Earth, Wind, and Fire

The monthly wall calendar in Rarity's workshop at the back of Carousel Boutique is dotted with scraps of multicolored paper, each with a few notes scrawled in hasty hornwriting. Most of the dates have a single broad black stroke across them, but Friendsday and Canterday are both clear. The latter has a single yellow square in the corner. The rest of the day has been hastily cleared, quick lines slashed through other scheduled appointments.

On the desk beside her sewing machine, Rarity's notebook sits open. Sketches of dresses dot the page, along with columns of measurements. Question marks sit beside a few of the numbers, an exclamation point beside another. A blue circle sits on the side of the page, next to measure and next Wingsday's date. A blue slip of paper sticks out of the book a few pages down, a visual reminder of the appointment. Several other colors jut out from the pages, each an upcoming event not to be forgotten. None of the paper tags is yellow.

Hunched in front of her desk, Rarity squints through her work glasses, brushing a stray lock of her mane from before her face. In her horngrip, neatly-sheared sections of golden velvet and pale buckram come together with a precision edge, which she then catches in her hooves. Without turning her head, she casts forth and snags the needle and thread she'd prepared earlier. She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, then lets it out and lets her focus draw down to the exposed edges of the cloth. Then, with a satisfied nod, she draws the first stitch.

The shadows in Rarity's workshop slowly crawl across the floor as Celestia's sun traverses the sky, but the unicorn sits unmoving. Her attention is on her hooves, on the repetitive traversal of the needle, on keeping each hornmade stitch as even as possible. Push, pull, tie, tug. Push, pull, tie, tug. Slowly, slowly, she works her way along the edges of the cloth, making four pieces of fabric into one.

Before tugging the last stitch free at the top of the seam, she loops the needle back through one last time for a neat double knot. She casts over to her desk for her shears, then snips the end of the string. The seam finished, she lifts her head, but her neck protests the movement, and her right hind leg is equally unhappy. Beads of sweat dance on her brow, and her head throbs just below her horn. Her mane lays in untended waves along her back, which itself has begun to protest her lack of motion.

She twists her neck until the joints pop, then lets out a sigh of relief and rises from her workbench. She trots over to one of the pardequins and drapes the folded cloth over it, then turns to the pinboard just beyond. A hoofdrawn pattern hangs from the board, to which she's delicately clipped several pre-cut pieces of gold and violet velvet topped with a tissue paper cutout. In the corner hangs a full-color pencil sketch: a pair of stallions, one teal unicorn in a purple tuxedo with gold accents, and a dun earth pony dressed in his complement. The bottom edge of the drawing carries Rarity's signature in indigo ink, tight cursive loops ending in a curl reminiscent of her mane.

Two of the spaces are empty, and Rarity places a small checkmark in each, wincing as she sets down the pen. Then she shuffles back to the pardequin and unfolds the fabric to drape over its back. As soon as she does so, though, she frowns, the tension in her cheeks putting more pressure on her forehead. Instead of buttery gold, only a pale yellow can be seen between the buckram layers. The panels were stitched backwards. The last two hours have been a complete waste.

Rarity draws in a deep breath and begins to count under her breath. One. Two. Three. At ten, she lets out a deep sigh and snags a thread-puller from her desk and brings it to the pardequin. With her lips pressed into a tight line to tamp down her headache, she delicately but mercilessly pops the stitches holding the front panels of the tuxedo jacket together.

As she nears the end of the seam her right hind leg throbs, then suddenly clenches, jerking up against her body. The sudden shift in weight sends her stumbling, and the thump against the ground is enough to break her concentration. Too late, she snatches out with her horn, but cloth and thread-ripper have already met at an unpleasant angle. The sharp point of the tool goes right through the golden velvet, leaving an exquisite little puncture wound in the middle of the breast.

The pale blue glow around Rarity's horn fades, and the tools of her trade flutter to the floor. "One. Two. Three." She very slowly and deliberately counts once more, this time aloud, every word dripping with frustration. At ten, she returns the seam-ripper to the desk, then forces herself to all four hooves, stretching out her cramping leg. She hobbles stiffly from the room, leaving the ruined patch of velvet on the floor behind her as she returns to the main room of the boutique. She snuffs the lights, one by one, then veers briefly through her kitchen to retrieve a bottle of wine and a glass before heading upstairs to her room.

