Pinkemena thread bumper 2

>You are Pinkemena.
>The convict.
>You don't remember what for, though.
>The Guard doesn't give you enough alone time to collect your thoughts.
>Or the bits of your mind that are scattered here and there.
>And despite your growing belly, you don't have the calories to think too hard about retrieving them.
>You have enough of a mind to dream and that's fine.
>To think what might come, after you leave.
>And you will leave.
>Just like the Guard does.
>And you won't be coming back.
>Like He is.
>The door behind you grinds against the stonework as He slides it open.
>You don't bother with attempting escape, as you did when your coat was bright and full from the sun overhead, and your mane and tail bloated with a warm breeze.
>He had proved adequate at stopping you.
>He crouches behind you, leaning over your back to whisper sweet nothings in your ear as He unzips.
>You try to think sexy thoughts.
>It hurts less when your body thinks it wants it.
>You manage well enough that He doesn't go in dry.
>He, as always, is gentle.
>That makes it worse.
>It's easier to hate something that hates you.
>He rocks you back and forth with his intrusions, just enough that it makes you gasp and grunt.
>He is silent.
>You wish He would talk, moan, insult you.
>Anything that showed that you weren't just kept here as a meat-puppet.
>That you weren't simply His charge to keep and save the world the inconvenience of having to meet.
>But silently, He finishes, arms clenched tight around your chest, and leaving a bit of Himself deep inside.
>He relaxes, releases you and goes about the clean-up, pulling out, zipping up, giving you  your food for two.
>You haven't even turned around since he entered the room.
>He turns to go, but his footsteps falter as he reaches the door.
>You hear his clothes rustle as he half-turns, feel his eyes upon you, know that he opens his mouth.
>And then He is gone, the door slammed shut, the deep, metallic thump of the tumbler being replaced in its customary spot, and then the hammering of His feet up the stair.
>So you drink your soup, slide the tray and bowl under the gate, and practice your dreaming.
>In her cell below, Pinkie dreams about the love that could have been.
>Alone in his bedroom above, Anon weeps over the rape that didn't need to be.