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RE: A Blueberry and Her Greenery - Gentian - 01-14-2017
A Blueberry and Her Greenery
9 – The Middle City
We stand in one of the opulent guest suites of Canterlot Castle, amid sumptuous furniture of fragrant woods, and curtains of silk and velvet. The chambers are large, and luxuriously appointed, making up one of many apartments reserved for favored guests of the Diarchy. A broad table, centerpiece of the antechamber, is before us. We run our hand over it's surface: cool to the touch, and mildly pitted beneath a satin patina.
There, against the wall is a chez lounge; we're careful not to damage it's intricately painted toile as we sit. It creaks slightly as it takes our weight, built as it is for creatures smaller and lighter than ourselves, but it's well-made, and we do not fear collapse. The air is still, and heavy. Motes of dust glow in the beams of early morning light cutting through the gaps in the closed curtains.
Faintly, we hear echoes through the doors: the castle staff carrying out their duties. Our lounge is comfortable; we wait patiently, as their hoofsteps approach.
The door opens, maids and stallionservants pour through the aperture, dusting, straightening, and changing the unslept-in linens. They work with the quick efficiency of the professional, cleaning from top to bottom, then finally bringing in trays of fruits, cakes, and drinks. The items are arranged on our table, interspersed with colorful flowers and a variety of decorative leaves according to the fastidiously clucking tongue of the chief maid. Then, their task done, the ponies depart, and the door closes behind them.
To our right, the portafenestre have been thrown open, and their bundled curtains waft in the summer breeze. Quietly we watch from our chair as the hours pass. It's a pleasant day, and as the sun rises higher, the sky adopts the deep sapphire blue so beloved of the Princess of Day. On our table, now burdened under the finest oats, sweetest carrots, and juiciest apples, also stand crystal decanters of cider and nectar, casting faint stains of amber and yellow on the polished marble walls.
More noise from beyond the door, different than before. Louder, steadier. The steps of confident ponies, unafraid to be noticed, not of servants who find virtue in stealth.
The door is thrown open, and soldiers enter, resplendent in their shining armor and cropped manes, each one the image of a recruitment poster come to life. They take up position to either side of the door, as a unicorn the color of sky and high cirrus clouds strides in, Anon at her side.
The squad's doyenne speaks with them, but what they say isn't important to us: mere dutiful welcomes couched in formality. Servants, and facilities of the castle are placed at the guest's disposal, and they're told their hostesses will receive them shortly after sundown. Then the soldiers leave, and we are alone with the unicorn and her human.
No sooner has the door closed than the unicorn's body changes: her eyes and withers soften, her tail relaxes, and her nose no longer points so stubbornly skyward. She busies herself inspecting the rooms, perusing the delicacies laid out for their enjoyment, criss-crossing the apartment, her hoofsteps varying as she transits from stone to carpet, and back again, and tosses her star-spangled garments on the bed.
Her human, on the other hand watches her, and only her. We can see that she knows, but for reasons of her own, pretends that she does not.
“Trixie, what's wrong?” he at last asks.
She turns her head, and looks at him calculatingly, then, with a forced smile, “I'm thinking of the Princesses.” His face expresses the disbelief his silence does not.
Is that a look of pain on her face? Regret? Guilt? Whatever it might be, it's lost as her large purple eyes take on a flinty cast, and she looks deliberately to the windows. “There are only a few hours until sunset, Anon. We should bathe and make ourselves presentable.”
Soon we rise from the lounge, and follow them to the baths: great open basins of hot and cold water couched between the golden, domed spires of Canterlot Castle on one side, and a stunning panorama of Equestria, highlighted by Cloudsdale's distant, classical beauty on the other. Anon called them “Roman,” and they prove wonderfully distracting. For a time laughter and splashes echo joyously together, then, as evening approaches, they make ready to leave.
