Ponyslut
I see you across the dancefloor, watching, your shyness and your naïve unselfconsciously open face drawing my attention. You watch me, and I watch you watching me, my body moving to the trance-like beat like a banner waving in the breeze. Our eyes lock, and I turn my head, ignoring you even while I perform for you, my muzzle sliding under raised arms to sniff a sweaty pit, my tongue tip flicking coarse pit furs before I turn back and smile.
You blush, and drop your head, then raise it again hoping I'm not watching you checking me out with rookie obviousness. I am watching you, and you blush harder. This is my game, I wrote the rules in the last two years of hard won experience. Now I get to teach you how to worship my stallion's body just right. You should thank me.
The circle of furs in my orbit part as I trot on steady hooves in your direction. The circle disintegrates, lacking its gravitational centre. I catch the angry glances and jealous bitchy words, bathing in their toxic beauty while ignoring them. They will wait. They always wait.
You see me approach, not sure I am really coming for you, but I am. This is your lucky night pony. I am a sucker for a pony, especially a pretty little Nordic Pony like you. You press my buttons, even when those buttons are worn and rubbed down to the metal beneath. A young and sweet big Shire colt, lost, alone, frightened but now long forgotten, had his first experience of uncomplicated belonging nuzzled under a blanket with a Nordic Pony just like you. The memory lingers in fragments big enough to drive a longing, but not an understanding. What's to understand anyway; hunger calls to hunger, and who cares if we aren't eating the same meal.
Your eyes light up like sparklers on a birthday cake. I have chosen you, and here I am, my scent in your nostrils, my hand casually placed on your hip, muzzle pressed close to your ear, ruffling your soft earfur with each new compliment. Your friends are forgotten, like so many chalk outlines, they stand near, shuffling paws and hooves and throwing conversation into the water and watching it sink like a stone. Remember that feeling, pony. Know how much art it takes to create, that sensation of being the only one in the club who matters.
Now I'm ruffling more than just your soft ears; I can smell you, pony. You stink of sex need, under the cloud of aftershave.
I smile, making you smile. You gush, and stop suddenly embarrassed by your callow enthusiasm. I just give you an even bigger smile, the one between guys that says, hey, don't worry, you're too cute to fuck it up. Now the scent gets stronger, and I run one fingertip over your shoulder, down your flank to cup your rump, one perfect sized scoop of pony dessert.
Your hand is in mine before you know it, and we move through the crowd like they aren't even there. The bathroom beckons, and you're my first catch of the night. I push you through the waiting furs, ignoring the cries and objections as I take the last stall on the left pushing past a furious bear. He won't do anything, well nothing meaningful. The banging on the door and screaming just makes me feel even hotter.
You are nervous now, suddenly and completely. Reality is a bitch, but I know my way around a nervous pony. The smile is back, and I pull you against me, a kiss made just for you. Your muzzle tastes like spearmint, with a hint of new hay in a summer's field. Everything about you is fresh, unspoilt.
Then I fondle your package, just gently through your jeans, and your eyes go wide like saucers and then you grin like a kid at Christmas. One expert hand insinuates its way under your clothes, feeling the flutter of your belly then down to seek out your pony assets, plump sheath and plump balls and a cock itching for release. You nicker and bite your tongue, not before the waiting crowd outside the stall catch your giveaway sounds and laugh. Another one down.
You follow my actions now, a little more certain, and reach inside my zipper. Your soft sigh is my reward. You pull me out, magnificent, male, hard and you stare. I don't have the patience for a long admiring look any more. I need muzzle, tailhole, sheath. Yes, I need you.
My hands find your shoulders, building pressure slowly until you find yourself on your knees before you realise how you got there. And yet, there it is; a pulsing length of stallion cock right in front of your muzzle. You lick your lips, hunger taking over, and bend forward, then pull back a bit, then giggle to yourself and finish it, lips and tongue nuzzling the end of my cock.
