Midnight Belle (and the Case of the Vanishing Foals!)

Sweetie felt something on her back before she even managed to lift her head. Something familiar, but alien, pressed against her costume, and through that her fur. The tiny points that moved along her spine down to the base of her tail revealed themselves in her head—they were the ones she’d felt when Lyra had touched her cheek, her chin. Sweetie looked to the side, and found Lyra there, rubbing her back with an outstretched foreleg—with her hand.

“You’re really soft,” Lyra said. Sweetie glared at her.

But, as Lyra’s fingers hit the base of Sweetie’s tail, she felt a shiver go down her spine again. Her costume was still sticky. And she could feel the tingle of moisture from her fur even stronger now.

Lyra moved her hand further, running her fingers along Sweetie’s tail underneath her costume, then around until they came to rest on Sweetie’s backside. Sweetie jumped and tried to pull herself away, but the chain on her ankle kept her from moving forward. She tried to shift sideways, but a sudden force on her neck held her in place—another hand, clamped around the back of her neck like a vice.

Sweetie whimpered as Lyra’s hand moved over her bottom, rubbing against her fur through the thin material of her costume. She felt the tingle between her legs strengthen. While she desperately wanted to ignore it, it almost entranced her, because she had never felt anything like it before. It didn’t feel like she needed to go—not that kind of tingle between her legs. She didn’t want to think it, but in a way, it almost felt... good.

“Your butt’s really squishy too,” Lyra said. Sweetie cringed as Lyra’s fingers pressed into her rump, squeezing and kneading it like a ball of dough. Sweetie didn’t want to admit it, but Lyra’s fingers did move like they were softly pressing into a sponge or plyable mass. Again, she tried to move away, but Lyra’s other hand held her there. She couldn’t muster up the force to struggle against it.

“You’d think a superhero would be a little more in shape. Have you been pigging out instead of crimefighting?” Lyra asked with a smirk, squeezing extra hard on Sweetie’s butt.

“Cut it out...” Sweetie said, struggling to pull herself away, but coming up against the firm hold of Lyra’s hand on the back of her neck.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t tell me the steadfast Midnight Belle is getting bothered already. Aren’t you gonna use your Midnight Ray to blast me into pieces and save the day?”

Sweetie squirmed as Lyra continued to knead her buttcheeks. She thrashed ineffectually, held by hand and chain, but couldn’t move, due in fair part to the foggy heat clouding her brain more by the second.

“I don’t... have a... Midnight Ray...” she grunted, trying to ignore Lyra’s fingers on her rump.

Lyra’s hand froze.

“You don’t? When did that happen? Well, more fun for me I guess...”

Sweetie gasped as Lyra’s hand moved lower, there, between her legs.

No. It couldn’t feel good.

But it did. Sweetie Belle’s legs shuddered as Lyra’s hand—her hand, the word still sounded terrible to her—as Lyra’s hand moved to the place Sweetie had never let anyone touch, that nopony was supposed to touch, on penalty of screaming and yelling and thrashing and unending protest. And yet, as Lyra touched, Sweetie couldn’t imagine why that was, because she’d never felt anything like this before. The jolt that ran through her body was warming, almost intoxicating, and something inside Sweetie’s head urged her to repeat it, again and again.

Instead, she settled for clenching her mouth shut, biting on the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything. She couldn’t see Lyra’s face, and didn’t want to, so she closed her eyes.

“Oooh,” Lyra said, pressing with her hand into Sweetie’s special spot. Sweetie clenched her hind legs together, but Lyra’s hand remained. “Someone sure is wet,” Lyra said. “Is your new superpower making my basement floor messy with your pussy-juice?”

Sweetie had never heard it called that before. She didn’t know what it meant, or what it meant to be wet, but she knew Lyra was right. She was wet—soaking. Dripping. She could feel the moisture collecting from her special place, drenching her costume, probably dripping onto the floor underneath her, and down her legs as well. Sweetie didn’t know why, but the wetness didn’t feel wrong—not as wrong as if she’d truly wet herself, in any case. It felt sort of right—like the feeling that went along with it was worth having, and that Sweetie didn’t want it to go away. She had to remind herself where she was, and what she was doing, in order to pull herself together. She bit down extra hard on her cheek and tried to think about something else. About cages. About getting out. About getting her friends out.

“How many minutes is that?” Lyra asked conversationally from behind. Her fingers stroked idly against Sweetie’s wetness, and Sweetie cringed. She forced her eyes open and down to the watch.

“Tw-two,” she managed. Her voice shook like she was about to cry, but she couldn’t feel any tears.