We see Anon's surprise at discovering a sauna, as well as the gentle smirk his reaction brings to Trixie's lips. With a wave of her hoof she sends him to enjoy it, saying she will indulge in the attentions of a professional masseuse while she can. The pony in question, a pink mare with a blue and violet mane, stands by her tables. One meant to hold a pony, the other covered in fancy bottles of unguents, odd tools, and sets of hoof-gloves, each of a different design, intended to help a creature without fingers reach all the right spots.
The masseuse, ensuring her charge is comfortably reclined, slips her hooves in to a pair of the special gloves, and sets to work on Trixie's supple flesh. She is very good; she must be to hold such a prestigious position, but she can not see inside Trixie's mind. She can not see that even with her great skill, and specialist's tools, Trixie finds her wanting, craving the responsive touch of fingers, over the dumb press of hooves. She can not see that as she plys her trade, and the Great and Powerful Trixie relaxes, her mind wanders to uncomfortable places.
But we can, and we do, seeing images of Fleur's smirking wink dance through her mind.
What if Fleur asks to him to herd with her, she wonders. No, she won't do that. She'll try to use him as a cooler, though. He's famous, exotic, and new, just the kind of thing Fleur would want as an accessory.
Suddenly, behind her closed eyes: Anon rutting Fleur, sitting, legs spread as she lies with her snout between them. He strokes her glowing horn and takes it into his mouth as she fellates him, his shaft passing between her lips as her tongue stretches to lick...
A noise, half grunt, half agonized moan, and the masseuse's touch lightens.
I love him. I love him. By Celestia, I love him.
We sit, and watch the emotions play across her face. She may be a monogamist, but that doesn't mean she's heartless, despite what many ponies would say. She loves him, and wants him to love her back.
But how can he love me if he doesn't know me?
She is a proud pony, and her high standards demand she say something, but what, and when?
He'll probably leave after he finds out what a freak I am...and I need this show. Tears well in her eyes, but they are small, and easily hidden.
I'll tell him after.
And so time passes. Shortly thereafter Anon returns from the sauna, and we depart through the wide halls of Canterlot Castle. They walk side by side, Trixie leaning heavily against him as we make our way back to their rooms.
“Anon,” she begins, as he closes the door. “Do you remember what I told you? About our sun and moon?” He nods. “Come with me.” She gently takes his hand between her teeth and guides him through the curtains. We follow, onto a balcony of marble and porphyry long enough to link the apartment's French doors like a corridor. The air is cool, the sky aflame, and here, on fine couches set amid ferns and ivy, Anon and Trixie sit expectantly.
“The servant said that courtyard over there connects to the throne room.”- she points -“If we're lucky, they might stand there tonight.”
“To move the sun?”
“Mm-hmm, the moon, too.”
She speaks again as the twilight deepens. “See, Anon? Those are the Princesses! Celestia is the white one, the other is Luna, her sister.”
“I remember, Blue. They're a lot bigger than...”
“Shhhh,” she chided, leaning more heavily against him. “Watch.” In the purple twilight, the larger ones horn glows brighter than any he'd seen, and the sun suddenly dips below the horizon.
“That's impossible!”
“I told you so. Keep watching.” After the sun sank it was the other pony's turn. Her horn too, flares, and the moon rises.
“But...”
She smirks, and playfully nips his arm. “Now, what did the Great and Powerful Trixie tell you?” He looks back and forth from the moon, to Trixie, and the retreating forms of the Princesses.
“But, even if the sun and moon did move, we wouldn't be able to see they had moved for...well, for a few minutes at least!”
“That doesn't make any sense, Anon.”
“But the light has to travel...”
“Magic.”
“But...”
“Magic,” she says, her stark mane stirring with the ivy in the night air. Anon closes his eyes in sudden pleasure, and a moment later Trixie's gardenia scent washes over us, too.
“Magic,” he whispers. Satisfied, she lays her head in his lap, then rolls on her back, smiling up at him. With a smile of our own we stand, and leave them in peace.
___________________________________
Two guardponies march in lockstep over the herringbone floors of Canterlot Castle; behind them strides a unicorn, and her human. They walk side by side, Trixie ever so slightly in front, her flank pressing lightly against him. Anon notices she changes her steps to match his, their hooves and boots clopping as one. What's come over her?