Rarity's four-post bed dominates the bedroom, covered in an overstuffed comforter. The sheets and pillowcases are thousand-thread cotton, pale blue and arranged neatly atop the downy mattress. In the middle of this luxury, Opalescence sprawls, occupying as much of the bed as she can manage. She stares upside-down at her primary servant and haughtily purrs, as if daring the unicorn to dislodge her.

"Opal, darling, mummy has had a very long day and is not in the mood," Rarity says, lowering the wine and glass to her nightstand. She snatches up the cat in her horngrip and escorts the thrashing ball of fluff to the bedroom door. With a firm shove, she deposits her cat in the hallway, then quickly shuts the door to cut off Opal's hissing protest. She uncorks the wine and pours herself half a glass, not even bothering to let it breathe before she takes her first sip.

The alcohol hits Rarity's tongue in a velvety wave, and she moans appreciatively as she empties her glass. Her stomach clenches when the wine hits it, but it's just one more complaint from her body. Her hind legs and back ache from poor posture. Her horn is sore from two hours of continual stitchwork. It even feels as though her mane hurts.

After several minutes of lying down, letting the wine seep into the corners of her mind, the headache starts to recede and the tension in her neck starts to fade, but the rest of her still hurts and what parts of her aren't sore are trembling with unspent energy. The last five days, she's been a virtual shut-in, stepping out for food and air and little else, all her time going into her latest project. What she needs, as much as the wine, is relief from a highly stressful week.

Relief. Rarity giggles at the euphemism. She returns the glass to the nightstand, then pulls open the bottom drawer. With only a small hiss of breath, she settles her pale-blue aura over the contents as she rummages, then extracts a small egg-shaped piece of glass and ceramic, with a silvery thread trailing off of the flat end. Runes and lines etched below the surface catch the touch of her horn and begin to glow.

Dropping the egg in her hooves, she shifts her attention to the top drawer. Shuffling aside an opened envelope, she retrieves her padded velvet blindfold and threads her mane through the elastic at the back. As she drops it over her eyes, the world goes dark, and a calm settles in Rarity's chest. That's not your responsibility, she thinks, and a gentle warmth rises between her thighs. You're just here to serve.

Service is what she'd been doing all week, hoofcrafting tuxedos for a Canterlot noble's wedding. In context, though, the word has a very different meaning, one loaded with intimacy and empathy. She bites her lip and breathes deeply, letting the rising heat between her legs spread upwards through her barrel. She strokes one forehoof slowly over her pelt, the filed edges gliding smoothly down her chest. Good pony, she tells herself. You've had a hard week. It's time to put all that down.

Rarity's breath grows ragged, a little throaty, a little raspy. The hoof trailing over her barrel finds one teat just above her mons and rolls slowly around it, not quite touching the stiffening nub of flesh. The edge of her hoof glides around one nipple, then the other, stoking the fires between her thighs. From there it slides further down, stroking her mons, reaching into the flames to brush against her netherlips, feeling the dampness of her fur. Good pony. We've got a treat for you.

A breathy moan escapes Rarity' lips as she carries the egg between her legs and touches its tip to her labia. She can feel it glowing as she slowly presses it into her sex, spreading her hind legs to welcome it. There's a brief moment of discomfort, as there always is, stretching to take it, but then it's gone as the egg slides into place. She focuses on it, her horngrip briefly caressing her nethers, and then it begins to pulse inside of her, each magical flare sending the fires inside her higher. Such a good pony, yes. That's it, lie back and—

A bang downstairs pours icewater down Rarity's spine. She jerks upright in bed, tearing the blindfold off of her eyes as the muscles in her back cramp, threatening to send her sprawling again. Sweetie Belle! If that's you back from Sweet Apple Acres early I shall—

"Rarity?" Twilight Sparkle's voice rising from downstairs has an uncomfortable edge to it, reminiscent of the morning before she brought Ponyville to its knees with an enchanted rag-doll. "Rarity, are you home? Your sign says you're open. I need your help."

Mentally, Rarity kicks herself. Of all the things to forget! The fires inside her have faded, overshadowed by the call of service. "Just a moment, darling!" she calls out from the bedroom, hoping her uninvited visitor can hear her. She groans and rolls out of bed, hitting all four hooves with a thud. She reaches between her hindlegs with her horn to extract the egg, but then her eyes drift to the nightstand and the letter jutting up from the open drawer. An ember stirs inside of her, and she reactivates the toy, then fetches one of her robes from her closet as she heads downstairs.

