Manehattan Mare

by Shrinky Frod

Rating: mature
Tags: Original Character, Rarity, Sex, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Other
Length: 1594

Phillip Marelow was a good PI. But was he good enough to keep clean when one of Manehattan's finest offers him the chance to get dirty?

Phillip Marelow, Private Investigator, was hired to tail a straying husband, nothing unusual.

But when the 'girlfriend' shows up at his office, can he turn down what she has to offer in exchange for those photographs?

Written for TMP Prompt #66: "Though she tries to hide it, sometimes Rarity just loves to get dirty."

I took a different meaning of 'dirty' to some extent, and let my inner Chandler run with it. He's now drinking heavily, proving that he really is my inner Chandler.

Warning: The noir/hardboiled style tends to be very misogynistic, lurid, and sex-negative. While I don't know that I'd call this sex-negative... it is a very negative type of sex, if that makes any sense. It's not that sex is being had that's the problem, it's the fact that Phil's tail is going out and paying cheap hookers to get a thrill he can't get at home, and that thrill tends to involve a great deal of degradation.

On the other hand, his "victim" is loving every second of it, so is it really negative? :rainbowhuh:

Published 2013-03-04 23:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-03-04 23:50:01 UTC

You're a whorse, darlin'. Nothin' but a whorse....

You're a whorse, darlin'. Nothin' but a whorse....

Manehattan. The city was a gorgeous lady on the surface, all glitz and glamor and fancy accents. But if you scratched the surface, even a bit, you saw the filthy whorse underneath, oozing sores hidden by makeup and a bit of clever work with her mane to cover the black eye she’d gotten from her pimp the night before.

I was looking at her right now, out the window of my office, wondering just how I’d gotten into the mess I was in now. My name is Marelow, Phil Marelow, and I’m a private dick. That’s exactly what I was feeling like at the moment, too. In front of me, Manehattan sprawled out without end, her legs spread wide and wanting. Behind me… behind me, the dame who’d gotten me into this whole mess.

“Well, Mister Marelow? I’m waiting,” the cultured unicorn mare crooned behind me, sitting on my desk. Perfect hooves tapped on the wood of the seat I’d been in when she’d sat on that table, the faint whine of magic in the air behind me and the fwip-fwip of paper telling me she was looking at the photographs I’d taken last night.

“Ooh, I particularly like this one,” her pedigreed Canterlot accent, every bit as fake as the rest of her, laughed, picking one and levitating it in front of my eyes.

She had good taste, I had to admit. I might not be a Tracey Flash, but I knew my way around a camera, and I’d managed to get a good shot of her with my client’s husband’s cock buried balls-deep between alabaster thighs. The same thighs that were spread just so, just provocatively enough to get her message across, but not so much that she gave away the goods entirely. I could see her in the reflection on my window, see that she wasn’t wearing any panties.

She’d been wearing them last night. Probably not in any condition to wear this morning.

Even with the photographs, it was almost impossible to believe that the dame behind me was the same mare I’d seen the night before. Even when she parted her legs that tiny bit further, propping herself in her awkward recline on forehooves in a practiced way that made the position seem natural for her, she oozed seduction.

Last night, it had all been different. Last night, I’d trailed my client’s husband, a petty Canterlot noble with big aspirations and a bigger bank account, as he’d gone straight from the train station to Manehattan’s most notorious red-light district. He’d known what he was looking for, and walked past half a dozen other hookers before I realized where he was going.

When most upper-crust types come down to slum it with the two-bit whorses on 42nd Street, they pick the first one they see and go about their business. But when they come out of Canterlot, they’re looking for something special. That little extra bit of depravity that you can only find in the dankest, dingiest places, where the makeup Manehattan wears has flaked to show oozing sores, where the mane can’t hide all the bruises. In the alleys where my tail was prowling, only the desperate and dying were hanging around, earning a living while waiting to die.

That’s why it was so hard to reconcile the whorse I’d seen last night with the lady in my office this morning. She’d been filthy, caked with cum and looking like she’d rolled in the dubious sludge that these corners of Manehattan called mud. The glazed, slightly vapid look in her eyes had told me she was high as a kite, but she could speak better than she had a right to after that much grass.

Damn it, that had been my tip off right there. She’d looked the part, but her lazy Manesota drawl was too chipper, too happy to really belong here. In retrospect it was obvious, it always was, but I still felt like a moron for not catching on sooner.