Even when the guards came to fetch them, she remained at his side. When they knocked , he watched the light in her eyes change, felt the tension spring to her muscles, but something was different. Despite their private familiarity, she was always the same prideful, demanding creature in public, but now, to him, her words are blunted, her touch is constant, and it fills him with unease.
Are the Princesses tyrants, he wonders. They didn't look all that bad, quite the contrary, they looked like visions of heaven. But his travels have taught him the phrase appearances can be deceiving, is even more important here than on Earth, and there is no shortage of rumors whispered about Princess Luna.
Shortly, their way is blocked by huge double doors, gilded and impossibly tall. Trixie shifts her weight, subtly leaning more firmly in to his thigh as a guard announces their arrival. Smoothly, quietly, they swing open.
A storybook scene stands before him. Tapestries and banners hang from the walls in a light which seems to come from nowhere, and everywhere. Stained glass windows, dark against the night, yet somehow still vibrant, rise in frames as tall as the sky itself. A thick carpet paves a burgundy path all the way across the mirrored marble floor, to a great golden dias, itself crowned with a towering golden throne, as though by a unicorn's horn. The silver voice of running water sings clearly in the room's warm light.
Both Princesses sit waiting, Luna, atop the throne, as is customary at night, Celestia, on the dias beside her.
Trixie takes the lead. He follows behind her, stops where she stops, bows when she bows, and lets her do the talking. What a surprise for him to discover his little pony has some history with the Princesses: a former pupil, having attended Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns in her youth. Princess Celestia's smile betokens both remembrance, and happiness to see things going well in her whilom student's unorthodox path through life.
They want to know everything about Anon, of course. Who he is, where he comes from, and how he came to be in Equestria. He answers honestly, saying all they wish about himself and his world, but on the last he hesitates, saying that he doesn't know for sure, but often dreams of immaculate staircases in the deep forest, a throbbing buzz growing in his mind as he climbs them, then treacherous passages of thorns and fear. This seems to satisfy them, saying his lack of memory is itself a clue, as they know of a hedge whose ravenous spines tear more than just flesh.
Trixie tells the story of meeting Anon, feigning ignorance of the anger it sets straining the Royal's composure. Once her tale is told, Princess Celestia promises to “correct” the Diamond Dogs herself. She is politely vague about her meaning, but her face leaves little doubt of her sincerity, eliciting a shudder from Anon. He knows the Princess moves a star, united Equestria, and has held power against challengers both banal and eldritch for over a millennium. With the realization of her true, terrifying might, and what she could do with it if she chose, how could he not?
Finally, the sisters set a date for the show: one week hence, and with invitations to enjoy all that the castle and city of Canterlot have to offer, dismiss them. One week. A long time to wait, not long at all to plan and practice. It doesn't help that Trixie is distracted. She hides it well, but he knows her, and it hurts she won't confide in him.
Yet as well as the past months have taught Anon to read her, Trixie is better. A lifetime of deliberately cultivated perception merged with raw, aching love means his pain at her secrecy strikes her like a physical blow. She makes up for it as best she can, staying by his side, and holding him at night as she did before Fleur drove her poisoned horn into her heart. But she can see he doesn't understand her recalcitrance, and loathes herself for its necessity.
One day, while out in the city, they pass a flower cart. Trixie lingers for a moment, pulling Anon back. The open, innocent smile on her face is a kind normally reserved for sheltered ingenues, but she wears it anyway, even letting it grow, asking “Isn't that blue one pretty?” The florist's eyes widen, and she stares at them as though Trixie has said something decidedly outre.
It really is a pretty flower, the same powder blue as Trixie's coat. Anon opens his mouth to say so when she lets out a breathy, uncharacteristically nervous laugh, and trots on. Flower pony watches them go, looking for all Equestria as though Trixie had suddenly sprouted wings to compliment her horn.