“Psh. Only two? Plenty of time still. You hang in there. I still haven’t used half my arsenal of nefarious tricks yet”

Sweetie breathed out slowly in an attempt to slow the rapid beating of her heart in her chest. She could feel every tiny centimeter of sensation as Lyra’s fingers traced along the damp part of her costume—along the lips of her marehood—along somewhere nopony else had ever touched, and never should touch but why when Lyra was touching it did it feel like this did it feel good—

Lyra’s fingers curved, and Sweetie clenched as she felt them hook into the fabric of her costume. Her limbs stayed frozen as a soft tearing filled the darkness, accompanied by the constant ticking of the watch.

Sweetie looked down to it, hoping it had moved closer to her freedom.

Only three minutes. She bit down extra hard on her lip, and tasted tin.

“Ah!”

Sweetie shouted as she felt Lyra’s fingers worm their way inside the hole in her costume. Her whole body froze again. She couldn’t move a muscle. Lyra’s fingers were against her fur now, against her soft, wet, fur, prodding at the dripping hole between her legs, poking at her folds of skin and where she was so wet, and Sweetie’s lip was bleeding and why those fingers why did they feel so goooood—

“Aha, and at last Midnight Belle’s true weakness reveals itself.” Lyra paused the movement of her hand for a moment and grinned.

“It turns out she’s just a slut dying to get fingered,” Lyra said, and pressed down with her hand, her fingers, against Sweetie’s dripping entrance.

“Nnnnnh...” Sweetie tried to quell the cry burbling in her throat, and it came out as a low groan as Lyra’s fingers traced over her tiny slit, poking just the tips inside, but never more than that, dancing in featherlight traces over Sweetie’s unexplored pussy. Sweetie shivered with every stroke, tried to pull herself away, but at the same time felt rooted to the ground. She couldn’t feel the chain, couldn’t feel Lyra’s hand around her neck, couldn’t even feel the sticky grossness of her costume on her skin; just Lyra’s touch, there, there there there, and she didn’t want it to stop.

Sweetie opened her eyes. Four minutes.

“Hnnn...” she groaned as Lyra pushed a finger in a little bit further, maybe an inch or two. Sweetie had never had anything inside her before, but even now, just at the first touch, she wanted more shouldn’t want more she couldn’t.

“Having fun, Midnight Belle? Are you ready to beg for mercy at the cruel touch of Doctor Hand?”

Sweetie shook her head.

“S-stop,” she stammered, trying to convince herself she meant what she was saying. Her whole body shivered by the second, moving with each tick of the watch’s hand as she struggled to keep herself from giving in to Lyra’s ‘torture’.

“Are you calling uncle?” Lyra asked.

Sweetie shook her head again.

“You’re not very good at playing by the rules,” Lyra mused as she continued running her hand over Sweetie’s quivering slit. She traced one finger languidly all the way up, until it was beneath Sweetie’s stomach, just above her hole, right onto something—

“Ahhh! Wh-what... d-don’t...” Sweetie blabbered a protest, but it was swallowed by her muffled moaning, her mouth clenching shut to try to silence the noises she was making as Lyra rubbed at the tiny nub above Sweetie’s entrance.

The watch. Five minutes.

“This whole thing is a bit silly, really, when you think about it,” Lyra said. She stilled her fingers on Sweetie’s button. Though Sweetie couldn’t see with her eyes closed, Lyra grinned when she felt Sweetie’s body moving, rocking against Lyra’s hand, searching for more of whatever she had just felt.

“After all,” Lyra went on, cruelly withdrawing her hand from Sweetie’s clit. “You’re not really a superhero, are you?”

Sweetie shook her head. The giant purple hat she had worn had been long since discarded, lost in her fall. Her face was the only part of her not covered by her outfit.

“You’re just a bad filly who wandered into my basement.”

Sweetie nodded, arching her hips down to search for more of Lyra’s fingers, then pulling herself away just as suddenly, as though she’d remembered she wasn’t supposed to want more.

“A bad, trespassing little filly...”

Lyra’s hands shifted suddenly. The one on Sweetie’s neck pushed, and forced Sweetie to the ground, cold stone a burning contrast against the heat of her skin and leaking pussy. The other hand slid from between Sweetie’s legs and settled on her backside, squeezing softly against the pudgy cheek underneath. Sweetie groaned, and tried to pull herself away. Her chain shook in response.

“D-don’t,” she said. Lyra’s hand squeezed her butt, and she thrashed in an attempt to wriggle away. But her limbs stayed uncooperative, and kept her in place.

“Bad fillies normally get punished when they break the rules,” Lyra said simply. She drew her hand back.

Sweetie felt the slap on her butt, accompanied by the echo of it across the basement.

“Ah!” Sweetie cried out, unable to hold her voice back. The sting of Lyra’s palm against her tush, covered though it was, sent a spasm through her body, and her hips rocked of their own accord, pushing towards the floor in a desperate search for stimulation.

She’d been spanked before, once, and it had been awful. She’d cried, and been consoled afterwards, her father apologizing for such a brash response to something she had done. No part of her ever wanted to be spanked again.