Twilight shifts uncomfortably from hoof to hoof in the foyer of Carousel Boutique, head bobbing this way and that, the tip of her horn glowing like a fuschia beacon. "Rarity?" Her voice rises awkwardly across all three syllables. She turns as the designer steps off the stairs, shining her horn directly at Rarity. "Oh, thank Celestia you're home. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were asleep. I really need your help. I think I've exhausted the library's ability to help, and that alone meant I needed to talk to someone. I think I did everything correctly but there's just no way for me to know, and that never sits well with me. Even on essay tests there's a most-right answer and I think I gave that but now I have to change my plans and I'm still not even sure I'm ready." Her eyes go wide as she pours the full weight of her attention onto the designer. "What if she doesn't understand? Or I don't?"

The magical energy pouring out of Twilight hits the egg inside her, which responds by throbbing hard. Rarity has to take a second to simply stand, lips pressed tightly together, haunches clenched, lest she moan in response. That would make for a most awkward conversation. "Twilight, darling, you're rambling like Pinkie after a frosting binge. I understood perhaps one word out of eight in that." She measures every word, keeping a tight rein on her voice. "I'll put on a kettle and you can come explain everything." She latches onto the one part of Twilight's torrent that she understood. "I wasn't sleeping, really." She pushes a smile to her face as she lights the candles around the room. "I was simply relaxing with a glass of wine. It's been something of a busy week."

"You've left the house twice in the last five days," Twilight says automatically, the glow of her horn fading as the boutique brightens. "Pinkie Pie said you came by Sugarcube Corner on Moonday afternoon; she mentioned something about stocking up on sandwich rolls. And Applejack said you brought Sweetie Belle to the farm on Wingsday night." She talks as if expecting a grade for her analysis. "Aside from those, none of the other girls said they've seen you since last Sunday's pet picnic."

Rarity raises one sculpted brow, considering. Has it only been twice? I could have sworn I've been taking more breaks than that. "You may be right; I've taken up a large client, and it's had me busier than I expected to be." She nods towards the drawing pinned to her workboard. "I know you don't read the Canterlot Banner—"

Twilight squints and wrinkles her muzzle, the name of the paper clearly leaving a bad taste behind. "That's not even news."

"Yes, well, when one works with celebrities and nobility, it pays to keep on top of their petty feuds," Rarity ripostes; her voice is more strained than she'd like thanks to the egg still merrily pulsing inside her. She keeps her thighs clenched as she walks, flanks shifting awkwardly as she shuffles towards the kitchen. "At any rate, Bright Young's and Nutmeg's marriage is looking to become one of the events of the summer, and guess who they've hired to assemble their ensemble?" The designer pulls down a kettle, gingerly carrying it in her horn, and fills it at the sink. "So, I have roughly eight weeks to produce two tuxedos and twelve suits, all hornstitched."

Twilight's eyes bulge at Rarity's timeline. "Eight weeks? Do you need any help?"

Rarity shakes her head and lets out a small sigh of relief as the throbbing inside her fades to a simple buzz. "I'm afraid Fluttershy's the only one that could really help, and she just doesn't have the time." She takes the kettle from the sink and sets it on the stove. "You're not here to talk about my problems, though."

"No." Twilight casts her head down as she slinks towards Rarity's kitchen table. She takes a seat and folds her hooves in front of her, tapping them together nervously. "Something's come up outside my fields of research. I need a subject-matter expert."

Rarity titters. "You make me sound like some kind of professor." She takes a seat opposite the other unicorn, biting back the whimper that wants to escape as the egg presses up inside of her under her robe. She reaches over the table and lightly puts a hoof over one of Twilight's. "You're fidgeting, dear. Relax. Now, how may I be of assistance?"

Under Rarity's touch, Twilight's hoof drums out a steady tattoo against the tabletop. "Rainbow Dash asked me on a date last night, for tomorrow. I have absolutely no idea how to act." Her voice is flat, near monotonous, falling to almost a whisper at the end.

"Well, did you already say yes or no, for starters?" Rarity withdraws her hoof and folds her own before her.