Slowly, stressfully, the week passes. Now, they wait, hiding behind the curtains of both stage, and night, prepared to give the show of their lives. The call for the guests to rise as the Princesses take their seats goes out. Trixie rears, gently placing a fore hoof on his hip, and her muzzle behind his ear. “Whatever happens after this, Anon, this is our show tonight.” He looks at her strangely, eyes searching her own.
Is she crying?
Another nuzzle, quick as thought, and then her head, briefly on his chest. “Forever and always, yours and mine.”
From beyond the curtain, the Princess' own voice rings, “Let, the show begin!”
RE: A Blueberry and Her Greenery - Gentian - 01-25-2017
Well, here we are at the final story chapter. I'll post one more chapter after this one, but it'll be the sex-scene, in its original format, and is completely superfluous to the story. If you've come this far, thank you for your patience, and I hope it was worth the wait.
When I wrote this story, I did so just for the opportunity to use the final line, you may note it's the same as the title of Xenophilia's final chapter. That's because A Blueberry and her Greenery is dedicated to the anonymous author of Xenophilia; theirs was the first pony-fic I read, and has been by far the most influential.
Finally, I'd like to note that when I wrote the end of this chapter, I was thinking of the song Nessum Dorma, if you care to listen to it, the climax of the story is, in my mind contemporaneous with the final "Vincero," in this video, at 2:47.
Please enjoy.
__________________________________________________________________________
A Blueberry and Her Greenery
10 - Nessum Dorma
Many nights since the tragedy of Ponyville, after the sun fell, and the dark closed in, Trixie would lie in her bed, unable to sleep. In the warm months, with her windows open, the staccato cadence of the night creature's peeps and chirps would subtly nudge her from one memory to the next. When the weather turned, and her wagon was shuttered tightly against the cold, she would lie cocooned in her blankets, silence, or perhaps the low moaning of wind in the wagon's cracks slowing her mind to a lethargic crawl through the worst moments of her past. But whether summer, winter, spring or fall; in chill silence, or by the starlit chorus of summer nights, her musings would always drift back to that which she had lost.
The fantasies of her glorious return to celebrity were many and sundry, as befits a pony of her ego, and intelligence; elaborate affairs filled with lavish praise, humiliation of rivals, and the receipt of gifts and privileges which everypony would once again see as her due. Everypony would know her, everypony would love her, and everypony would call her Great and Powerful again - and they would mean it!
Tonight, surrounded by the story-book beauty of Canterlot Castle, her fantasies have finally come true.
She had given the best show of her entire life. She did it for herself, yes, but more than that, she had done it for her heroines, the Princesses, and for her human, Anon. She is a proud pony, not a selfish one, and the presence of one motivation does not obviate any others; true, she wanted the Princesses to think as much of her as she does of them, but she also wanted to show them the time of their lives, and to make sure Anon's fame would secure his future, as she knew he may not let her be there for him after tonight.
Even the stuffy haute monde of Canterlot were impressed, and in their own pompous way, they let her know. After her show, at the kind of the party she had always dreamed of attending, as she mingled with the crème de la crème of Equestrian society, they had lain their laurels stiffly on her head. She knew it was all exaggeration; they loved her, yes, yet the praise was a role they were playing because they believed their peers expected it of them.
But Trixie didn't mind that it was their own little show, for she was a showpony, too! The hottest, most famous, most exotic showpony in Equestria! Tonight, the highest nobles, richest magnates, and Royalty itself all bore the words Great and Powerful on their lips, and with them, sincerity, in their hearts!
She is Trixie, the Great and Powerful; she's always known it, and now nopony can deny it!
Then she had come, Canterlot's own Equus-famous super-model, known even in the distant lands of griffons, and dragons for her talent, and taste for the exotic. Up until now, she had been easily avoided: Fleur could not enter the castle, and there had been far too much practicing to do to waste time in town. Trixie knew it would have been an inconceivable snub for the Princesses to deny a pony of her standing an invitation, though, so wasn't surprised to see her, “Squirming from the woodwork like a stupid, gangly pink-haired termite!”
