now, lusty and surprise-filled) gaze, you’re still amazing and confounded that she can even see when her pupils dilate to the size of needlepoints. “Do be careful down there! Goddesses know I don’t like it rough. Oh, but not too soft. Even a lady needs to let loose every once in awhile. But on the other hand...”
You roll your eyes. At this rate, she’ll be flip-flopping like a politician in no time. Too bad that joke doesn’t make sense here, on account of the fact that there aren’t any politicians in Equestria.
You know what? Forget the jokes. You’re just gonna shut up and dive in now, starting with teasing those magnificent alabaster petals only inches from your nose. Subtlety being a lost art to you, you don’t hesitate to dive right in and swirl your tongue around the moist opening. The taste leaves you recoiling slightly—not because it tastes bad, but because it tastes like marshmallows.
For curiosity’s sake, you lean back in and run your tongue over her entrance. Same result—your marefriend’s vagina definitely tastes like sugary sweet marshmallows. You decide to just chock it up in the ever-increasing list of things that make Equestria the absolute weirdest place you’ve ever wound up in.
In the meantime, Rarity busies herself with your member, letting out strained, muffled moans around your shaft as you lap at her sensitive slit. As experienced as she is, she knows to take her time and savor the event as much as possible—you know, ‘the fun isn’t in the journey, it’s the destination’ and all that. She keeps her movements measured and even, even as you continue to shove your face into her rear end with all the subtlety of a full grown dragon in a china shop. Her sense of composure is admirable.
That is, at least, until your fingers move their way up her thighs and caress against her slit. “Woahwoah!” Her whole body tenses up and writhes under your touch, spasming wildly. Shocked, you pull away and throw your hands up in the air like you were surrendering to an invading army. “Gah! Sorry, sorry, sorry—I didn’t mean to do anything!”
“Oh, but you did something... something wonderful,” she muses, much to your surprise. “Those hands of yours are absolutely marvelous. Now put them inside of me.”
“But—”
“Now.” There’s no arguing with that tone—you’re either going to stick your fingers up there or she’ll do it for you. Actually, both of them sound pretty good now that you think about it—
“Must I repeat myself?” Ears still buzzing with the molar-rattling sound of bells, you take the hint and move a hand right up against the fleshy pink skin that marks the opening to her slit. Nervously, you risk a tentative poke at the moist mound in front of you, half expecting it to bark at you like Rarity’s other, less intimate set of lips are.
When you're quite certain that her entrance isn’t possessed, you gather up the courage to dive in (although a more accurate term would probably be ‘waded in like a frightened puppy’) and finally start eating her out. “Oh no no no, stop that this instant!”
Oh crap. The blood that previously pulsed in your member rushes to your face as you pull your tongue out of Rarity’s bajingo shamefully. Great, you just had to do something to spoil her mood. It would be awesome if you actually knew what you did wrong, but if human women were anything to go by, you’re never going to her the end of it. “Oh geez Rarity, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do anything wrong! What did I do wrong, exactly?”
“My dear,” she spoke, “I don’t want you to service me with your mouth—heavens, that is so normal. I want you to use your hands.”
...Oookay. “My... my hands?”
“Yes, must I spell it out?” There’s that commanding tone again. “Use. Your. Hands. They’re so exotic, and I want them inside of me now.” Wiggling her rump (which is still very much in your face) she adds, “Need I explain myself further?”
The blood nourishing your thinker immediately embraces gravity and drops right back into your loins. The sudden loss of blood, coupled with the sudden, overwhelming urge to have sex with the nearest horse leaves a witty answer floundering on the tip of your tongue.
“Gaaghky,” which means, “Of course milady, I would be happy to service your every sensual desire” in hormonal human, seems to satisfy her. Wishing to satisfy her with more than just words, you cede to her more... unusual desires and start working her marehood with your dextrous appendages.
The result is immediate. A massive jolt runs down Rarity's spine as your fingers slip into her slit, accompanied by a barely-restrained shout. Secure in your basic knowledge of anatomy, your thumb works its way in slow circles up her lips and towards where you assume her clit is as your other hand thrusts in and out of her, starting out soft and slow but quick ratcheting up intensity to Rarity's screams of delight.