I take my time with you, pony. Some things can't be rushed too much. I let you nuzzle, then open wide, tentative but eager. Then I wrap a hand in your mane, and stroke your cheek with the other, and gradually ease you down my length. You try so hard, I almost cheer when you finally reach the medial but you can't go any further. Don't worry pony, you did well, I whisper, and you smile around my cock as I pull back then ease in again, getting you used to a good muzzlefuck. One day you will thank me for that too.
You have me going, but not on the boil yet. That's not how it ends. As gently as I eased into your muzzle, now I ease out again, and you look up at me surprised with your muzzle forming a silent question mark. I use my grip on your mane to pull you up again, a little rougher. It's time for rougher now, for rut and male fucking and cock and ass. My cock, your ass.
I can see you know it too, your little pony cock hard and leaking, poking out the side of your tight little posing pouch undies. Not built to contain a pony cock, even yours, it rests against your thigh pulsing like a frightened rabbit. You look in my eyes still wondering.
You gasp. I've pulled you round, facing the door and pushed you hard against it. Your hands reach out instinctively, pressing against the board, your ass pushed out towards me, your mane streaming in a cute ponytail down your back. I am behind you now. You can feel it, can't you pony? It's time. I can tell from your gasps, fighting for air as adrenaline kicks in to balance the testosterone.
My hands find your hips, suddenly pulling down, exposing your rump. I keep your clothes on otherwise. I like it this way, hot and hard and needy, too much in heat to undress, just bare the essentials, groin and ass. I nicker in amusement though, feeling your ass. I can't help taking a look
Perfect cheeks framed by narrow bands of elastic. Wearing a jock, little pony, your ass bare and vulnerable. Nice. Just my type.
"Oh you are such a perfect little slut aren't you." I whisper it, my muzzle against your ear. I feel that ear twitch in anger, your whole body stiffening in indignation. But I know you, pony. I bend to your neck, licking your nape as I reach around and pull your pony cock from the elastic, jacking nice and slow. Your anger turns to lust. I laugh again. I've found your inner ponyslut.
"See...such a perfect little slut. Came here wanting to be plowed, ready for it. Admit it pony."
"No...no, I...I haven't..."
My fingers explore your crevice, sliding along the sweet line of your taint, finding a clenching pony hole. One finger slides inside, while you whimper, then two. You are so tight pony, hot, wet, and tight.
"Am I your first?"
"Y....yes...please....be gentle..."
"Awwww.....such a sweet little pony."
You feel like a virgin. That ass can barely take my fingers; but something tells me gentle is the only way for you. Somewhere inside me, that young and sweet big Shire colt, lost, alone, frightened, now long forgotten, wakes up and asserts himself.
My handy bottle of lube feels like an old friend in my hand, coating the long blunt fingers with a sheen of pony pleasure. I work them into your ass gently, spreading that precious little hole a fraction at a time. A frustrated punter bangs on the toilet door, demanding we hurry up, but I just snarl a threat and he shuts up, knowing when to back off. No hurrying up now, not for you pony. Slow and steady and flowing, like a beautiful pony galloping across a field.
Your ass quivers, and I touch your nut, making your squeal. I cover my stallion's pride in a condom, biting open the package with my teeth, and coat my sheathed cock with lube while you brace yourself on the door. My flare kisses your pucker, tentative and gentle, like that young colt many years ago. He has learned though, since then. How to be gentle and rough, slow and quick. How to take a virgin pony's cherry without taking half the night, but make him feel like he had the whole night and more.
You give one long continuous sigh as I slide inside your tunnel, never pulling back. I don't thrust, I edge inside, hips just rocking and tail flicking to a slow waltz beat. When I hilt, you cry out in surprise and joy, the first part over and your fears beginning to recede. Now the rest.