Trixie knew a greeting between Anon and Fleur was expected, and so grudgingly allowed it, but as the night wore on, the manner of her interest in him became clear. She wasn't even trying to hide it; not content to merely brush against him, she was actually leaning against him! Nuzzling him! In front of everypony!
Jealousy and rage smouldered in Trixie's heart; as the lead mare of her herd, custom dictated Fleur ask her permission to court Anon before expressing her interest to him, not that she would have given it. How dare that whorse behave this way! Of course, she is the Great and Powerful Trixie, and does not let it show. She masters her feelings, not the other way around. But it hurt. A lot.
Privately, she had feared what she would do if this moment came to pass. In her nightmares, the esprit de l'escalier would seize her tongue, and she would watch helplessly as Fleur led Anon away. That would happen over her dead body. Or Fleur's, but now that the moment had actually arrived, she knew exactly what to do.
Trixie had never given Anon a flower, and they were not officially a herd, but she was still his boss, his lead mare; he was still her stallion, and she would make sure that termite knew it in no uncertain terms. So, when the Princesses announced their retirement for the evening, she captured Anon's attention from Fleur with a word, guided him away from her with a touch, and brought him to their chambers straight away, making damn sure she saw every step, every graceful turn in the waltz of her defeat. Then savored a smug, silent laugh at the look of shocked humiliation on Fleur's face when, in front of everypony, Anon pulled away from her touch, told her, “Good night,” and left with his hand on Trixie's withers.
Her rival was vanquished.
Now, they sit, behind closed doors. Trixie's nerves are getting the better of her, and adrenaline causes her trained perception to make each detail in the room leap out at her. The softness of the bed, the sweet fragrances of its apple-wood frame and herb-stuffed mattress. A cricket chirps from the balcony. Anon furrows his brow in worry.
He knows something is coming, but not this, how could he?
It's time; Celestia help me.
“I love you, Anon.”
“I love you, too, Trixie.” He smiles, she blinks.
Just like that? “You're not surprised?”
“Is this what all the matter's been? Didn't you already know how I felt, Trixie?”
What is this feeling? Such joy! Such Warmth! Threatening to wash over and carry her away! “Of course I knew, doofus!” she says with a strained laugh.
He laughs too. “My incredible little pony really didn't know!” Deep within her chest, a pressure swells, so warm and buoyant it's almost painful, surely her heart will burst? He moves to hug her, but she stops him with a fore hoof on his chest; there's more, and he must hear it.
“There's something about me you need to know, Anon. Something selfish...v-vile.” She chokes back a sob. “Something...” No, not yet! I can't let myself cry yet; that comes later, when I'm alone again.
It's the hardest thing she's ever done, but she is a proud pony, and filled with love; love is duty, and she will not let herself fail him. Love demands revelation, and maybe, it will demand she let him go.
A breath to steady herself.
“I'm a monogamist.” Her ears fold back despite herself, and her eyes cast themselves to the floor, but she forces herself to continue, terrified that she might not get the chance to finish, if she lets him speak now. “I love you, Anon, with all my heart and soul. I want to be with you, want to be there for you, more than anything, but I can't share you.”
Why can't I look at him? “I...I just can't.”
But I will look at him! Painfully, she brings her eyes to his; the effort of doing so scrawls itself across her face. He doesn't look angry, or disgusted, but, she reasons, that's probably just surprise.
“Seeing you with Fleur...I just can't.
“I understand if you don't want somepony like me. Understand if you...hate me, for being so selfish, but I want you to love me as much as I love you; to know me, and to do that you have to know this, too.”
There. I've done it. Whatever happens next, I've done my duty, and bared my soul to this one, special somebody.
Moments pass.
Whole eternities, but the expected castigation never comes. Instead he leans in, and hugs her, squeezing her against his chest. “I don't want anypony but you.”
