Rarity’s eyes opened slowly, indulgently.
Curtains on the dawn—no, it was a little past dawn, that wouldn’t do. Curtains on the stage of a life lived as poetry—that was more like it. Rarity took in her surroundings.
This time, they did not include a hulking red stallion, for several reasons: firstly, it was in Fillydelphia that they shared a bed, not in Ponyville, and secondly, he would insist upon rising before the dawn to ‘hit th’ fields’. She had been unable to break him of this habit, so they did not sleep nights, as she did not wish to be jostled from slumber.
They spent nights. Sometimes they spent nights until they, too, were spent, strong-willed unicorn mare contesting with plow-horse unto exhaustion. But they did not sleep nights.
Rarity looked around, her brow knitting, taking stock of the planned flow of her day. It was always about harmonious flow and the balance of experiences and endeavors. Nopony understood this—well, let them not understand, then, they didn’t need to understand, did they? They did not create, they labored, or studied, or served. Hers was not theirs.
But to her, the harmonious flow of the day was a necessity, an art and a duty to herself and her muse. If one needed to create art, to create it on a level that rivalled the boldest in Canterlot fashions, one needed to create one’s life as art first. One lived a life of beauty and passion and daring, and then created unthinkingly, following the flow of inspiration, and the inspiration would come forth, to be followed by execution, and the result would stun the most jaded of Canterlot fashionistas. Rarity smiled smugly to herself.
The smile dropped away, as she glanced across her bedroom and saw a hem pinned to the wall. That damned shirring! Execution, sometimes it was down to execution. The hell of it was, she hadn’t made a mistake. She did not make mistakes! They were inspirations un-looked-for, and it would have been better if she had been open to that.
No, this damned hem bore no inspirations, and that was because she’d been too certain of herself in sewing it. She’d had a clear idea of the density of the shirring, and had foolishly allowed herself to focus in on that point and striven to sew it neatly and evenly, forgetting one of her primary maxims! “Uniformity is not beauty”. She knew that and still she’d ignored it, and one look at the finished horrible, horrible wretched hem told her how badly she’d blown it. Instead of presenting the appearance of a burbling, natural mountain brook in rippled satin, she had made a stinking accordion, or some industrial object, hideously uniform and utilitarian.
Rarity’s hooves curled in dismay under the covers as she stared at the dreadful hem. Worse, she hadn’t any spare fabric to re-do it, so she would have to painstakingly unravel it and do it over. This meant she could not fling it out the window, or throw it into the fire. It would hang there, taunting her, until she attended to the horrid task.
She heaved a tragic sigh and rolled over in bed, looking away from the hateful object, and looked directly at another object, a gleaming metallic bit on her bedside table. Rarity blinked—and smiled.
There… there was inspiration.
Rarity wriggled under the covers, her hooves sliding against the sheer silk. She wrapped some around a hoof and, in a familiar gesture, drew it tenderly across her alabaster breasts, parting her legs and feeling the nipples stir and wake. She needed to check the piercings—they had to remain inconspicuous but not shrink beyond what was usable. The last time she’d worn chains they had been rather uncomfortable, in a tiresome way. It was better if pain was linked to actions and events, rather than providing an irritating background. Contrast was everything.
Rarity’s hoof slipped between her legs, rubbing and caressing.
She’d seen some delicious contrasts thanks to that bit.
She let her eyes close, savoring the so-recent memory. It’d been only the previous night.
She’d known just what to do, right down to the size of stool she had to stand on, for she knew the poor darling would be flustered and not up to holding special postures. And he wouldn’t lubricate—or at least she very much doubted such a thing was possible—so she’d taken some butter from the pantry and hoped it would suffice.
Interestingly, when she was ready to begin, the magic penis oozed a bit. She hadn’t known they did that. But then, she hadn’t much patience for penises being withheld from her, so her observation of the phenomenon had always been cut short, and the penises’ ooze always mingled with her own nectars as a matter of course.
It was different, so different, when a magic sex toy provided her with a penis of her own to wield upon a lover.
Big Macintosh was obedient. He’d never been one to pursue the farther regions of dominance and submission, but she’d trained him well to be open to the ingenuity of her glorious, perverse mind. The look on his face as she reared before him, bit in teeth, was one she would not soon forget. She considered it a lucky break he hadn’t wet himself.
He’d given her a look, when she informed him of how he’d be pleasured, and he’d laughed at her when she told him it would make him come harder than he’d ever come before. “Ain’t possible!” he scoffed. “What the hay is a prostate, anyway?” It seemed like he was happy to deny the whole thing. He swore it wouldn’t work. He’d said, “Fine. Afterwards, we’ll do it right, and I’ll show ya what a stallion’s for.”
Rarity had done the showing, that night.
Big Macintosh was big, but very tight in his bum. He really didn’t want her new cock to go in there, but all that butter had slickened it up nicely. The novelty of it and the sheer shock value caused her to get terribly stiff and hard, and her stallion-flare had swelled up early. She’d intended to fondle him using her magic, but found herself using it simply to guide the stallionhood correctly, bracing it when it wanted to bend off to the side, wedging it deep as Big Macintosh’s huge hips squirmed and evaded…
When Rarity’s erection shoved past Big Macintosh’s tightnesses and sunk into him, the whinny he let out made her insanely horny, and she knew she was on to an exciting new perversity. This was going to inspire weeks of work, and lead to creations impossibly brash and risque, even if it didn’t please him—and yet, there was something about that whinny that grabbed her. It was like a loss of control, the experiencing of something shocking.