My rocking gets faster, each thrust now testing the depths of your ass, a long slow withdrawal, and a steady long deep dicking thrust just on the edge of pain. I grip your cock to take your mind off the overstuffed feeling of your first thick stallion, and instead make you focus on the endless glide of skin over taut skin, flare and shaft and medial on one virgin tunnel suddenly fighting to hold on against an invasion of stallion. My other hand feels its way up your chest, sliding under your shirt to rasp fingers along your lithe form and feel your thudding heartbeat. Then I pinch a nipple, hard, and pull you back against my chest.
We reach a rhythm, you and I, as the thud of music floats through the walls at a perfect 70 beats a minute, two beats per entry, and I jack your cock slow, keeping them out of sync while I prod your nut and feel your body shake on each hit. Then I feel it, the burn. The first of the night, the longest, the hardest, the biggest. It builds with heat and a deep seated throbbing, like the throb in your cock. I whisper to you, comforting, encouraging.
"That's it pony...so good isn't it...there, right there.....your little pony nut, so sensitive...don't fight it pony...go with it...feel every inch....that's it...don't clench, relax...let it happen....oh God you're beautiful...you like it there don't you....just under the flare...yeah I can feel it...you drip every time I touch just there....now it's time beautiful pony...give it to me...that's it...one pulse deep in your cock....now another....one more...yes...yes...yes...yes!"
You unload, suddenly, painting the door with pony seed, whinnying loudly as you offer your climax for my approval. And I approve, the tang of your seed fresh in my nostrils, and the tight grip of your ass on my cock are all I need. My tail flags hard, slapping the partition walls, and I unload too, bathing your ass in the spreading warmth of stallion seed, contained but still there, careful not to ram home too deep or too hard even in my climax.
A round of applause breaks out, and I feel your embarrassment. I just pull you against me, surrounding you with stallion. You grind against me, no longer caring.
Then I pull out, a long patient withdrawal, and give your wide open tailhole a stroke, feeling the heat coming off those no longer virgin lips. My still hard cock finds a home in my jeans, the bulge obscene but triumphant. Then I turn you to face me.
You have the look pony. Damn that look, it hurts like a mother. Wide eyed, sort of distant, and adoring. You kiss me, fast pecks on the muzzle then a long hard muzzlefucking kiss. Your shy smile is back, with a new gloss, one I've seen before. I try not to return it. Then you pull off a leather bracelet, and fasten it to my wrist and kiss me on the cheek.
We leave the bathroom to a forest of earthy comments, and I see you blush but your tail swishes with a new confidence. You head for the bar, expecting me to follow. I look at your bracelet, deep in thought.
Then I head back to the dancefloor, and the nebula of furs from before, swaying to a new beat as music blares through my brain. I catch your curious stare, and your hesitation. Looking into your eyes, I grab the big bull grinding against my ass, his muscled thighs rubbing down my leg, and I hook a hand round one horn and draw his muzzle in for a kiss.
I hate your disappointment, even more your pain. You put one hand to your muzzle, covering the grief stricken look. Your friends don't though, and I see the tiger by your side mouth the word; ponyslut, staring at me with hate in his eyes. Tiger is right pony, listen to tiger. I kind of think he wants you too.
Bull musk fills my nostrils, and I drink that smell. So potent. So different from yours. The hunger builds, hunger for cock, for ass, for his hunger most of all, and the absence of any other emotion.
All the while watching you, I pull the bull towards the bathroom. We pass the bar, and you, standing, muzzle set in a thin rigid line of hurt.
"What did you expect pony?"
And we trot on past without a care in the world. Necessity is the mother of cruelty, but I rationalise like a motherfucker. A few years older, but a million more miles on the clock. It's too late for me pony, way too late for anything more than six random fucks a night and bathing in that hunger till I can't taste anything else. It's not too late for you; now you know pony. Now you know. Another thing to thank me for.
I still wear your bracelet pony, I never take it off. That young and sweet big Shire colt, lost, alone, frightened, who remembered a little Nordic Pony just like you who made him feel safe and wanted, and who you woke from slumber for a brief still moment, he still likes it and remembers.
And he asks you to forgive me.