But though Lyra’s hand stung, and she could feel her ass smarting from the force of the blow against her skin, Sweetie couldn’t say the spank had been bad. It had hurt, yes, but that was alright, because it had sent an electric jolt through the rest of her body, especially the part that Lyra had touched. It had been almost as good as Lyra’s hand there, and part of her wanted more.

But she couldn’t want more. She couldn’t want to be spanked.

“S-stop,” Sweetie muttered, wriggling herself on the floor in a feeble attempt to get away. She stayed solidly where she was, and Lyra’s hand rubbed at her tender backside where it had been struck moments ago. After a few caresses, Lyra’s fingers hooked into the fabric of Sweetie’s costume, and another rip sounded through the basement as she tore it apart there, exposing the soft, sweat-soaked white fur of Sweetie’s bum.

“Not until you’ve been punished properly,” Lyra said with an amused tone in her voice. She drew her hand back again, and held it in the air, letting Sweetie tense before she brought it back.

Smack.

Sweetie howled and thrashed atop the stone again. Her legs felt slick with the fluid leaking between them, and she wanted so badly to quiet herself, but she couldn’t. If Lyra’s touch had been one thing, this went even farther, like a lightning strike burning inside her, and she had to make sound, or she’d explode.

Smack. Sweetie cried again, halfway between arousal and pain, and unable to separate herself from either. Her sounds echoed off the walls, presumably reaching the cage in the far corner, where Applebloom and Scootaloo were watching.

Smack. Smack. Smack. Every one made Sweetie’s body writhe. Every one sent a shiver of desperate need and want through her. Every one was joined by an anguished, self-hating moan.

Lyra went to ten before she stopped and let her hand rest against Sweetie’s glowing red rump.

Sweetie’s body rose and fell as she breathed. She sucked in air heavily, long, desperate breaths, like she needed every second of them to stay conscious. With her hand on Sweetie’s butt, Lyra smiled.

“Do you think you learned your lesson?” Lyra asked.

Sweetie shook her head. Because she didn’t want to give in, or admit it, or because she wanted more, she didn’t know. But she shook her head.

“N... no,” she managed, slurring it through her mouth’s urge to clamp shut and hold her moans inside again.

Lyra clicked her tongue against her teeth disapprovingly.

“That’s a shame.”

Her horn glowed, and Sweetie felt a hand on the back of her neck again, picking her up like a frail kitten and standing her on her hind legs. Sweetie struggled to keep herself upright, her limbs shaking as she stood.

“You know what I did to the last bad filly I had who didn’t learn their lesson?” Lyra asked. She slid her hand from Sweetie’s aching butt, down, past her tail, and back between her legs. Her fingers probed at the whole in Sweetie’s costume again, and Sweetie moaned as they touched her tender lips.

“Noooooo...” she cooed, an answer and a half-hearted protest all in one. Her hooves scraped against the floor as she tried in vain to walk herself away, but Lyra’s hand on her neck pulled her back.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Lyra said. She began to poke at the softness of Sweetie’s folds, and Sweetie let out a tiny, girlish moan, and began pushing herself back against Lyra’s hand in spite of herself. Her head felt dizzy, and hot. Her stomach felt like it was full up with something ready to burst. And she couldn’t help herself, no matter how hard she told herself to hold out.

“It happened the other day,” Lyra went on, poking at Sweetie’s slit as she spoke. “I was down here in my sex-basement—”

Sweetie moaned as Lyra’s thumb flicked against her clit, and her whole body shuddered.

“—getting the next batch of candy ready—”

Lyra brought a finger up to Sweetie’s love button and squeezed it between her two digits, prompting a depraved sounding coo from Sweetie Belle.

“—when a filly stumbled in through the window, just like you did.”

Lyra withdrew her fingers from Sweetie’s clit, and Sweetie’s hips followed as Lyra’s fingers pressed against Sweetie’s dripping, virginal slit.

“So I went over to her—”

Lyra pushed the tips of two fingers inside Sweetie’s pussy, two inches, and moved them back and forth.

“Mmmmmh....” Sweetie moaned through her closed mouth, hating herself for being so loud, but unable to keep silent.

“—and I put on my big gold, human-cock strap-on—”

“Mmmnh, mmmm...” Sweetie moaned repeatedly as Lyra’s fingers plunged in and out of her, a little bit more each time, fucking her in a way she’d never imagined she’d be fucked. She’d never imagined being fucked, but if she’d known it felt anything like this she would have thought of it day and night, she didn’t want to think of anything else—

“—and I lined up, right next to her cute, dripping slit—”

Lyra’s fingers stopped suddenly, three inches inside Sweetie Belle’s hole, touching against the wall of her cunt.

Sweetie froze as she felt Lyra’s fingers do the same.