And there they sit, holding each other as Trixie's frantic sobs wrack both of their bodies. When at last, he sees she's cried herself out, he kisses her neck, and whispers in her ear, “I love you, Trixie. All of you, only you, just the way you are.” He looks down, to see hot, round tears spilling over, beginning to run down her face again, and her eyes; so soft, and so very, very large.
“Don't leave me, Anon. Please, please don't ever leave me.” He kisses away her tears, and holds her close.
“I never will.”
And that, dear reader, brings us to the end of our tale. We won't say they lived happily ever after, for no couple ever does. There are ups and downs yet to come, as is the nature of life, but through it all, they had each other, and they lived a life of love.
RE: A Blueberry and Her Greenery - Gentian - 01-26-2017
And here's the sex scene.
I spent some time thinking about whether I wanted to rewrite this segment, or leave it in its original greentext. After reading it a few times, I think it actually works well in this format, and there's also the fact that the only reason I wrote it at all was because so many people asked for a fap-scene. Because of that, I've decided to leave it as is.
____________________________________________________________________
A Blueberry and Her Greenery
11 - Epilogue
>You are anon.
>Cuddling with your special somepony by the fire.
>The sky, clear and cold above.
>It's early autumn and you and Trixie are back on the road.
>She's been acting funny lately.
>Very touchy.
>Very friendly with you,
>very snippy with everypony else.
>She wants massages every night,
>so, when she kissed you, and asked for one,
>you thought nothing of it.
>She hopped up on the wagon-ledge,
>"So you're at the just the right level" she'd said.
>And set her left hind leg on your shoulder.
>you tilt your head and kiss the inside of her hock.
>Gently taking her leg in your hands and holding it up, off your shoulder,
>then kissing your way down her cannon.
>Stopping at her fetlock you look sideways;
>She's watching you, a smug little smile playing on her lips.
>"Keep going Anonymous. Trixie did not say to stop."
>You lean back against a stone and set her hoof on your chest.
>Your fingertips follow the curve of her leg,
>up and down it's length,
>as your tongue finds her coronet.
>Kisses follow, and her eyes close.
>You gently reach to her thigh,
>kneading the firm muscle between fingers and thumb.
>Then pinching gently from hock to fetlock,
>and down to her hoof.
>Pressing under it with your thumbs,
>her frog flexing beneath your touch.
>"Mmmmmm Anon."
>She raises her other leg and rests it on your shoulder too.
>You look up;
>she's leaned back on the wagon's ledge,
>forehooves extended and touching the overhang,
>eyes closed.
>"Anon, do your mares have any special times?"
>"What do you mean, Tixie?"
>She smiles and stares right in your eyes.
>"Heat, Anon. Do human mares go in to heat?"
>She leans down, mouth open just a bit, and sniffs you.
>"Not really, Great and Sexy Trixie"
>She smiles and bites her lip.
>"We do."
>She trails her forehoof along your arm
>"In fact..."
>little circles against your chest
>"I am right now.
>"You're my very special somepony, Anon,
>"and you're also my servant, little human.
>"Do you know what that means?"
>You think so
>You *hope* so
>You tilt your face to kiss her
>She pulls back at the last moment with another smile
>"Kisses are nice, Anon,
>"but I want to do something else."
>She slides her hind legs from your shoulders and leans further in.
>Sitting on the wagon, legs spread, her marehood just at eye level.
>She nuzzles you, nips your ear and whispers:
>"Touch my horn."
>Trixie takes your hands in her hooves,
>guides them to her face.
>"The base first, sweety. Use those soft little fingers."
>She gasps a little as you trace circles around it
>A strange feeling on the side of your face,
>like static electricity.
>She leans against you more firmly as her breath deepens.
>"Mmmmmmmm good boy."
>She rubs your back
>"Now...Oh!"
>Her words catch in her throat.
>You knew what she wanted, and began to stroke before she finished her sentence.
>Her breathing grows faster and deeper,
>and her horn glows brighter, its light reflecting off the wagon.
>"Suck my horn, Anon.
>"Do it now!"