Rarity’s magic had reached down between his legs, and she’d rejoiced. Big Macintosh had sprung an enormous stiffie. Her horn glowed as she fondled it—and then, her hips began to lovingly move.
Rarity nuzzled Big Macintosh’s mane, drunk with excitement and glee. Her lover was physically shaking, so intense were his reactions. He sobbed, as she wrapped herself around him, tenderly thrusting her magic-bit-induced cock inside his bum. He was gripping her so tightly, but the greasy butter proved worthy—and it seemed like the harder he gripped, the more intense his sensation was. Her magic told her that, as she fondled his now oozing and throbbing stallionhood. His heart pounded so dreadfully that she feared for him, and, nuzzling the back of his neck, she crooned, “Come on, baby, let go…”
Big Macintosh had sobbed again.
“Come on, give it to me…”
Rarity had slowed down her thrusting, for her hips weren’t athletic like his, but she’d bit down on the magic toy for all she was worth, and pushed deeply into him, using her magic to fondle his cock hungrily. She nudged and shoved, and wanked him as hard as she could with her magic, holding his trembling body tightly.
Big Macintosh had screamed a high-pitched scream.
Then… he came.
“Oh, good baby!” cried Rarity, feeling him convulse. She heard a splatter, and it was across the room. He’d shot a load fifteen feet. He screamed again, and fired another splash of stallioncome half that far—and then Rarity squealed, and came inside him, and felt his body shudder as his orgasm flared up for one more burst, splitting the difference between the first two shots.
She’d come so hard that she’d passed out, and fallen off his back, the magic bit dropping from her mouth.
The next thing Rarity had seen was Big Macintosh’s weeping face as he asked her, “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
She kissed him, her eyes radiant. “It was worth it, beloved!”
They lay for a while where she’d landed, cuddling in silence. Rarity nuzzled and gazed at Big Macintosh. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the puddle of come he’d shot entirely across the room. She looked at it too, and smiled. She hadn’t lied. He really had come harder than he’d ever come before, thanks to her.
Back during the royal wedding, when she’d bucked ponies aside to catch the bouquet, it was this she had been thinking of. She meant to claim her secret lover and eventually marry him, once he had been coaxed to go public, and she considered it both a pleasure and a duty to prove that she could pleasure him more than anything—more than he ever expected, or dared. She would let nothing stand in her way—nothing. And so, she’d fucked him up the ass until he came with unprecedented violence, she’d thrown everything she had into it until she herself had swooned and collapsed off him.
She would do it again, if that’s what it took to prove her love. She would break all expectations and rules and prove her specialness, and she would claim her mate. Since the first night, when she’d felt him holding her so tenderly as that titanic phallus wedged her wide, she’d known. She’d sprayed the ceiling with unicorn-gasm and squealed herself hoarse in his embrace, and her die was cast on that night.
She’d ended up a twitching wreck, unable to lift one elegant, alabaster limb, and it had been the beginning of an unbroken chain of beautiful moments—where her massive lover reduced her body to a beautiful unicorn puddle and then cared for her. As it happened, even with her fucking him and driving him to a record orgasm, still it was she who’d collapsed. She would never be able to rival her stallion’s limitless strength, even as a faux-stallion herself.
He’d tucked her into bed, still looking worried. She’d reassured him that she was all right. He’d departed her bedroom without a word.
Rarity thought back on this. Perhaps she’d wanked him too hard? Big Macintosh liked to be comfortable, and liked her to be comfortable. Sometimes she didn’t want to be. Sometimes she wanted to deliciously suffer. He was good at causing that, in some positions. His cock had felt so huge in the grip of her magic, as it went off like a spurting cannon. She was teaching him the eroticism of boundary-crossing, in turn. And my, thought Rarity, he’d taken to it like a duck to water, hadn’t he? She’d nearly been flung off him as he released that first time. She hadn’t expected it to be that savage an orgasm, she’d expected more reservations.
Rarity knew the moods of Big Macintosh’s body. She prided herself on playing upon them with a skill beyond anypony he’d known. It was a very good thing she’d discovered this herself, rather than some Canterlot stallion coming to steal him from her. Rarity silently vowed to pester Twilight and Trixie for a backup magic bit, to keep in a safe place—if this toy was to be so central to Big Macintosh’s libido, she was damned if she’d risk losing it.
She considered lovemaking logistics, as she wriggled out of bed and got her hooves on the ground. Perhaps deft use of magic could make some object or device penetrate him, while he penetrated her. She wanted both ways at once. She wanted to feel that spurting cannon aimed at her quivering womb, to feel that blast of horse-come against her insides. The thought of it made her wobbly-legged as she collected the infernal hem, and brought it out of the bedroom, heading for the kitchen to make breakfast.
He’d brought in mail, before he left, it seemed. There was an envelope, addressed to…
Not addressed at all. Rarity stopped, staring at it. Whatever could it be? The mail didn’t send envelopes without addresses. And Big Macintosh didn’t write notes—ever.
Perhaps a visitor, then. Rarity set the hem down on the table, and her horn glowed again as she picked up the envelope. It was one of her envelopes. What would she be doing, sealing envelopes without writing letters?
No, not sealed, either. There was something inside. A letter?
Rarity’s eyes were a little too wide as she withdrew the letter. It seemed that the birds had stopped chirping outside. Why would that be? Why had the world seemed to stop for a moment, just as she unfolded this strange, unmarked letter?
It was his writing, his slightly awkward, large-lettered writing.
Just three words…
“Dearest Rarity: Nope.”
Rarity stared at the words, trying to believe her world had not just collapsed.