And then suddenly, forward. All the way in.

“–and I fucked her.” Lyra’s voice, in Sweetie’s ear, so loud, whispering to her, her fingers, there, arched, curving against her walls, pressing down, hard, so hard, all the way in.

“Thirty seven times! Right in her tight little pussy, until she came so hard she couldn’t remember her own name.” Lyra hissed every word right into Sweetie’s ear, snaking her tongue over the words and licking at Sweetie’s ear as she did so. Her fingers curved pressing into something deep inside Sweetie’s pussy, something she never could have imagined, so good, she felt like she was going to die. Her fingers moved, and moved, and kept moving, over and over again, pressing there, that spot, pressing down, there, right there, there there there...

“Ahhhh! Ahhhhh!” Sweetie cried with each press, blurring syllables and sounds deliriously like a dying animal. She felt like she was crying, her face was wet, her fur was wet, her whole body was wet, but there, most of all, she felt like she was going to melt, if Lyra’s fingers didn’t stop, she didn’t want them to stop, couldn’t stop, needed them more harder more there harder please...

“You ready to give up?” Lyra asked playfully, pulling her mouth away from Sweetie’s ear. Sweetie arched her body against Lyra’s hand over and over again as it pressed, pushing into that spot, her spot, again and again and again.

“Yeeeesss,” Sweetie said, almost screamed, cried, she couldn’t just say it, because her voice couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop moaning, couldn’t stop crying, too much, she was going to die like this...

“So say it then. Ask me to end it. Ask me to make you cum. Beg for it.”

“Pleeeeaaaase!” Sweetie yelled. Her eyes were shut so tight, but tears were streaming out of them, her legs wanted to give out forever, but she needed it, needed Lyra to do whatever she was going to do to push her over, to let the bubble inside her burst, please...

Lyra smiled. She removed her other hand from Sweetie’s neck and made her way across Sweetie’s back, down her side, along her stomach, until she reached the whole in Sweetie’s costume. She gripped at it, and pulled, and tore it wider, wide enough that her other hand could find its way to the spot above Sweetie’s pussy, to that spot, that button, right, there.

Sweetie died. She felt like she had died, because nothing, no words, nothing could feel like that, her whole body was on fire, and Lyra’s fingers there and there and on that spot and this one and there was nothing she could do but freeze and unfold and something inside her chest burst and her mind went blank and only black behind her eyes and then everything.

Sweetie’s mouth opened finally. It opened and sounds came out that she could never describe. Her whole body clenched, then unclenched, and then clenched again, so hard she was sure she must be taking off Lyra’s fingers, but she clenched, so hard it felt like a blood-vessel in her brain was going to burst. The wetness between her stopped, and clenched inside her, and doubled, and tripled, and then suddenly like a hose had been unkinked, came out.

“Haaaaaaah!”

She came. She had no word for it but she came. She had never thought it, dreamed it, or imagined it, but she came. She came like internal fireworks, like loathsome, self-hating infinite regret, delicious miserable pleasure, with her stomach swelling with emotion and elation, and her pussy, that word for it, her pussy, spasming and shaking and then spraying, suddenly, like a hose pinched at the nozzle, spurting something onto the ground, wetting her costume, wetting Lyra’s hand, her leg, wetting her own legs and soaking everything around her like a tap had been turned on inside her, squirting and squirting and squirting as she came, she came, she came.

It went on forever. Sweetie’s eyes clenched so hard she thought she could see through them. She came. She bit her lip and tasted more blood, and sweat and through the air she thought she could taste herself. She came. Her legs shook and quivered and finally gave out and she fell to the floor, and brought Lyra’s hands with her, which had stopped, and still she went on. She came.

She stopped cumming. Suddenly, and all at once, the spray and the clenching and the body burning into nothingness stopped, and so did she.

The world reappeared, and Sweetie Belle remembered she had stopped breathing as she came. Lyra’s hands withdrew, and Sweetie’s mouth opened as the went.

Gasp. She gasped in a great mouthful of air, swallowed it, and gasped again.

Lyra grinned as Sweetie choked on the urgency of her own breathing. She breathed like she had been drowning in the sea of her own pleasure, and Lyra raised her hand to her mouth as she watched.

“You’re a squirter too, huh? That’s pretty hot. Your friends just kinda bucked and breathed heavy. You and me though, we know what’s up. Nothing better than cumming so hard you feel dehydrated for a week, am I right?”

Sweetie couldn’t respond. She couldn’t even understand the words coming from Lyra’s mouth. There was nothing outside but air, and she needed it, so much more of it, before she could be real again. Before her body would let her be whole, and think, and move.

Lyra didn’t say anything. She just watched, until at last the heaving of Sweetie’s chest began to subdue, and her breathing became more and more normal, or as normal as it could be through the haze of the tornado that had overtaken her from inside.