"Yes," Twilight answers instantly.

"And do you want to go?" Rarity brushes at her mane. "Was it an enthusiastic yes or a reluctant one?"

Twilight hesitates. "I'm... not entirely sure. I was excited in the moment I said it, but I was also... nervous? I mean, it threw off today's shopping, tomorrow's reshelving plans, and my reading schedule. I had to send Spike to the market today just so I could get my chapter finished since I won't be able to do it tomorrow. I also had to read up on and make a list about dating etiquette, but there were so many books I'd have barely had time to compile an index, so I thought I could come get a summary from you."

Rarity smiles gently and leans forward. "I always wondered if perhaps you had a touch of Grassburger Syndrome."

Twilight's ears flatten against her head and her cheeks darken. "I didn't think it was that noticeable."

"Oh, no, not really," Rarity lies. "It was more a hunch than anything else. Regardless, your secret is safe with me." She waves a hoof. "If I may interrupt very briefly, what do you think of Rainbow Dash? Intellectually, emotionally?" She lets silence linger for a moment. "Physically?"

Twilight lifts her head. "Intellectually, she's not my equal, but then, it's not really bragging to say that few ponies would be. I approve of her taste in literature, but her writing could use work. Emotionally, she's..." Twilight's hooftaps grow closer together. "She's very passionate. Intense. When she works out, her focus seems absolute. When she relaxes, she relaxes totally. That's really familiar. She's very easy to read that way. It's... interesting. Physically...." Her cheeks redden further. "It's too early to say, but she's definitely graceful."

"Graceful, yes, that would be a word for her." Rarity's smile broadens. "I'm not hearing any reasons to change your mind, which is good. As for how you should act..." Rarity folds her hooves and rests her chin on them. "In all honesty, I would advise you to simply be yourself. Don't try to pretend to be somepony you aren't."

Twilight scowls in response. "I'm sorry, Rarity, but that runs counter to every lecture I've ever gotten."

Rarity opens her muzzle to respond, but the whistle of the tea-kettle interrupts her. "Oh, I'll get that."

"No need." Before Rarity can register a protest, Twilight's horn is aglow, as is the kettle, the cabinet doors, two mugs, and, inadvertently, Rarity's toy. The designer's eyes bulge, breath caught in her throat as Twilight casually magics up a storm, pouring two cups of tea and summoning sugar and milk for her own cup. "You were saying?" She tilts her head to the side. "Rarity, are you okay?"

I think you just gave me a small orgasm from that much magic. I'm not convinced Nutmeg's jacket is cut right. I need to buy those train tickets for next week. I wonder where Opal went. I can't imagine you actually think anypony doesn't know about your condition. I need to pattern a ruffle-front to go with the tuxedos. While I'm in Canterlot, I need to put in an order for bulk cotton velvet and dye. Oh, and I need to thank Velvet for the recommendation. Rarity lets out the breath she's holding. "Oh, just... thinking. Design elements. It's complicated."

"Ah-heh." Twilight rubs the back of her head. "That sounds familiar, at least. I get that way with magic theory."

Rarity nods stiffly. "I know." She shifts on her chair, all too aware of the damp spot on her robe and the toy still vibrating inside of her. "We all do, I think, in our various ways. As I was saying, I don't imagine Rainbow Dash to be the sort to be impressed with an act. If she asked you out on a date, it's because she's interested in the real you, the pony you are and want to be. Don't try to put on airs to impress her. She doesn't need that, and neither do you."

"But—" Twilight's lip quivers, but she swallows heavily and forces her expression back to evenness. "Rarity, if you know what Grassburger Syndrome is, you know it's all an act!" She stops, then immediately backpedals. "Well, not all of it. The emotions are real, but expressing them takes practice. I've been working at it since I was a filly, and I still can't always do it right. And reading others is... difficult."

"I understand that, Twilight, and if Rainbow Dash cares enough to find out more, so will she. She's not asking you because she wants the act, I'm sure. She's asking because she wants the pony underneath the act." Rarity lets just a bit of a frown slip onto her muzzle, which is easy because the egg is actually starting to hurt. "If that's not the case, then I shall be very cross with her."

"Oh, no no!" Twilight waves a hoof quickly. "You don't have to do that. I was just taken by surprise, and I don't always deal well with surprises." She blushes. "My brother used to tease me that if Mom and Dad left my Hearth's Warming presents out before the morning of, I'd deduce what they were in advance."