And boy did she scream. You really hoped that the walls were soundproofed (or at least thick enough to dampen carnal moans of ecstasy), because you do not want the neighbors to come knocking tomorrow morning. The thought is only fleeting, though, as Rarity starts to feverishly buck her hips in time with your strokes, her alabaster rump bobbing in your face like a slice of jiggling white perfection.
"Yes, harder, harder!" All semblance of ladylike poise is gone as she wails out for more. Your loins feel like they've been doused in napalm, but Rarity offers them no relief, so engrossed in ecstasy is she. Her passionate but steady strokes quickly devolve into frenzied, sporadic jerks as she loses control of her muscles.
Rarity suddenly stops her sexual frenzy and flips herself upright, pressing her back against your chest. "Yes," she shouts into your ears. "Use those fancy fingers of yours and please me!" The agony of a million tiny pleasure bombs exploding in your nethers every time Rarity’s fur rubs against it is absolute torture, but Rarity could hardly care less. She braces herself against you, clenching your neck in a firm grip as she licks her lips ravenously.
Before you have a chance to reposition yourself in a more comfortable position, Rarity starts rocking back and forth, grinding her glistening sex against your hands. You can feel the juices dripping from her sex down your fingers and onto your shaft, the hot wetness lighting your member aflame. You are so close to release you can almost taste it—not literally of course, that would be weird.
Trying to free your hands and relieve yourself, unfortunately, is out of the question. Rarity has them firmly trapped between her inner walls. Not that you’re complaining about their present location or anything—they’re just starting to fall asleep is all.
“Oh yes, this is absolutely divine!” Rarity’s speeds up her thrusting as her hips buck wildly under your touch. “Darling, you’ll have me coming in no time!” The mere insinuation of ejaculate makes your rod swell again, straining under the seed desperately waiting to be released.
Rarity’s lips clench against your fingers, and her face scrunches up as the crumbling wall of pressure standing between her and orgasm starts to fall. The hoof wrapped around your neck tightens like a furry vice as her whole body tenses in anticipation of the inevitable release. Her cries reach a fever pitch, and her body jerks about spastically. “Oh my stars, I’m comaah!”
The wall finally crumbles and sends a million tiny jerks and twitches down Rarity’s body as every muscle squeezes and flexes wildly, currents of pleasure coursing like tiny tsunamis through every last nerve. Her fur stands up on end, and a thin stream of love juice explodes from her marehood and douses your lower half in a thin gloss of wet stickiness.
Rarity’s mouth opens and she lets loose a deep purr as her chest heaves, still caught in the iron grip of a mind-bending orgasm. Lolling her head to the side, she dazedly nuzzles up against your face with a goofy grin on her face. “That... goodness...” she trails off as the first of many aftershocks sends her into a fit of shakes.
“That was absolutely... fantastic. We should definitely do this again sometime soon.” The throes of ecstasy finally began to fade from Rarity’s mind, leaving her devoid of her sanity and a source of warmth. Conveniently, you happen to appear more a blanket than an alien to her, and she eagerly (if not slowly) wraps herself around you, leeching off of the wamrth still emanating from your loins. "Mhmm... so warm."
"Uh, Rarity? I hate to be obtrusive, but you're kinda leaving me high and dry here." Instead of a coherent response, all you get is a contented murmur descending into soft snores. You look down. "...And you're asleep. Great." That orgasm must have been really intense, because the poor unicorn in your lap is fast asleep. "Heh... must have worn her out." Her mane lays on her shoulders disheveled and unruly, and the juices in her lap form a sticky glaze over her fur that is surely going to be absolute murder trying to get out.
Oh well, not your problem. If you weren't still pinned beneath Rarity, you would try and clean yourself off. Unfortunately, you would wake Rarity up if you so much as moved, and that face she's making right now is too adorably peaceful to disturb. "Well, looks like I'll be sleeping here tonight. At least I have a nice, furry blanket to keep me warm."
Rarity shifts under you, ever-so gently brushing against your still-erect tool. "Oh yeah... that." Your marefriend's window-shattering orgasm and subsequent cuteness somehow managed to distract you from your horrendous case of blue balls. The sudden reminder of your... unfortunate situation comes with a painful swelling of your most private regions.
You grit your teeth and try to weasel your hands out from under Rarity, but to no avail; each tiny twitch of your fingers threatens to wake her up before she's ready. And you do not want to wake her up before she's ready. At the rate this is going, you'll end up spending the rest of the evening in excruciatingly annoying agony with absolutely no hope of release.
