Anonpencil Writes Drunk: What Tickles Your Pickle (oneshit)

>You’ve been hanging out with Pinkie Pie recently, and you honestly think it’s going well. Like, really well. Ever since you got here, you’ve been thinking she’s the right pony for you. So pretty, so bright and bubbly, so absolutely joyful in life. It’s everything you never were back on Earth. Well, except for that one time that you found out ticks explode when you light them on fire, but that hardly counts.
>No, Pinkie makes you truly happy to be around, just by being the way she is. And that happiness has slowly turned to more than just friendship. At least on your end.
>That being said, you’re not sure she knows the real you yet. You have some… weird shit in your past and present. You’re not the most normal person, or pony, around, and something tells you that Pinkie really wouldn’t get it. You have... needs. And wants. And... fetishes. So, your flame of love for her burns on, unnoticed and unspoken. You just hope someday you have big enough saggy wrinkled gray balls to tell her how you feel.
>...what, you have a weird scrotum. So? Like I said, you’re not a normal dude, okay?
>But for now, you feel content enough to just hang out with her as friends, like you’re doing today. You’re both relaxing at the pond, doing a little swimming, and taking in the sun. Really, it’s kind of a perfect day, no high winds, hardly a cloud in the sky, your weird ballsack not sticking to your inner thigh at every opportunity under your swim trunks. Yes, an ideal time.
>As you look out into the pond, you see Pinkie surface once more and spit out a perfect little curl of water into the air. She opens her mouth and catches the water again, then smiles at you as it dribbles out between her teeth.
>God, she’s so perfect.
“Heya!” she shouts to you, like a warbling leaking balloon, “Are ya gonna come in?”
“No,” you tell her with an affectionate smile. “I’m getting some sun today, maybe later okay?”
“Okie dokie loki!” she says in that delicious near-shriek.
>Then, without a single drip of water clinging to her, she leaps straight out of the water to land at your side. Her apparent disregard for the laws so physics might bother you if you didn’t know her any better. She grins up at you and you reach down to pat her between the ears like a dog. You often try not to think about the fact that you sometimes treat her like a dog and yet are deeply attracted to her. Brings up way too many questions and repressed memories about the family chocolate lab.
“Want me to oil ya up so you don’t get all bacon crispy?” she says, pushing her head up into your palm.
>Oh, you have no idea.
“S-sure Pinkie,” you say, trying hard to hide your eagerness.
>Out of her mane, she somehow produces a bottle of tanning oil and, with the front curl of hair, squeezes the substance onto her hoof. Again, sentient hair aside, you can’t help but feel… a little aroused by the idea of the pony putting her slick hooves all over your naked body. You quickly turn over on the plastic lounging chair to hide your budding boner, and brace yourself for the cold pressure of her hooves on your body. You have to adjust a little so that you don’t pinch your hulking misshapen ballsack. Seriously, you should probably have that thing looked at at some point.
>All at once, your skin prickles as she comes in contact with your body. It’s hard not to shiver as she traces her hooves over you, up and down, tracing the shapes of balloons and happy faces across your back. You bite your lower lip to silence a moan you feel starting in your chest, and shut your eyes to just enjoy the sensation of her touching your bare skin.
>Then, all at once, you hear her voice. And her tone is one you’re not used to, one you’re not sure you’ve ever heard before.
“You like that?” she croons to you, her voice a near whisper.
>Wait… why is she all breathy? Why are her horse lips so close to your ear? Why can you almost feel her heartbeat through her hooves? Why is she putting the weight of her upper torso on you, rubbing in the oil with her chest and belly and…
>Oh.
>OH!
>Wait a minute, is Pinkie coming onto you?
>With mast fully erected against the plastic chair, you take stock of what’s happening. Sure, you’ve had a crush on her for a while, and you’re probably just reading too far into things. And yes, she has always been touchy feely, she even grabbed your nipples once and yelled “HONK HONK CLOWN CHEST!” and you had to immediately go masturbate in the bathroom so you wouldn’t be overwhelmed by how erotic it was. And she’s a pony. And you’re a human. But… that tone of voice, this body language. It’s pretty unmistakable.
“Y-yeah?” you stutter out. “I m-mean… yes. I like it.”
“Good,” she nearly purrs into your ear. “How about this?”
>She runs her hooves up your shoulders to either side of your neck, and she then dips her hooves forward, crossing your collarbone to rub your chest as well. As she draws her hooves back, you feel one caress your cheek on the way by.
>You’re not into having an oily face, but this time you can definitely pick up the signal. Pinkie is making a pass at you! Finally, someone finds you unrepulsive!
“Oh, that’s nice,” you say, now allowing a little of a moan into your voice.
>She giggles lightly, and you feel her hooves trail lower on your back. And lower.