>Your mouth opens, and you carefully guide her past your lips,
>then close them around her tip, sliding along her shaft.
>She actually tastes like blueberries.
>And whipped cream.
>While you suckle, her muzzle finds it's way to your crotch.
>She nuzzles and licks at your pants,
>little moans emerging now and then.
>"Anon, your dick belongs to me.
>"Give it to me. Now."
>Your hand slides down her shaft, around the back of her ear,
>curves along her jaw, and finally comes to your belt.
>She licks and nibbles at your fingers as they work the fasteners.
>Suddenly the blueberry and whipped cream flavor grows stronger,
>Your trousers glow pink, and slide down your legs.
>Trixie takes you eagerly inside her mouth.
>Her nimble equine tongue turning circles and loops,
>even able to wrap itself completely around you.
>Your own ministrations flag as waves of pleasure wash over you.
>But only for a moment:
>There's no way you're letting your little pony do all the work!
>Back down on her, pressing your own tongue against her horn.
>Copying her own motions as closely as you can.
>Little whinnies and moans escaping around your cock.
>She lays her ears back and forces herself down
>Taking you as deeply as she can
>All the way in, and holding you there.
>Her tongue emerging and licking between your legs
>then back in and around your shaft again,
>actually rubbing you inside her mouth.
>You take her out and purse your lips against her horn
>running your head up and down its length,
>It's blazing now.
>bright pink with little jets and sparks flying off the tip.
>The feeling of static is warm and contagious,
>filling you with erotic energy.
>"Anon! I..!"
>You quickly pop her back in your mouth,
>taking in as much as you can.
>"Anon!"
>An odd heat fills your mouth as she convulses and grunts in your lap.
>A taste, overwhelmingly like blueberries, and whipped cream.
>With a little extra.
>In fact, it tastes just like...
>"Oh, Anon, I'm sorry. Right in your mouth, you didn't deserve that!"
>It's cute when she switches, you think to yourself.
>You purse your lips tightly and slide her out,
>letting your tongue find every crease in her spiral groove on the way.
>"It's fine Trixie. In fact it tastes just like Poprocks.
>"Blueberry and whipped cream Poprocks."
>"What are Poprocks?"
>"They're a kind of candy we have back on Earth."
>She looks at you strangly and lets out a languid laugh.
>"Somehow, I'm not surprised.
>"But we're not finished, little servant."
>She bites your hair and gently pulls you up in to the wagon.
>Trixie rolls over on the floor,
>sweeping the bedding up with her forelegs and pillows her head on it.
>She looks back: ass up, tail raised, hips swaying and bites her lip.
>"Make me whinney like a little filly, Anon."
>You pounce on her, sliding your hands up her back.
>Balling her mane in your fist and jerking.
>She whinnies.
>Fuck me right now, Anon! Prove you're worthy of me!"
>You guide yourself inside her with your other hand.
>She's... wet would be an understatement.
>Sopping, would almost be enough to describe it.
>You slide in with no resistance.
>She moans loudly and her marehood convulses around you.
>It grips you like a vice, but is too slick to hold.
>Your thrusts slip in and out; balls deep, then just the tip.
>Her ponut swollen and sensitive,
>pressing against your stomach and drawing a fresh pony groan with each thrust.
>Her flanks begin to quiver
>She buries her face in the blankets
>Her ponytang clenches and holds,
>and she suddenly goes stiff and silent.
>Collapsing moments later.
>Time to get yours.
>She's lying now flat on the bed, and you continue to ride her.
>Thrusting into her, not bothering to pace yourself.
>Letting the sensations wash over you.
>Finally erupting inside her and crashing down to her gardenia-scented mane.
>After some moments you both rise to clean yourselves.
>Staring up in the cold night air, savoring your lingering pleasure.
>She leans against you.
>"Estrus lasts about a week, Anon.
>"Just so you know."
>Then she steps back in the wagon and begins straightening the bedding.
>The stars shine down on you.
>This is going to be one hell of a week.