A harsh sigh sneaks its way through your lips. This is going to be a long night.
The first thing you feel as you come back from the realm of the sleepy—or, rather the first thing you don't feel—is the lack of a large, fluffy pony resting on your lap. Opening your eyes, you discover that Rarity has woken up before you and left you alone and naked on the couch. Not the most professional move on her part, but you're not really one to complain (even if Rarity is never going to hear the end of it, if you have anything to say about it. "Hey honey, remember the time you raped my hands then left me butt-naked in the middle of the store? Fun times, fun times.)
Pushing the upcoming dinnertime story out of your head for the time being, you shake your head to clear the cobwebs out of your brain and get to your feet, hobbling like a zombie over to the clothes-shaped heap in the corner of the room. Apparently having a fully-grown pony sitting on your legs for God-knows how many hours will really kill the circulation in your legs.
After slipping on your undergarments, you decide to poke around a bit. Maybe you'll even make breakfast—eggs and bacon-that-tastes-like-bacon-but-isn't-really-bacon sounds pretty darn good right now. With a contented grunt you amble your way towards the kitchen, the thought of food carrying you more than your legs are.
Walking down the mini-flight of stairs into the tiled kitchen, two plates piled high with some sort of elegent quiche on the small coffee table to your right catch your eye. Walking up to the display, your murky vision stops on a note in elegant scrawl left next to one of the plates.
Went to get mail. Will be back soon.
-R.
Well, that's one question solved. Turning your undivided attention back towards the massive helping of food just begging to get eaten, you pull the nearest chair underneath you as you give the food a stare that would make any professional eater shiver in fear.
"Oh, good! You're up."
The voice tears you away from your beloved breakfast and tugs your attention back towards the doorway. In it stands Rarity, albeit decidedly less-sticky than the last time you saw her. Her mane is once again combed into elegant swooshes, and her fur is impeccably preened, not a single hair out of place. Her horn glows, as does a few small envelopes floating next to her head. "I made a quiche for us, I hope you like eggs and peppers."
"Hey, at this point I'll eat anything. I'm so hungry I could eat a hors—" Thankfully, your jaw locks shut before you can finish the sentence and ruin your entire relationship with Rarity.
"What were you about to say, dear?"
"Uh—nothing. What's in the mail?"
"Hmm, now that is a good question." The magic aura surrounding the papers breaks as her hoof flips through them. "Let me see... bills, bills, commission notice, bills—wait, a commission notice?" Her features immediately perk up as she brings a sealed piece of parchment to the center of her attention, opening it as if it were a ticking bomb.
"The Royal Archduchess of Trottingham wants me to make a dress for her for the upcoming Gala at Buckingham Palace. The Archduchess!"
Dropping the letter like the words on it hardly mattered anymore, she proceeded to spring gaily about the room, caught in an adorable filly-like state of excitement. "Oh, I get to stay inside all day and make dresses!" She jumps and let's out a very unladylike—unmarelylike?—squeal.
You have no idea who this Archduchess of whereversville is, but judging by Rarity's reaction to it she must be pretty darn important. "Hey, that great. Congrats!" Fortunately, you know when to steer clear of Rarity's creative passions. To you, at least, spending the entire day inside stitching fabric together is definitely not the glistening summit of Mount Fun. "You know, I'm starting to think that you may just be crazy, staying in here all cooped up with your fancy dresses and whatnot."
Just then her appearance changes. And it's not just a subtle change either. Deep inside that horsey brain if hers, a switch is flicked, turning her brain from "off" to "sex-crazed" in the blink of an eye. Her eyes droop, glazing over like they were awash in a certain viscous bodily fluid, while her tail begins a slow, hypnotic swaying.
You're going to need to learn how to flip that switch more often.
"Oh, you think I'm crazy now?" Rearing up on her hind legs, she leans into you and grabs your hand in a furry, vice-like grip. Without so much as a wobble she tilts her head down and runs her tongue along your outstretched palm before returning her half-lidded, lust-filled gaze to you. "Just wait until we use these again." Throwing you an innocent smile she trots out the door of the kitchen and into the foyer, swaying her hips swankily as she disappears behind the doors.
You blink, then look down at your now slick and saliva-covered hand.
Yep, definitely crazy.