Rarity smiles. "And did you ever?"

Twilight's blush returns. "I found where my parents were hiding them, so I didn't have to. I told Mom one year she got me a book I already had. I was just trying to help. I... didn't get Hearth's Warming presents that year."

Rarity's heart melts slightly. "Oh, poor thing. I'm sure this whole situation must be difficult, then. It's a brand-new situation for you, and it may change your relationship with someone who is a very dear friend. Still, I think the best thing you can do is be honest with yourself and with her. Explain if you feel you should, and don't sugar-coat it for her, but don't play it up as the great Equestrian tragedy. Honesty and compassion will get you both much further than acting in this case."

Twilight hesitates, then nods slowly, sipping at her milky tea. "Okay, Rarity. I trust you. I won't tell her if it doesn't come up on its own, but if she asks, I won't hide it. I just hope she understands."

"I think she will." Rarity shifts uncomfortably on her chair; the egg has definitely overstayed its welcome. "And as I said, if she doesn't, the rest of the girls and I shall have words with her."

Twilight holds very still for a few seconds, then breathes out deeply and offers up a genuine smile. "Thanks, Rarity." She drains her cup and drops down from her chair. "I suppose I should let you get back to relaxing with your wine."

Rarity nods crisply and slides out of her chair. "I think I should, yes. Actually, I need to run upstairs to the facilities, so...." She lets her voice trail off there, then realizes she's asking Twilight to pick up on a hint. "Would you mind seeing yourself out, and reverse the sign as you go?"

"Oh, no problem. Thanks again, Rarity!" Twilight sets down her mug, then trots back to the front door, tail bobbing behind her. "See you on Sunday! Pet picnic!" Then the front door latches closed behind her, and then the sign rattles as it flips from OPEN to CLOSED.

Rarity counts slowly to ten again, waiting for Twilight's hoofsteps to recede from the front door. Then she bolts for the staircase, slamming the door to the bedroom behind her. She catches the silver string dangling from her legs and tugs, not caring about the discomfort until the egg has been removed. The immediate absence of sensation after such a workout is itself so delicious that her knees wobble with relief, but the fires it stoked have not yet been quenched.

She crawls onto the bed, tail raised, and kneels long enough for her to pull the letter and a hooftowel out of the top drawer of her nightstand. The egg she deposits on the latter, while the former she unfolds in front of her, her eyes eagerly devouring the words on the page:

Mare,

I think it's time that the two of us admit to ourselves that we're both interested in pursuing this further. I've made arrangements for you to visit Canterday evening and remain overnight, if you wish. If you agree, you need only respond. I hope you will accept my offer, and all that it entails.

Madame

Rarity's forehoof drifts between her thighs as she reads and rereads the letter. She folds it carefully, then closes her eyes and arches her back, muzzle slightly agape as she rolls the edge of her hoof against her swollen netherlips. After the pounding of the toy, the delicate touch is a balm, and the fires build quickly. Her mind swims with anticipation, breath ragged in her throat as she gently but insistently caresses herself, stoking her inner flames.

Behind Rarity's closed eyelids, visions dance: her forehooves bound tightly together, an iron suppression ring placed upon her horn, a bridle fitted to her muzzle. Each one lasts only a few seconds before slipping away, while the edge of her hoof drifts closer and closer to the hot nubbin of flesh at the top of her labia. The thought of being dressed as a literal carousel pony comes to mind, draped in silk ribbons that expose more than conceal. Blindered and bitted, her dock is tied to her barding, lifting her tail and exposing her for all to see. Led by a satin halter, she prances down the middle of the street, suffering the gaze of everypony she passes.

The frog of Rarity's hoof finds her clit and presses down, and the second climax of the evening flares up from her loins, waves of heat pouring up her spine. She gasps, panting, her body shaking from the force of her release. She slumps forward onto the bed with a groan. The tuxedos can wait. The wedding can wait. For the moment, there is only relief, and warmth, and a bit of stickiness in need of a hot bath.

Actually, a hot bath sounds like a lovely way to finish the evening. She lays still a few more moments, letting the last of her fires pass, then slips from the bed, snatching wine and glass in horn as she makes her way to the bathroom to finish out her night.