She’d exchanged a few words with my tail, and then laughed drunkenly as she turned around, hopping up and flagging her tail right there on the filthy streets. The cum of her other johns was dripping out of her, pussy and ass alike, and I’d been shocked that her boyfriend for the next fifteen minutes had leaned down eagerly, tonguing it out of her well-used, filthy body.

When the grey-furred stallion had finished, he turned her around roughly, kissing her on the lips. She’d moaned, letting the mix of spit and semen drip from her lips. That was the shot she’d shown me, one I’d gotten in a closeup zoom so I could make both of their faces out clearly, prove it was him.

“Filthy whorse,” he’d called her, sneering the words into her face. “Just a filthy, mud-picking street-whorse. You don’t deserve this,” he’d added, smacking her dingy horn with a hoof. “Ought to break it off and use it to fuck you.”

“But you don’t want to do dat, do you?” She’d giggled, turning around and flagging her tail again. “You’ve got another horn for me, right Jettie?”

‘Jettie.’ So that meant he was a regular, if she knew his name. His real name too, or at least part of it. Damned idiot… of course, considering his wife, he didn’t exactly need to be Con Mane to put one over on her.

He’d sunk that ‘horn’ of his into her; I couldn’t tell if it was her ass or cunt from the angle I was at. I’d flown around quietly to get a better look, and started taking more pictures. It didn’t take him long to get his rocks off, just a couple minutes of hurried thrusting that she’d pretended to enjoy. The look on her face made it clear just how hard it was to do that, but when she’d turned around to take his softening shaft into her mouth, she was all smiles.

One skilled blowjob later, and her face was covered with spunk, a handful of bits were tossed into the dirt, and “Jettie” was on his way back home. That’s where I was going too, though not before I noticed the whorse picking up the bits with her mouth, instead of her magic.

“Well?” She asked, drawing me back into the present. In the reflection of the window, she was immaculately clean, hooficured, made up and not showing a hint that she’d fucked Celestia-alone-knew how many colts the night before. “Are you going to sell these pictures to me, or your client?”

She levitated the flap of her saddle bag open, pulling a heavy sack out and dropping it onto my desk. When it landed, it didn’t have the ring of coins… it had the clink of gems rattling against each other.

“I just want to know one thing,” I told her, looking at her reflection, trying to hide the way my own sheath was filling out as I took in her luscious body, all pure white curves and indigo mane and tail that I couldn’t help but imagine streaked with some colt’s seed.

“My name?” She suggested. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to remain my little secret, Mister Marelow.”

“Not your name,” I shrugged. “I want to know why. You obviously don’t need the bits.”

“Think about it, Mister Marelow,” she laughed. “You’ve got all the pieces you need, don’t you?”

I thought it over, looking for what she was talking about. She had the money, but she’d still picked up the bits….

Of course. It had all been staring me right in the face again. She was perfectly groomed this morning, but last night… streaked with cum and more dubious substances. No signs that she’d be the sort of mare who craved cum cleaned from her own orifices, who’d grovel on a Manehattan sidewalk to suck the dick of a stallion who’d just given her one of the least satisfying fucks a mare had ever gotten. And the bits. Those damned bits, picked up with her lips when she’d had a perfectly good horn on her head.

“You like to get dirty, don’t you?” I asked her rhetorically. She grinned at me like a cat who’d just eaten a whole cage full of canaries, licking her lips much the same way as she slid off the desk and trotted over to me, brushing her flank and the three pristine diamonds that made up her cutie mark against the open eye that made up mine.

“Mister Marelow… don’t we all want to get dirty, every once in a while?”

She turned back around, dropping the photos in a perfectly neat stack on my desk. She sat her forehooves between the sack of gems, and the stack of pictures, and flagged her tail just the way she had last night, a clear invitation to the pristine paradise that hid a whorse beneath.

“Don’t… you… want to get dirty, Mister Marelow?” She asked me.

I glanced from one side of the desk to the other. The gems… the photos... and that mare between them, her tail swishing from side to side, never concealing what she was offering me in exchange for choosing the way she wanted me to.

I took a deep breath… and then I made my choice.

Author's Note

I'd like to give a shout-out to TheyCallMeJub, and the incomparable Eyes Without a Face. If you liked this, you'll *love* what Roseluck gets herself into over there.