“Then I think I might know something else you’d like…”
>Her touch moves past the small of your back, then both move around towards the side. Like a richard-seeking head-guided missile, she’s going for the dick. You hold your breath, heart racing, brain a mess of desire and excitement as her hooves move lower, and closer to your ribs and then towards your hips and…
>All at once you convulse, every muscle in your back and lower abdomen spasming at once. You half curl onto your side, instinctively grabbing at your hips and ribs, and a small noise like a mouse with clinical depression escapes your lips.
>What was that. Oh god what did you just do! Maybe she didn’t notice. Maybe she…
>You glance over your shoulder, and find that Pinkie is looking at you, confused for a moment. Then, a slow, knowing smile spreads over her face. Her eyes flash with mischief, and you realize that you dun fucked it up. Oh no. She knows.
“Anon,” she says, tone sly rather than seductive now. “You didn’t tell me you were ticklish.”
“I’m not!” you blurt out, and then promptly clap your hands over your ribs protectively.
>Oh, yeah. Real convincing. Nice job.
>Pinkie lets out a wicked-witch like cackle and practically pounces on you. Before you can stop her, her hooves, as well as inexplicably prehensile mane and tail move in towards your armpits, ribs, and hips.
“Pinkie, no!” you shriek, but she’s just laughing openly now like a weird pink sadist.
“Gonna getcha!” she cries. “Leeeedle-leedle-leeedle!”
“What does that even mean?!”
“That’s my ticking noise!”
“Thanks I hate it NOW STOP!”
>But there’s no stopping her. The weight of her small horse body pins you in place, and her jabs soon before more focused, finding spots that make your body spasm and twitch, and bring out yelps, whines, and wordless guttural noses from your mouth.
“Noooooooooooooo!” you groan out like a wounded grandma as you uselessly try to defend yourself.
“Gonna GETCHA!” she says again, her voice rising in pitch to rival that strange doctor in Who Framed Roger Rabbit that traumatized you when you were a kid because he killed a pair of shoes and was run over by a steamroller seriously what even were the 80’s Jesus Christ.
>It would be one thing if you were just a little ticklish, or if this just made you laugh. But there’s a serious problem. One that Pinkie doesn’t know about, one of the things that would definitely make having a real relationship with her an actual issue:
>You have Knismolagnia.
>For those who don’t know the term, that means you’re a weird little sicko who gets off to being tickled. Hell, you even made yourself a primitive tickling machine back on earth, but all it ended up doing is stabbing you in the ribs repeatedly with a pen. Barely even gave you a half chub.
>Right now, all you’re focusing on is the big(ish) hunk of tube sausage in your swim trunks that’s hitting redwood levels of proud and strong. You’d use your hands to tuck it back or something, but you need your hands to try to fend off Pinkie! No. There’s nothing you can do.
>Your breathing increases as her tickling intensifies. Your yelps of pain and reaction to the tickling quickly turn into groans of reluctant pleasure. Pinkie doesn’t even seem to notice and keeps right at it, even picking up the pace some.
>God damn giggle horse, if only you could say something, but at this point you’re spitting up stomach acid into your mouth every time you try to breathe you’re cry-laughing so hard. Tears stream down your face as you try to hold back the orgasm threatening to burst through your loins.
>To make matters worse is… are your swim trunks stuck on the chair? Every time you fidget and thrash, they’re getting pulled lower and lower. If you’re not careful, your dick is going to pop up like a jack-in-the-box and say hello to this pony. I mean, you’d hoped to show her your dick at some point. But not like this. Never like this.
>You try to choke out words as the pleasure rises and you feel the telltale clenching in your anus and abs that indicate you’re about to shoot your loot.
“P-pinkie!” you cough out, along with a little stomach acid and phlegm. “You… s-stop. You have to…”
“LEEDLE LEEDLE LEEDLE!”
>Her tickling noise is too much for you to take.
>With a cry of a man who has been waiting his whole life to be oiled up and tickled to orgasm by a physics-defying pink cartoon horse, your dick and package springs free of its moorings. Your back convulses and you thrust out into the air away towards Pinkie, spraying cum in her general direction. She lets out a cry and leaps backwards, but not fast enough to avoid your fertile white rain, as it stains her stomach and hooves. You spurt once, twice, even a third time, then your dick falls to the side, as if going to sleep after a lovely afternoon stroll in the park and eating a full pizza and drinking a six pack: The ultimate sleep of satisfaction.
>You stare at Pinkie, eyes pleading with her to somehow understand. Your mouth moves, trying to say that you’re sorry, but all that comes out while you catch your breath is a soft, elderly-sounding wheeze.
>She just stares at you, face contorted in what you’re sure is horror and disgust. She looks down at your crotch, then back up at your pitiful face, then back down again. After a long, weighty silence, she speaks.
“Uh. Wow. Anon… have your balls always looked like that?”

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